The Secret of Abdu El Yezdi

  Arthur Hughes said, “But can you not see that the intricate beauty of this world is nothing short of miraculous? How can its creator be anything less than divine?”

  “I recently met Charles Darwin,” Burton interjected. “You’ve heard of him? The Voyage of the Beagle? He’s formulated a rather astonishing and elegant hypothesis in which he proposes that a particular system of nature is enough to explain the extraordinary diversity and interconnectedness of life.” He went on to repeat, as best he could, Darwin’s summary of the theory of natural selection.

  “No God need apply,” Rossetti murmured.

  Sir Walter opened his mouth to speak. He was cut off by a splintering crash as the French doors suddenly flew open and wind came shrieking into the chamber, overturning glasses and small tables, sending ornaments, antimacassars, and doilies flying, and causing the guests to leap out of their chairs in panic.

  Burton and Eliphas Levi dived across the room and forced the doors shut.

  “The latch has broken,” Burton called to the others. “Rossetti, drag that chair over—we’ll jam it against the handles.”

  This was done, and with the doors secured, they surveyed the chaos.

  “I call an end to all discussions relating to God,” Sir Walter proclaimed, “for whether He exists or not, we have obviously infuriated Him! What!”

  Lady Pauline summoned the butler and asked him to have the staff clean up. The group then divided, with the Trevelyans ushering Rossetti, Hughes, and Dodgson to Lady Pauline’s private gallery, while Burton, Monckton Milnes, Levi, and Swinburne retired to the library. There, until long past midnight while the storm raged on with ever-increasing ferocity, they discussed the merits of Darwin’s theory. Even Eliphas Levi, who’d trained as a Catholic priest, agreed that it had the potential to lead mankind to a new respect and responsibility for the world and its many wonders.

  Despite his growing state of inebriation, Swinburne so impressed Burton and Monckton Milnes with his unique outlook and intuitive intelligence that, by two in the morning, they’d invited him to join the Cannibal Club. Burton had taken an instant liking to the poet. They shared a similar philosophical outlook—an aversion to physical, moral, and intellectual boundaries; a fascination with the banned, the censored, and the denunciated; and a restless dissatisfaction with the mores and manners of British society—but he also detected in Swinburne an indefinable ennui, as if a normal life couldn’t offer the poet even one jot of fulfilment. This, Burton understood.

  The conversation had already touched on the Afterlife and the existence—or not—of the soul. Now, Burton—who’d already divulged state secrets to Detective Inspector Trounce, Detective Inspector Slaughter, and Eliphas Levi—decided to bring Swinburne into the fold. He knew it was a risk. The little man was wild and idiosyncratic, but Burton felt an immediate trust, and he always allowed himself to be guided by instinct.

  “Algernon,” he said.

  “Algy, please, Sir Richard. Brandy dissolves formalities.”

  “Very well. Then drop the Sir. It still feels like an absurd trimming to me. I understand you once met an individual named Abdu El Yezdi?”

  “I did, and—my hat!—what a hideous creature he was, too!”

  Burton glanced first at Monckton Milnes then at Levi.

  “Would you tell us about it?”

  Swinburne had been sitting with one leg crossed over the other, his foot swinging spasmodically. He now tucked it under himself, adopting the position that Burton already associated with the poet taking centre stage.

  “It was five years ago,” Swinburne began. “I was seventeen years old and eager to be a cavalryman—forlorn hopes and riotous charges!—but my father forbade it. I was holidaying with my family on the Isle of Wight at the time, and one day I decided to put my courage to the test by climbing Culver Cliff.”

  He addressed Levi, “Monsieur, it is a sheer face of chalk and flint, averaging three hundred feet in height.”

  “Très dangereux, non?” Levi muttered.

  “Indeed so. Before commencing the climb, I swam in the sea, which was tremendously rough that day. It was the beginning of my love affair with storm-wracked waters—I’ve never been able to resist them since. Having survived the waves, I then made my first attempt at the rock face, but an overhanging ledge defeated me and I was forced to make my way back to the beach. I chose another route, gritted my teeth, and swore I would not come down alive again. So I climbed, and the wind, penetrating the nooks and crannies, made a sound like the Eton Chapel organ, and gulls wheeled around me and I feared they would peck out my eyes. But on I went, until, just as I came close to the top, the chalk crumbled beneath my feet and I was left dangling by my fingertips from a ledge. Thankfully, I was able to carefully gain a different foothold, and with that to secure me, hauled myself over the top and onto the edge of the Culver Downs. Gents, I was immobilised by exhaustion, on my back with eyes closed, when a voice said, ‘Roll to your left, Algy, else you might find that going down is far quicker than coming up.’”

  “He knew your name?” Burton asked.

  “Yes. So I shifted away from the cliff edge and saw an extraordinary figure sitting cross-legged nearby.”

  “What did he look like? Hideous, you said?”

  “Fat! He was dressed in white Arabian robes, with a keffiyeh covering his head. His skin was dark, his right eye blind and milky, and his teeth large, crooked, and rotten. An enormous beard flowed down over his protruding belly, and when he spoke, he moved his hands constantly. ‘As-salamu alaykum,’ he said. ‘I am Abdu El Yezdi. Are you satisfied now? Do you feel yourself courageous?’”

  Burton frowned. “Then he was also aware of the purpose of your climb?”

  “He was. And I replied, ‘Courageous enough to ascend a cliff, anyway,’ to which he responded, ‘Courage, Algy, is not accurately measured in isolated acts of bravery, but in the ongoing ability to express your own true nature, no matter how you are judged or feted or damned.’”

  “Mon Dieu! Combien vrai!” Levi exclaimed.

  The poet nodded. “He then said, ‘Listen to me, young man. Soon your courage will be tested in a manner you can’t imagine. When that time comes, do not doubt yourself, for your instincts are true. Look for—’” Swinburne paused and suddenly gawped at Burton.

  “What is it?” the explorer asked.

  “He—he said, ‘Look for the man with a scar on his face. When he comes, your travails will begin.’”

  Burton reached up and with his fingertips traced the deep scar that scored his cheek. He was conscious that the poet, Levi, and Monckton Milnes were all staring at him.

  A minute passed, then Swinburne went on, “The next thing I knew, I awoke, lying there, and was alone. I couldn’t even remember falling asleep.”

  Monckton Milnes murmured, “Mesmerism?”

  “Undoubtedly,” Burton agreed.

  “There’s one more thing,” Swinburne added. “I have a vague impression of Abdu El Yezdi leaning over me.”

  “What was he doing?” Burton asked.

  “He was saying, ‘Thank you.’”

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  The following morning, the remnants of ruined chimneys, dislodged roof tiles, and pieces of a decimated summer house were heaped against the walls of Wallington Hall, along with a huge mass of unidentifiable debris. The grounds were strewn with leaves, twigs, branches, and fallen trees. A phaeton carriage—not belonging to the estate and probably not even from Kirkwhelpington—lay crumpled beside an ornamental pond. South-facing windows had broken and rooms were in disarray. The guests confined themselves to the inner chambers while the staff cleared the
mess and started repairs.

  “I’ve never seen anything like it,” Lady Pauline declared. “What a storm!”

  No one had slept well. They’d risen late and breakfast was more of an early lunch. After it, Burton, Monckton Milnes, and Levi took a stroll to survey the damage. The winds were still high and the sky filled with scudding clouds.

  “I think I’ll head back to Fryston,” Monckton Milnes said. “I’m concerned there might be nothing left of it. Will you come, Richard?”

  “I’ll pass, if you don’t mind, old fellow. I want to spend a little more time with young Algernon. Perhaps he’ll allow me to mesmerise him. As you suggested, El Yezdi certainly did so, and I’d like to peel away whatever mantle he cast over the lad’s memory.”

  “You think there was more to their meeting, then?”

  “I suspect so. I can’t imagine how or why, but the poet is obviously connected with the business.”

  “And with you, my scar-faced friend. Gad! It’s confirmed, then. The whole El Yezdi in the Afterlife idea was nonsense, and the British Empire has been manipulated for two decades by—by—”

  “By a living person,” Burton said. “And you find that less acceptable than a ghost?”

  “I was going to say, by a foreigner.”

  Burton laughed. “By Allah’s beard! That’s far, far worse!”

  “Désastreux!” Levi agreed.

  They rounded a corner and saw a steam sphere tearing up the drive toward the house. It skidded to a halt in front of the main entrance, hissing forth a final plume of vapour before its engine fell silent. The vehicle’s door hinged upward and Detective Inspector Trounce stepped out. He saw them and waved them over.

  “By Jove, Burton,” he cried out. “You’ve a lot to answer for!”

  “What on earth are you doing here, Trounce? And what do you mean?”

  “Chief Commissioner Mayne has issued a temporary ban on me flying police rotorchairs.”

  “Why so?”

  “Because you destroyed two of the confounded things while under my supervision. So, what with last night’s storm throwing tree trunks all over railway tracks, I had no option but to come here in this contraption. What a bloody drive! The roads are hellish!”

  “I doubt a rotorchair would survive these winds, anyway,” Burton said. He contemplated the metal globe and thought he heard something thudding at its rear. “But why make the journey? Has there been another abduction?”

  “No, there’s been a shipwreck.”

  Monckton Milnes, who’d walked to the back of the vehicle, said, “What have you brought with you, Detective Inspector?”

  “Nothing. Not even a change of blessed clothes. Burton, the tempest grounded a ship off Anglesey at one-thirty last night. It’s called the Royal Charter!”

  Burton’s hands curled into fists.

  “There’s something moving in here,” Monckton Milnes said. He reached down to the latch, clicked it open, and lifted the door of the sphere’s storage compartment.

  “Great heavens!”

  Burton crossed to him, looked into the vehicle, and saw Abraham Stoker curled up in the confined space.

  “Would ye be good enough to help me out?” the youngster moaned. “I can’t move a bloomin’ muscle.”

  Trounce joined them and exclaimed, “A stowaway? What the dickens are you playing at, lad? Don’t tell me you’ve been in there all the way from London?”

  Burton and Monckton Milnes lifted the boy out and held him while he tried to straighten his limbs.

  “Aye, that I have, Mr. Fogg. I’m sorry, but if you’re off on one of your adventures, then you’ll need an assistant, an’ I’m just the boy for the job, so I am!”

  Monckton Milnes gave the Scotland Yard man a quizzical look. “Fogg?”

  Trounce groaned.

  Burton told Monckton Milnes, “When he began investigating me, Trounce tried to throw me off the track by using the name Macallister Fogg, which he took from this boy’s favourite penny blood.”

  “Spur of the moment,” Trounce muttered. “And damned foolish. So now I know who’s been following me. What the blazes are we going to do with the little ragamuffin?”

  “We’ll have him tag along with us to Anglesey,” the explorer responded. “He might prove useful. He’s a Whisperer.”

  Bram started to rub his arms and shake his legs as the blood returned to them. “Ouch! Ouch! I won’t be any trouble, Mr. Fogg. I promise. And—aye!—you’ll have the whole Whispering Web at your disposal, so you will!”

  Trounce said, “Humph!”

  “And Anglesey, did I hear ye say? Ain’t that in Wales, now? It’s a barren part o’ the country, so it is. There are more Whisperers there than telegraph offices, to be sure.”

  The detective held up his hands in surrender and grumbled, “All right, all right!”

  Burton surveyed the devastated grounds and the fast-moving clouds. “How the blazes are we going to travel? There are no trains, you say, Trounce?”

  “All services cancelled.”

  “The Orpheus,” Monckton Milnes offered. “You have the authority to commandeer it, Richard, and the airfield isn’t far from here. I daresay a machine of that size can manage this wind.”

  A shrill voice suddenly proclaimed:

  Orpheus, the night is full of tears and cries,

  And hardly for the storm and ruin shed

  Can even thine eyes be certain of her head

  Who never passed out of thy spirit’s eyes,

  But stood and shone before them in such wise

  As when with love her lips and hands were fed,

  And with mute mouth out of the dusty dead

  Strove to make answer when thou bad’st her rise.

  Abraham Stoker gave a yelp of alarm. “Oy! What’s that thing?”

  “That thing,” Burton answered, “is Algernon Swinburne.”

  The poet—who’d descended the front doorsteps gesticulating wildly as he recited—approached them. His hair flew about his head like a tumultuous conflagration.

  “Hallo, hallo, and thrice hallo!” he cried out. “And one for the nipper, too—hallo! The Orpheus? Your African airship, Richard? Surely you’re not leaving us already?”

  “We have to fly to Anglesey, Algy. There’s been a shipwreck. It has some bearing on the matters we spoke of last night.”

  “On El Yezdi, you mean? Then I’m coming, too!”

  “There’s no need for—”

  Swinburne stamped his foot and screeched, “Nonsense! Balderdash! Tosh and piffle! Rot and poppycock! A shipwreck? A shipwreck? By my Aunt Betty’s beastly blue bonnet! It’s the very stuff of poetry!”

  Trounce whispered to Burton, “Who—?”

  “Later,” the explorer replied. He made a snap decision. “We’re wasting time. Trounce, Bram, Algy, we’ll borrow the stagecoach and set off for the airfield at once.” He turned to Monckton Milnes. “Fryston is on the way, I believe? We’ll drop you and Monsieur Levi there. I’m afraid we’ll have to abandon our plan to travel together to New Wardour Castle.”

  “I’ll go there by train. I daresay the tracks will be cleared by next week.”

  “Un moment, s’il vous plaît,” Levi interrupted. “Is it an inconvenience if I accompany you, Sir Richard? If you are to fly on the Orpheus, I have the opportunity to examine the room where Oliphant make his ritual. I wish to see it, though the glass and floor are clean now, I think. Aussi, this Royal Charter affair is connected, non?”

  Burton gave his consent, and an hour later, having packed and bade an apologetic farewell to Lady Pauline and her remaining guests, Burton and his companions were rattling northwestward in the stage. The driver made the best speed he could but the roads were hazardous, being littered with debris, and it took them two hours to reach Fryston—where they bid Monckton Milnes adieu—and another to get to the airfield.

  Upon reaching the Orpheus, Burton hurried aboard and was greeted by a surprised Doctor Quaint, who escorted him to Captain Natha
niel Lawless’s cabin.

  “By James!” the airman exclaimed, gripping Burton’s hand. “I wasn’t expecting to see you until the engagement party. Are you recovered? You look somewhat battered, if you’ll pardon the observation.”

  “I’m done with the malaria, Captain, but I was involved in an unfortunate accident. No permanent damage. What’s the state of the ship? Can you get her into the air right away?”

  “She’s being fitted with armaments in preparation for the signing of the British–German Alliance—we’ll be providing security at the ceremony—but I could afford to take her on a short excursion. We have no supplies aboard, though, and I’m not keen on flying in this wind. Where do you want to go?”

  “Anglesey, on the west coast.”

  Lawless squinted. “Hmm. About a hundred and seventy miles southwest. That’s straight into the gale, which’ll make it simpler but slower.”

  “I’ll need top speed, and you can forego the paperwork.”

  “I’m not sure you have—”

  Burton thrust forward the card issued by the Home Secretary.

  “—the authority,” Lawless finished lamely. “Oh, you do. No paperwork, then. Good! I can’t abide all the damned bureaucracy. I’ll need half an hour to get the engines warmed up then we’ll be off.”

  “Thank you, Lawless.”

  It was a bumpy flight, but Captain Lawless and his crew, whose loyalty to Burton was absolute, squeezed every ounce of power from the airship’s mighty engines, bullying the dirigible into the headwind and exhausting themselves as they battled to keep the ship stable. At six o’clock, having made excellent time, they landed half a mile west of Moelfre Village, in Dulas Bay, Anglesey Island, on the northwest coast of Wales.

  “We can’t tether her here,” Lawless told Burton. “The gale will tear her to ribbons. I’ll take her down, you jump off, and I’ll find a more sheltered spot inland.”