The Secret of Abdu El Yezdi

  As if it cost her no effort at all, Isabel climbed out of the coffin, her white dress flowing around her. She looked at each of the men in turn, her pupils pinpricks, her lips drawn so far back that her teeth appeared almost fang-like.

  On his knees, Arundell jabbered, “Kyrie eleison Jesu soter unice eleison! Kyrie eleison Jesu soter unice eleison! Kyrie eleison Jesu soter unice eleison!”

  Isabel darted toward Burton but jerked to a stop when he brandished his cross in her face. Her hair came loose and fell wildly about her. She whimpered. “Dick, please! Love me! Love me!”

  Hearing her speak, Arundell screamed, “She’s alive! She’s alive!”

  “No!” Levi shouted. “She is un-dead! Strigoi morti! Do not let her touch you!”

  “Isabel!” Arundell pleaded. “Daughter!”

  She turned on him with a throaty growl, and seeing the dead sheen across her eyes and the savage hunger in her face, he moaned and fell backward, clutching the crucifix to his chest. “Kyrie eleison! Kyrie eleison! Kyrie eleison! Holy Holy Holy Lord God Pantocrator who is and was and is to come!”

  “Isabel, regardez-moi!” Levi barked. “Regardez-moi! Dieu le commande!”

  She spun, cringing away from the crucifixes, and snarled, “Give me my life!”

  “Il est allé,” Levi said. “It is gone. Regardez!” He reached to the mirror beside him and adjusted it to face her.

  Isabel stared at her reflection. She lifted her hands and looked with an air of puzzlement at the rosary that was entangled in her fingers. She touched the cross that dangled on a silver chain around her neck.

  “What has happened to me?” she croaked. “Why am I—why am I—?”

  She looked at Burton and saw the dread in his eyes.

  “No!” she pleaded. “No, no, no, no!”

  Henry Arundell toppled sideways to the floor, unconscious.

  Levi stepped forward. “Back!” he commanded. “The Lord God Almighty awaits you. You must be sanctified and delivered unto Him!”

  She retreated, confused, panicked, emitting an animalistic keening, and bumped against the table. Her eyes fixed on Burton. “Help me!”

  The explorer stumbled into the side of the chancel. He dropped his crucifix and gasped for air.

  “Paix éternelle, Isabel,” Levi said. “Eternal peace shall be yours.”

  With her eyes fastened immovably on Burton, Isabel hoisted herself onto the table and clambered into the coffin. She sat gazing at him for a few seconds then lay back.

  Levi approached the casket. He leaned over it and held the crucifix before her face. In a low, crooning voice, he recited:

  Go forth, Christian soul, from this world

  in the name of God the almighty Father,

  who created you,

  in the name of Jesus Christ, the Son of the living God,

  who suffered for you,

  in the name of the Holy Spirit,

  who was poured out upon you.

  Go forth, faithful Christian!

  May you die in peace this day,

  may your home be with God in Zion,

  with Mary, the virgin Mother of God,

  with Joseph, and all the angels and saints.

  May you return to your Creator

  who formed you from the dust of the earth.

  May holy Mary, the angels, and all the saints

  come to meet you as you go forth from this life.

  May you see your Redeemer face to face.

  She closed her eyes and became still.

  “Sir Richard,” Levi said quietly. “Come here.”

  Algernon Swinburne looked at Burton, who was immobilised, then stepped over to him, slipped an arm around his waist, and pushed him forward, guiding him to the side of the coffin.

  “Feel for the pulse,” Levi ordered.

  Burton did so, moving like one of Arundell’s clockwork footmen.

  “You detect it?” Levi asked.

  “No,” the explorer responded hoarsely. “There is none, and her skin is cold.”

  “As in death?”

  “Yes.”

  Levi addressed Monckton Milnes. “The tools, monsieur, they are by the lectern. Fetch them, s’il vous pla”t.” He turned to Burton. “It is very terrible, what we must do, Sir Richard. Pardieu! To have to ask it of a man! But, you comprehend, non? You understand how she must be released?”

  The explorer nodded wordlessly.

  Monckton Milnes passed the stake to Levi, who positioned it over Isabel’s heart. With his other hand, the occultist took the mallet and held it out to Burton. “It is best by the hand of someone she loves.”

  Like a mirage seen in the Arabian Desert, everything around Burton was visible but a long way off, indefinite and impossible to grasp. He observed but was utterly detached; was conscious but empty of thought. He knew Swinburne was prising the axe from his fingers; heard Levi say that burning would not be necessary; watched him sprinkle holy water onto Isabel’s remains then close the coffin and seal it; stood frozen while the others took the floor mirrors and stacked them against a wall.

  Flowers were placed on the casket. All signs that anything untoward had occurred were removed. Henry Arundell was revived and reassured that his daughter was now with God. He knelt and prayed and prayed and prayed. The men waited for him to finish. By the time he did, he appeared to have achieved some degree of inner peace and said, “I will stand vigil over my daughter for the rest of the night. It is my duty.”

  Monckton Milnes and Swinburne took hold of Burton and guided him out of the chapel. They trailed after Levi, back into the main house where, at the foot of the spiral staircase, they found Clunk, the footman, lying spreadeagled on the ground. His canister-shaped head had been twisted off and was ten feet away, under a small decorative table.

  “What the blazes?” Swinburne uttered.

  “There are spots of blood on the floor,” Monckton Milnes observed.

  Burton pulled himself from their grasp. His senses clicked back into focus. He said, “I hear someone in the sitting room.”

  Leading the others, he strode across the vestibule and entered the chamber where he found, on chairs and sofas around the fireplace and wrapped in dressing gowns, Blanche, Smythe Piggott, Lallah Bird, Samuel and Isabella Beeton, and Bram Stoker. Sam Beeton was holding a bloodied handkerchief to his nose. His right eye was blackened and swollen shut. Smythe Piggott, obviously in considerable pain, was cradling his left wrist.

  “It was the gardener, Cap’n!” Bram Stoker blurted the moment he saw Burton.

  “Tom Honesty? What was? What has happened?”

  “He attacked us,” Sam Beeton said, his voice muffled by the cloth. “The man might be small but he’s dashed strong!”

  “What? Wait! Start from the beginning.”

  “He woke the boy up.” Beeton nodded toward Bram.

  “Aye, sir! Shook me awake, so he did, and he looked like the devil himself. He said, ‘Congratulate your master. Tell him it was an admirable attempt and we shall meet again.’ Then he left the room, an’ I was so afeared, I ran an’ knocked on the bedroom doors until I woke Mr. Beeton.”

  Beeton resumed the account. “The lad was hardly making sense, but I gathered there was an intruder of some sort, so roused Doctor Bird and Smythe Piggott. We caught Honesty descending the stairs with Sister Raghavendra over his shoulder. We tackled him but he fought like a madman. Knocked us about like a damned prizefighter. I called for one of the footmen to stop him—”

  “We saw what happened to it,” Burton interjected. “Are you telling me he’s made off with Sadhvi?”

  “Yes. We couldn’t stop him.”

  “Cap’n,” Bram put in. “His eyes, they were black as tar.”

  Burton swung round to Eliphas Levi, who cursed, “Quel désastre! The nosferatu, it must transfer to this man in the instant before John Judge die. It dormant in the groundsman until night come. We fail! Merde! Merde! We fail!”

  The explorer snapped at Beeton, “Wh
en?”

  “Ten, maybe fifteen minutes ago. Bird, the cousins, and some of the staff are out looking for him, but it’s still pouring with rain, so—” His words trailed off. He pulled the handkerchief away from his face but immediately reapplied it as blood dribbled from his nose.

  Burton ran from the room. He crossed to the front door, yanked it open, and stepped out. The rain pounded against him. He could hardly see a thing.

  “Doctor Bird!” he bellowed. “Doctor Bird!”

  A voice sounded to his left. “Here!”

  Burton set off toward it but had taken only a few steps before the doctor emerged into view and shouted, “He made off in Steinhaueser’s steam sphere. I thought to follow in one of the other vehicles but they’ll never keep pace with it. Besides, in this bloody weather, he’d evade us in an instant. Hell! We’ve lost Sister Raghavendra, Sir Richard. But why in heaven’s name has he taken her? What’s come over the man?”

  Burton swiped a fist through the air and yelled his frustration.

  Great-Uncle Gerard, the owner of New Wardour Castle, returned in time for a weekend of funerals, grief, and rain. Burton was introduced to him but hardly realised it. His thoughts had folded in on themselves. Events were enacted around him but failed to register.

  Swinburne was the first to penetrate this state of fugue. “I don’t think she’ll be welcomed by the family,” he said, “but I have it in mind to send for one of the girls from Verbena Lodge.”

  Burton blinked and mumbled, “What are you talking about?”

  “A dolly-mop. The vigorous application of a switch to your rear end, Richard. If you must be whipped into action, I’m just the man to arrange it.”

  The explorer sighed and massaged his forehead with the heel of his hand.

  “You can’t afford another day of mourning,” Swinburne went on relentlessly. “It may be considered a little premature, but it’s time to leave. This Catholic desolation is not for you. It’s stultifying. Closed curtains and bloody flowers stinking up the house. Black crepe everywhere. You need to get back to London. Whatever madness you’re caught up in, it has no regard for etiquette, and every minute you spend here is another minute of peril for Sister Raghavendra. Have you given up on her?”

  Burton’s eyes finally slid into focus. “Of course not, but how—where—?”

  Swinburne threw out his hands, stamped his foot, and screeched, “Almack’s! Almack’s! Have you forgotten? That American fellow is speaking there tomorrow night! We must go!”

  “Tomorrow? Today is the seventh?” Blank despair suddenly gave way to grim determination, and Burton examined the knuckles of his right fist, as if assessing their potency for destruction. “Will you find Bram, Algy? Tell him to pack our bags. I must say my goodbyes.”

  Midway through the morning, the guests departed. The Arundells had presented Burton with a new pocket watch. A lock of Isabel’s hair—cut while she was dressed for the vigil—had been inset inside its lid. He accepted it with gratitude and such an acute tightening of the chest that tears blurred his eyes.

  Burton, Swinburne, Levi, Bram, and Monckton Milnes travelled together by steam landau to Salisbury, where Monckton Milnes parted from them, bound for Fryston.

  After bidding him farewell, the rest booked passage on the atmospheric railway.

  Sitting in the carriage, Burton peered out at the massive bellows, which were slowly inflating. In a few moments, they’d constrict, sending the train rocketing forward to the next pumping station.

  As had occurred frequently these past few days, he suddenly sensed that something had eluded him. This time, after a moment’s thought, it slotted into place.

  “The bloody poem,” he murmured.

  “Poem?” Swinburne asked.

  “Abdu El Yezdi’s. I still haven’t fathomed it.”

  “Battersea Power Station.”

  Burton started. “What?”

  “I thought you must have it. After all, it’s as plain as the nose on your face.”

  The poet recited:

  Whene’er you doubt thy station in life

  Thou shalt take to the tempestuous sea.

  To all the four points it shall batter thee

  Until you find thine own power, and me.

  He concluded, “Station, sea, batter, power, and four points. Bleedin’ obvious!”

  Burton muttered, “It is, and I feel an absolute dolt.”

  A warning bell jangled and the guardsman’s voice sounded through a speaking tube. “Brace for departure, please. Brace for departure.”

  The passengers sat back in the forward-facing seats and waited for the countdown bell’s three clangs. They came. Outside, the bellows squeezed shut. The train shot forward as if fired out of a cannon. Bram Stoker hollered his delight.

  London, Burton thought. And vengeance.

  “Character is destiny.”

  —HERACLITUS, FRAGMENTS

  NOTICE

  PREVENTIVES OF CHOLERA!

  Published by order of the Sanitary Committee,

  under the sanction of the Medical Council.

  BE TEMPERATE IN EATING & DRINKING!

  Avoid Raw Vegetables and Unripe Fruit!

  Abstain from COLD WATER,

  and above all from ARDENT SPIRITS.

  If habit has rendered them indispensable,

  take much less than usual.

  They were back in the capital by mid-afternoon.

  “I need to meditate,” Burton said. “I have to repair the damage done to me. I cannot function like this—my heart is ruling my head. We’re all exhausted, too. I suggest we reconvene tomorrow. Let us face the enemy refreshed.”

  “Smashing!” Swinburne exclaimed. “I shall have Betsy thwack some sense into me, else this sensation that I’m stuck in the pages of one of Bram’s lurid penny dreadfuls is liable to continue.” He crossed and uncrossed his arms. “My apologies, Richard. That was insensitive of me. This is all rather too real.”

  “It is, Algy. Go to your dolly-mop if you must, but don’t overindulge. We have much to do tomorrow.”

  The poet left them while Burton and Levi continued on to Montagu Place. There, the occultist immersed himself once again in the library. Burton sent a summons to Detective Inspector Trounce via the Whispering Web then went up to his bedroom and gulped down an entire bottle of Saltzmann’s Tincture. The cure-all coursed through his veins and turned him into the vacuum at the heart of a swirling storm of light; caused his anguish to flare into countless possibilities; made his isolation branch into infinite multiplicities; but it did not bring back Isabel.

  He slumped in his armchair—barely aware of the occultist, who was reading at one of the desks—and for two hours stared at one of the windows, perceiving it to be stacked upon itself, like a pack of cards, as if present over and over.

  Shuffle them, select one, and look out at a slightly different world.

  He heard a carriage draw up outside.

  Watch it. See its door open. Isabel steps out and pays the driver. She crosses to number 14 and yanks the bellpull.

  She didn’t ring. She knocked, a strident hammering. It broke the spell.

  The explorer let out a small cry, as if wounded.

  “Monsieur?” Levi said.

  “Dreaming,” Burton muttered. He rubbed his eyes, stood, and went out onto the landing.

  The front door was open and Mrs. Angell was arguing with Trounce.

  “You could be King George him-bloomin’-self, but you’ll not set foot in this ’ere house until you scrapes yer blessed boots.”

  “My dear woman, I’ve practically scraped ’em thin! I have no desire to arrest you, but if you don’t stand aside, so help me, I’ll—”

  “It’s all right, Mrs. Angell,” Burton called. “Let him in, please.”

  “With all that muck around his soles?” she protested.

  “Leave your boots in the hallway, old man,” Burton advised. “You can warm your feet by my fire.”

  Reluctantly, Trou
nce did as instructed and started up the stairs.

  Mrs. Angell glowered at his feet and muttered, “An’ them stockings ain’t none-the-cleaner neither!”

  The police detective hurried into the study, greeted Levi, and gave a gasp of relief when Burton closed the door behind him.

  “By Jove! I feel like I’m committing a felony every time I set foot on your carpets. Have you seen the streets? The sewers are so backed up the filth is overflowing into ’em! What am I supposed to do, walk on stilts?”

  “You’ll just have to be patient, like everyone else,” Burton responded. “Wasn’t Bazalgette supposed to have opened the sluice gates by now?”

  “He was, but the riots have slowed him down. The tunneling has been halted beneath the Alton Ale warehouse in the Cauldron. Do you mind if I smoke?”

  “Not at all. The rioting is really that serious?”

  “The whole district has gone barking mad.”

  Trounce sat down, took a cigar from his pocket, and toyed with it irresolutely, turning it in his fingers and passing it from hand to hand. “I heard about—about—I’m not much good at—at—well, I’m sorry that—about what happened to—um—Miss Arundell. Are you—are you all right?”

  “I’ve not properly dealt with it yet. Let me get you a brandy. I’ll tell you the whole story.”

  Over the next half-hour, Burton and Levi gave an account of the events at New Wardour Castle.

  The explorer’s mind played tricks. With every incident he reported, the Saltzmann’s caused him to sense all the alternatives that might have occurred, as if each event had produced echoes, every one a slight variation of the original.

  Having listened in silence, Trounce said, “This is so far beyond my ken it might as well be a fairy tale. I have no idea how to proceed.”

  “By keeping your ears open for any reports of the dead coming back to life,” Burton said. “Perdurabo will continue to feed, and so will his victims. These strigoi morti—as Monsieur Levi refers to them—are going to proliferate, and rapidly. They can’t go unnoticed for long.”

  “They hunt at night,” Eliphas Levi commented.