“Despicable!” Burton snarled.
“Indeed. But sadly—yowch!—all too common.”
“You don't feel guilty taking advantage of their misfortune?”
“Please, Richard! I never—ow!—lay a finger on them! I pay them to apply the birch, nothing more!”
“Humph!”
“Anyway, I happen to know that Betsy is an exception. She didn't suffer that cruel fate. She's the only one of them—oy!—who was born in a brothel. She's the daughter of—yow!—a madam. In other words, she's never known anything—oof!—different and has probably never harboured any expectations beyond being a—oh!—working girl.”
“The trammelled mind.”
“Ex—ah!—actly!”
No further incidents interrupted their journey, and they arrived some fifteen minutes later at Bartoloni's Italian restaurant in Leicester Square. It was closed and the window, which had apparently been broken, was boarded up.
Bartoloni responded to Burton's knocking. His eyes widened with surprise when he saw the blood on his visitor's face but he quickly regained his composure and acted as if there was nothing untoward.
“Vi prego di entrare, signori,” he said, with a slight bow. “Il ristorante e’ chiuso mai vostri amici sono al piano di sopra.”
“Grazie, signore,” Burton responded.
Passing through the eatery, he and Swinburne entered a door marked “Private” and ascended a staircase to the rooms above.
In a large, wood-panelled chamber, comfortably furnished and with its own bar, they found fellow members of the Cannibal Club: Captain Henry Murray, Dr. James Hunt, Thomas Bendyshe, Charles Bradlaugh, and, inevitably, Richard Monckton Milnes.
Tall, handsome, enigmatic, and saturnine in aspect, Milnes was one of Sir Richard Francis Burton's best friends and staunchest supporters. Rich and influential, he'd interceded many times in the past when lesser men had tried to undermine the famous explorer. He also owned the largest collection of erotica ever gathered by a private collector. It included everything written by the Marquis de Sade—plus thousands of banned volumes concerning witchcraft and the occult. He was, of course, a Libertine. However, he was also a man who, at an emotional level, separated himself from others, preferring to conduct all his relationships on a purely intellectual basis. Some thought him cold. Others, Burton among them, realised that he was simply one of life's onlookers, a man who studied everything but who never fully engaged with anything. This included the Libertine movement, which suited his temperament but failed to draw him in too deeply. He rarely became involved with its politics or various causes.
Burton and Swinburne entered the room to find Milnes standing in its centre pontificating about the latest Technologist developments.
“—so they take the species Scarabaeus sacer,” he was saying, “more commonly known as the scarab beetle, and their Eugenicists grow them to the size of a milk wagon!”
“Be damned!” Charles Bradlaugh exclaimed.
“I'm sure the Technologists will be, for once each beetle has matured, the engineers kill the poor creatures, scrape ’em out, and insert a seat and controls in the front and a bench and steam engine in the back. Thus a man can sit in the beetle, with his family behind him, and drive the blessed thing.”
“By thunder!” Henry Murray cried. “Yet another new species of vehicle!”
“My good man!” Milnes objected. “You're missing the point entirely. It's not a species of vehicle, it's a species of insect; and not just any insect, but the one held sacred by the ancient Egyptians! They are being grown on farms and summarily executed, without so much as a by-your-leave, for the express purpose of supplying a ready-made shell. And the Technologists have the temerity to name this vehicle the Folks’ Wagon! It is not a wagon! It's a beetle! It's a living creature, which mankind is mercilessly exploiting for its own ends. It's sacrilege!”
“Interesting that you should rail against the exploitation of insects by scientists when, it seems, the greater percentage of London's population is currently up in arms over the exploitation of the working classes by the aristocracy,” Burton declared. “Are labourers no better than insects, in your view?”
“Richard!” Milnes cried, turning to face the newcomers. “How good to see you! How long have you been standing there, and—by George!—why is that bestial face of yours covered in blood? Don't tell me you've been in yet another scrap? Are you drunk? Hallo, Swinburne!”
“We're perfectly sober.”
“I'm a little hungover, actually,” the poet added.
“You poor things! Hunt, old horse, supply these good fellows with a tipple at once. Large ones! It's a medical emergency! Murray, fetch a basin of water, there's a good chap.”
Burton and Swinburne collapsed into big leather armchairs and gratefully accepted the proffered drinks.
“What happened?” Bendyshe asked. “Did you get caught up in the public disorder like Brabrooke?”
“Brabrooke? What happened to him?”
“He was hit over the head with a spade. A crossing cleaner attacked him out of the blue, for no good reason.”
“He's all right,” said Bradlaugh. “He has a mild concussion and a nasty laceration but he'll be on his feet again in a couple of days.”
“Poor old Brabrooke!” Swinburne exclaimed.
“So you were in the thick of it too, hey?” Milnes asked.
“Somewhat,” Burton answered. “We were at Speakers’ Corner when the fracas began.”
“Ah ha!” Bendyshe shouted gleefully. “So you started it, hey? Was young Swinburne giving a public performance? Is that what set them off?”
“The performance wasn't from Algernon. It was from the Tichborne Claimant.”
“Gad!” Milnes exclaimed. “That character is certainly stirring up a hornets’ nest.”
“He is. We managed to extricate ourselves, but then, on the way here, we were set upon by a prostitute.”
The men burst out laughing.
“Ha ha!” Bendyshe yelled triumphantly. “Surely beastly Burton hasn't been trounced by a terrible trollop?”
“I can assure you that it was no laughing matter. And less of the ‘beastly,’ if you don't mind.”
“She was half crazed,” Swinburne said. “And she was lashing at us with whips!” He grinned and shuddered with pleasure.
“But what on earth did you do to set her off, dear boy?” Milnes asked.
“Took his shilling's worth and the shilling as well, I'll wager!” Bendyshe guffawed.
“Not a bit of it,” Burton grumbled. “We were on our way here and got caught up in it through no fault of our own.”
“The unwashed masses have gone mad,” opined Murray, who'd just reentered the room with a basin of warm water in his hands and white towels draped over his forearms. “It's this Tichborne character.”
“Yes, Milnes was just saying,” Bradlaugh offered.
“The Claimant's become some sort of figurehead,” Murray continued. “To the lower classes, he represents everything that's bad in an aristocrat and everything that's good in a working man, all wrapped up in one extremely bulbous bundle. It's patently absurd. Here, wipe the blood off yourselves. You look perfectly horrific.”
“It occurs to me,” said Burton, “that a symbol cannot gain such potency unless there's a real desire for it. Another port, if you please, Henry. I appear to have swallowed mine in a single gulp.”
He picked up a towel, dipped a corner into the water, and began to rub it over his face. He looked up at Richard Monckton Milnes. “As a matter of fact, the Tichborne situation is what we've come to talk to you about. The Claimant seems to have acquired a bodyguard of Rakes. Do you have any idea why?”
“Has he, indeed? That seems rather peculiar!”
“That's what we thought. What are the Rakes up to these days? Who's their new leader?”
“I'm afraid I can't cast much light on the matter. The veil of secrecy surrounding the faction has never been more impenetrable.
The new leader is a Russian, I believe, and arrived in this country early in February. Who he is, where he's staying—those are questions I can't answer.”
“He?” said Burton. “Or she?”
“Hmm. I couldn't say. A woman, though? Doesn't that seem rather unlikely? What I can tell you is this: since he—or she—took over, the Rakes have been holding séances around the clock.”
“Well now, that's interesting! Are they trying to communicate with someone who's died? Laurence Oliphant or Henry Beresford, perhaps?”
“I don't know, Richard, but if they are speaking to the departed, then I doubt that it's their former leaders they're conversing with.”
“Why so?”
“Simply because the Rakes who were closest to Oliphant and the Mad Marquess have been rather on the out and out these months past. The new regime has been assiduous in sidelining the old.”
“So who's close to the new leader? Can you name names?”
Milnes looked thoughtful for a moment but then shrugged and said: “I'd help if I could, but I simply don't know any of the new crowd.”
Swinburne piped up: “What about a chap named Boyle or Foyle? A tall, stooped fellow with a big beard and wire-rimmed spectacles.”
Milnes shook his head. “Doesn't ring any bells.”
“Do you mean Doyle?” Bradlaugh asked.
“I don't know. Do I?”
“He fits the description and he's a Rake, of that I'm sure. He was at a party at my place a few months back. You were there, too. A little before Christmas. You were in your cups at the time. So was I, come to think of it.”
Swinburne threw up his hands. “I was at a party at your place?”
Bradlaugh chuckled. “Your absence of memory is no surprise. You'd been at it long before you even arrived. My footman opened your carriage's door and you plopped out face-first onto the street, while your topper rolled away into the gutter. If it's any consolation, Doyle is a much worse drunkard than you ever were.”
Bendyshe snorted. “I don't know about that! There was that time when—” He stopped as Burton's hand clamped his arm tightly.
“Sorry, Tom, but this could be important. Bradlaugh, this Doyle fellow—who is he?”
“A storybook artist. From Edinburgh. Charles Altamont Doyle. He's the brother of my friend Richard Doyle, who's also an artist—you've probably seen his work, he's quite successful. Charles, on the other hand—at least from what I know of him—is simply too unworldly to make much of himself. He's an awfully morbid sort—prone to black moods and fits of despair. I think that's what drives him to drink. It's a tragedy, really. He has a young wife and God knows how many children to support, but what little he earns is spent on the demon booze. He has a taste for burgundy and will sink to any depths to get it, and if he can't, he'll resort to anything else he can lay his hands on. Rumour has it that on one particularly desperate occasion he drank a bottle of furniture polish.”
“Good lord!” James Hunt exclaimed. “The man should be in an asylum!”
“I have no doubt that he will be soon,” Bradlaugh responded. “At the aforementioned party, he certainly appeared to be teetering on the brink of insanity. He has a pet obsession, a delusion, which seems to haunt his every waking hour. He ranted about it interminably that night; didn't stop until he passed out.”
“What is it?” Swinburne asked.
“He's convinced that fairies exist and are communicating with him from the unseen world.”
Sir Richard Francis Burton felt goosebumps rise on his forearms.
Bismillah! Fairies again!
“You mean he hears voices in his head?” said Swinburne.
“Absolutely. I should say he's damaged his brain through excessive drinking.”
“Where is he now?” Burton asked. “Where does he live?”
“Not with his wife. She threw him out after he stole pocket money from his own children. I believe he has lodgings somewhere in the city but I don't know where.”
“And his wife's address?”
Bradlaugh gave it, and Burton copied it into his notebook.
The king's agent looked at the bloodstained towel in his hands.
“If you'll excuse us for a moment, I think Algy and I should repair to the washroom to get properly cleaned up. We'll rejoin you in a few minutes.”
“Of course! Of course! Is there anything else you need?” Milnes asked.
“I could do with a belt,” Swinburne answered, gripping his trousers as he stood.
“’Tis ever the case,” Bendyshe opined with a smirk.
The following morning, while Algernon Swinburne went to call on Charles Doyle's wife, Sir Richard Francis Burton received a visit from Burke and Hare.
Palmerston's odd-job men resembled nothing so much as a couple of eighteenth-century gravediggers. Despite the hot weather, they were dressed in their customary black surtouts, with black waistcoats and white shirts underneath. The Gladstone collars of the latter were cheek-scraping, eye-threatening points that looked utterly ridiculous to Burton. The shirts were tucked into high-waisted knee-length breeches. Yellow tights encased the men's calves. Their black shoes were decorated with large silver buckles. They each held a stovepipe hat.
As the two men stepped into Burton's study, they were greeted with: “Slobbering dolts! Bumble thick-wits!”
“My apologies, gentlemen,” Burton said, with a grin. “The new member of my household is somewhat lacking in manners.” He gestured toward a perch standing near one of the bookcases. “Meet Pox, my messenger parakeet.”
“Sod off!” the bird trilled.
“You're a brave man, Captain Burton,” Burke said, in his sepulchral voice. “There's not many could stand having one of those little devils in their home.”
Damien Burke was tall, slightly hunchbacked, extremely bald, and sported the variety of side whiskers popularly known as “Piccadilly weepers.” His face hung in a permanently maudlin expression, with a down-curving mouth, jowly cheeks, and woebegone eyes.
“Have you been in the wars, sir?” he asked. “You appear somewhat bedraggled, if you'll forgive the observation.”
“It wasn't a war, it was a riot,” the king's agent corrected. “But the cuts are shallow and the bruises are healing.”
Burke placed something onto Burton's principal desk.
The king's agent eyed the object, which was wrapped in linen and had the approximate shape and dimensions of a pistol. “I haven't been outside yet. How is it? Are the streets quieter?”
“Somewhat, sir,” Gregory Hare responded. “Isn't that so, Mr. Burke?” He was shorter than his companion and immensely broad, with massive shoulders and apish arms. A shock of pure white hair stood upright from his head and grew down around the angle of his heavy square jaw to a tuft beneath his chin. His pale-grey eyes shone from within deep gristly sockets, his nose was splayed, and his mouth was tremendously wide and filled with large, flat, tightly packed teeth.
Both men, in Burton's opinion, were hideous-looking.
“Quite so, Mr. Hare,” Burke replied. “I should point out, however, that the Tichborne Claimant intends to address the public from a platform in Saint James's Park at four o'clock.”
“You think it will lead to further rioting?” Burton asked.
“Do you, Captain?”
“I consider it highly likely, yes.”
“We share your opinion, don't we, Mr. Hare?”
“We do, Mr. Burke.”
“Noxious fume-pumpers!” Pox screamed.
Hare ignored the bird and indicated the package. “A gift for you, Captain.”
“Really?”
Hare took hold of the linen and unfolded it, revealing the item wrapped inside. It was a green, organic, fleshy-looking thing, with a stubby barrel and a handgrip from the base of which small white roots grew. There were various nodules protruding from the object, one being positioned where the trigger would be on a pistol.
“What on earth is it?”
“
It's a cactus,” said Burke.
“A cactus?”
“Yes. A cactus. From Ireland.”
“It has no spines.”
“As a matter of fact, it does, but they grow on the inside. You are aware of a gentleman named Richard Spruce?”
“Yes, of course. He's been much in the public eye of late. He's a member of the RGS. I bump into him from time to time.”
“He's become something of a pariah, wouldn't you agree?”
Burton nodded. “As far as the public and the press are concerned, he's solely responsible for the Irish tragedy.”
“Indeed, Captain, indeed. Which, in turn, some say, has led us into the American conflict. That's a lot of weight for one man to carry.”
“I would think so.”
“Which may explain why he and a number of his Eugenicist colleagues met with a German spy named Count Zeppelin last week and attempted to flee to Prussia, taking state secrets with them.”
“He did what? The confounded idiot!”
“Monkey gland!” Pox added.
“You call him an idiot, sir. I call him a traitor. The damage he could have done selling secrets like this—” Burke nodded at the object on the desk “—is incalculable.”
“A cactus is a state secret?” Burton asked, puzzled.
“This variety most definitely is.”
Hare took over from Burke: “Fortunately, we were able to capture Spruce and his cohorts before Zeppelin got them away. The count himself, I regret to say, eluded us. The Eugenicists are currently being held in the Tower of London.”
“Why there?”
“We have a special security establishment below the old dungeons. It's where the likes of Darwin and Babbage would have ended up, had you not—um—dealt with them as you did. Isn't that right, Mr. Burke?”
“Indeed, indeed, Mr. Hare.” Burke tapped the cactus. “Anyway, the point is, we can't allow material of this sort to fall into foreign hands, least of all Prussian ones. The Bismarck Dynasty is attempting to unite the Germanic states in order to establish a European Empire. If that comes to pass, it could lead to a war the likes of which the world has never seen. We don't want them in possession of weapons like this.”