Burton thanked his friend, bade him goodbye, and spent the rest of the afternoon meditating.
That evening, he met Maneesh Krishnamurthy for dinner at the Athenaeum Club on Pall Mall. They grabbed each other by the elbows and shared a wordless greeting. Both grinned stupidly, both looked into the other's eyes, and both saw pain and loss.
They settled in the lounge and shared a bottle of wine.
“I've started on these foul-tasting things,” the police commander said, opening a platinum cigarette case and pulling forth one of the little tubes of Latakia tobacco. “Much worse than my old pipe, but I had to trade the damned thing to get out of a jam at Madege Madogo and I haven't the heart to replace it. It was a gift from my cousin, bless him.”
“I miss him,” Burton murmured. “I miss them all.”
He raised his glass in a silent toast. Krishnamurthy followed suit. They drained them in a single swallow and poured over-generous refills.
“Sir Richard, I know I look like I've been starved, beaten, and dragged backward through a thorn bush, but if you don't mind me saying so, you look considerably worse. What in blue blazes happened to you?”
“Time, Maneesh. Time happened to me.”
For the second time that day—and only the second time since he'd got back—Burton gave an account of what had occurred after he and Krishnamurthy parted company outside Kazeh.
“By James, it's unbelievable, Sir Richard, but looking at what's happening in the world today, I can easily see how it might develop into the hellish conflict you describe.”
“Unfortunately not might, but will”
They drank more. Too much. Krishnamurthy described his journey from Kazeh back to Zanzibar. Burton's head began to swim.
A concierge approached. “Excuse me, sir,” he said. “A message for you. It arrived by runner.”
Burton took the proffered note. He looked at Krishnamurthy. “This will be from Palmerston.”
“How can you tell?”
“Because the only way a runner would know I'm here is if it was sent by someone who's having me watched.”
He opened the note and read:
This morning, a military court found Lieutenant John Hanning Speke guilty of treason. He will be executed by firing squad at dawn on Friday. His final request is to see you. This has been permitted. Please attend with due dispatch. Burke and Hare will escort.
Henry John Temple, 3rd Viscount Palmerston
Burton cursed and passed the note to his friend.
Krishnamurthy read it and said, “Because he aided the Prussians?”
“Yes. But he was never acting under his own volition. From the very inception of this whole affair, Speke has been manipulated and taken advantage of.”
“Will you go?”
“Yes.”
The two men continued drinking until past midnight, then said farewell and made off—somewhat unsteadily—toward their respective homes.
On the city's main highways, electric lighting saturated the fog and made it glow a dirty orange. Black flakes drifted down and settled on Burton's shoulders and top hat. He wound a scarf around his face and, leaning heavily on his sword cane, walked a little way along Pall Mall then turned left onto Regent Street. Despite the late hour, the traffic hadn't cleared and the pavements were still crowded with bad-tempered pedestrians, so he turned right and took to the backstreets, which, though dark and filthy, at least afforded a quicker passage.
He cursed himself for drinking so much. He wasn't recovered enough to cope with drunkenness; it made him feel ill and weak.
From alley to alley, he walked past huddled shapes and broken windows, lost his bearings, and drifted too far northward.
He found himself in a network of narrow passages. A raggedly dressed man stepped out of the darkness and brandished a dagger. Burton drew his sword cane and smiled viciously. The man backed away, held up his hands, said, “No 'arm meant, guv'nor!” and ran away.
The explorer pushed on, turned left, stumbled over a discarded crate and kicked it angrily. Two rats emerged from beneath it and scurried away.
He leaned against a lamppost. He was shaking.
“Pull yourself together, you blockhead!” he growled. “Get home!”
He noticed a faded flier pasted to the post and read it:
Work disciplines your spirit
Work develops your character
Work strengthens your soul
Do not allow machines to do your work!
It was old Libertine propaganda. They'd been a force to be reckoned with a couple of years ago, but now the Technologists dominated and the Libertines were ridiculed in the newspapers. What, Burton wondered, would the world be like if the shoe had been on the other foot?
He resumed his journey.
What if Edward Oxford had never jumped back through time? The Libertines and Technologists owed their existence to him—would the world be so different if they'd never existed?
Edward Oxford.
It all went back to him. All the alternate histories had been made possible by his interference.
Burton turned another corner and stopped. He'd entered a long straight lane bordered by high brick walls, and despite the gloom and the fog, he recognised it—for he'd unconsciously drifted to the very spot where he'd had his first encounter with Oxford—with Spring Heeled Jack.
Richard Francis bloody Burton!
Your destiny lies elsewhere!
Do you understand?
Do what you're supposed to do!
The words echoed in his mind, and he said aloud now what he'd said then: “How can I possibly know what I'm supposed to do? How can I know?”
“What?” came a voice.
Burton turned. A vagrant had shuffled out of the fog.
“Was ye a-talkin' to me, mister?”
“No.”
“I thought ye said sumfink.”
“I did. I was—I was just thinking aloud.”
“Ah, rightio. I do that. They say it's the first sign o' madness, don't they? Can ye spare a copper? I ain't ‘ad nuffink to eat, not fer a couple o’ days, leastways.”
Burton fished in his pocket, pulled out a coin, and flipped it to the man. He turned to go, but then paused and said to the beggar: “How can I possibly know what I'm supposed to do?”
“Heh! Ye just carry on carryin' on, don'tcha, mate! Fate'll do the rest!”
Burton sighed, nodded, and walked out of the alley.
Needs pruning, hard against the stem.
Do what you're supposed to do!
Lee-Enfield Mk III. Manufactured in Tabora, Africa, 1918.
The source of the Nile!
Edward Oxford.
The source!
Burton sat up, jolted out of his sleep.
Had that been Bertie Wells's voice or Algernon Swinburne's?
He looked at the four corners of his bedroom.
Nobody's voice. A dream.
He sat up, poured a glass of water from the jug on his bedside table, then opened a drawer and took out a small vial. Its label read Saltzmann's Tincture. He added three drops of its contents to the water, drank it, and stood up. After washing and wrapping his jubbah around himself, the king's agent went downstairs and was served a hearty breakfast by Mrs. Angell. He then went to his dressing room and outfitted himself in shabby workmen's clothing.
It was early on Thursday morning.
Burton caught a hansom to Limehouse. When it became ensnarled in traffic halfway there, he left it and walked the rest of the distance. He made his way along Limehouse Cut until he came to an abandoned factory, climbed one of its chimneys, and dropped three pebbles into its flue. The Beetle responded to the summons. The head of the League of Chimney Sweeps, who'd been safely transported from the Arabian Desert back to his home, reported that, on Captain Lawless's recommendation, Willy Cornish had received a government grant to put him through private schooling, while Vincent Sneed had been released from the Cairo prison and was now working as a fu
nnel scrubber at an airfield in South London.
Satisfied, the king's agent left the mysterious boy with a satchel of books and made his way homeward.
It was almost midday by the time he turned the corner of Montagu Place. He saw Mr. Grub, his local street vendor, standing in the fog with a forlorn expression on his face.
“Hallo, Mr. Grub. Where's your barrow?”
“It got knocked over by a bleedin' omnipede, Cap'n,” the man replied. “Smashed to smithereens, it was.”
“I'm sorry to hear that,” Burton replied. “But you have your Dutch oven, still?”
“Nope. It was crushed by one o' them lumbering great mega-dray horses.”
“But Mr. Grub, if you can't sell shellfish or hot chestnuts, what the dickens are you standing here for?”
The vendor shrugged helplessly. “It's me patch, Cap'n. Me pa stood on it, an' his pa afore him! It's where I belong, ain't it!”
Burton couldn't think how to reply to that, so he settled for a grunted response and made to move away.
“'Scusin' me askin', Cap'n—”
The explorer stopped and turned back.
“Did you ever find it?”
“Find what, Mr. Grub?”
“The source, sir. The source of the Nile.”
“Ah. Yes. As a matter of fact I did.”
“Good on you! That's bloomin' marvellous, that is! An' was it worth it?”
Burton swallowed. His heart suddenly hammered in his chest. He blinked the corrosive fog from his eyes.
“No, Mr. Grub. It wasn't worth it at all. Not in the slightest bit.”
The vendor nodded slowly, as if with deep understanding.
“Aye,” he said. “I have it in mind that the source o' things ain't never what you expect 'em to be.”
The king's agent touched the brim of his topper in farewell and walked the rest of the short distance home.
Burke and Hare were waiting for him.
“A moment, if you please, gentlemen. I'd like to change into more suitable clothing, if you don't mind.”
He left them waiting in the hallway, went upstairs, removed his patched trousers and threadbare jacket, and put on a suit. He was on his way back down when Mrs. Angell came up from the kitchen, all pinafore and indignation.
“You'll not be going out again, Sir Richard!” she protested, with a scowl at Burke and Hare. “You'll leave him be, sirs! He's not a well man! He's infected with Africa!”
Damien Burke bowed and said, “I assure you, ma'am, I have nothing but the good captain's well-being in mind, isn't that so, Mr. Hare?”
“It is absolutely the case, Mr. Burke. Ma'am, were it not the last request of a condemned man, we wouldn't dream of imposing on Captain Burton.”
“It's all right, Mrs. Angell,” Burton interrupted. “The restorative quality of your incomparable cooking has put new life into me. I'm fit as can be.”
“What condemned man?” the housekeeper asked.
“Lieutenant John Speke,” Burke answered.
“Oh,” the old dame replied. “Him.”
She threw up her chin disapprovingly and stamped back to the kitchen.
“She blames Speke for all my ills,” Burton remarked as he put on his overcoat. He lifted his topper from its hook and suddenly remembered that more than a year ago—or, from his point of view, more than five—a bullet had been fired through it. He examined it closely and saw no sign of the two holes. In his absence, Mrs. Angell had obviously paid for its repair.
He smiled, pushed the hat onto his head, and took his silver-handled sword cane from the elephant's-foot holder by the door.
“Let's go.”
Nearly two hours later, they arrived at the Tower of London after a difficult journey in a horse-drawn growler.
“It would have been quicker to walk,” the king's agent noted.
“Yes, Captain, my apologies,” Burke replied. “The new underground railway system will solve many of the capital's ills, I hope, but I fear its opening is still some way off.”
“Has Mr. Brunel encountered problems?”
“No, sir, he's still drilling the tunnels. It's a project of immense proportions. These things take time. Isn't that so, Mr. Hare?”
“It certainly is, Mr. Burke,” Hare agreed.
They disembarked at the end of Tower Street and walked around the outer walls to the river-facing Bloody Tower Gate. The stench from the Thames was almost too much for Burton, and he snatched gratefully at the perfumed handkerchief proffered by Hare, pressing it to his nostrils. Palmerston's men appeared unaffected by the foul odour.
After a few whispered words with the Beefeater guards, the two odd-job men ushered the king's agent through the gate, across a courtyard, and into the Great Keep. They entered St. John's Chapel, and Hare opened a door in one of its more shadowy corners, indicating to Burton that he should descend the stairs beyond. The explorer did so.
Oil lamps lit the stone staircase, which went down much farther than he expected.
“You understand, Sir Richard, that the area we're about to enter is not generally known to exist and must remain a secret?” Damien Burke said.
“You can count on my discretion.”
The stairs eventually ended at a heavy metal portal. Hare produced a key and unlocked it, and the three men stepped through into a wide hallway with doors along its sides. As they walked along, Burton observed small signs: Conference Rooms 1 & 2; Offices A–F; Offices G–L; Administration Rooms; Laboratories 1–5; Clairvoyance Rooms 1–4; Vault; Weapon Shop; Monitoring Station; Canteen; Dormitories.
At the end of the passage, they unlocked and passed through a door marked Security. The chamber beyond was rectangular and contained filing cabinets and a desk. There were six sturdy metal doors, each numbered.
A man at the desk rose and said, “Number four, gentlemen?”
Burke nodded. He turned to Burton. “You have thirty minutes, Captain. Mr. Hare and I will wait here.”
“Very well.”
Cell 4 was opened and Burton stepped into it. The door shut behind him. He heard a key turn in its lock.
The chamber looked more like a sitting room than a prison. There were shelves of books, a desk, a bureau, a settee and armchairs, ornaments on the mantelpiece, and pictures on the wall. A door stood open to Burton's right, and John Speke stepped out from what was evidently a bedchamber.
The lieutenant was barefoot, wearing trousers and a white cotton shirt, wrinkled and untucked.
“Dick!” he exclaimed. “I'm sorry, old fellow, I had no idea it was that time already!”
“Hallo, John. How are you feeling?”
“As healthy as a condemned man can expect.” Speke waved toward the armchairs. “Come, sit down.”
As they moved across the room, he leaned in close and quietly hissed: “They'll be listening.”
Burton gave a slight nod of acknowledgement and sat down.
There was an occasional table beside Speke's chair. He took a decanter of brandy from it, poured two glasses, and handed one to his guest.
“Do you consider me guilty, Dick?”
“Absolutely not,” Burton responded.
“Good. I don't care about anyone else. But I must ask your forgiveness. A weakness in my character caused me to take umbrage with you during our exploration of Berbera, and everything we've endured since stems from that act. I thought you considered me a coward. I was angry and resentful.”
“And wrong, John. I never thought of you that way. But if it's forgiveness you need, then consider it granted.”
“Thank you.”
Hesitantly, Speke raised his glass. Burton leaned forward, clinked his own against it, and they drank.
“Do you remember all those dreadful days of illness in Ujiji?” Speke asked, referring to 1857, when they'd discovered Lake Tanganyika.
“How could I forget, John? I thought we were goners for sure.”
“When I was at my lowest ebb, you used to sit beside my cot and read
to me from Camoens. Would you do so again? I'd gain much comfort from it. They allowed me a volume of The Lusiad.”
“Certainly.”
Speke stood, crossed to a bookshelf, and returned with a book in his hand. He passed it to Burton and sat down.
“I've marked a page.”
Burton nodded then opened the book where a loose leaf of paper poked out from the pages. He saw Speke's handwriting on the sheet and glanced up at his friend.
Speke met his eyes and held them a moment. His lens glinted.
Burton returned his attention to the book. He began to read aloud.
“'Ah, strike the notes of woe!' the siren cries;
‘A dreary vision swims before my eyes.
To Tagus’ shore triumphant as he bends,
Low in the dust the hero's glory ends—'”
Such was his familiarity with the Portuguese poet that he continued automatically, reciting the verse, expressively and faultlessly, though his eyes and mind were on Speke's note. He read:
Dick,
I have told no one of what occurred in the temple. Nor have we ever spoken to each other about it, for we were in no fit condition to converse in the days subsequent to those events, and, besides, I had little recollection of anything other than a bright flash and a deafening gunshot.
But in recent days, the veil of light that blinded me seems to have lifted. What I witnessed has gained clarity in my mind, and I feel instinctively that it might be of importance to you.
I shall try to describe what happened in its proper sequence, though, in truth, these are but facets of an instant.
Dick, this thing that Darwin and his cronies attached to my head, this babbage device, contains antennae of such extreme sensitivity that they detect the electrical operations of a human brain. At the moment the brass man fired his pistol, those sensors were hit by a transmission of subtle electrical force. It was the—I'm sorry, but I know of no other way to describe it—the final mental exhalation of Mr. Trounce. This same burst of energy seemed to activate the downward-pointing pyramid above the altar. It suddenly blazed with light and lost its opacity. I was able, as if seeing through solid matter, to discern that its structure was comprised of alternating layers of material, one denser than the other.