The Secret of Abdu El Yezdi (19 page)

“During their fourth encounter, last night, Oliphant flew into a rage and attacked his attendants. While they were distracted, Galton broke into a storage room and climbed out through its window.”

Burton opened his mouth to speak but was stopped by a gesture from Monroe. “No, Mr. Cribbins, the window was not left open by accident. We are—ugh!—meticulous about security here. The fact is—it was forced from the outside.”

Burton leaned forward in his seat. “By whom, Doctor?”

Monroe shrugged. “I don't know, but a ladder was left behind on this side of the perimeter wall, which means not only that Galton had help to get away, but also that whoever assisted him knew Oliphant would provide a diversion at that—ugh!—particular moment. I can't for the life of me think how such a thing could be arranged.” He hesitated then added, “Although suspicion must naturally fall on Mr. Darwin.”

“Darwin?”

“Charles Darwin. The
Beagle
fellow.”

“What has he to do with it?”

“He and Galton are half-cousins. As one of our long-term and most docile patients, Galton was allowed to send and receive letters. Darwin is the only person he has ever corresponded with, and he did so on a regular basis. It's our policy here to monitor all incoming and outgoing post. The communication between the two men appeared purely—ugh!—scientific in nature. Darwin is apparently on the brink of publishing a theory that might alter the way we think about—ugh!—creation itself. It bears some relation to Galton's preoccupation, and I was hoping that I might gain a better understanding of my patient's fixations by reading their missives. Unfortunately, all I could glean from them is that both men are engrossed in disturbingly godless matters which make little—ugh!—sense to me. If any escape plans were discussed between them, then it was done in code and I didn't detect it.”

“I should like to see those letters.”

“I'm afraid Galton took them with him.”

Pushing his chair back, Burton stood. “Then take me outside. Show me the window.”

“Is that necessary?”

“It is.”

Reluctantly, Monroe got to his feet and led Burton from the office, down the corridor, through the vestibule, and out of the building. They turned left and followed the edge of a long flower bed that skirted the foot of the hospital's front wall.

“Here.” Monroe pointed to a small window set five feet from the ground.

Burton turned away from it and examined the terrain. He saw six trees huddled together nearby, providing shadows and cover; a long, squarely trimmed hedge beyond them, bordering a large vegetable garden; and more trees between that and the high wall, which they partially concealed.

“A good escape route,” he muttered. “Lots of concealment.”

Returning his attention to the window, he saw gouges in its frame, suggesting the application of a crowbar. He squatted and scrutinised the flower bed.

“Look at these indentations in the soil, Doctor.”

“Footprints, Mr. Cribbins?”

“Yes. Peculiar ones, at that. See how square the toes are, and how small and high the heels?”

“High?”

“Revealed by the indentation. This style has been out of fashion for half a century. It's the variety of footwear that usually has a large buckle on top. I haven't seen anyone shod in such a manner since my grandfather.”

“Are you suggesting that Galton's accomplice was an—ugh!—old man, sir?”

“Two men broke the window, Doctor. And it doesn't necessarily follow that because their footwear was old, so were they.” Burton straightened. “Two sets of prints. Both men wore the same style of footwear. One had long, narrow feet, the other, short, wide ones. The latter individual was the heavier of the pair.”

Damien Burke and Gregory Hare.

There was no doubt about it. Burton had seen plenty of newspaper illustrations of the notorious duo. Their famously old-fashioned attire, which included buckled shoes, had been the delight of
Punch
cartoonists. And Hare was shorter but far bulkier than Burke.

So, having failed to kidnap Isambard Kingdom Brunel, they'd got Francis Galton.

Why?

“I think it's high time I saw Oliphant, Doctor.”

Monroe spasmed, nodded, and accompanied the explorer back the way they'd come. When they reached the lobby, he rang a bell and waited until two attendants appeared. Both were wearing stained leather aprons. Ordering them to follow, he then ushered Burton up a flight of stairs and toward the west wing of the asylum. They passed along cell-lined hallways and were assailed by shouts and screams, incoherent babbling, pleading, and curses. The odour of human sweat and excrement was worse even than the foulest-smelling of the many swamps Burton had struggled through in Africa.

More passageways, more staircases, until on the fourth floor, a door blocked their path. One of the attendants produced a bunch of keys and set about opening it.

“Ugh!” Monroe jerked. “You'll find fewer patients in this next area, but the ones we keep here are among the most seriously—ugh!—deranged and can be exceedingly violent. They'll watch our every move through the slots in their cell doors. Please refrain from making eye contact with them.”

The portal's hinges squealed as the attendant pushed it open. They passed through into yet another filthy corridor. A nurse greeted them.

“This is Sister Camberwick,” the doctor said. “She oversees this section. Sister, this is Inspector Cribbins of the Government Medical Board. He wishes to interview Mr. Oliphant. Is the patient quiet?”

After bobbing to Burton, the nurse replied, “He is, Doctor.”

“Good. Good. Go about your duties. I'll accompany Mr. Cribbins.”

She gave another bob and stood to one side to let them pass. The party moved a little farther on until it came to a cell door marked with the number 466.

Monroe addressed the two attendants. “Stay here. Come at once if I call for you.” To Burton, he said, “I'll allow you as much time as you require providing he doesn't become—ugh!—agitated. If he does, I'll have to terminate the interview immediately.”

“I understand.”

Monroe held out his hand and one of the attendants placed his keys into it. After selecting the appropriate one, the warden put his mouth to the slot in the door and said, “Mr. Oliphant. I am Doctor Monroe. I have with me a visitor named Mr. Cribbins. We would like to come in and speak with you. Have you any objection?”

Burton heard Oliphant's familiar voice answer, “None at all, sir. Please enter freely—and of your own free will.”

Monroe looked at Burton, raised an eyebrow, and whispered, “You note the inappropriate and oddly worded formality? No matter how normal a patient's behaviour may appear, such incongruous language is always a sure sign of—ugh!—defective thinking.”

He turned the key in the lock and pulled the door open, revealing Laurence Oliphant, sitting on a bunk, smiling broadly, his fringe of hair and bushy beard dishevelled, his arms bound by a strait waistcoat.

“Come in, Doctor! Come in, Mr. Cribbins! I am delighted to have guests! Forgive me if I do not shake your hands. I am somewhat inconvenienced, as you'll bear witness.”

They entered the cell and Monroe closed the door behind them. “I'm pleased to see that you've calmed down, Mr. Oliphant. Continue in this manner and the jacket will be removed, I assure you.”

“Excellent! I'm eager to get back to work.” Oliphant looked toward the window, and Burton, following his gaze, saw that what from the corner of his eye he'd presumed to be a hanging gown wasn't a gown at all, but a great mass of dead rats, woven together by their tails—as garlic is platted by its stalks—and strung from the window bars. Unable to stop himself, he cried out, “Good God!”

Oliphant cackled. “He he he! Flesh, you see, Mr. Cribbins. Dead flesh, all ready to be re-formed and given new life. It doesn't matter that it's rat flesh. Any will do. Flesh is flesh. Merely a vehicle.”

“A vehicle for what?” Burton asked.

“For my master!” Oliphant suddenly checked himself. His eyes slid slyly from side to side then fixed on Burton, and he hissed, “He has the royal charter now. Drum, drum, drum! Come, come! Drum, drum, drum! They will answer the call, and then nothing will stop him. Out of Africa! Out of Africa! He'll repair this broken world of ours, and I shall be rewarded with an entire history of my very own! Ha! What shall I make of you, Mr. Cribbins, Doctor Monroe?—Paupers? Kings? Criminals? Or perhaps madmen? Ha ha ha!”

“Calm yourself, please,” Monroe said. “You don't want to get—ugh!—overexcited again, do you?”

His patient's giggling stopped abruptly. Oliphant shook his head, grinned, and shrugged. “No need. Now I can wait. Now I can wait. Drum, drum, drum! Drum, drum, drum!”

The doctor turned to Burton. “Mr. Cribbins, have you any particular questions you'd like to ask the patient?”

“Just one,” Burton replied. “Mr. Oliphant, the numbers one thousand, nine hundred, ten, and eight—what do they signify?”

Oliphant gave a cry of surprise, then threw back his head and let loose a peal of laughter that rapidly transformed into a scream of fury.

“What do you know?” he yelled. “Are you a spy? Yes! Yes! A spy! I'll kill you! I'll bloody kill you, you bastard spy!”

He sprang from the bed and lunged at Burton, his mouth wide and teeth exposed. The explorer dodged, was knocked back against the wall, and felt the maniac's jaws clench down on his collar.

“Attendants! Attendants!” Monroe bellowed.

Burton struggled but Oliphant seemed ten times stronger than a sane man.

“Get him away from me! He's trying to bite my throat!”

The attendants crashed in and dragged Oliphant off.

“The end!” he screamed. “The numbers add up to the end of the British Empire! Ha ha ha! The end! The end! The end!”

NOTICE

Norwood Road, Herne Hill, and Denmark Hill will be closed to through traffic until further notice. This is to facilitate the construction of Mr. Bazalgette's sewer tunnel along the course of the subterranean River Effra.

The Department of Guided Science apologises for any inconvenience caused.

The Department of Guided Science 

Making a Healthier, Cleaner, Better London.

The interview with Oliphant had been short but unsettling, and throughout the following night Burton was repeatedly shocked awake by nightmares in which he saw the lunatic's face looming out of the darkness, feline eyes blazing and muzzle-like jaws extended, displaying elongated, blood-dripping canines.

By seven in the morning he'd given up on further sleep, so washed, dressed, and went downstairs. He stepped out into the street and located the newspaper boy a little way down Montagu Place. Passing him a few coins, he said, “I need the address of a man named Charles Darwin. He's a member of the Royal Geographical Society, so you'll find it in the register there.”

“Straight away, sir,” the lad said, and immediately scampered off. Burton watched him approach another urchin at the corner of Seymour Place and whisper in his ear. The second youngster raced away and the Irish boy turned, grinned, and gave Burton the thumbs-up.

The explorer returned to his study. Oliphant lingered in his thoughts and made him sullen and uncommunicative during breakfast—Mrs. Angell had witnessed such moods before and served him silently and efficiently before making a rapid withdrawal—and afterward he spent the morning with a foil in his hand, practising his fencing technique against an imaginary opponent.

He forced his mind into silence, finally driving Lord Elgin's secretary out of it, and focused instead on the physical exertion, gauging carefully his own strength and weakness, and discovering, to his satisfaction, that no remnant of fever remained; he was close to his normal level of health and fitness.

At half-past eleven, he was flannelling the sweat from his face and neck when the doorbell jangled. He heard his housekeeper answer it then thump up the stairs.

“Yes?” he called in response to her knock.

She looked in. “There's an unwashed guttersnipe on our doorstep. He says he has a message for you.”

“Send him up, please.”

“Up the stairs?”

“I don't expect him to scale the outer wall, Mrs. Angell.”

“But his boots are filthy.”

Burton gave his housekeeper what she referred to as
the look
. She heaved a sigh and disappeared from sight. Moments later, a quiet tapping sounded on the door.

“Come in.”

The Whisperer entered, and his eyes widened as he saw the various weapons on the wall and the foil in Burton's hand.

“You have it?” the explorer asked.

“That I do, sir. Mr. Darwin lives at Down House, on the Luxted Road, quarter of a mile south of Downe Village in Kent.”