The Secret of Abdu El Yezdi (27 page)

It was a rhetorical question, and one that perfectly summed up the sense of unreality that held both men in its grip.

On Wednesday the 19th, a telegram was delivered to Fryston. It originated from France and stated simply,
En route
. The sender arrived two days later. He was ushered into the library by the butler to be welcomed with enthusiasm by Monckton Milnes, who cried out, “Monsieur! This is indeed an unexpected pleasure. It was not my intention to wrest you from your studies. May I introduce you to my friend, Sir Richard Francis Burton? Sir Richard, this is Monsieur Eliphas Levi. In matters of the occult, no man has greater knowledge or experience.”

Burton stepped forward and shook the visitor's hand. Levi was a tall, broad, and wide-faced man, with a spade-shaped beard and clear blue eyes. He wore the robes of a monk. When he addressed Burton, he did so in a deep, booming voice. “Your recent achievement, it cause a sensation even in my own country, Sir Richard, and—
mon Dieu!
—you know how reluctant we French are to celebrate the deeds of any man not of our own nation! But
à tout seigneur tout honneur
, eh?”

Burton bowed his thanks.

Monckton Milnes instructed his butler to bring a pot of coffee, then hustled Levi and Burton into armchairs. The men settled, and Levi said, “I have no choice but to come. The information you send—oof!—
ça me donne des frissons
! So to England I travel
aller au fond des choses
—to get to the bottom of things.
Commençons par un bout.
Tell me all about it. All about it,
je vous prie
!”

Monckton Milnes looked at Burton. “Richard, I assure you, Monsieur Levi can be trusted. I recommend you hold nothing back. I will take responsibility.” He then addressed the Frenchman. “But, monsieur, please understand that much of what you will hear has been classified as secret by the British government. It must not be repeated.”

“I understand.
Bouche cousue!
Now, you speak and I listen.
Cela vous dérange si je fume?
”

Monckton Milnes flicked his hand in consent then looked on in amazement as Levi pulled a perfectly enormous calabash pipe from his pocket and began to stuff its exaggerated bowl with tobacco. A minute later, the Frenchman was leaning back in the chair with his eyes closed, giving every indication of being asleep but for the thick plumes of foul-smelling smoke that he puffed into the air.

Burton tried to counteract the pungent odour with one of his Manila cheroots, and while doing so, described Laurence Oliphant's ritual before going on to detail the course of his investigation, his encounter with Countess Sabina, and his and Monckton Milnes's theory.

Levi sighed and emitted a breathy whistle.

“Monsieur?” Monckton Milnes murmured.

“
Attends, je cherche!
” Levi responded.
Wait, I'm thinking!

They sat quietly while he ruminated. Five minutes passed.

“
Bien
,” the Frenchman finally said. “
On commence à y voir plus clair!
Yes, yes! I see all now!” He reached into his pocket, produced the letter Monckton Milnes had sent him, and held up a page upon which the magic squares had been transcribed. “The four central numbers—
mille, neuf cents, dix, et huit
—I think you now comprehend,
non
? They are exactly what they appear when written:
une année!
They are 1918, fifty-nine years from now.”

Levi rose and paced to a window. He gazed out of it at the clear blue sky.

“As you surmise, messieurs, these calculations they open a passage from
une réalité différente
from this, our own—but also from that world's future. Three intruders, we have! Three! But only one, he come through this way, for the lights in the sky, they are caused by the method, and they never are seen before,
non
? So, who are our visitors?” He turned to face them and raised a finger. “
Numéro un!
Edward Oxford. He arrive, I think, by means of the white suit.”

“The suit!” Burton exclaimed.

“
Oui
, for it is seen in 1840 and in 1837, where it vanish in front of Henry Beresford. It is magical—it operate on scientific principles of which we have no conception.”

Burton examined the glowing tip of his cigar, which was by now little more than a stub. He flicked it into the fireplace. “Then, based on his physical resemblance to the queen's assassin, I'll wager the future Oxford and the Mystery Hero are one and the same. Which means he's dead.”

“
Oui
,
probablement
he is killed by intruder
numéro deux
. That person, he hit Detective Inspector Trounce, and he resemble you, Sir Richard. You have the countenance of an Arabian. Abdu El Yezdi is an Arabian name. So, this we add up and—
voila!
—El Yezdi is our second traveller in time. But by what method? We do not know. But he have the rifle, which tell us he come from Africa in 1918. Also, we know he stay, and is here still.”

Levi sucked at his pipe for a moment. When he spoke again, it was from behind a veil of blue smoke.

“
Numéro trois.
Perdurabo. It seem he also come from Africa, 1918, but he journey through the
passage conceptuel
Oliphant create. This is very significant, for it mean he here only as
volonté
, as willpower.”

“You mean he has no physical presence?” Monckton Milnes exclaimed.

“
Exactement.
Our Beast is
une personne insubstantielle
—a phantom—but
volonté
, it must have
un corps physique
to survive in the world. It mean he take possession.”

“Of another person?” Burton asked.

“
Oui.
This I must study. Possibly, it is the key to his defeat, for he has the bad intentions,
non
?”

Monckton Milnes jumped up and started to pace back and forth, pulling his hair. “It's too much!” he cried out. “I feel my brain will explode! I don't know what to think or do!”

“You don't have to think or do anything,” Burton said. “Your help has been invaluable, but the rest is up to me.”

“
Non
, monsieur,” Levi said. “Not only. I will assist. I have knowledge. This Perdurabo, his nature I must better understand. I fear what he might be, so I will research, research, research!”

Burton gave a nod of gratitude.

“And you, Richard?” Monckton Milnes asked.

“I have to locate Abdu El Yezdi. I'm certain he's an ally in all of this. The line of inquiry leads us to Wallington Hall and the poet, Swinburne.”

“That idle clock at Westminster which may well hold its hands before its face for very shame, had cost the Nation the pretty little sum of £22,057. We never knew a richer illustration of the homely truth that Time is Money.”

—
P
UNCH
MAGAZINE ON THE CRACK IN
B
IG
B
EN
, 1859

They had to wait until Monday—when they were expected at Wallington Hall—to meet Swinburne, and on that day their patience was tested further, for when they arrived they were informed that the Trevelyans and their guests were on a day trip to Tynemouth. So a steam carriage was hired, and Burton, Monckton Milnes, and Levi set off in pursuit.

They arrived at the seaside town in the middle of the afternoon, disembarked on the Grand Parade, and strolled down a sloping road to the Longsands Beach. A stiff breeze was blowing from the southwest—sultry and not at all refreshing—and the sea was agitated, bulging up and crashing noisily onto the sand.

“Strange weather,” Monckton Milnes commented. He pointed to the sky inland, where inky clouds were being ripped into ribbons, curling around themselves and looking more like a gigantic swarm of insects than vapour.

There were a few individuals on the beach, but about halfway along it, strolling slowly toward the headland that sheltered Cullercoats Village, a larger group was visible. Among them, a tiny figure with long blazing-red hair was skipping about like a child, and—as Burton and his companions hurried toward the party—it detached itself from them, divested itself of its clothes, and plunged into the sea.

“
En octobre!
” Levi exclaimed.

“He'll drown for sure!” Monckton Milnes cried out.

They set off at a trot, Levi huffing and puffing, and upon drawing closer to the gathering, heard shouts and protests above the ceaseless uproar of the waters.

“Don't be a fool, lad!”

“It's too rough, Algy! Come back at once!”

“Swinburne, you lunatic! Give it up!”

Burton saw Dante Gabriel Rossetti. He also recognised William Bell Scott, the Scottish artist and poet who resided in London and was famous for his decorative embellishments to Isambard Kingdom Brunel's colossal transatlantic liner, the SS
Titan
. A small woman in capacious skirts and with a lace bonnet, he took to be Lady Pauline, and standing beside her, hook-nosed and with a moustache that swept around his jawline into sideburns, was her husband, Sir Walter Calverley Trevelyan. Two other men were present, both of about thirty years in age, neither of whom he knew.

“Sir Walter,” he said, as he reached them, “I'm Burton.”

It was Lady Pauline who answered. “Sir Richard, how wonderful! And Mr. Monckton Milnes! Welcome! Welcome!”

“I do hope you don't mind,” Burton said, “but we've brought an additional guest. This is Monsieur Eliphas Levi, an accomplished occultist and philosopher.”

“Not much the philosopher, I regret,” Levi corrected. He took Lady Pauline's hand, bowed, kissed it, and said, “
Enchanté.
”

“Delighted,” she responded. “Gentlemen, if you will forgive me, I shall make introductions in a moment. As you can see, my little Carrots is up to his usual tricks.” She pointed out to sea, where the small red-headed individual was plunging through the waves. “Put him next to rough waters and he invariably jumps into them.”

“By James!” Monckton Milnes exclaimed. “But he's a strong swimmer!”

Sir Walter added, “And a remarkably accomplished horseman, too, but in both disciplines he acts like a blithering idiot and takes damned silly risks!” He raised his voice to a shout. “Algernon! Come out of there and warm your bones with a swig of cognac!” Turning back to Monckton Milnes, he grinned and said, “That'll get him. Always does. What!”

The swimmer turned toward the beach, stretched out, and allowed a mountainous wave to drive him to shore. Once in the shallows, he stood, gave a squeal of delight, and loped through the water and onto the sand. Lady Pauline averted her face and called, “For goodness sake, put on your clothes and don't do that again!”

“Fear not, dear lady!” the little poet answered. “For now I have drunken of things Lethean, and fed on the fullness of death!”

“Yes, yes,” she responded impatiently. “Sir Richard, Monsieur Levi, Mr. Monckton Milnes, forgive me. Algernon is, as ever, a terrible distraction. Allow me to present the party. Gabriel, you surely know.”

The minister of arts and culture greeted Burton and Monckton Milnes, and to Levi said, “Rossetti, monsieur. I'm pleased to make your acquaintance.”

“William Scott,” the hostess continued, and after handshakes had been exchanged, turned to a tall, slender man with curling brown hair, a somewhat asymmetrical face, and a stiff and awkward stance. “And this is Charlie Dodgson, an up-and-coming writer.”

He smiled rather shyly and said, “I'm happy to—that is, pleased to make your—to meet you.”

“Arthur Hughes,” Lady Trevelyan went on, pulling forward a dark-complexioned individual who had very long black hair. “A talented artist and illustrator. My husband, Sir Walter. And this—” she added, as the swimmer, now fully dressed, joined them, “is Algernon Charles Swinburne, who recently toured the continent having fled Oxford University where he achieved precisely nothing, and who, apparently, is destined to be a notable poet, if he manages to stay alive long enough.”