The Secret of Abdu El Yezdi (34 page)

When they returned to The Spiteful Rosie, they found Bram waiting. He'd located a working telegraph office in Newborough, ten miles away.

“I'll hire a vehicle and leave you gentlemen for a while,” Trounce said. “I must get a message to Slaughter and have him take charge of the hunt for John Judge. An island is no refuge for a murderer, so I've no doubt that he's crossed the bridge to the mainland by now.”

Levi said, “
C'est nécessaire
that we examine the corpses from the ship, so perhaps you take the boy with you,
non
? Already he have seen too much death.”

Trounce sighed. “Lord help me, am I condemned to be Macallister Fogg for the day?”

“You brought it on yourself,” Burton said. “Consider your nursemaid duty a retribution for blackening my eye.”

“Humph!” the Scotland Yard man responded. He gestured for Bram to follow, and departed.

“Why do you wish to examine the dead, Monsieur Levi?” Burton asked.

“We know the
volonté
of Perdurabo need a body,
non
? And the logbook indicate he possess John Judge.”

“That is how I understood it, yes.”

“I wish to perform an experiment. Perhaps some who lie in the church hall, they are his victims. A theory I must test. You will forgive me if I say nothing more about it? There is much to consider; much to research before I can be certain that what I think is correct.”

“Very well. May I assist?”

“
Oui.
I will show you what is required.”

After fortifying themselves with strong coffee, Burton, Levi, and Swinburne visited the High Street, where the Frenchman purchased two strings of garlic from a grocery shop and three pocket mirrors from an ironmonger's. They continued on until they reached the church hall. Burton showed his authority to the county coroner and Moelfre's rector, who were seeking to establish the identities of the many dead. “Go and rest awhile,” he told them. “There are certain facts I need to establish and I'd prefer it if my companions and I were left undisturbed until we've finished.”

The two men, having laboured for many hours, didn't resist, and gratefully exited the hall to fill their lungs with fresh air.

“Now, monsieur,” Burton said. “What do we do?”

Levi approached the nearest body and pulled the shroud back from it, revealing the grey features of a middle-aged woman.

“
Observez.
”

Twisting a garlic bulb from its string, he crushed it in his hand and extracted one of its cloves. This he snapped in half and rubbed around the corpse's nostrils.

“Like so,” he said. “And now this.”

He put his thumb to the woman's eye and pulled up its lid, then held the pocket mirror in front of it. After a minute had passed, he stepped back and said, “We must the same thing do with every cadaver.”

“What a thoroughly outré operation,” Swinburne exclaimed. “What is its purpose?”

Levi looked down at his diminutive companion and answered, “We must identify any corpse that does not realise it is dead.”

The poet hopped on one leg and jabbed his elbows outward, dancing like a puppet with tangled strings. “This is beyond the bounds!” he squealed. “It's diabolical! Give me a mirror. How can the dead not know they are dead? You're as nutty as a fruitcake! Pass the garlic. Completely batty! What should I look for?”

“
Toute réaction.
”

“Any reaction? Barmy! Bonkers! Mad as a March hare!”

Having thus expressed his doubts, the poet got to work and, with silent efficiency, moved from body to body, testing each as instructed.

It took the three of them a little over two and a half hours to complete the procedure, and at the end of it Levi proclaimed himself satisfied that none of the dead harboured any doubts as to their condition.

Swinburne leaned close to Burton and whispered, “Are you absolutely positive he hasn't a screw loose?”

“He's as sane as you and me, Algy. Well, as me, anyway. I must admit, though, I'm intrigued to know what it was all about. No doubt he'll explain when he's ready.”

They left the church hall with the stench of death in their nostrils and returned to the pub where, an hour later, Trounce and Bram Stoker joined them for an early lunch.

The morning had robbed Burton and Levi of their appetites, and they picked unenthusiastically at their food. Swinburne, by contrast, ate with gusto and downed ale without restraint.

“There are no trains off the island,” Trounce reported, “and services on the mainland won't resume, they say, until tomorrow. I'm afraid we're going to have to kick our heels here for another day.”

Burton muttered an oath. It was the last thing he wanted to hear, but there was no other option, so he spent the afternoon impatiently reading and re-reading the log, furiously smoking cigars, and indulging in a vigorous walk along the coastline.

Levi, meanwhile, sank into such a deep contemplation that he became utterly unresponsive to conversation; Swinburne worked on his poetry and remained surprisingly sober; and Trounce and Stoker helped the local constabulary to collect the many hundreds of gold coins that were still washing ashore, and which, if the authorities accepted the rector's suggestion, would be used to help support the many women who'd soon receive the terrible news that they'd been widowed.

After what, for all of them, proved a fitful night's sleep, the detective inspector again visited the telegraph office and this time returned with the much more welcome news that although the island's railway tracks remained blocked, those on the mainland had, for the most part, been cleared of debris.

“How about I commandeer police velocipedes?” he suggested. “We could cross the bridge to the closest town—Bangor, I believe—and catch a train from there.”

This was agreed, quickly arranged, and by half-past one the party was speeding eastward, with Bram balanced on Trounce's handlebars. Just over an hour later, they arrived in Bangor and, finding that lines had been cleared, boarded a small train bound for Stoke-on-Trent. By four, they'd caught the Liverpool-to-London Atmospheric Express. The pumping stations blasted the carriages along at a tremendous velocity, and with the journey punctuated by just three stops—Birmingham, Coventry, and Northampton—they were back in London by eight in the evening.

A thick fog enshrouded the city. Flecks of soot—“the blacks”—were drifting through it.

“I shall go to Chelsea,” Swinburne announced. “I have my new digs at Rossetti's place on Cheyne Walk. Number sixteen.”

Burton addressed Levi, who'd been unusually quiet and self-absorbed since their departure from Anglesey. “Monsieur, you are welcome to my spare bedroom, unless you'd prefer a hotel, in which case I can recommend the Saint James.”

“If it is no inconvenience,” the Frenchman said with a bow, “I stay with you. There is much to discuss.”

“Very well. And you, lad—” Burton ruffled Bram's hair. “You're a useful little blighter to have around. What say you to permanent employment as my button-boy?”

“A page, is it?” Bram replied. “You'll not have me wearing a uniform!”

“That won't be necessary. But we'll smarten you up, and you'll take weekly baths.”

“By all that's holy! You'll be a-jokin' o' course!”

“Not a bit of it. What do you say, nipper? Can you behave yourself and do as my housekeeper tells you? You'll have a proper bed to sleep in, daily meals, and plenty enough pay to satisfy your craving for penny bloods.”

“Well now, since ye put it like that, I could give it a try, so I could.” The boy looked at Trounce. “That is, unless Mr. Fogg is requirin' me services.”

Trounce muttered, “I'll know where to find you if I need you, lad.”

“Aye, that you will. It's set, then. A pageboy I'll be.”

They left the station, hailed cabs, and went their separate ways.

“If Perdurabo's
volonté
has occupied John Judge's body,” Burton said to Levi as their growler advanced cautiously through the pall, “then he has no need to build one. Why, then, the taking of Darwin and Galton? Why the interest in Eugenics?”

“I must research,” Levi said. “I must read.”

Burton grunted. “And in the meantime, I have to wait for either the police to find Judge or for him to find me.”

Half an hour later, the growler stopped, the driver knocked on the roof, and they disembarked. Burton peered up at the man, who was but a shadow in the dense haze, and said, “How much?”

“On the 'ouse, guv'nor!” The cabbie leaned down until his face was visible. He pushed up his goggles, gave a grin and a wink, shouted, “Gee-up!” and sent his vehicle careening away.

“Penniforth!” Burton yelled. He started after the growler but had run only a few steps before it vanished into the gloom.

A police constable materialised at his side, stepping out of the eddying pea-souper.

“Trouble, Sir Richard?”

“No, not really. You know me?”

“Detective Inspector Slaughter has posted me to Montagu Place to keep an eye on things, sir. I understand there's some threat to you.”

“I see. Well, thank you. I'll be sure to shout if I need your assistance, Constable—?”

“Krishnamurthy, sir. Goodnight.”

On Friday morning, Eliphas Levi immersed himself in Burton's library while his host attended to his correspondence, which included the usual flood of letters from New Wardour Castle, plus a summons from Edward.

After composing a reply to his fiancée, Burton made his apologies—Levi was happy to remain and continue with his reading—then stepped out of the house and yelled at a hansom he vaguely perceived trundling through the miasma. He checked its driver wasn't Penniforth, then opened its door and was about to climb in when Constable Krishnamurthy called from the opposite pavement. “I'm under orders to keep guard over number fourteen, sir, but if you'd like me to accompany you—?”

“No, Constable, keep to your sentry duty. I don't expect to be gone for long.”

He boarded the vehicle. “The Royal Venetia Hotel, please.”

The murk made it slow going, enfolding the city in such gloom that gas lamps remained lit, hovering dimly like chains of tiny depleted suns. It took an hour to reach the Strand. The thoroughfare had returned to its normal state; the huge sewer tunnel was covered over and a new road surface laid. Bazalgette's workmen were now at Aldgate, digging their way ever closer to the East End—the “Cauldron”—and its teeming hordes of villains and beggars.

Grumbles ushered Burton into his brother's presence.

The minister of mediumistic affairs was in his red dressing gown and customary position. There was a cup of tea and a stack of documents on the table beside his armchair. He was holding a sheaf of papers, which he put down as Burton entered. “You look as if you've been trampled by a herd of cattle. It's a considerable improvement over when I last saw you.”

“Thank you. I have a vague recollection of you being at the hospital. Is that what it takes to get you out of your chair—your brother nearly being blown to kingdom come?”

“No. It takes an order from His Majesty King George the Fifth, who was concerned at the possible loss of a valuable resource.”

“Then I apologise for inconveniencing you.”

“Accepted. Where have you been?”

“In Anglesey.”

“The
Royal Charter
? It's all over the newspapers. What has that to do with the affair? Sit.”

Burton neither sat nor answered the question, but instead asked one of his own. “What do you want?”

Edward took a police file from the table. “Countess Sabina. Dead. Your report is unsatisfactory, to say the least. Chief Commissioner Mayne is not happy. Neither am I. Explain.”

“I answer to the king, not to you, and the report will make more sense when included with the rest of the case files.”

“Then give them to me.”

“They aren't written. The investigation is ongoing.”

“Damnation, Dick! What the hell happened to her? You realise that, by your choice of words in this account, you've made of yourself—as far as the police are concerned—the principal suspect?”

“I didn't kill the countess, Edward.”

The minister sighed, threw the file to the floor, and selected another, which he held out to his brother. “I know. Read this.”

The explorer stepped forward, took the cardboard folder, and opened it. The document within was adorned with the Bethlem Royal Hospital letterhead and had been written by Doctor Monroe.

REPORT: PATIENT 466. LAURENCE OLIPHANT.

Wednesday, 26th October 1859.

I set this down in detail, for the case is the most extraordinary I have ever encountered.

At seven o'clock yesterday evening, Nurse Bracegirdle informed me that Laurence Oliphant had something of the utmost importance to impart. Having informed the nurse that I would see the patient in the morning, I was told that Oliphant was “extremely persistent and liable to have one of his violent fits” if I did not attend him immediately. Knowing Bracegirdle's judgement to be sound, I consented to the request and went to Oliphant's room, where I found him to be considerably unsettled, though perfectly rational in speech.