The Secret of Abdu El Yezdi (43 page)

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Sir Richard Francis Burton stood at a window in the smoking room, facing the black night. Clouds had concealed the moon, and the darkness made the glass reflective. In it, he saw Sir Richard Francis Burton glaring back at him, vague and ghostlike but for the eyes, which burned with an accusatory fire.

He'd left the family upstairs, gathered around Isabel. The screams and wails of her mother, heard throughout the house for the past two hours, had finally dwindled to an occasional cry of despair, but they still echoed loudly in the explorer's mind. Probably, they always would.

He stared at his translucent other.

A different me in a different world, where Isabel might still be alive.

But you are in this one, where she is not.

And it is my fault.

His fault.

Perdurabo had been unequivocal:
I intend to break your spirit and drive you to your knees
. The statement, made via a medium, had felt as intangible to Burton as every other aspect of the affair—mysterious abductions; his supposed presence at The Assassination; the Mad Marquess's vision; the bifurcation of Time; Abdu El Yezdi. All of it was fantastical, and he'd approached it just as he'd approached Africa, as an observer of the unfathomable, a man willing to explore and investigate but who employed a shield of sullenness and cynicism to create an emotional distance, for exploration and anthropology demand a surveyor and the surveyed, and never the twain shall meet, else scientific credibility is lost. Burton felt comfortable with such a conceptual separation.
Too
comfortable. He had applied it to every aspect of his life.

Except Isabel.

Only she had seen past his caustically sardonic front. Only she had realised that his detachment was born not from analytical necessity but from resentment, the resentment born of uncertainty, and his uncertainty born of an upbringing that had ill-prepared him for the complex protocols of British society.

She had saved him.

She had anchored him in reality.

And now she was dead, and this reality was just one of many.

More than one world.

More than one Isabel.

He looked at his nebulous reflection and whispered, “I shall find you. Somehow, I shall find you.”

Was he addressing her? Or himself? He didn't know.

In the glass, he saw the door open behind him. An ill-defined memory squirmed uncomfortably, causing him to whip around and raise his hands defensively, but rather than Laurence Oliphant, it was Levi, Swinburne, and Monckton Milnes who stepped into the room.

“
Mon Dieu!
” Levi announced. “These Sisters of the Noble Benevolence, they fill me with wonder. Perdurabo, he feed much on the
volonté
of Mademoiselle Raghavendra, but still a small flame of life remain, and it grow more strong
très rapidement
. She is not
strigoi morti
.” He pulled the calabash from his pocket and stuffed tobacco into it. “Doctor Bird, he rub brandy on her lips, gums, and inner wrists, and she wake a little and say she must go into deep sleep now, to recover. She is cold and her pulse very slow, but I think she know what to do to make herself better.”

The Frenchman moved over to the fireplace, leaned against the mantel, and lit his pipe. He drew on it and exhaled a thick, billowing cloud, through which he peered at Burton. “The night has been long, Sir Richard, but when the daylight come—” He glanced back at a clock by his shoulder. It was half-past five in the morning. “Then we must hunt again for the
nosferatu
.”

Swinburne threw out his hands. “Where? Where? We've already searched high and low.”

“The ravens,” Burton said. His voice was flat and emotionless.

“Ah,
oui
!” Levi exclaimed. He addressed Swinburne and Monckton Milnes. “Sir Richard suggest they gather around John Judge to be near Perdurabo, who inhabit the body but is not secure within it. I think he is correct.”

“The old castle, then?” Monckton Milnes said. He looked at Burton. “But you've been there twice.”

Swinburne nodded. “We explored every part of it.”

“And obviously missed something,” Burton said.

Levi loosed another plume of smoke into the room. “So. At midday, when the Beast is the most weak, we go there.”

“And if we find him, we shoot him?” Monckton Milnes asked.

“
Non.
To destroy a
nosferatu
, there are
méthodes spécifiques
, but I will not talk of them now, for they are not pleasant, and we must sleep for an hour or two, if we can,
non
? Best not to have the nightmares, I think.”

“It strikes me that we're already caught up in one,” Monckton Milnes responded. “But, yes, you're right. I'm all done in.” He pushed himself to his feet and crossed to Burton, taking him by the elbow. “Come on, old man. I'll see you to your room. If you can't sleep, you can at least rest a while.”

Mutely, Burton allowed himself to be guided out of the room, up the stairs, and into his bedchamber, where he sagged down onto the mattress and looked up at his friend. He whispered, “I have nothing now. Nothing.”

“You have a purpose, Richard.”

“A purpose?”

“Revenge.”

With that, Monckton Milnes departed.

Burton lay back. He could hear Bram Stoker snoring next door. Something he'd once read—a sentence attributed to Elizabeth I—popped into his head. He spoke the words softly. “A clear and innocent conscience fears nothing.”

The explorer put his hands over his eyes and clamped his teeth together. As he battled to suppress his grief, a different emotion welled up and took him by surprise. He dragged his hands down over his face and bunched his fingers into fists over his mouth.

He was scared.

Uncle Renfric—having lost his parents to cholera, a brother to consumption, and three children to typhus—was no stranger to death. He took charge. Traditions were observed. Curtains were drawn and candles lit. Clocks were stopped and mirrors covered with black cloth. Flowers and crucifixes were distributed throughout the mansion.

Burton had slept fitfully for three hours. When he awoke, the day was gloomy and it was once again pouring with rain.

Bram, sensing that something was wrong, performed his duties efficiently and silently.

“There's been a death in the house,” Burton explained. “I expect the servants will be glad of a helping hand today. They'll have to remove the decorations from the ballroom, for a start. Go and have something to eat, then do what you can to assist them.”

“Right ye are, Cap'n.”

The explorer joined his friends and the Birds and Beetons for breakfast. None of the Arundells was present at the table.

“We thought we might make a quiet withdrawal,” Isabella Beeton told them, “but Mr. Arundell has insisted that we stay for the—the—”

“Funeral,” her husband supplied. “Sunday. Today and tomorrow, the family will stand vigil. On Sunday morning, there'll be a Requiem Mass in the chapel. In the early afternoon, Isabel will be laid to rest in the family mausoleum.”

“Where is that?” George Bird asked.

“It adjoins the chapel, Doctor.”

“Catholic rituals baffle me,” Swinburne said. “I fear I may accidentally do or say something that offends.”

“Just stay out of the way,” Monckton Milnes advised. “And it might be wise to avoid alcohol.”

“My hat! Whatever are you suggesting?”

“I haven't known you for long, Algernon, but, if you'll forgive my impertinence, the hard stuff appears to accentuate your artistic sensibilities to such a degree that you become somewhat incomprehensible to the average man.”

The poet raised his eyebrows but said nothing.

After they'd finished breakfast, Burton and his companions headed toward the library, there to plan their move against Perdurabo. In the hallway, Henry Arundell hailed the explorer, calling him over to meet two newcomers.

“Richard, may I introduce you to Father Quilty, our chaplain, and Mr. Jolly, the county coroner. Gentlemen, this is Sir Richard Burton, my daughter's intended.” Arundell's voice was tremulous, his face ashen.

“My sincere sympathies, Sir Richard,” the priest said. He was a rotund little man whose cheeks wobbled when he spoke. “Please be assured, the Lord is close to the broken-hearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.”

Burton heard the words as if from a great distance. He nodded distractedly and turned to the coroner.

“I apologise for my surname,” Jolly said. He was an extremely tall and stooped man with a large hooked nose and a peculiar knob of hair on his chin. “It's entirely unsuited to my profession. I'll answer to Christopher, if you prefer.”

“It's quite all right, Mr. Jolly,” Burton said. “You've been informed there were two deaths here last night?”

“Yes, sir, I have.”

“Will you look at this, please?” Burton produced the card that bore his authority and handed it over. The coroner took it, examined it, and handed it back, saying, “Am I to assume this is a police matter, then?”

“Yes. Doctor John Steinhaueser's neck was broken by an escaped fugitive.”

“And Miss Isabel, sir?”

“I will leave you to assess the cause of her—of her—” Burton's mouth worked silently for a moment before he finished huskily, “of her demise.”

“Then I shall examine her immediately.”

Arundell waved Nettles over and instructed the butler to escort the two men first to Steinhaueser's room—to which Burton and his friends had taken the body last night—then to Isabel's. When they'd gone, he held Burton by the arm and accompanied him into the library, where Swinburne, Monckton Milnes, and Levi were waiting. He said, “I have no idea what bedevils this house, and the fact that none of you has properly explained leads me to conclude that you aren't in a position to do so—”

Burton made to speak but Arundell cut him short with a raised palm.

“No. Say nothing. I confess I have had my doubts about your character, Richard—and, to be frank, you are unlikely ever to win my wife's approval—but I don't for one moment believe you would allow my daughter's death to remain a mystery to me were you not under some obligation. I will therefore fall in with whatever explanation Mr. Jolly presents. However, I request—no, I demand—one thing of you.”

“Sir?”

“If you plan to act against the fugitive—the man you say infected Isabel with a parasite, though I do not for one moment give credence to that statement—then I must be involved.”

Eliphas Levi interrupted, “Monsieur, we intend to act this very morning, but what we must do, it is
très désagréable
, and it go badly against your faith. It is better that you do not see.”

“I insist.”

Burton said, “We believe the man is hiding out in the old castle. We plan to confront him at noon.”

“Noon? Why noon? Why not now?”

“It must be at noon, or near enough. I cannot reveal why.”

Henry Arundell stared searchingly at the explorer. His brows furrowed, then he shrugged. “No matter. I shall pry no further. But I will come to the castle with you.”

“Very well.”

“Shall I send for police assistance?”

“No, sir. The police should not witness our actions.”

“Which will be?”

“An execution.”

“Great heavens, man! You can't take the law into your own hands!”

“I have the king's authority to do so.”

Henry Arundell took a deep breath and muttered, “This is an ungodly business.”

“Yes,” Burton replied. “That's exactly what it is.”