The Secret of Abdu El Yezdi (8 page)

His pale blue eyes met Burton's. “So, it's to be like that, is it?”

Burton was astonished. He'd boxed at university and in fight pits in India and had never been beaten. The uppercut had been his best shot. It should have knocked the man cold. Was his strength really so diminished?

“I'll not submit to a mugging,” he growled, and took up the fighter's stance.

Fogg grinned, as if relishing the prospect of battle, and mirrored the explorer's posture. “I have no interest in your valuables,” he said, and suddenly ducked in and sent a fist thudding into Burton's ribs. The explorer doubled over. Lights exploded in his head as knuckles smashed into the side of it, then into his mouth, then into his right eye. He fell, rolled, and jumped to his feet, stumbling back, suddenly feeling completely sober, horribly weak, and utterly befuddled.

Fogg had recovered his pistol. Burton looked down its barrel and raised his hands.

“Will you please explain?” he slurred. “Has it something to do with Prince Albert?”

“Albert? Why would it concern him?”

“I was with him this morning.”

“So?”

“So he was Victoria's husband. He was present when she was shot.”

“It has nothing to do with Albert,” Fogg said. “Your father—do you resemble him at all?”

“What? My father? Not in the slightest bit.”

“By Jove! It has to be you! Except you're simply too young. It's impossible.” Fogg scowled, looked at his gun, hesitated, and lowered it. “Confound it! I suppose I should apologise. A case of mistaken identity, Burton, that's all.”

“That's
all
? I'd appreciate a rather more enlightening excuse, if you don't mind,” Burton said, relaxing his arms.

“I do mind. You'll not get one.”

“Then your address, please, Mr. Fogg, for the laundry bill.” Burton indicated his dust-stained overcoat and trousers.

Fogg raised his pistol again. “Enough. Get going.”

Burton gritted his teeth, picked up his hat and cane, and slowly walked to the end of the alley.

Just as he was about to turn the corner, his assailant shouted after him, “Hey!”

Burton looked back.

“If it's any consolation,” Fogg called, “my head is still spinning from that uppercut of yours.”

The explorer's eyes locked with the other man's for a moment, then he turned and strode away.

By the time he reached number 14 Montagu Place, Burton was light-headed, shaking, and perspiration beaded his brow. He opened the door, entered the hallway, and saw Mrs. Iris Angell frozen in mid-step halfway along the passage. His landlady, a white-haired, broad-hipped, sprightly old dame—who also functioned as his housekeeper—was gaping at him as if he were a ghost.

He removed his topper and put it on the hat-rack, placed the cane in an elephant-foot holder, and popped open his collar button.

Mrs. Angell let loose a shriek and threw her not inconsiderable weight across the intervening space and into his arms.

“My goodness! My goodness! What has Africa done to you? You're as thin as a broom handle! Your lip is bleeding! Your eye is black! Your trousers are torn! You look as sick as a dog! Isabel has been waiting! We knew you'd be arriving today but thought you'd be home earlier! You found the Nile, Captain Burton? Of course you did! The papers say you're a hero! Are you hungry? What do you think of the light in the sky? Do you know what it is? I'll get you fresh clothes! My goodness!” She raised her voice to a shrill scream. “Miss Isabel! Miss Isabel!”

Burton disentangled himself from her arms. “Slow down, Mother Angell. Calm yourself. I'm quite fine. I've been a little ill and I had a slight accident on the way here, but it's nothing to be concerned about. The comforts of home will soon put me to rights.”

“Oh!” she cried out. “Thank the Lord you've returned to us. Such a long time away and every single day of it I worried you were being eaten by giraffes or stung by poisonous monkeys.”

“Africa wasn't so bad,” he responded. “I've already encountered more danger right here in London. And to answer your earlier questions—no, I'm not hungry, and yes, fresh clothes would be most welcome. Isabel?”

A mellow voice sounded from the top of the stairs. “Dick.”

He looked up and saw Isabel Arundell, having obviously just emerged from his study, standing on the landing. She was tall, slender, and pretty—with large clear eyes, a straight Grecian nose, and thick, lustrous blonde hair.

“A pot of tea, please, Mrs. Angell!” he bellowed, and shot up the staircase and into Isabel's embrace.

She held him tightly and sobbed onto his shoulder.

“Isabel,” he whispered. “Isabel. Isabel.”

He pushed her away a little, so he could lean in and kiss the side of her neck. His split lip left two small spots of blood on her jugular.

“Blanche is here!” she gasped.

“I don't care,” he said. “I have to kiss you. You waited.”

“Of course I did. You're bleeding. You look all banged-up. Have you had an accident?”

“Yes, just a mishap.” He pulled out his handkerchief, wiped the little red stains from her skin, and dabbed the square of cotton against his mouth.

“We can marry,” he said. “I'm done with Africa.”

“Come and say hello to her.”

“Isabel, have your parents given their blessing?”

“Not their blessing, but their permission. They realise I won't accept any other man.”

He nodded, checked his handkerchief, put it away, and followed her into the study.

It felt strange to be back. Nothing had changed, but it all appeared dreamlike in the shifting multicoloured illumination that streamed in between the open curtains. His three desks were still piled high with books and papers; the swords and daggers still hung on the wall over the fireplace, with spears and guns in the alcoves to either side; his old boxing gloves still dangled from the corner of the mantelpiece; the bureau still stood between the two tall sash widows; the bookcases were still warped beneath the weight of his books; and his comfortable old saddlebag armchair was right where he'd left it.

Isabel's petite younger sister, Blanche, rose from the chair.

He strode to her, grabbed her hand, and gave it a peck.

“Hello, Little Bird. I'm sorry I missed your wedding. How is old Smythe Piggott?”

“Hello, Richard. The sky has lit up to celebrate your return. I'm fine, but do emphasise the
pig
when you say my husband's name. He already has two mistresses. But he's a rich pig, so I can't complain. There are women with worse husbands; the variety of man that remains at home in the evenings and insists on conversation, for instance. The fifth of November, Richard, the fifth of November.”

“What about it? Do you intend to throw him onto a bonfire? I didn't think you Catholics celebrated Guy Fawkes Night.”

“We Catholics don't. It's the date my parents have set for your engagement party. They'd prefer that my sister's marriage be founded on financial security, as mine is—I think they're rather intimidated by such concepts as love and passion—but they've bowed to the inevitable. Great-Uncle Gerard has agreed to host the party at New Wardour Castle, and if you wish to bring guests, you have his leave to do so.”

Burton looked at Isabel and arched an eyebrow. “Have you been doping your parents?”

She laughed. “No, just driving them to the brink of madness by singing your praises at every opportunity. But I think it was the knighthood that finally swayed them.”

“Oh. You know about that? Good grief! Was I the last to be told?”

“I heard it from Monckton Milnes. You know what a great depository of knowledge, gossip, and secrets he is.”

“Not so much secrets, it would appear.”

Burton indicated that Blanche should resume her seat and Isabel take the other armchair. He dragged over a padded chair from beside one of the desks and sat facing them.

Isabel reached for his hand and held it. She said, “You won't object to the party, will you?”

“I'll concede to it,” he replied, “but we'll keep the wedding itself a small affair, as we agreed—yes?—for a grand marriage ceremony is a barbarous and an indelicate exhibition.”

Isabel first laughed then frowned. “Your face. What was this mishap you mentioned?”

“Yes, brother-in-law-to-be,” Blanche added. “You look a hideous mess.”

He dismissed the question with a wave. “Thank you, Blanche. It's really nothing to worry about. I tripped.”

Blanche giggled. “Months and months in dangerous Africa and as soon as you're home, you fall flat on your face.”

“Exactly.”

“Was the safari very difficult?” Isabel asked. “Why did it take so much longer than predicted?”

“The
Orpheus
's engines failed,” he replied. “Some five hundred miles north of the lakes, they simply packed up. The engineers couldn't find a thing to explain it. What little wind there was came from the west—the dirigible couldn't even float southward—so Sadhvi, Bill, George, and I left it and continued on foot. We followed the upper Nile through a chain of swamps and lakes until we arrived at its source—waterfalls descending from the Nyanza, which is practically an inland sea. We then skirted around its western shore, past the Mountains of the Moon, until we came to the water's southernmost point. While we were doing all that, the breeze altered direction, allowing Captain Lawless to drift the
Orpheus
over the eastern shores of the Nyanza then southward to an Arabic outpost called Kazeh. He set up camp there and paid natives to spread the news of the ship's location. The information eventually reached us and we rejoined our colleagues. A few days later, we discovered that the engines had miraculously come back to life and immediately set course for Zanzibar.”

The door opened and Mrs. Angell entered with a tea tray. She gave Blanche an approving glance, pleased to see that propriety was being observed and Isabel was correctly chaperoned, then set the tray down on a table.

“Shall I pour?” she asked.

“It's all right, Mrs. Angell,” Isabel said. “Leave it to me.”

“I'll lay clean clothes out in your bedchamber, Captain Burton,” the housekeeper said. “Oh, I'm so happy to have you home safe and sound. You'll not be returning to Africa, I hope.”

“No, Mother,” Burton responded. “I have no plans to go back.”

The old woman wrung her hands in satisfaction. “You'll have some beef broth before you go to bed. I insist upon it. You need building up. Ring when you're ready for it. Don't forget!” With that admonition, she left the room.

Isabel said, “Have you satisfied your craving for danger and unexplored lands, Dick? Are you ready to settle? I have petitioned Lord Stanley. I think he's willing to hand us Damascus.”

Burton sighed. “I wish you hadn't. The
Orpheus
gave him passage home from Vienna. He made it quite clear to me that your unsolicited recommendations were unwelcome and irritating. You may have done more damage than good.”

“There!” Blanche interjected. “I told you not to be so bullheaded. Really, Isabel, mother is right. You are far too brazen.”

“I was trying to help!” Isabel protested.

Burton gave her hand a squeeze. “I appreciate that, darling, but in doing so you might have given the impression that I lack the wherewithal to advance my own career.”

“It's just that—that—Oh, Dick, I just want to be able to do something for our future together. I so regret that I'm bringing you no money, but Papa simply won't allow it.”

“That's no disadvantage as far as I'm concerned, for heiresses always expect to lord it over their lords. A man must be a man, Isabel. He must be in charge of his own destiny, and more importantly, he must be seen to be in charge.”

She swallowed and nodded.

“Don't fret,” he added. “You may have riled old Stanley, but I'm confident we'll get what we want anyway.”

“You forgive me?”

“I forgive you.”

Isabel smiled, stood, and crossed to the table. While she attended to the teapot, Burton asked Blanche, “Your parents really want me to bring guests?”

“Oh, yes!” she answered. “You should invite them for the first of the month, so we have a few days to become acquainted before the party itself. Will Styggins be among them? I so want to meet him. I hear he's absolutely utterly!”

“Steinhaueser? Absolutely utterly what?”

“Just utterly! Isabel tells me you've known him forever.”

“Since India,” Burton corrected. “Utterly, hey?”

“You must admit,” Isabel said, returning with a filled cup and saucer in each hand, “that he
is
rather handsome and charming.”

“I can't say I've noticed,” Burton said. “But, yes, I'll invite Styggins, if only to make my Little Bird's pet pig jealous.”