“So this Rasputin fellow observed the defectors at work? To what end?”
“He did much more than that. He possessed Blavatsky and used her to steal the rest of the Cambodian stones and recover the South American diamond from the Tichborne estate, thus changing history again. He then employed them to magnify and transmit his mesmeric influence, causing the working classes to riot. He intended nothing less than the wholesale destruction of the British Empire, so that United Germany might win the war against us without Russian assistance. Once that heinous outcome was achieved, Russia would swoop upon a weakened Germany and defeat her.”
“Bloody hell!”
“Blavatsky didn't survive and the plot failed,” Burton said. “I caused Rasputin to die in 1914, two years before his assassination, meaning that history has diverged yet again, although that particular bifurcation won't occur for another fifty-one years.”
Monckton Milnes flexed his jaw. He clenched his fists. He blew out a breath, reached for his glass, emptied it, and refilled it again. He was trembling. “By thunder!” he muttered. “I actually believe all this! Where are the Cambodian and South American diamonds now?”
“The South American stone was broken into seven fragments when I defeated Rasputin. They are in Palmerston's possession. The Cambodian stones are embedded in a babbage probability calculator.”
“They are? For what purpose?”
“During the Tichborne riots I was assisted by a philosopher named Herbert Spencer. He died with the stones in his pocket and his mind was imprinted onto them. Charles Babbage had designed a device to process just such an imprint. We fitted the diamonds into it and placed the mechanism in my clockwork valet. Herbert Spencer thus lives on, albeit in the form of a mechanical contraption. That is how I know the history of the Nāga, for the reptile intelligence remains in the stones, and Herbert can sense it. Actually, so can I, in a vague way. The Nāga came to me in a dream and left me with the phrase ‘Only equivalence can lead to destruction or a final transcendence.’ It was that which guided me in the final ruination of Rasputin.”
Monckton Milnes again rubbed his face and again smudged his Harlequin makeup.
“So only the African diamond remains undiscovered and Palmerston is sending you to find it?”
“Precisely. As the last remaining unbroken stone, it will be more powerful than its splintered counterparts. He means to use the Eyes to wage a clandestine war on Prussia through clairvoyance, prophecy, and mediumistic assassinations. He intends that Bismarck will never unite the Germanic states. Do you see now why I'm wishing this expedition had never been commissioned?”
He received a weak nod of understanding. “Yes,” came the whispered response. “You can't possibly allow Palmerston that kind of power. By God, he could manipulate the whole world!”
“Just as Darwin and Galton and their cronies would have done.”
Monckton Milnes gazed at his friend a moment. “By James, I wouldn't be in your shoes for anything, Richard. What are you going to do?”
Burton shrugged. “I have to retrieve the stone if only to prevent it from falling into Prussian hands. I feel certain that my erstwhile partner is going after it, with Bismarck's sponsorship. As to what I'll do with it once I have it—I don't know. There's a further complication: it was the African Eye that Rasputin employed in 1914 to probe into the past. So I already know I'm fated to find it, and, after I do, it will somehow, eventually, be transported to Russia.”
They sat in silence for a few minutes, then Burton muttered, “I feel like a bloody pawn in a game of chess.”
Monckton Milnes roused himself from the reverie he'd fallen into. “I have every faith in you, Richard,” he said. “Go to Africa. Do whatever you must. You'll find an answer, of that I'm certain.”
Burton sighed and gave a slight jerk of his head. He became conscious of the buzz of conversation and merriment that filled Fryston. He looked down at himself, then at his friend, and suddenly chuckled. “Bismillah! King Shahryār of A Thousand Nights and a Night discussing fantastic notions with Harlequin! What a confounded joke!”
Monckton Milnes smiled. “Go back to the party. Relax. Enjoy yourself. I'll join you in a few minutes. I want to sit here a little longer.”
Burton rose and crossed to the door. He looked back and said, “If Palmerston learns that we had this conversation, I'll be thrown into the Tower.”
“Bedlam, more like,” Monckton Milnes murmured.
“No. The government keeps secret rooms, including prison cells, beneath the Tower of London.”
His friend held up his hands as if to ward off the king's agent. “Have mercy! No more, I beg of you!” he cried. “My capacity for revelations is all used up!”
Burton unlocked the door and left the room. He made his way back across the entrance hall, through the parlour, and into the smoking room.
“I say, Captain,” Humpty Dumpty called as he entered. “Where's that wonderful housekeeper of yours?”
Burton turned to the rotund fairy-tale figure. “Is that you in there, Trounce?”
“Yes, and I feel an absolute ass, but it was Mrs. Trounce's idea and I thought it wise not to kick up a fuss, seeing as I'm abandoning her for the next few months. It's blasted awkward, I can tell you. I'm having dashed difficulty in steering food and wine lipwards, so to speak.”
“I shouldn't complain. It looks like you could stand to lose a pound or two.”
“That's quite enough of that, if you don't mind! You know full well that my current circumference is all padding!”
“If you say so. Who has the esteemed Mrs. Trounce come as?”
“Old Mother Hubbard, which, admittedly, didn't require much by way of dressing up. She's eager for a gossip with Mrs. Angell but what with all these fancy getups she can't locate the dear lady. So where is she and who, or what, has she come as?”
“She's a rather too matronly Queen Boadicea, and is off doing your wife's job, I think.”
“What do you mean?”
“She's gone to give a dog a bone.”
“Eh?”
“She's down in the kitchen procuring a morsel for Fidget, though I suspect she's actually seeking refuge from all these lords and ladies. She feels a little out of place, but I insisted upon her attendance. She deserves a taste of the high life after all I've put her through recently.”
“You brought your confounded basset hound as well?”
“She made him a part of her costume—harnessed him to a toy war chariot and had him trotting along beside her. He was most indignant about it.”
A loud high-pitched howl rose above the general hubbub.
“Would you excuse me?” Burton said. “It sounds like Algy needs to be reined in.”
He moved back toward the bay window. As he reached the group gathered there, a waiter pushed a glass of port into his hand. Absently, Burton placed it on the table, his attention on Swinburne, who was hopping up and down, waving his arms like a madman.
“I'm not in the slightest bit tipsy!” the poet was protesting vociferously. “What an utter disaster! I've become immune to alcohol!”
“Through overfamiliarity, perhaps?” Cornewall Lewis offered.
“Nonsense! We meet frequently, I'll admit, but we're naught but nodding acquaintances!”
Doctor James Hunt, a Cannibal Club member, joined the group just in time to hear this. He roared with laughter and declared: “Hah! I rather think there's a great deal more intimacy than that, Algy! You and alcohol are practically wedded!”
“Tosh and piffle!” Swinburne objected. “Claptrap, balderdash, cobblers, and bunkum!”
Someone spoke quietly at Burton's side: “I should have you arrested.”
The explorer turned and found himself facing Sir Richard Mayne, the lean-faced chief commissioner of Scotland Yard.
“Something to do with me whisking four of your men off to Africa?” he asked, with a raised eyebrow.