“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.
“Yes,” Mayne answered, glancing disapprovingly at Swinburne's histrionics. “Trounce and Honesty are among my best detectives, Krishnamurthy commands my Flying Squad, and Constable Bhatti is in line for promotion. I can hardly afford to have them all gallivanting around the Dark Continent for a year. I can only conclude that you're in league with London's criminal underclasses. Am I right, Sir Richard? Are you getting my men out of the way prior to some villainous coup? Perhaps plotting to have them consumed by lions and tigers so you can break into the Tower of London and steal the Crown jewels?”
Burton smiled. “Funny, I was just talking about the Tower. But no, and there are no tigers in Africa, sir. Did Lord Palmerston explain the situation?”
“He delivered to me some vague waffle about it being a matter of national security.”
“It is.”
“And he ordered me in no uncertain terms to provide you with whatever you want. I shall do so, of course.”
“Thank you. I ask only that the men receive extended leave and that their families are looked after.”
“Have no worries on that account.” The commissioner took a sip of his wine. He sighed. “Keep them safe, won't you?”
“I'll do my best.”
They shook hands. Mayne wandered away. Burton reached for his drink and was surprised to find that his glass had mysteriously emptied itself. He pursed his lips and looked at his assistant, who was still stamping his feet and protesting his sobriety. He concluded that Swinburne was either in the midst of one of his infamous drinking sprees or he was the victim of mischief. Then he noticed the Grim Reaper hovering behind the little poet and, though he quickly recognised Thomas Bendyshe-which explained everything, for the anthropologist and atheist was Swinburne's most dedicated tormenter-he nevertheless felt a momentary chill needling at his spine.
“Richard!” Swinburne screeched. “You've seen me in my cups more than most. Do I seem inebriated to you?”
“Of all people, Algy, you are the one in whom it's hardest to tell the difference,” Burton answered.
The poet gave a shriek of despair. He yelled for a waiter.
Time passed, the party continued, and the king's agent moved from group to group, chatting with some, debating with others, joking with a few.
At a quarter-past eleven, Monckton Milnes reappeared, with makeup restored, and herded his guests into the music room, where Florence Nightingale surprised Burton by demonstrating an unexpected proficiency on the piano as she accompanied Sister Raghavendra, whose singing voice proved equally impressive. They entertained the gathering until close on midnight, at which point everyone fell silent and listened to the chimes of the grandfather clock. As the final note clanged, they hooked their arms, Nightingale started playing, and the Sister sang:
“Should old acquaintance be forgot,
and never brought to mind?
Should old acquaintance be forgot,
and old lang syne?”
The guests happily launched into the chorus:
“For auld lang syne, my dear,
for auld lang syne,
we'll take a cup of kindness yet,
for auld lang syne!”
“And surely you'll buy your pint cup,” the young singer trilled. “And surely I'll buy mine-”
“Oh God!” someone yelled.
“And we'll take a cup o' kindness yet, for auld lang syne.”
“Oh, sweet Jesus!” came the agonised voice.
Burton peered around the room as the crowd launched into the chorus again.
“For auld lang syne, my dear,
for auld lang syne,
we'll take a cup of-”
The song tailed off and the music stopped as someone screamed: “Please, Mary mother of God, save me!”
The explorer unhooked his arms from his neighbours, pushed people aside, and hurried toward a commotion near the fireplace. Men were kneeling beside a prone figure. It was Bendyshe. His skull mask had been removed and his face was contorted into a ghastly expression, eyes wide and glassy, mouth stretched into a hideous rictus grin. His whole body was convulsing with such ferocity that it required four men to hold him down. He writhed and jerked, his backbone arching, his heels drumming on the floor.
Detective Inspector Honesty-a slight, wiry man with a flamboyantly wide moustache that curled upward at the ends, who normally sported lacquered-flat hair, parted in the middle, and displayed a fussy dress sense, but who was currently outfitted as one of the Three Musketeers-appeared at Burton's side and muttered, “Fit. Overdoing it. Excessive indulgence.”
“No,” Burton said. “This is something else.” He pushed forward until he reached Monckton Milnes's side and hissed, “Get the crowd out of here.”
The host of the party looked at him and said, “Gad, what am I thinking? Of course.”
Monckton Milnes turned and, in a loud voice, announced: “Ladies and gentlemen, unfortunately one of our fellows has been taken ill. Would you mind moving into the other rooms, please? We should give the poor chap space to breathe.”
With utterances of sympathy, people started to wander away.
A hand gripped Burton by the elbow. It belonged to Doctor James Hunt.
“Come here,” he whispered, and dragged the king's agent over to the window, away from everyone else.
“What is it, Jim? Is Bendyshe going to be all right?”
“No. Quite the opposite.” Hunt caught his lower lip between his teeth. There was a sheen of sweat on his brow. “I'd recognise the symptoms anywhere,” he hissed. “Bloody strychnine. The poor devil's been poisoned!”