“All right! All right! There's just one man, I swear. His name is Smithers. He and Waite took Burton from a seance to Paddington Station. They were-” he groaned and whimpered, then continued in a whisper “-they were joined by Kenealy there and all rode a train to Winchester. Bogle met them at the station with a carriage, but just outside Alresford the steam-horse broke down. They had to continue on foot, dragging Burton between them. As they crossed the grounds, Guilfoyle interfered and paid the price. Please, get me to the doctor now. I don't want to die.”
Krishnamurthy, who was being supported by Herbert Spencer, swore vociferously. “Neither did Sam Hoare, but he's lying there dead, you swine!”
Jankyn fell onto his side on the table and said faintly: “It wasn't me. Kenealy killed him.”
“Gentlemen,” Krishnamurthy said hoarsely, “if you'd be so kind as to help me bind and gag these three rogues-“he indicated the unconscious Kenealy, Bogle, and Waite”-I'll then remain here and see what I can do for the cook. Maybe, if the mood takes me, I'll attend to Jankyn, too. On the other hand, I might just let him die like the diseased dog he is.”
“Will you be all right? You look done in,” Swinburne said.
The commander was, indeed, in a bad way. There was blood oozing from his eyes, nose, and ears, and he was trembling uncontrollably.
“I'm afraid I'm not much up to running through tunnels at present but I'll be fine. I'll rest here once these bounders are secured, then I'll rustle up the local constabulary to sort this mess out while you get your man back to London.”
It took a few minutes to tie the men's hands and feet, after which Swinburne and the vagrant philosopher entered the pantry containing the door to the labyrinth. Fidget looked into the kitchen, saw that the violence had ended, and scampered after them.
They stepped into the tunnel and took off along it, passing under the house, beneath the carriageway, and toward the Crawls. The passages were well lit and nothing occurred to hamper their progress through the folding-back-on-itself spiral until they were close to the central chamber, when Swinburne, who was barrelling along as fast as his short legs would allow, skidded around one of the turns and ran slap bang into the Rake, Smithers, who'd been walking in the other direction. The two men went down in a tangle and started to punch, kick, and wrestle frantically until Spencer caught up with them. The philosopher calmly bent, grasped a handful of Smithers's hair, lifted the man's head, and slammed it hard against the stone floor. The Rake's arms flopped down and he lay still.
“Let's pull him along with us to the central chamber,” Swinburne panted.
They took an ankle each and dragged the prone form the last few yards until they exited the tunnel into the inner room.
“Is that you, um-um-um?” came a familiar voice.
“Algernon Swinburne. Hello, Colonel.”
“Bally good show! That is to say, I'm very pleased to see you.”
Lushington was sitting against the wall, hands bound behind his back, looking bedraggled, with his extravagant side whiskers drooping miserably.
“Burton's a goner, I fear,” he announced, nodding toward the small waterfall. “Lost his mind, the poor chap.”
The king's agent was slumped lifelessly in the water channel with his arms spread wide, wrists shackled to the wall on either side of the falling stream. Flowing out of the slot above, the hot water was descending straight down onto his head.
Swinburne let loose a shriek of rage and bounded across to his friend.
“Herbert, help me unbolt these bloody manacles!”
While he and the philosopher got to work, Lushington gave an account of himself.
“Not entirely certain how I came to be here, to be frank. These past months have been rather hazy. Bit of a nightmare, really. Was I supporting that fat fake? Rather think I was. Couldn't help myself. Every time he was anywhere near me, I was convinced he was Sir Roger. By Gad, I even spoke for the bounder in court! Didn't come to my senses, regain my wits, start to think straight, until I found myself being held captive here, wherever here is.”
“You're under the Crawls,” Swinburne revealed.
“Am I, indeed? Am I? Closer to home than I thought, then! Barely seen a soul for-how long? Days? Weeks?-apart from that scoundrel Bogle, who's been keeping me fed, and Kenealy, damn him for the rogue he is.”
“That's got it, lad,” Spencer muttered, yanking the manacles off Burton's wrists. He and Swinburne pulled the limp explorer across the floor, away from the water, and laid him down. His eyes opened and rolled aimlessly. He mumbled something. The poet bent closer.
“What was that, Richard?”
“Al-Masloub,” Burton whispered.
“What?”
“Al-Masloub.”
“What's he sayin’?” Spencer asked.
“Something in Arabic. Al-Masloub,” Swinburne replied.
“What's a bloomin’ Al-Masloub?”
“I don't know, Herbert.”
“He's been mumbling it over and over,” Lushington revealed. “Hasn't said another blessed word. Place in Arabia, perhaps?”
Spencer crossed to the colonel and began to pull at the cords that held the man's wrists.
Swinburne stared helplessly at the king's agent.
“What's happened to him?” he cried, aghast at his friend's vacant eyes. He took Burton by the shoulders and shook him. “Pull yourself together, Richard! You're safe now!”
“It's no use,” Lushington offered. “I'm afraid he's utterly loopy.”
“Al-Masloub,” Burton whispered.
Swinburne sat back on his heels. He turned to Herbert Spencer. A tear trickled down his cheek.
“What'll we do, Herbert? I can't get any sense out of him. I don't know what this Al-Masloub thing is!”
“First things first, lad. We should get him home.”
Burton suddenly sat up, threw his head back, and screamed. Then, a far more horrifying sound-he gave a mindless giggle. “Al-Masloub,” he moaned quietly. His eyes moved aimlessly. His mouth hung slackly. He slowly toppled onto his side.
Swinburne looked at him and sucked in a juddery breath. He couldn't help but think that the enemy had won. London, the heart of the Empire, was in chaos, and Burton, the only man who could possibly save it, looked like he might return to Bedlam-permanently!
M idmorning the following Saturday-two days after Burton's rescue-an extraordinary carriage thundered into Montagu Place. It was a huge box constructed from iron plate and mounted on six thick wheels. There were no windows in it-just a two-inch-high horizontal slot in each of its sides-and its doors looked better suited to bank vaults than to a conveyance. The driver, rather than being situated on top in the normal manner, was seated inside a wedge-shaped cabin at its front. He, like the passenger, was entirely hidden from prying eyes. From the four corners of the vehicle, crenellated metal bartizans projected, and in each one stood a soldier with a rifle in his hands.
It was nothing less than a small metal castle drawn by two large steam-horses. Accompanied by four outriders from the King's Cavalry, it rumbled, creaked, sizzled, and moaned to a standstill before number
14.
Inside the house, Mrs. Angell, all petticoats and pinafore, tore into the study and shrieked: “The king's here! The king's here!” She jabbed her finger at the window. “Lord Almighty! His Majesty King Albert himself has come to the house!”
Algernon Swinburne, who'd been sitting in quiet conversation with Herbert Spencer and Detective Inspector Trounce, looked up wearily. There were dark circles under his eyes.
“That's very unlikely, Mrs. A,” he said.
“It's impossible,” Trounce put in. “My dear woman, the king, God bless him, is under siege in Buckingham Palace. He can't get out and no one can get in, and it'll stay that way until our riffraff revolutionaries calm down and stop demanding that we become a damned republic! Pardon my language.”
Spencer grunted and murmured: “The republican form of government is the highest blinkin’ form of government, but, because of this, it requires the highest type of human nature-a type nowhere at present existin’ in London, that's for bloomin’ certain!”