The little urchin was on the opposite side of the road with newspapers draped over his arm and piled at his feet. He was yelling, “Death of mediums! Read all about it! Twelve mediums die in a single day! Cause unknown!”
Burton crossed and purchased a Daily Bugle. “What’s happened?”
“A great mystery, so it is, sir. Fortune tellers a-droppin’ dead, an’ there be no explanation for it at all.”
The explorer muttered, “Odd!” He pushed the paper under his arm, bade the lad farewell, and walked on, swinging his cane.
At the corner of Montagu Place, a vendor of hot chestnuts hailed him. “Mornin’, Cap’n! Glad to see you out o’ the jungle!”
“Good morning to you, Mr. Grub,” Burton called. “How’s business?”
“Can’t complain, an’ if I did, it wouldn’t make half a penny’s worth o’ difference! How you copin’ with the ’orrible pong, sir?”
“Pong?”
Grub pointed downward. “Of all that muck what’s swillin’ below!”
Burton remembered that, beneath his feet, sewage was rising in the new tunnels, its flow constricted by sluice gates. Incredibly, after just one week, his nose had already adjusted.
“I appear to have adapted to it, Mr. Grub.”
He continued into Gloucester Place, waved for a cab, and as its burly driver came into view, exclaimed, “You again!”
The hansom crunched to a standstill beside him and Montague Penniforth pushed goggles up from his eyes onto his forehead, looked down, removed a pipe from his mouth, and said, “Hallo hallo! Fancy that! It’s Cap’n Burton ’imself, as I live an’ bloomin’ well breathe!”
“Are you following me, Mr. Penniforth?”
“Not at all, guv’nor, it’s blessed chance, that’s what it is; another blinkin’ coincidence. Hop in. Where you hoff to?”
“The British Museum.”
As he climbed into the cabin, Burton cast a searching and suspicious glance at the driver. Penniforth, though sitting, was plainly very tall and so solid he might have been carved from granite. Burton had once been described as having the physique of a bull, but even if he’d been in full health—which he certainly wasn’t—he doubted he’d last long in a confrontation with this man.
Who are you, Mr. Penniforth? What are you up to?
The hansom rattled into Baker Street, navigated the traffic down to Oxford Street, then spent forty minutes traversing that hectic thoroughfare until it came to Great Russell Street. Burton passed the journey reading the newspaper. As the street Arab had proclaimed, over the course of the past week twelve mediums had been found dead, apparently from heart failure. All were discovered with a look of horror frozen on their faces, cause unknown.
The cab drew to a halt outside the famous museum.
A breeze had got up, and when Burton stepped down onto the pavement, he found the air had cleared somewhat but the temperature had risen.
He wiped sweat from his brow.
“Aye, guv’nor,” Penniforth observed as the explorer counted out his coins. “It’s goin’ to be another scorcher. Been the ’ottest summer I can remember. Will I wait for you?”
Burton handed over payment and said, “No, that won’t be necessary, thank you. But I have it in mind that we’ll meet again, Mr. Penniforth.” He flashed his eyes meaningfully at the cab driver. His gaze was met with a guileless grin.
“Could be so,” Penniforth said. “London hain’t Africa, is it? Crowded, aye, guv’nor, but small enough.” He applied his teeth to one of the coins, winked, pocketed it, then took hold of his vehicle’s tiller, shouted, “Gee-up, Daisy!” squeezed the accelerator lever, and went chugging away.
Burton watched him go.
He spent the rest of the morning and a good part of the afternoon sitting at a wide mahogany desk in the museum’s circular reading room. He searched countless Arabian and Indian texts but found not a single reference to Abdu El Yezdi. Whomever the spirit had been when alive, he’d evidently made no imprint worth recording. Burton found that rather unlikely. Surely a ghost who managed to so affect the greatest Empire in history must, in life, have possessed enough influence to be noticed?
He was on the point of leaving when, acting on impulse, he returned to his seat and asked an attendant to bring him material relating to The Assassination.
It didn’t tell him anything he didn’t already know. On the 10th of June 1840, Queen Victoria and Prince Albert had been taking a carriage ride through Green Park. Eighteen-year-old Edward Oxford had stepped out of the crowd of onlookers, shot at the queen, and missed. An unknown individual, who bore some physical resemblance to the gunman, tackled him. In the struggle, the young lunatic’s second flintlock had gone off. The queen was hit in the head and died instantly. The unidentified man pushed Oxford to the ground, accidentally killing him, then took to his heels. A police constable, William Trounce, pursued him into a thicket at the northwestern corner of the park, where he’d found him inexplicably dead, his neck broken. The man, known as “the Mystery Hero,” had never been identified, his demise never explained.
Burton wondered whether the Mystery Hero and El Yezdi were one and the same. The spirit had started communicating soon after The Assassination, so may well have died around the same time. The theory had a nice symmetry to it, but unfortunately the dead man was plainly English, which made the Arabian name somewhat unlikely.
He left the museum and strolled along St. Martin’s Lane to Brundleweed’s. Frustratingly, the jeweller’s was still closed. Burton wondered when he was going to see Isabel’s engagement ring. He peered through the metal grille protecting the shop’s window. All appeared in order inside—clean, with items on display and tools set out neatly on the workbenches.
He continued on to the RGS. By the time he arrived there, he was perspiring freely and cursing the absurd restrictions of so-called civilised clothing. Having worn nothing but a loose cotton shirt, trousers, and a straw hat throughout his time in Africa, his collar now felt like a noose, his jacket like a cage, and his topper like a crown of thorns.
He went into the club room, stood at the bar, guzzled a refreshing glass of soda water sans alcohol, chatted with a quietly spoken fellow member named Richard Spruce, then left the building, crossed the road, and entered Scotland Yard.
He approached J. D. Pepperwick’s desk.
“Again?” the clerk exclaimed.
“Again,” Burton confirmed. “Is Detective Inspector Slaughter available? I’d like to speak with him, if possible.”
“Do you have an appointment, Captain Burton?”
“I have this.” Burton produced a small card—issued to him by Spencer Walpole—upon which certain words were printed, a certain seal stamped, and a certain signature scrawled.
Pepperwick took it, read it, and gaped. “I say! You’re an important fellow!” He hesitated a moment, then turned, reached up to a bracket of speaking tubes, lifted the lid of the one marked D. I. Slaughter, and pulled the tube free.
“There’s a gentleman to see you, sir,” he said into it. “Captain Richard—” He stopped, looked at the card again, and corrected himself. “I beg your pardon, Captain Sir Richard Burton.” He put the tube to his ear, then a few seconds later spoke into it again. “Yes, that’s right, sir, the Livingstone chap. He has, um, special authorisation.” He listened, responded, “At once, sir,” replaced the device, and smiled at Burton. “The inspector will see you straight away. Second floor, office number fourteen. The stairs are through there, sir.” He pointed to the left.
Burton said, “Thank you,” made for the indicated doors, and pushed through them. The wooden staircase beyond needed brushing and creaked as he climbed it. He reached the second floor and moved along a panelled corridor, passing closed rooms until he came to the one marked 14. He knocked.