“A fight?”
“Yes. And as skilled as the kidnappers might have been with their foreign chops and kicks, the two young men made good with honest bare knuckles, drove ’em off, and took Brunel away to safety. The only problem being that they didn’t say where ‘safety’ was.”
“And you’re certain they weren’t real policemen?”
“As I say, none was sent, none of our people reported the incident, and the men in question never identified themselves.”
Burton lifted his cup, drank from it, and said, “What did they look like?”
“Young. Indian. Not unusual. We have a great many Indian men in the Force.”
Sir Richard Francis Burton put his cup down, rattling it in the saucer. He looked at Slaughter and his mouth worked silently for a moment.
The detective frowned and said, “What is it? Indigestion? Tea too strong?”
Burton shook his head. “Would you—would you check to see whether there’s a Constable Bhatti in the ranks?”
Slaughter arched one of his extravagant eyebrows, nodded, and went to his desk. He used a speaking tube to call the Personnel Office, made the enquiry, then returned and stood in front of Burton.
“No, Sir Richard, there isn’t. Why do you ask?”
“Because late on Sunday night, I encountered a constable named Bhatti who knew where I lived, who appears to be in cahoots with a cab driver who’s been following me, and whose nose was swollen, as if he’d been in a fight.”
Slaughter looked surprised. “Our witness to the Nightingale kidnapping, which occurred on Sunday, said her abductors were Indian and one had a bloody nose.”
The explorer got to his feet, moved to the middle of the room, and faced the other man. “Detective Inspector, there are very few people who are aware that I’ve been assigned to this case. My brother, the minister of mediumistic affairs, is one of them. Four years ago, two young Indians, Ravindra Johar and Mahakram Singh, rescued him from a severe beating. They accompanied him home and he was placed in the very same sanatorium from which Brunel has disappeared. They then vanished, never to be seen again.”
“You think this Bhatti chap is one of them?”
“I do.”
Slaughter put his hands to his stomach. “What’s going on, Sir Richard?”
“Detective Inspector—I have no notion.”
Burton left room 14 feeling more perplexed than when he’d entered it. If Bhatti had approached him after he’d started this investigation, it might make sense. But he’d done so the day before Burton was given the task, which suggested a foreknowledge that wasn’t possible unless Edward had lied and was still in contact with his erstwhile saviours. If that was the case, what was he up to?
No. Edward was an arrogant and evasive bugger, but he was family, and as distant as they might be now, the bond they’d formed as children remained strong. Burton couldn’t—wouldn’t—believe that his younger sibling was doing anything untoward.
He walked along the corridor toward the stairs. As he passed the door marked 19, he heard it creak open behind him. Fingers suddenly closed over the back of his collar and a pistol was pushed between his shoulder blades. A familiar voice said, “Inside! Now!”
He was yanked into the room, whirled around, and given a violent push. The door slammed shut as he sprawled onto the floor. He rolled and looked up at Macallister Fogg.
“What the—?” he spluttered.
“Be quiet!” Fogg growled, brandishing his gun. “Tell me what you’re doing here.”
“Which?” Burton asked.
“What?”
“Should I be quiet or should I tell you?”
“Humph! Don’t play the clever beggar with me. Answer the confounded question.”
Burton raised a hand. “I’m going to retrieve something from inside my jacket. It isn’t a weapon, so don’t get jittery and start shooting.”
“Slowly.”
Reaching into his inner pocket, Burton pulled out his authorisation card and threw it to Fogg’s feet. The man squatted, his aim remaining steady, retrieved it, and read it.
“By Jove!” he exclaimed. “The king!”
“Exactly,” Burton said. “I’m getting to my feet now.” He pushed himself up. “I suggest you put that pistol away and tell me your real name. I take it you’re an actual police detective rather than a character from the penny bloods.”
“I am. Detective Inspector William Trounce. I entered the lobby while you were talking to Pepperwick, saw you, waited for you to finish with Slaughter, and—” The man shrugged, pocketed his pistol, handed back the authorisation card, and gazed searchingly at Burton. His eyes were bright blue and, Burton thought, despite his aggression, good-natured in appearance.
The explorer said, “What’s it all about? This habit you’re developing of throwing me around is becoming quite irritating. Am I right in thinking you’re the same Trounce who was at The Assassination?”
Trounce’s eyes narrowed. “You saw me there?”
Burton gave a puff of annoyance. “I’ve already told you—I was at sea. So you were the constable who discovered the Mystery Hero?”
The detective’s shoulders slumped. “There’s plenty who say I killed him.”
“Did you?”
“No. You did.”
Burton laughed. He stopped abruptly when he saw that Trounce was serious. He took a deep breath and hissed it out between his teeth.
“All right, Detective Inspector. Why don’t we, as the Americans say, lay our cards on the table? Tell me the whole story, and I give you my word of honour, I’ll answer honestly any question you care to ask.”
Trounce held the explorer’s gaze for a second then gave a curt nod. “Not here,” he said. “As far as The Assassination is concerned, I’ve received nothing but ridicule and suspicion inside this damned building. Will you take a pint with me?”
Burton really didn’t feel like indulging, but he lifted a finger to his bruised eye and said, “You owe me one.”
A few minutes later, the two men stepped out of Scotland Yard, turned left into Whitehall, and followed it along into Parliament Street. They didn’t speak a word until reaching a corner, when Trounce said, “Here.” They rounded it into Derby Street and, a few paces later, arrived at the Red Lion public house.
They ordered beer, settled into a relatively quiet corner, and remained wrapped in their own thoughts until the pot-boy delivered their flagons of ale.
Trounce drank half of his in a single swallow, then regarded Burton and said, “It’s been the bane of my bloody life.”
“The Assassination?”
“Yes.”
“I was reading about it in the British Museum Library this morning.”
“And I suppose you read that I chased the so-called Mystery Hero into the trees where I found him dead?”
“Isn’t that what happened?”
“Not exactly. Certain parts of my report were suppressed.”
“What parts?”
Trounce’s left hand curled into a fist. He looked at it with a slight air of bemusement, as if it were acting under its own volition.
“I found the body, all right, but that’s not all. Draped over a branch beside it, there was the strangest suit of clothes I’ve ever seen. A one-piece costume of shiny white material, like fish scales; a black helmet; and a pair of extraordinary boots, such as a stilt-walker might wear. Before I could take a proper look, I heard movement behind me, turned, and was immediately cracked in the head with a rifle butt. By the time I regained my wits, my attacker and the suit were gone.”
“So someone else was there. No other witnesses?”
“A street-sweeper saw a man climbing over the park wall into Piccadilly. He was carrying a large bag, a jewel case, and a rifle. The description matched the man who knocked me senseless.” Trounce took another swig of beer then angrily dragged his wrist across his mouth. “It was you.”