Burton shook his head. “In your estimation, how old was this man?”
“Your age. No. A few years older.”
“Older than my age now or my age in 1840?”
“Now. I know, I know, it couldn’t have been you.”
“Detective Inspector, I was nineteen and on a ship. My father, who bears no resemblance to me, was in Italy. My brother, who is three years my junior, was in India. All of this can be easily proved. The person you saw had no connection to me whatsoever.”
Reluctantly, Trounce gave a guttural acknowledgement. He stared miserably into his almost empty flagon.
“I was very young—barely out of short trousers—and new to the Force. They said I panicked, reacted to events, and confused the Mystery Hero with the assassin. Some even suggested I killed him, invented the other man, and paid the witness to support my story.” His upper lip curled into a snarl. “Utter bollocks! I saw what I saw!”
Burton observed unfeigned confusion in the detective’s eyes. The man had assaulted him, lied to him, and accused him of a crime, yet the explorer felt himself taking an inexplicable liking to the fellow. There was something very down-to-earth about Trounce. He had passion and sincerity. He appeared trustworthy and reliable.
“Detective Inspector—” he said.
“Just Trounce. I’m off duty now.”
“Very well. Mr. Trounce, I’m investigating Isambard Kingdom Brunel’s disappearance—”
“Slaughter’s case?”
“Yes. But there’s more to it. I can’t tell you what—it’s a state secret. Suffice it to say, certain aspects of it appear to hark back to the time of The Assassination. For that reason, I’d rather like to meet this sweeper of yours. Is he still around?”
“Yes. He lives in Old Ford, a village to the northeast of London. Can you fly a rotorchair?”
“Yes.”
“Come by the Yard tomorrow morning. I’ll procure a machine for you and we’ll pay him a visit.”
“There’s no need for you to—”
Trounce guzzled the last mouthful of beer and slammed his flagon onto the table.
“Whether you like it or not, Burton, I’m going to be behind you every step of the way. I need a solution to this accursed mystery!”
“Very well. In that case, I’ll have the home secretary order Chief Commissioner Mayne to assign you to the investigation. Can you work with Slaughter?”
“Yes, he’s a decent sort. You have the authority to do that?”
“I do. And if Mr. Walpole gives permission, I’ll fill you in on the rest.”
Trounce’s eyes flashed with determination. “By Jove!” he growled. “If you can help me to clear my name, I’ll be in your debt for life!”
He scowled thoughtfully.
“Is there something else?” Burton asked.
Trounce’s nostrils flared slightly. “Just—just—Humph! A suggestion I made at the time. It was dismissed outright.”
“Tell me.”
“When I recovered my wits, I went down to the path and examined Victoria’s corpse.”
“And?”
“The manner in which her blood had sprayed across the carriage and ground—it looked to me like the bullet struck her in the back of her head, not the front.”
Burton leaned back in his seat. “In other words, you don’t think Edward Oxford killed her. You think the man with the rifle did.”
“Yes. The man who looked like you.”
“The main thing is to make history, not to write it.”
—OTTO VON BISMARCK
“Transform the world with Beauty!”
So declared William Morris, the leading light of the Arts and Crafts Movement; a man at the heart of Dante Gabriel Rossetti’s Ministry of Arts and Culture. Without him, the machines produced by the Department of Guided Science would have been nothing but fume-breathing metal monstrosities.
“Form follows function!” the DOGS decreed.
“But form must not offend!” Morris had insisted.
So it was that the Empire’s tools and various forms of transport were embellished with functionally irrelevant ornamentation; every curve and angle possessed decorative flair; every surface was engraved with patterns and cursive accents; every edge bore a pleasing trim.
Nowhere was this more apparent than in rotorchairs. From a distance, these flying vehicles resembled little more than a plush armchair affixed to a brass sled. A rigid umbrella-like hood curved over the seat; a small and complex engine was positioned at the rear; twin funnels projected backward; and six wedge-shaped wings rotated atop a tall drive-shaft above the entirety. There was something vaguely ridiculous about the contraptions until one moved closer and saw how all the disparate elements had been beautifully moulded into a unified whole by artists and designers.
Rotorchairs were elegant. They were exquisite.
Sir Richard Francis Burton hated them.
The damned things made him nervous. He had no idea how they managed to fly, couldn’t fathom how they produced so much steam from so little water, and held a deep suspicion that they transcended every principle of physics. Knowing their design had been communicated to Isambard Kingdom Brunel from the Afterlife did little to reassure him.
He pushed the middle of the three control levers, following Detective Inspector Trounce’s machine as it arced downward through the blue sky, leaving a curving trail of white vapour behind it. Burton pressed his heels into his footplate to slow his descent. His stomach squirmed as he rapidly lost altitude.
Below, the village of Old Ford rushed up toward him. It was a small and quaint little place, its houses and shops clumped together on one side of a shallow valley, with green fields facing it from the opposite side. Its High Street extended from a junction with a long country lane at the base of the hill and ran up to the top, where it bent to the right and went winding away to the next settlement. Trounce landed halfway along it. His machine hit the cobbles with a thump, a skid, and a shower of sparks. Burton brought his down more gingerly, clicked off the motor, waited for the wings to stop spinning, then clambered out and removed his goggles.
“It’s like flying a bag of rocks,” he grumbled. “I feared greater diligence might come at any moment.”
“Diligence?” Trounce asked.
“From gravity, in the application of its own laws.”
“Humph!”
They dragged their rotorchairs to the side of the road. All along the street, windows and doors were opening as Old Ford’s tiny population came out to investigate the loud paradiddle that had rattled their cottages.
Nearby, outside a small dwelling, a white-haired man was leaning on a broom, watching the new arrivals.
Trounce hailed him. “Hallo, is that you, Old Carter? By Jove! You look just the same as you did nigh on twenty years ago!”
The man stepped forward and shook Trounce’s hand. “By all that’s holy! It’s Constable Trounce, isn’t it?”
“Detective Inspector nowadays.”
“Is that so? Well, well. Good for you!” Old Carter looked the Scotland Yard man up and down. “Crikey, but haven’t you filled out!”
Trounce neatened his moustache with a forefinger and looked at the man’s broom. “Still sweeping?”
“Old habits die hard. I’m ending my working days as I began ’em, sir. I went from street-sweeper to rifleman in the King’s Royal Rifle Corps, then retired from the Army and became a lamp-lighter, and next year I’ll retire again to spend my twilight years keeping this here street spotless. So tell me, what brings you gentlemen to Old Ford?”
Trounce gestured toward Burton. “This is Sir Richard Francis Burton.”
Burton said, “I’m pleased to meet you, Mr. Carter,” and shook the man’s hand.
“Not Mr. Carter. Old Carter. Everyone calls me Old Carter the Lamp-lighter. I suppose they—”
He stopped and his eyes went wide.
“Do you recognise Captain Burton?” Trounce asked. “His likeness is currently all over the newspapers.”