“Is that necessary?”
“It is.”
Reluctantly, Monroe got to his feet and led Burton from the office, down the corridor, through the vestibule, and out of the building. They turned left and followed the edge of a long flower bed that skirted the foot of the hospital’s front wall.
“Here.” Monroe pointed to a small window set five feet from the ground.
Burton turned away from it and examined the terrain. He saw six trees huddled together nearby, providing shadows and cover; a long, squarely trimmed hedge beyond them, bordering a large vegetable garden; and more trees between that and the high wall, which they partially concealed.
“A good escape route,” he muttered. “Lots of concealment.”
Returning his attention to the window, he saw gouges in its frame, suggesting the application of a crowbar. He squatted and scrutinised the flower bed.
“Look at these indentations in the soil, Doctor.”
“Footprints, Mr. Cribbins?”
“Yes. Peculiar ones, at that. See how square the toes are, and how small and high the heels?”
“High?”
“Revealed by the indentation. This style has been out of fashion for half a century. It’s the variety of footwear that usually has a large buckle on top. I haven’t seen anyone shod in such a manner since my grandfather.”
“Are you suggesting that Galton’s accomplice was an—ugh!—old man, sir?”
“Two men broke the window, Doctor. And it doesn’t necessarily follow that because their footwear was old, so were they.” Burton straightened. “Two sets of prints. Both men wore the same style of footwear. One had long, narrow feet, the other, short, wide ones. The latter individual was the heavier of the pair.”
Damien Burke and Gregory Hare.
There was no doubt about it. Burton had seen plenty of newspaper illustrations of the notorious duo. Their famously old-fashioned attire, which included buckled shoes, had been the delight of Punch cartoonists. And Hare was shorter but far bulkier than Burke.
So, having failed to kidnap Isambard Kingdom Brunel, they’d got Francis Galton.
Why?
“I think it’s high time I saw Oliphant, Doctor.”
Monroe spasmed, nodded, and accompanied the explorer back the way they’d come. When they reached the lobby, he rang a bell and waited until two attendants appeared. Both were wearing stained leather aprons. Ordering them to follow, he then ushered Burton up a flight of stairs and toward the west wing of the asylum. They passed along cell-lined hallways and were assailed by shouts and screams, incoherent babbling, pleading, and curses. The odour of human sweat and excrement was worse even than the foulest-smelling of the many swamps Burton had struggled through in Africa.
More passageways, more staircases, until on the fourth floor, a door blocked their path. One of the attendants produced a bunch of keys and set about opening it.
“Ugh!” Monroe jerked. “You’ll find fewer patients in this next area, but the ones we keep here are among the most seriously—ugh!—deranged and can be exceedingly violent. They’ll watch our every move through the slots in their cell doors. Please refrain from making eye contact with them.”
The portal’s hinges squealed as the attendant pushed it open. They passed through into yet another filthy corridor. A nurse greeted them.
“This is Sister Camberwick,” the doctor said. “She oversees this section. Sister, this is Inspector Cribbins of the Government Medical Board. He wishes to interview Mr. Oliphant. Is the patient quiet?”
After bobbing to Burton, the nurse replied, “He is, Doctor.”
“Good. Good. Go about your duties. I’ll accompany Mr. Cribbins.”
She gave another bob and stood to one side to let them pass. The party moved a little farther on until it came to a cell door marked with the number 466.
Monroe addressed the two attendants. “Stay here. Come at once if I call for you.” To Burton, he said, “I’ll allow you as much time as you require providing he doesn’t become—ugh!—agitated. If he does, I’ll have to terminate the interview immediately.”
“I understand.”
Monroe held out his hand and one of the attendants placed his keys into it. After selecting the appropriate one, the warden put his mouth to the slot in the door and said, “Mr. Oliphant. I am Doctor Monroe. I have with me a visitor named Mr. Cribbins. We would like to come in and speak with you. Have you any objection?”
Burton heard Oliphant’s familiar voice answer, “None at all, sir. Please enter freely—and of your own free will.”
Monroe looked at Burton, raised an eyebrow, and whispered, “You note the inappropriate and oddly worded formality? No matter how normal a patient’s behaviour may appear, such incongruous language is always a sure sign of—ugh!—defective thinking.”
He turned the key in the lock and pulled the door open, revealing Laurence Oliphant, sitting on a bunk, smiling broadly, his fringe of hair and bushy beard dishevelled, his arms bound by a strait waistcoat.
“Come in, Doctor! Come in, Mr. Cribbins! I am delighted to have guests! Forgive me if I do not shake your hands. I am somewhat inconvenienced, as you’ll bear witness.”
They entered the cell and Monroe closed the door behind them. “I’m pleased to see that you’ve calmed down, Mr. Oliphant. Continue in this manner and the jacket will be removed, I assure you.”
“Excellent! I’m eager to get back to work.” Oliphant looked toward the window, and Burton, following his gaze, saw that what from the corner of his eye he’d presumed to be a hanging gown wasn’t a gown at all, but a great mass of dead rats, woven together by their tails—as garlic is platted by its stalks—and strung from the window bars. Unable to stop himself, he cried out, “Good God!”
Oliphant cackled. “He he he! Flesh, you see, Mr. Cribbins. Dead flesh, all ready to be re-formed and given new life. It doesn’t matter that it’s rat flesh. Any will do. Flesh is flesh. Merely a vehicle.”
“A vehicle for what?” Burton asked.
“For my master!” Oliphant suddenly checked himself. His eyes slid slyly from side to side then fixed on Burton, and he hissed, “He has the royal charter now. Drum, drum, drum! Come, come! Drum, drum, drum! They will answer the call, and then nothing will stop him. Out of Africa! Out of Africa! He’ll repair this broken world of ours, and I shall be rewarded with an entire history of my very own! Ha! What shall I make of you, Mr. Cribbins, Doctor Monroe?—Paupers? Kings? Criminals? Or perhaps madmen? Ha ha ha!”
“Calm yourself, please,” Monroe said. “You don’t want to get—ugh!—overexcited again, do you?”
His patient’s giggling stopped abruptly. Oliphant shook his head, grinned, and shrugged. “No need. Now I can wait. Now I can wait. Drum, drum, drum! Drum, drum, drum!”
The doctor turned to Burton. “Mr. Cribbins, have you any particular questions you’d like to ask the patient?”
“Just one,” Burton replied. “Mr. Oliphant, the numbers one thousand, nine hundred, ten, and eight—what do they signify?”
Oliphant gave a cry of surprise, then threw back his head and let loose a peal of laughter that rapidly transformed into a scream of fury.
“What do you know?” he yelled. “Are you a spy? Yes! Yes! A spy! I’ll kill you! I’ll bloody kill you, you bastard spy!”
He sprang from the bed and lunged at Burton, his mouth wide and teeth exposed. The explorer dodged, was knocked back against the wall, and felt the maniac’s jaws clench down on his collar.
“Attendants! Attendants!” Monroe bellowed.
Burton struggled but Oliphant seemed ten times stronger than a sane man.
“Get him away from me! He’s trying to bite my throat!”
The attendants crashed in and dragged Oliphant off.
“The end!” he screamed. “The numbers add up to the end of the British Empire! Ha ha ha! The end! The end! The end!”