Burton shook his head. "Being liberated is one thing; sexually assaulting young girls is quite another," he objected. "By God! Poor old Darwin's theory seems to have proven dangerous for everyone. It's all but destroyed the Church; Darwin himself has been forced into hiding; and now it's being used to justify sexual aggression against innocents! Surely, Algy, such acts are indicative of regression rather than evolution? If we must remove suppressions in order to evolve-and in that much, I agree with the Rakes-should there not also come a self-generated code of conduct that disallows such acts of depravity? Evolution should move us away from animalistic behaviour, not toward it!"
Swinburne shrugged and said, "The Rakes specialise in being bestial. They glory in perversion, black magic, drugs, and crime. They want to break taboos, laws, and doctrines, all of which they view as artificial and oppressive."
The Black Toad came into sight.
"Praise the Lord!" enthused Swinburne. "I'm parched!"
"Can you last a little longer?" asked Burton. "I have it in mind to bypass this place and walk on to the Hog in the Pound on Oxford Street."
"Ah, you want to see the birthplace of the Libertines, hey? Certainly, let's leg it over there. But why the sudden interest, Richard?"
Burton told Swinburne the story of Spring Heeled Jack's tenuous connection with Edward Oxford.
Half an hour later, they arrived outside the Hog in the Pound. It was a dark, overweight building; ancient, timbered, crooked, and begrimed. A litter-crab had broken down in the road outside the premises and curious onlookers had gathered around. It was collapsed with its four right legs curled underneath. Half of the thin litter-collector arms on its stomach had been crushed or bent out of shape, and steam wafted sluggishly from a split in its raised side. One of the left legs twitched repetitively.
Swinburne giggled. "You see," he announced at the top of his voice. "The spirit of the Libertines still haunts the Hog in the Pound! All machines that pass here must surely die! Hoorah for art and poetry! Down with the Technologists!"
They entered the public house and pushed through the dimly lit, lowceilinged taproom-where a thirsty mob of manual labourers, clerks, shopkeepers, businessmen, and city gents were swilling away the soot that lined their throats-to the parlour, which was considerably lighter and less well attended. Hanging their coats and hats on the stand beside the door, they crossed to a table and made themselves comfortable. A barmaid took their order: a glass of port for Burton and a pint of bitter for Swinburne. They both chose steak and ale pie for their meal.
"So this is where it all happened," observed Swinburne, looking around at the smoke-stained, wood-panelled chamber. "The very room where the Mad Marquess preached to his followers."
"A sermon of lawlessness, madness, and self-indulgence, by the sound of it.
"Not to begin with. At first it was fairly mild Luddite stuff. Machines are ugly. Machines steal our jobs. Machines dehumanise us. The usual sort of thing. Personally, I think the marquess was pandering to the crowd; I don't think he much believed in his own preaching."
"What makes you say that?"
"The fact that he was known to have struck up a close friendship with Isambard Kingdom Brunel back in '37. They were often seen together at the Athenaeum Club. If Beresford was truly a Luddite, why the blazes was he so often seen in deep conversation with the leader of the emerging Technologist movement?
"By '43, if I remember rightly, he stopped railing against the Technologists altogether and, instead, introduced the idea of the trans-natural man. That became his obsession, and he became much more the extremist. Ah! The drinks! Thank you, my dear. Cheers, Richard!"
Swinburne took a gulp from his pint, which looked enormous in his tiny hand. He wiped froth from his upper lip then continued, "Delicious! The problem for the marquess was that most of his followers were more interested in opposing the Technologists than they were in all the evolving-man bunkum, so in 1848, a more palatable version of his preachings was developed by a small breakaway group, comprised of painters, poets, and critics, and led by William Holman Hunt, John Everett Millais, and my friend Dante Gabriel Rossetti."
"The Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood."
"That's what the core group call themselves, though they and their many followers have more generally become known as the True Libertines. Over the past twenty years or so, their brand of Libertarianism has transformed into a celebration of the so-called nobility of the human spirit. They look at the humble labourer and declare that he is a thing of beauty, this hard-done-by man, whose very existence is threatened by the ugly, job-stealing machines."
He grinned. "I must admit, though, that the True Libertines are mostly the listless elite, foppish painters, languorous authors, lazy philosophers, or half-mad poets like me. They-perhaps I should say 'we,' for I do count myself among their number-we would rather wax lyrical about the labourer than actually pick up a shovel ourselves."
"You don't fool me, little 'un," said Burton. "You're a half-arsed Libertine at best!"
"I confess-I'm merely a dabbler!" The poet laughed. "Anyway, to get back to the subject of my little discourse, Henry Beresford and his remaining supporters renamed themselves the Rakes and the rest you know: they're a bunch of lawless rascals who delight in mischief. And, of course, they received a huge boost when Darwin published The Origin of Species. Who needs morality when God is dead?"
"I wonder what Darwin himself would say about it?" pondered the king's agent.
"Perhaps he'd agree with your theory of a natural system of justice; the idea that we all have an individual built-in moral sense which brings rewards for our good deeds and punishments for our bad. I suspect he'd see it as a function that assists in the survival of the species."
"Maybe so, if he's still alive. With every religion declaring jihad against him, he might have discovered that scientific realism can't protect against the vengeance of a dead god."
"Do you believe the rumours that the Technologists are sheltering him?"
It wouldn't surprise me. Francis Galton, the head of the Eugenicist faction, is his cousin. But back to the Rakes, Algy-do they still idolise Spring Heeled Jack?"
"If anything, more so. Their new leader, Beresford's protege, is more extreme even than he was."
"And who is this new leader?"
"You know of him. His name is-Ah-ha! Here's the food!"
The barmaid placed a steaming plate before each man, laid cutlery on the table, and asked, "Another round, gents?"
"Yes," said Swinburne. "No. Wait. Bring us a bottle of red wine instead. Does that suit you, Richard?"
Burton nodded and the barmaid smiled toothily and departed.
"Oliphant," declared Swinburne.
"Pardon?"
"The leader of the Rake faction for the past two years: Laurence Oliphant."
By midafternoon, the fog had turned a rusty brown and flakes of soot were once again drifting lazily through it.
Swinburne got drunk and staggered off into the smothering murk with no clear destination in mind. He would undoubtedly end up unconscious in a gentlemen's club or brothel; his behaviour had been deteriorating these past weeks.
What that lad needs, thought Burton, is a purpose.
The king's agent had managed to talk with the manager of the Hog in the Pound before departing. He'd learned that the original owner of the pub-the man who'd employed Edward Oxford and witnessed the birth of the True Libertines and Rakes-was named Joseph Robinson.