"Good man. We'll talk again soon, Trounce."
"I'm certain of it-our spring-heeled friend will be back, you can be sure of that. Where will he appear, though? That's the question. Where?"
"One more thing, Inspector," said Burton. "Pay close attention to the mother, Tilly. There was something about her expression when we left that leads me to suspect she knows more than she's letting on!"
THE MATTER
Conquer thyself, till thou has done this, thou art but a slave; for it is almost as well to be subjected to another' s appetite as to thine own.
By two o'clock that afternoon, Burton was back at work. He'd slept for a couple of hours, washed, dressed, and eaten lunch, and had then sent two messages: one by runner to the prime minister requesting an audience; the other by parakeet to Swinburne asking him to call early that evening.
An hour later, a reply from 10 Downing Street landed on his windowsill.
"Message from that degenerate idle-headed lout Lord Palmerston. Come at once. Message ends."
"No reply," said Burton.
"Up your spout!" screeched the parakeet as it flew off.
Forty minutes later, having walked briskly through the thinning fog that was still clinging to central London, Burton was once again sitting opposite Lord Palmerston, who, while hurriedly scribbling notes in the margins of a document, spoke without looking up.
"What is it, Burton? I'm busy and I don't require progress reports. Just write up the case when it's done and send it to me."
"A man died."
"Who? How?"
"A cab driver named Montague Penniforth. He accompanied me to the East End and was there killed by a werewolf."
Palmerston looked up for the first time. "A werewolf? You saw it?"
"I saw four. Penniforth was torn apart. I had no way to take care of his body without placing myself in jeopardy. He was a good man and didn't deserve an East End funeral."
"The Thames, you mean?"
"Yes." Burton clenched his fists. "I was a damned fool. I shouldn't have got him involved."
The prime minister laid his pen to one side and rested his hands in front of him with fingers entwined. He spoke in a slow and level tone.
"The commission you have received from the king is a unique one. You must regard yourself as a commander in the field of battle and, on occasion, His Majesty's servants will be required to serve. It's highly likely, given the nature of your missions, that some of those servants will be killed or injured. They fall for the Empire."
"Penniforth was a cabbie, not a soldier!" objected Burton.
"He was the king's servant, as are we all."
"And are all who fall while in his service to be dumped unceremoniously into the river like discarded slops?"
Palmerston pulled a sheet of paper from his desk drawer and wrote upon it. He slid it across to Burton.
"Wherever possible in such circumstances, get a message to this address. My team will come and clean up the mess. The fallen will be treated with respect. Funerals will be arranged and paid for. Widows will be granted a state pension."
The king's agent looked at the names written above the address.
"Burke and Hare!" he exclaimed. "Code names?"
"Actually, no-coincidence! The resurrectionist Burke was hanged in '29 and his partner, Hare, died a blind beggar ten years ago. My two agents, Damien Burke and Gregory Hare, are cut from entirely different cloth. Good men, if a little gloomy in outlook."
"Montague Penniforth had a wife named Daisy and lived in Cheapside. That's all I know about him."
"I'll put Burke and Hare onto it. They'll soon find the woman and I'll see to it that she's provided for. I have a lot to do, Captain Burton. Are we finished?"
Burton stood. "Yes, sir."
"Then let us both get back to work."
Palmerston returned to his scribbling and Burton turned to leave. As he reached the door, the prime minister spoke again.
"You might consider taking an assistant."
Burton looked back but Lord Palmerston was bent over his document, writing furiously.
Propriety demands that young women do not visit the homes of bachelors without a chaperone but Isabel Arundell didn't give two hoots for propriety. She was well aware that Society was already looking down its ever-so-haughty nose at her because she'd accompanied her fiance to Bath and stayed in the same hotel as him, though, heaven forbid, not in the same room. Now she was willfully breaking another taboo by visiting him at his home independently-and not for the first time.
Her willful destruction of her own reputation bothered her not a bit, for she knew that when she and Richard were married they'd leave the country to live abroad. He would work as a government consul and she would gather around herself a new group of friends, preferably non-English, among whom she'd be considered an exotic bloom; a delicate rose among the darker and, she imagined, rather less sophisticated blossoms of Damascus or, perhaps, South America.
She had it all worked out, and, generally, what Isabel Arundell wanted, Isabel Arundell got.
When she arrived at 14 Montagu Place that afternoon, she was reluctantly allowed into the house by Mrs. Angell, who had the brazen effrontery, in Isabel's opinion, to ask whether the "young miss" was sure this visit was entirely wise. The kindly old dame then suggested that if Isabel was determined to go through with it, then perhaps she-Mrs. Angell-should remain at her side throughout, to satisfy social mores.
Isabel impatiently dismissed the well-meant offer and, without further ado, she marched up the stairs and entered the study.
Burton was slumped in his saddlebag armchair by the fire, wrapped in his jubbah, smoking one of his disreputable cheroots and staring into the room's thick blue haze of tobacco smoke. He'd been there since his return from Downing Street an hour ago and had barely moved a muscle. His mind was far away and he was completely unaware that Isabel had entered.
"For goodness' sake, Dick," she chided, "I've stepped out of one fog and into another! If you must be-"
She stopped, gasped, and raised her gloved hands to her mouth, for she'd noticed that a yellowing bruise curved around one of his eyes, a livid and much darker one marked his left temple, there were scratches and grazes all over his face, and he looked somewhat as if the Charge of the Light Brigade had galloped over him.
"What-what-what-?" she stuttered.
His eyes turned slowly toward her and she saw his pupils shrink into focus.
"Ah," he said, and stood. "Isabel, my apologies-I forgot you were coming."
"Your face, Dick!" she exclaimed, and she suddenly flung herself into his arms. "Your face! What on earth has happened!"
He kissed her forehead and stepped back, holding her at arm's length.
"Everything, Isabel. Everything has happened. My life seems to have changed in an instant! I have been commissioned by the king himselfl"
"The king? Commissioned? Dick, I don't understand. And why are you bruised and cut so?"
"Sit down. I'll endeavour to explain. But, Isabel, you must prepare yourself. Remember the Arabic proverb I taught you: In lam yakhun ma tureed, fa'ariid ma yakhoon. "
She translated: "`When what you want doesn't happen, learn to want what does."'
She sat and frowned and waited while he went to the bureau and poured her a tonic. He returned and handed her the glass but remained standing. His expression was unreadable.