'To hell with your policies, Sister! They obviously count for nothing!'
The nurse's eyes widened in shock. 'Sir!'
Burton pulled his wallet from his pocket and took out a folded document. He showed it to the nurse.
'Look at this signature, young lady. Do you recognise it?'
'No. Yes. It's-my goodness!-it's the same as the one on pound notes!'
'Now read this paragraph here,' he instructed, indicating a short block of text with his finger.
She did so, pursed her lips, and nodded.
'Very well, sir. It seems I have no choice. Sister Raghavendra lives here-' She scribbled an address onto a sheet of paper and handed it to him.
'Thank you,' he said, and turned to leave, satisfied with the effectiveness of the document Palmerston had issued to him that morning.
'Sir Richard!' she called after him.
He looked back.
She smiled. 'Rub castor oil around your eye. It will reduce the bruising.'
He winked at her.
Outside, Burton found the hansom still standing at the curb. He hailed the driver: 'Hi, cabbie, still here?'
'Oh aye, sir. Thought it best to wait for the fares to come to me, 'stead o' drivin' through this stinker lookin' for 'em!'
'Can you take me to 3 Bayham Street, near Mornington Crescent?'
'Wiv me eyes closed, sir-which in this 'ere mess o' fog is just as well. 'Op in!'
Burton settled on the seat and closed the door. He rubbed his itchy eyes as the steam-horse growled and the cabin lurched into motion. His skin felt grimy, thinly coated with soot and other pollutants. He wondered whether Limehouse had been evacuated. During the previous fog-two weeks agotoxic gasses had settled into the Thames basin and a great mob of sailors, criminals, drug addicts, and illegal immigrants-mainly Lascars, Dacoits, Chinamen, Africans, and Irish refugees-had swept into Whitechapel, where they'd rioted for three days. When the fog cleared, and they returned to their hovels and opium dens, it was found that they'd piled hundreds of corpsesasphyxiation victims-along Commercial Road. With the risk of a cholera epidemic and a boom in the already unmanageable rat population, the government had called in the army to clear and burn the bodies. Ever since, the newspapers had been calling for an all-out assault on Limehouse, demanding that it be cleared and razed to the ground. This, thought Burton, was unlikely to happen. The opium trade needed Limehouse and, he suspected, there were powerful forces in the Empire that needed the opium trade.
It took far longer to reach Mornington Crescent than it should have; the cabbie took two wrong turns and, when he finally delivered his passenger to Bayham Street, he seemed beside himself with embarrassment.
'Never done that 'afore, I swears to you, guv'nor!' he moaned. 'As sure as me name's Montague Penniforth, I knows every nook and cranny of this ere city! But this `particular' has befuddled me senses! I can 'ardly think straight, let alone guide this smokin' horse in the right direction!'
Burton knew what the man meant; some ingredient in the fog was causing him to feel slightly dizzy too, which, after a hard night's drinking, was the last thing he needed.
'Don't worry yourself about it, Mr. Penniforth,' he said. 'Here's a couple of bob extra. Why don't you pack up for the morning? Go spend some time with your missus!'
'Cor blimey!' Penniforth coughed. 'You must be jokin'! Daisy would have me guts for garters if I turned up on the doorstep 'afore midnight. She can't stand the sight o' me!'
Burton laughed. 'Wait here, then, if you don't mind. I shan't be long and I promise you another shilling!'
'Me lucky day!' The cabbie grinned. 'I'll 'ave a draw on me pipe while I wait; get some decent fumes into me lungs!'
Burton left Montague Penniforth cleaning out the bowl of a filthy old cherrywood and crossed the pavement to peer at the house numbers. Number 3 was a four-storey terrace. A dim glow emanated from the fanlight window above the front door. He yanked at the bellpull and heard a distant jangle.
After a minute, the portal was opened by an elderly woman in mourning dress, her face concealed behind a weeping veil of black crepe.
'Yes?' she whispered. There was an edge of suspicion to her voice, for though her visitor was obviously a gentleman, his face was cut, bruised, and barbarous in aspect.
'My apologies, ma'am,' said Burton, courteously. 'Do you have a Sister Raghavendra here?'
'Yes, sir. On the third floor. Are you from the sanatorium?'
'I've just come from there, yes,' he replied. It wasn't quite an answer to the question she'd asked but she didn't seem to notice and appeared to be mollified by his deep, polite, and melodious voice.
'If you wish to see her, sir, I should act as chaperone,' she noted, in her frail tones.
'That will be acceptable, thank you.'
'Pray, come in out of the fog, then. You can wait in the hallway.'
Burton ran the soles of his shoes over the iron boot-scraper on the doorstep then stepped into the dingy hall, the walls of which were crowded with framed paintings and photographs, display plates and crucifixes. The landlady closed the door behind him and took a small silver finger-bell from her sleeve. In response to its tinkling ring, a sturdy young girl hurried out from the parlour. Flour powdered her hands, forearms, and nose. She gave a clumsy curtsey.
'Mum?'
'Run up to Sister Raghavendra, Polly, and tell her she has a visitor; a Mr.-?'
'Captain Burton.' He always preferred to use his military rank; 'Sir Richard' sounded a mite pretentious.
'A Captain Burton. You may advise Sister Raghavendra that I will escort the gentleman up to her sitting room if she wishes to receive him.'
'Yes, Mum!'
The maid thumped up the stairs and out of sight.
'An ungainly girl but she serves me well. My name is Mrs. Emily Wheeltapper, Captain. My late husband was Captain Anthony Wheeltapper of the 17th Lancers. He fell at Balaclava. I have been in mourning these seven years since. He was a fine man.'
'My sympathy, ma'am.'
'Will you take a cup of tea, Captain?'
'Please don't trouble yourself. My business will be brief.'
'Is the poor girl in difficulty? She came home in tears this morning. Has something happened at the sanatorium?'
'That's what I'm here to find out, Mrs. Wheeltapper.'
Polly's heavy tread thundered down the stairs. 'She says to come on up, Mum,' she reported.
'Thank you, Polly. Now back to the kitchen with you. Those scones won't cook themselves. Follow me, please, Captain Burton.'
The old widow slowly ascended, followed patiently by her visitor.
On the third landing, they were met by Sister Raghavendra. She was, Burton guessed, in her midtwenties. She was also extremely beautiful, with dark almond-shaped eyes and dusky skin. Her nose was small and straight; her lips full and sensual, with a squarish shape more often found in South Americans; and her black hair, though pinned up, was obviously very long and lustrous.
His nostrils detected the scent of jasmine.
She reminded Burton of a Persian girl he'd once bedded, and a thrill of desire rippled through him as her eyes met his.
'You are Captain Burton?' she asked, in a soft, slightly accented voice. 'You are here about Lieutenant Speke, I suppose? Come into my sitting room, please.'
He followed her into a small and sparsely ornamented chamber and sat in the armchair to which she gestured. She and Mrs. Wheeltapper settled onto the sofa.
He noticed a statuette of Ganesha on the mantelpiece; a nurse's headdress had been thrown carelessly onto a table; a small bottle of laudanum on a dresser.
Sister Raghavendra sat with her back held very straight and her hands folded gracefully on her lap. She was still in her work clothes: a floor-length, high-collared, and long-sleeved pale grey dress over which she wore a short
