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.
'He's an elderly gent, now, sir,' the manager had advised. 'A few years back, 1856 it was, he tired of the daily journey to and fro-he's always lived in Battersea, you see-so he sold up and bought himself a public house closer to home, a nice little place called the Tremors.'
'Strange name for a pub!' Burton had commented.
'Aye, 'tis. If you ever go there, ask him about it-there's a story!'
Burton got home at six and hadn't been there for more than ten minutes when a loud detonation sounded outside the house. It was followed by the clang of the doorbell. A minute later Mrs. Angell knocked on the study door and announced the arrival of Mr. Montague Penniforth, 'who's leaving a trail of soot on the carpet.'
The doorway darkened behind her as the giant cabbie ducked and stepped through. He was wrapped in a calf-length red greatcoat, beneath which he wore white breeches, knee-high boots, and a tricorne hat, all peppered with black flakes.
'I'm sorry, good lady,' he said. 'My mistake. Forgot to wipe me feet. You see, I'm preoccupied, like, on account of the fact that me crankshaft just broke and flew a good forty feet in the air afore it came back down to earth in three pieces.'
He shrugged at Burton, who was seated at the main desk. 'I'm sorry, guv'nor, but I don't think I'll be takin' you anywhere 'til I get the bleedin' thing replaced; beggin' your pardin for the bad langwidge, ma'am!'
Mrs. Angell sniffed and muttered, 'I wouldn't mind so much if they were normal-sized feet!' and glided out of the room with a haughty air.
Burton stood and shook his visitor's hand. 'Hang up your hat and coat, Monty. A brandy?'
'Don't mind if I do, sir.'
Burton poured a couple of generous measures and, after Penniforth had divested himself of his outer layers, handed him a glass and gestured to one of the armchairs by the fireplace.
The men sat opposite each other and the cabbie gave a satisfied sigh.
'Blimey,' he said, 'takin' a brandy in the house of a toff-who'd have thought?'
'A toff, Monty?'
''Scuse me, guv'nor!'
Burton gave a wry smile. 'I've not properly introduced myself, have I?'
'No need, sir. I reads the papers. You're Sir Richard Burton, the Africa gentleman. A reg'lar Livingstone, you are!'
'Ouch!' winced Burton.
Penniforth looked bemused.
'It's not a comparison I'm keen on,' explained the explorer.
'Ah. Competition?'
'Different ideas. I say, you enjoyed that brandy! Another?'
The cabbie looked in surprise at his empty glass. 'I wouldn't say no, if it ain't an imposition, sir; I didn't notice that one go down the pipe!'
Burton handed over the decanter. 'Here, help yourself. Tell me, Monty, how well do you know the East End?'
The big man looked up in surprise-and forgot to stop pouring the brandy until his glass was filled almost to the brim.
'Oofl' he gasped. 'The Cauldron! I can look after meself but I wouldn't recommend it to no one but them what's tired o' life. I lives in Cheapside, what's in spittin' distance o' Whitechapel, so I knows the East End. I knows all o' London. It's me job.'
'Have you heard anything about wolves in the area?'
Penniforth's face-a solid, clean-shaven, weather-beaten, and square affair, framed by curly brown hair-paled slightly.
'Aye, somethin' of the sort. It's said they're more men than wolves; monsters what have been comin' out after dark these weeks past. You ain't gonna ask me to go a-huntin' wiv you, I hope?'
'Just that.'
Montague Penniforth swallowed his overfilled glass of brandy in a single gulp.
'Bloody 'ell,' he gasped.
'You can refuse, of course,' said Burton. 'I know the Cauldron is dangerous enough even without monsters running around it, but one way or another I intend to go there tonight. I was hoping that you'd come with me, as you know your way around. I'll pay you generously.'
Penniforth reached up and scratched his head through his thick curls.
'The thing is, sir, that you bein' a toff 'n' all-a-beggin' your pardin- it'll make you a target for every scallywag what sets eyes on you. An' in the East End, every bugger what sets eyes on you will be a scallywag!'
Burton stood up. 'Wait here. Finish the brandy if you like. I'll be about fifteen minutes.'
He strode across his study and disappeared through a door.
Penniforth refilled his glass and looked around. He'd never seen a room like this. It was crammed with books and weapons and pictures and charts and things he didn't even know the name of. He got to his feet and wandered around, examining the old flintlocks, the modern pistols, the curved knives, and the great variety of swords; it was the weapons that appealed to him most.
The cabbie had often exclaimed to his wife, 'Ow the other 'alf live!' But this man Burton, he didn't seem to belong to the other half; he was one of a kind. He acted like a gentleman but he'd the face of a brute. He was of the 'upper crust' but he spoke to the cabbie like they were equals. He was famous but he had no airs and graces. Strange!
The door leading to the stairs opened and a rough-looking oldster with a long white beard stepped in; an ex- seaman if his rolling gait was any indication.
'Hallo, Pa!' greeted Penniforth. 'You lookin' for the master of the ouse?'
'Yus,' croaked the new arrival, blinking beneath his beetling white eyebrows. 'The beggar owes me three 'n' six an' I can't wait no longer!'
'Ho, he does, does he?'
'Yus. Where is 'e, the rat?'
Penniforth laid down his glass and pushed out his chest. ''Ere now, you'd better watch your tongue, Mister!'
