blossomed into something that might almost be called respectable. Above all, he looked cleaner; his beard had been shaved off, his large side-whiskers were combed, and the thin border of curly hair around his bald head was now short and neat, rather than wild and straggly. He'd filled out, too, losing the hungry gauntness that had marked him when they'd last met.
“I swears to you,” he said, shaking their hands, “there's no woman what can cook like Miss Mayson in the whole blessed world!”
“Herbert!” Swinburne said. “You look a new man!”
“It's the grub! This young lady here is a blinkin’ marvel with the dogs an’ the birds, but I tells you, gents, in the kitchen she's somethin’ else entirely! I ain't never indulged in victuals like it.”
“Thank you, Herbert,” said Miss Mayson. “Would you set a couple more places around the table, please? Our two friends will join us for lunch.”
Moments later, the king's agent and his assistant were enjoying a thick vegetable soup served with freshly baked bread.
“This is utterly delicious!” Burton declared.
“ Utterly utterly!” Swinburne added.
“Told you so!” said Spencer. “There ain't nothin’ so nourishing!”
“And you're obviously flourishing!” Swinburne rhymed.
“On which note, have you been ill?” Miss Mayson asked of Burton. “You look a little jaundiced.”
“I have been, yes. I suffer occasional bouts of malaria. The attacks are decreasing in frequency since my return from Africa but this latest was a bad one. Flying your swan through a rainstorm didn't help.”
“That were a nasty night, Boss,” Spencer observed. “I came down with the sniffles meself.”
“As a matter of fact, Miss Mayson-”
“Isabella, please!”
“Isabella. Swans are the reason for us dropping by. I was hoping we could hire a couple.”
“The last time you borrowed my swans, two were killed and one never came back,” the young woman noted, with a wry smile.
Burton nodded in acknowledgement. “I trust Scotland Yard compensated you?”
“Very generously, as a matter of fact.”
Spencer waved his spoon and announced: “That young Constable Bhatti has been here nearly every blinkin’ day, the scallywag!”
“It's on his beat, Herbert,” Miss Mayson protested.
“Ha! He's givin’ you the glad eye, that's what it is!”
A faint blush coloured the woman's cheeks and she said: “Actually, I think that brain of yours is the attraction. Why, when the two of you start philosophising, I can barely get a word in!”
She turned to Burton. “I have a couple of new swans that are fairly well behaved. For how long will you need them?”
“Two, three, maybe four days. We'll be staying at a country house in Hampshire. I believe there's a large lake on the grounds, so they'll be quite comfortable.”
“’Specially if I come along to look after ’em!” Spencer interjected.
“There's no need to trouble yourself, old fellow,” said Burton.
“It ain't no trouble at all!”
Miss Mayson agreed. “It's an excellent idea. Swans can be a handful, gentlemen, but Herbert has the magic touch. Even the parakeets love him! I would feel far happier if he went with you. There's sure to be a local village where he can put up, or maybe your hosts will find room for him in the servants’ quarters?”
Burton considered the vagrant, and asked him: “Would you object to rooming with the staff? It might be useful for me to have a man on the inside, as it were.”
“Don't worry, Boss, I knows me proper station in life. Servants’ quarters are a step up for the likes o’ me!”
“Then I'll be very happy to have you accompany us to Tichborne House.”
“Tichborne?” Spencer and Miss Mayson chorused.
“Yes, I'm investigating the matter.”
“Cor blimey! Well, I never did in all me born days! That's a right turn up, an’ no mistake!” Spencer mused, philosophically.
An hour later, the three men, sitting in box kites, bade Isabella Mayson goodbye and were jerked into the air.
They steered between vertical shafts of smoke as they crossed the great city, heading in a westerly direction with the dome of St. Paul's Cathedral glinting in the sunlight behind them.
It was mild and pleasant and Burton felt a thrill of freedom as the vista expanded around him. England's tight horizons had always given him a sense of claustrophobia. They were so unlike the vast distances of India, Africa, and Arabia, and it felt wonderfully liberating to see them drawing back as he gained altitude.
Soon, the crowded and dirty city dropped behind until only towns, villages, fields, forests, and rivers populated the landscape. It was densely green and possessed a warm cosiness quite different from any other country he'd ever visited.
“I suppose you're not so bad, old England,” he murmured, and blew out a breath in surprise. That was a sentiment he'd never expressed before!
“Wheeee-oooo!” came a cry, and Swinburne shot past, a blur of white swan feathers and bright red poet's hair.
“Look alive, Boss! The race is on!” Spencer yelled, whipping past Burton on the other side.
The king's agent grinned savagely, snapped his bird's reins, and bellowed: “Hey! Hey! Hey!”
His swan responded magnificently, pumping its wings so hard that the sudden acceleration pushed Burton back in his canvas seat. In this still air, his kite glided along smoothly, with none of the gut-churning twisting and tumbling that had characterised his pursuit of Brunel.
The small town of Weybridge slid beneath as Burton's bird caught up with Spencer's and overtook it.
“Keep up, dawdler!”
As the philosopher fell behind, Burton set his sights on Swinburne, who was by now a considerable distance ahead. The poet's bird was undoubtedly the fastest of the three, but did it possess endurance enough to hold the lead all the way to Tichborne House?
Burton settled into the chase.
They soared over Woking, then Aldershot, and, as they passed Farnham, he finally caught up with his assistant.
“Your bird's slowing!” he shouted.
“We shouldn't push them too hard!” Swinburne yelled back. “I concede defeat! You've won. Let's rein them in a little.”
They slowed, relaxed, flapped on. Herbert Spencer came abreast.
The sun was sagging lazily at the edge of the sky as Itchen Valley hove into view, the light golden on its pastures, the shadows long and darkly blue.
Burton led them onward, sinking down, flying low over patchwork fields and the rooftops of Bishop's Sutton to the village of Alresford. They veered in a southwesterly direction, passed over high hedges and rich water meadows, and arrived at the Tichborne estate.
Circling a willow-bordered lake, they flew low along its shore and yanked their release straps. The three box kites separated from the birds, drifted earthward, touched the grass, tumbled, and came to a standstill. The swans beat their wings and swept up over the willow trees and down onto the water beyond, landing with splashes and honks of delight. They paddled contentedly and watched through the drooping branches as the men clambered out of their wood and canvas carriages, each pulling a portmanteau from the large storage pockets at the rear of the kites.
“It's a precarious experience, landing these blinkin’ things,” Spencer commented.
“Exciting, though,” said Swinburne.
“Yus, lad, that as well,” the philosopher agreed. “I'll go an’ remove the birds’ harnesses.”
While Spencer dealt with the swans, Burton and Swinburne dismantled and folded the kites.
