“That's the summons to supper or dinner or something similar. What time is it? Clocks don't work here. I never have the vaguest idea what the confounded hour is!”
The king's agent frowned and pulled out his pocket watch.
“It's half-past six. What do you mean, clocks don't work?”
“Simply that. Every timepiece in this house stopped a month or so ago. I daresay yours will, too, if you stay here long enough. Perhaps it's something to do with the position of the building and the Earth's magnetics. I wouldn't know. I'm a soldier, not a Technologist! Anyway, Bogle will take you and your luggage up to the guest rooms so you can change into your evening wear. Just a formality. Observing the rituals. The mark of civilisation. A man should always dress for whatever it is, don't you think? We'll reconvene in the dining room in fifteen minutes. You'll meet Sir Alfred there. If he comes. He may not.”
A quarter of an hour later, wearing their formal attire, Burton and Swinburne descended the grand staircase. The poet giggled, remembering that his friend had, a few weeks ago, come down a similar staircase in a far less controlled fashion. He wondered whether Sir Roderick Murchison would ever forgive Burton.
They passed along the hall, in which polished suits of armour stood silent guard, and entered the long dining room. A grand table dominated its centre, and all around it the walls were hung with portraits.
Bogle bowed as they entered. Colonel Lushington greeted them.
“That's the young Roger Tichborne,” he said, pointing at one of the paintings. “While that-” he turned and indicated another “-is his ancestor, the notorious Roger de Tichborne. The same name, you'll note, except for the de. It means of, I believe. Roger of Tichborne, on account of the fact that he was-”
He cleared his throat and fell silent.
“He was what?” Swinburne asked.
“Of Tichborne, man!”
“Ah. I see. Rather a nasty-looking cove!”
“Oh, I wouldn't say so,” came a voice from the door. “But perhaps that's because I bear a distinct resemblance!”
They turned their heads and saw two men crossing the threshold.
“May I introduce Sir Alfred Tichborne?” the colonel said. “Sir Alfred, this is Sir Richard Burton and his assistant, um-um-um-”
“Algernon Swinburne,” said Swinburne.
“Welcome, gentlemen, and thank God you're here!” Tichborne stepped forward with his hand outstretched. “You've got to help me!”
Burton was taken aback by Sir Alfred's appearance, for though the baronet was young, his hair was completely white and there were deep lines scoring the skin around his eyes.
Tichborne stood about five foot nine and was of a large build. He did, indeed, resemble the man in the portrait-facially, at least-but where his ancestor's features were cruel, Sir Alfred's were weak. His lips possessed an unpleasantly loose and damp appearance; his chin was too receded; his eyes too widely set. In attire, he was foppish to the point of effeminacy, and the hand that Burton shook felt boneless.
The baronet's eyes moved restlessly, fearfully.
Before he could say anything else, the second man interrupted: “I'm sure Sir Richard will do all he can to assist, Sir Alfred, but let's not ask him to do so on an empty stomach? What!”
“Gentlemen, this is Doctor Jankyn, our resident physician,” said Lushington. “Or Physician Jankyn, our resident doctor. I don't know how it works. One way or the other, I would think.”
“Pleased to meet you, what!” said Jankyn.
He was a tall and lanky fellow, with big hands and feet, and a long jaw. His grey hair was brushed back and fell in curls to the nape of his neck. His ears stuck out and his close-set eyes were of the palest blue.
The five men sat at the table, wine was served by Bogle, and maids brought platters of food.
Sir Alfred twitched and fidgeted, outdoing even Swinburne's habitual nervous agitation.
“So how may I be of service?” Burton asked him. “Do you seek my opinion of the Claimant?”
“Fiddlesticks!” Tichborne cried passionately. “He's nothing but a cheap swindler! No, Burton, I want you to get rid of the damned witch before she gets rid of me!”
“Witch?”
“The Lady Mabella! The foul sorceress who wishes me, the last of the Tichbornes, dead!”
Jankyn spoke: “Sir Alfred is under the impression that this house is being haunted by that man's-” he pointed at the portrait of Roger de Tichborne “-wife.”
“You've actually seen the ghost, Sir Alfred?” Swinburne asked.
“Three times!”
“The human mind can play very convincing tricks when in a state of high anxiety,” Doctor Jankyn offered.
“I didn't imagine it!” the baronet shouted.
There came a loud clang as one of the maids dropped a serving spoon onto the floor.
“Take care, young lady! Have some discipline!” Colonel Lushington snapped. “An accident, I should think. Never mind. Go and fetch a fresh spoon, there's a good girl.”
“Wait!” Burton interrupted. “What's your name, miss?”
The maid turned beetroot red, curtseyed, and answered: “Christina Flowers, sir.”
“Have you seen the spectre, too, Miss Flowers?”
She swallowed, licked her lips, and looked anxiously at each of the men.
“I-I-”
“You can speak freely,” Lushington advised. “I'm sorry I barked at you that way. Military training. What is it you've seen?”
The girl sniffed and said: “Beggin’ your pardon, sirs, it-it were in the ’allway leading to the kitchen. Two nights past-in the early hours of the mornin’. I couldn't sleep an’ I wanted a drink o’ water. As I came along the ‘all, I ‘eard a knock-knock-knockin’ an’ I thought Mrs. Picklethorpe must be up and about.”
“Mrs. Picklethorpe is the cook,” Lushington explained to Burton and Swinburne. “So it wasn't mice, as I thought. Although I didn't. Think, that is.”
“Aye, sir, the cook. So I goes toward the kitchen to see if anythin’ was amiss and there-there in the ‘allway- there was-was-”
The girl began to tremble violently and put her hands to her face.
“Oooh!” she moaned.
“What was it, Miss Flowers?” Burton asked gently.
She looked up. Her face had gone from red to stark white.
“It were like a mist, sir, but in the shape of a woman. She were a-knockin’ on the walls, then she turned ‘er ‘ead an’ looked straight at me.”
“You could see her eyes?”
“Yes! Oh lor’, terrible they were! Like black pebbles a-floatin’ in the cloud. She stared at me all wicked, then disappeared. Just blew away, she did, like smoke in the wind.”
“Yes!” Sir Alfred cried. “Those eyes! God in heaven, they're frightful!”
“Thank you, Miss-what-was-it?” said Lushington.
“Flowers, sir.”
“Ah yes, very pretty name. Reminds me of-um-um-um-flowers. Well, continue with your duties, please.”
The maid bobbed and ran out of the room.
Swinburne looked at Burton and raised an eyebrow.
Burton gave a slight shrug and turned to Tichborne: “And you, Sir Alfred-you saw the same?”
“Yes! I've been hearing that damnable knocking around the house for nigh on a month, always at night.”
“A month? So it started around the same time as all the clocks stopped?”
“Ah, why yes, that's right. Each time I've heard the noise, I've gone to investigate only to have it fall silent as I approached. I didn't see anything until two weeks ago. It was, I'd guess, about three in the morning, and I was unable to sleep, so I went down to the library, smoked a few cigars, and read awhile. I was in one of the high- backed armchairs facing the fireplace. If you sit there and someone enters, they can't see you, but it works the other way, too, and unknown to me, someone did enter.”
