Swinburne said: “Anything?”
“No.”
“What were you expecting?” asked Tichborne.
“I don't know. I'm convinced there's something under these two fields. I thought perhaps the end of my cane might encounter rock or brickwork.”
“Wheat roots can reach a depth of almost four feet,” the baronet said, “so the soil here is deep; too deep for your stick to touch the bottom, if there is one.”
Burton withdrew his cane, wiped a handkerchief along its length, and returned to the edge of the field.
They made their way down to the carriageway.
“I'd like to see your swans,” Tichborne said. “Would you care to stroll around to the lake with me?”
“Certainly,” Burton agreed.
As they walked, the king's agent cast sidelong glances at the aristocrat. Sir Alfred's mood seemed strange; he was touring his estate with what appeared to be a sense of finality, as if he were saying goodbye to his ancestral home. Burton's intuition told him that this was more than the baronet's reaction to his supposed brother's imminent arrival-something else was bothering him.
“I expect you'll be somewhat relieved to see the Claimant tomorrow,” he said. “After all these weeks, you'll finally set eyes on the man, and will, at least, know one way or the other.”
“Yes, perhaps so,” Tichborne answered, with a distracted air.
He fell into a self-absorbed silence They circled the lake then returned to the house with barely another word spoken.
By suppertime, despite that the rooms were brightly lit with camphor lamps and mole candles, an ominous atmosphere had settled over the house. Sir Alfred sat at the dinner table with Burton and Swinburne, Colonel Lushington, Henry Hawkins, and Doctor Jankyn, and began to drink even more heavily than the night before.
Conversation was desultory and sporadic, and the men ate with little enthusiasm, though the food was excellent.
“Your Mrs. Picklethorpe works wonders,” Swinburne commented after a long and uncomfortable silence.
“She does,” Sir Alfred answered, with a slight slur. “The Tichborne pantries have always enjoyed the reputation of being the best stocked in all of Hampshire, and she certainly does justice to their contents.”
Burton froze with a forkful of beef half raised to his mouth.
“Richard?” Swinburne enquired, puzzled by his friend's expression.
Burton lowered the fork. “Do you think I might see the kitchen and pantries at some point?” he asked.
“Of course,” said Tichborne. “Why? Do you take an interest in cooking?”
“Not at all. It's the architecture of the house that fascinates me.”
“The cook and her staff will be cleaning up now, after which it'll be a little late. What say you we go down there tomorrow morning before the Claimant shows up?”
“Thank you.”
They finished eating.
Tichborne stood and swayed slightly.
“I'd much appreciate a few rounds of billiards,” he said. “Will you gentlemen join me?”
“Sir Alfred-” Doctor Jankyn began, but the baronet stopped him with a sharp gesture.
“Don't fuss, Jankyn. I'm perfectly fine. Join us.”
They repaired to the billiard room. Hawkins began a game with Swinburne and was surprised to find the poet a formidable opponent.
Bogle served port and sweet sherry.
Lushington put a flame to a meerschaum pipe, and Jankyn lit a briar, while Burton, Hawkins, and Tichborne all opted for cigars. Within minutes, the room was thick with a blue haze of tobacco smoke.
“By golly, it's a veritable drubbing!” the lawyer exclaimed as Swinburne potted three balls in quick succession.
“If only you were as accurate with a pistol!” Burton whispered to his friend.
“To be perfectly honest,” Swinburne replied, grinning, “I'm not hitting the balls I'm aiming at. It's sheer luck that the ones I am hitting are going in!”
He won the game against Hawkins, then played Colonel Lushington and beat him, too.
Sir Alfred took up a cue. “I'll be the next lamb to the slaughter,” he announced, and they began the game.
As Burton watched, he became aware that he was feeling oddly apprehensive, and when he looked at the others’ faces, he could see they were experiencing the same sensation: the inexplicable presentiment that something was going to happen.
He shook himself and emptied his glass in a single swallow.
“Another port, please, Bogle.”
“Certainly, sir.”
“You might open the window a crack, too. It's like a London pea-souper in here.”
“I would, sir, but it's worse outside.”
“Worse? What do you mean?”
“It's the mist, sir. It's risen unusually high tonight-quite suddenly, too. Right up to the second storey of the house, and thicker than I've ever seen it.”
Burton crossed to the window and drew aside the curtain. The room was brilliantly reflected in the glass, and he could make out nothing beyond. Twisting the catch open, he drew up the sash a little, bent over, and peered through the gap. A solid wall of white vapour collapsed inward and began to pour over the sill and into the room.
Hurriedly, he closed the window and pulled the curtain across it.
Behind him, the room fell silent.
A glass hit the floor and shattered.
He turned.
Swinburne, Lushington, Hawkins, Jankyn, Tichborne, and Bogle were all standing motionless. Even through the blue haze, he could see that the blood had drained from their faces. They were staring wide-eyed at a corner of the room.
Burton followed their gaze.
There was a woman there-or, rather, a column of denser tobacco smoke that had taken on the form of a thickset, heavy-hipped female.
She raised a nebulous arm and pointed a tendril-like finger at Sir Alfred Tichborne. Black eyes glared from her head.
Tichborne shrieked and backed away until he was pressed against the wall, banging into a rack of billiard cues which clattered noisily to the floor.
“Lady Mabella!” he moaned.
To either side of him, the haze suddenly congealed, forming two ghostly, indistinct, top-hatted figures. They wrapped transparent fingers around his arms.
“Bloody hell!” Hawkins breathed.
Bogle let loose a piercing scream, dropped to his knees, and covered his eyes.
“For God's sake, help me!” Tichborne wailed.
Before any of the men could move, the wraiths had dragged the baronet across the room. Lady Mabella surged forward, wrapped her swirling arms around him, and plunged through the door, taking him with her. The door didn't open, nor did it smash; the ghostly woman, wraiths, and man simply disappeared through the wood as if it were nothing but an illusion.
A muffled cry came from the corridor beyond: “Save me! Oh, Christ! They mean to kill me!”
“After him!” Burton barked, breaking the spell that had immobilised them all.
In three long strides, he reached the door and wrenched it open in time to see Tichborne being hauled through another at the far end of the passage. Again, the flesh-and-blood baronet passed straight through the portal without it opening or breaking.
Burton hurtled along the hallway with the others trailing behind, threw open the door, and ran into the
