never came back. Nothing further was heard until earlier this year, when rumours reached Pedro that a person named Tomas Castro was in an asylum in Santiago. He rode there to make enquiries and was told that, around the time of his father's disappearance, a man had been delivered to the establishment in a state of near insanity. He'd later, during a moment of lucidity, given his name as Castro. Naturally, Pedro wanted to see him, but was informed that the patient had recently been transported to London to be incarcerated in the Bethlem Royal Hospital. Apparently, he'd turned out to be from a rich English family. Pedro therefore concluded that the lunatic in question was neither his father nor the Frenchman.”
“English!”
“Yes. So now we have to find out exactly who that man is.”
“Roger Tichborne?”
“It seems likely. You'll remember that he was raised by a French mother and had a French accent.”
“Which the Claimant doesn't.”
“Notably.”
Honesty asked, “Who took him from the Santiago asylum?”
“Ah, that's an interesting point.”
“It is?”
“He was removed by a rather well-known individual.”
“Who?”
“Nurse Florence Nightingale.”
“The Lady of the Lamp!”
“The very same. Which, considering I was told she's missing, intrigues me a great deal!”
“Told by whom?”
“Isambard Kingdom Brunel, at the time of the Brundleweed robbery.”
“By gum! What's she up to? We must see that man in Bedlam! A police raid, perhaps?”
“Good heavens, no! That would be far too heavy-handed! No, no, softly, softly, catchee monkey. Palmerston's men, Burke and Hare, are preparing false papers. In a couple of days, they and I will enter the asylum in the guise of government inspectors.”
Honesty grunted and sucked thoughtfully at his pipe.
Burton pulled a cord at the side of the fireplace. He and his guest sat in contemplative silence until Mrs. Angell answered the summons. Burton requested a pot of coffee. As the old lady left, he turned back to the Yard man and said: “So Commissioner Mayne sent you to Australia to find out more about our faux aristocrat? How went it?”
“Went well. I took Commander Krishnamurthy. Remember him? Fine fellow. Head of Flying Squad now!”
“Yes, so I've heard. What did you two find down there?”
Honesty bent and placed his pipe on the hearth. He licked his lips, interlaced his fingers, and rested his hands in his lap. He eschewed long sentences, but he was now in a position where they might be necessary, and he needed to prepare himself.
The study door creaked open and footsteps padded across the room.
“Hello, Fidget,” Burton muttered. He reached down to fondle his basset hound's ears. “I'm afraid you'll have to wait for your walk.”
The dog sat at his feet and regarded the man opposite.
“In Wagga Wagga,” Honesty began, “no one has heard of Tomas Castro. No one recognised the face in the daguerreotype. They did speak, however, of a man named Arthur Orton, a local butcher. Tremendously fat. Had an insatiable appetite for raw meat. Mysteriously disappeared.”
“When?”
“Four weeks before the Claimant arrived in Paris.”
“Ah!”
“Orton learned his skill as a butcher in London. He originally hailed from Wapping. Upon my return, I found the family. Interviewed his sisters. They say he moved to Australia some fifteen years ago. Never heard of again. I showed them the daguerreotype. They say it's not him.”
The study door swung open and Mrs. Angell entered with the coffee. She poured them each a cup.
“Thank you, my dear,” said Detective Inspector Honesty. The housekeeper smiled. There came an impatient hammering at the front door.
“I'll get it,” she said, and departed.
“I have the distinct impression, Inspector,” said Burton, “that a very tangled web has been woven.”
“I should say so. Who's assaulting your door?”
“I'd recognise that knock anywhere. It's our mutual friend William Trounce.”
Footsteps thundered up the stairs and the door was flung open. Trounce stamped in, ruddy-faced and puffing. He banged his bowler hat onto a desk.
“He's been released on bail!” he yelled. “Ah! Honesty! There you are! Hallo, Burton! Long time no see! The Claimant was taken to the Old Bailey at nine o'clock this morning and walked out a free man thirty minutes later. There was a crowd of cheering idiots to greet him. How the blazes has that fat monstrosity garnered so much support these past weeks, eh? Tell me that, Captain!”
He dragged an armchair over to them and plonked himself into it, rubbed his short hair vigorously, then punched one hand into the other.
“Blast it!” he shouted.
“Admiral Lord Nelson,” Burton said to his valet, “would you fetch a cup for Detective Inspector Trounce, please?”
The clockwork man saluted, walked to the door, and left the room.
“I'll be blowed!” Honesty exclaimed. “Thought it was a suit of armour!”
Burton rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I don't know, Trounce, old man,” he said. “I don't know. But you're absolutely right-the most remarkable aspect of this case is that, from the very start, the Claimant has gained supporters left, right, and centre. Judging by what I've seen so far, I'd say he radiates some sort of powerful mesmeric influence, though why it affects some and not others is quite a mystery.”
Burton remembered the people he'd seen in court rubbing their heads as if experiencing discomfort; Colonel Lushington's sudden headache when the Claimant arrived at Tichborne House; and Edwin Brundleweed's strange migraine.
It was the black diamonds, of course. Something was emanating from them. Sir Charles Babbage had said they could store and transmit the electrical fields generated by a human brain. All the evidence suggested they could influence a human brain as well.
“Your average man in the street seems under the impression that there's a conspiracy against the Claimant,” Trounce said. “He's become a hero to the working classes.”
“An aristocrat who laboured as a butcher,” Honesty commented. “They like that.”
Trounce grunted his agreement.
Admiral Lord Nelson entered with a cup in his hand.
“Pour Detective Inspector Trounce a coffee, would you?” Burton said.
“Good lord!” Honesty muttered as the clockwork man obeyed.
Strident screams and cries reached them from the street below.
“That sounds like young Swinburne,” Trounce observed.
“Arguing with a cabbie, I'll wager,” Burton agreed. “He's convinced that any cab ride, whatever the distance, costs a shilling, and he'll argue until he's blue in the face if the cabbie disagrees!”
He smiled. It had been a while since he'd seen his diminutive and highly eccentric assistant, and he'd missed him.
A few minutes later the doorbell jangled and a shout of, “Hallo, sweet angel!” floated up from the hall below. Footsteps sounded, the study door opened, and Mrs. Angell announced: “The eleven-thirty express has just pulled in at platform three, Sir Richard. Will there be much more traffic passing through the station this morning, or can I go and bathe my aching corns?”
“Send him in, Mother.” Burton chuckled. “And consider the service suspended until further notice!”
As the landlady turned to leave, Swinburne bounded past her into the room.
