“Aye, something of the sort. She was screaming incoherently, but from what I could make out, she seems to have acquired a bee in her bonnet about the suppression of the working classes.”
“Tichborne isn't working class,” Swinburne mumbled.
“You're right there, Mr. Swinburne! But the man who says he's Sir Roger most certainly is, don't you think?”
“It seems obvious,” said Burton, “but a surprising number of people don't see it that way. If what I witnessed today is any indication, three-quarters of the population are supporting a man they know is a liar and charlatan. It's utter lunacy!”
“Ah well, now I know you haven't been affected,” Oscar responded. “To disagree with three-fourths of the British public is one of the first requisites of sanity!”
A lgernon Swinburne pulled his legs up onto the saddlebag armchair and crossed them. He accepted a cup of coffee-his second-from Admiral Lord Nelson, rested the saucer on his ankles, and gazed down into the liquid.
“Whatever that headache I had was, it's been replaced by a different one. A hangover. Strange to say, that's actually a relief!”
Herbert Spencer, sitting opposite, his eyes fixed on the clockwork valet, nodded distractedly, and took a sip from his own cup.
Burton, ever the observer, was standing by the window looking down at the street. He saw isolated instances of vandalism and misbehaviour but, in the main, the riot had bypassed Montagu Place, though distant shouts and crashes suggested that it was in full swing elsewhere.
“I daresay the food helped, Algy. It was good of Mrs. Angell to cook for us after her ordeal.”
“She's everything her name suggests,” Swinburne responded. “I feel much happier now that my stomach is full.”
“Here's something else to cheer you up. I meant to tell you earlier but it slipped my mind. There's a second rotorchair in my garage. A gift to you from His Majesty.”
“My hat! A present from the king! How splendid!”
“Don't get too excited. We're going to have to be cautious about using the flying machines during this Tichborne business. Our opponent has already demonstrated an uncanny ability to deprive springs of their elasticity, thus disabling clocks, wind-up lanterns, and the hammer mechanisms of gun triggers. Since rotorchair engines employ spring pistons, I think we'll stick with swans for the time being.”
“Blast! I have a new toy and I can't play with it!”
“We may have to drop our ideas about John Speke, too. Whatever is going on, it seems less and less likely to me that he's behind it.”
“Why so?”
“Because what began as the theft of diamonds has broadened into some sort of political agitation. That's not John's style at all. He's far too selfish a man to care about such matters.”
“Then who? Edward Kenealy?”
Herbert Spencer interrupted: “No, lad. Back at the house, after you left, Kenealy was a-holdin’ seances to consult with Lady Mabella. If you ask me, the ghost is the one pullin’ the strings.”
Burton made a sound of agreement, but then the words the puppeteer is herself a puppet flashed through his mind.
“The odd thing is,” he said, “when Sir Alfred was being dragged through the house to his death, the apparition warned me not to interfere. I heard her voice clearly in my mind and it had a distinct accent. Russian, I'm positive.”
“Why is that odd?” asked Swinburne. “Aside from the obvious.”
“Because Lady Mabella Tichborne was from Hampshire.”
“Hamp-what? She was English?”
“Thoroughly. So whatever's been haunting Tichborne House, it is not the ghost of the woman who crawled around the wheat fields. In fact, I doubt that it's really a ghost at all.”
“It looked like one to me.”
“Then perhaps you can explain why it was rapping its knuckles on walls rather than floating straight through them?”
“You have an explanation?”
“I have never given credence to ghosts, but I've read much about what spiritualists term the projection of the ethereal or astral double. Occultists state that it is perfectly possible to pass through solid objects while in astral form, but it should not be done too often, as it can disrupt the connection between the ethereal and the physical bodies. My supposition is that we witnessed an individual in such a form, and they solidified their knuckles for the purpose of searching the house rather than risk being forever separated from their corporeal body.”
Swinburne jerked his limbs spasmodically-a sign of his growing excitement.
“So we're dealing with a spiritualist, a table-tapper?”
“That's my current theory, and one who appears to be using the Cambodian fragments and the South American Eye to somehow transmit and amplify mediumistic projections. I'm almost certain that support for the Claimant-who anyone in their right mind can see is a phony-is, through this method, being artificially generated to stir up the masses. What puzzles me is why the emanations influence some and not others. You are apparently rather sensitive to them, though more resistant when you're drunk. Myself, Trounce, and Honesty feel them only faintly, while Herbert here is not touched at all.”
“From what I can see, the working classes are the most susceptible,” put in Swinburne. “Though I'd hardly place myself in that category. Whereas Herbert-”
“-is a bloomin’ philosopher,” the vagrant interjected. He tore his eyes away from the mechanical man and peered at the poet from beneath his bushy grey eyebrows, one of which was raised speculatively.
“Quite so. Quite so,” Swinburne conceded. “Forgive me for the observation, though, my dear chap, but you seem to be a singularly unsuccessful one. What exactly is your philosophy? Perhaps the nature of your thoughts bears some relation to your apparent immunity.”
“That's an interesting hypothesis,” Burton said. He faced his two guests. “Talk to us, Herbert.”
“Hmmph!” Spencer grunted. “You'll have to give me a minute or two to prepare meself. It don't come easy to me, I'm afraid.”
“Go ahead. Take whatever time you need.”
The king's agent and his assistant looked on in interest as the vagrant set his glass aside, propped his elbows on the arms of his chair, steepled his fingers in front of his face, closed his eyes, and laid his head back. He relaxed, and a remarkable tranquillity seemed to wash over him.
Swinburne looked at Burton, who whispered almost soundlessly: “Self-mesmerism!”
The clock on the mantelpiece clicked softly.
Distant shouts and crashes sounded from outside.
Two minutes passed.
Herbert Spencer sniffed, cleared his throat, and began to talk. Astonishingly, he was suddenly possessed of a finely spoken, urbane, and educated voice.
“Well, gentlemen,” he said, without shifting position or opening his eyes, “let's see if I can offer you a little food for thought. To illustrate the core of my philosophy, I would ask you to imagine that you are blindfolded and don't know where you are. You stretch out your hands and walk slowly ahead until you encounter a wall. It may be a single wall blocking your way or it could be the side of a room. You don't know. Your only certainty is that the wall is there. So what do you do? I haven't a notion. What I do know is this: whatever your next action, it will be done in relation to the fact that you ran into that wall. Maybe you'll climb over it. Maybe you'll try to knock it down. Maybe you'll build a house adjacent to it.”
Burton and Swinburne glanced at each other, amazed at their friend's eloquence and perfect intonation; wondering where his words were leading.
“The question now is this: if you weren't the only blindfolded person to have bumped into the wall-let's say, for argument's sake, that twenty others have done so, too-which of you is best able to make the most of your situation? I'm not referring to the strongest or most intelligent or most resourceful; what I mean to ask is, which of you happens to be in possession of the abilities and attitude that can best adapt to the circumstance of encountering a wall? Am I making sense?”
