and summarily executed, without so much as a by-your-leave, for the express purpose of supplying a ready-made shell. And the Technologists have the temerity to name this vehicle the Folks’ Wagon! It is not a wagon! It's a beetle! It's a living creature, which mankind is mercilessly exploiting for its own ends. It's sacrilege!”
“Interesting that you should rail against the exploitation of insects by scientists when, it seems, the greater percentage of London's population is currently up in arms over the exploitation of the working classes by the aristocracy,” Burton declared. “Are labourers no better than insects, in your view?”
“Richard!” Milnes cried, turning to face the newcomers. “How good to see you! How long have you been standing there, and-by George!-why is that bestial face of yours covered in blood? Don't tell me you've been in yet another scrap? Are you drunk? Hallo, Swinburne!”
“We're perfectly sober.”
“I'm a little hungover, actually,” the poet added.
“You poor things! Hunt, old horse, supply these good fellows with a tipple at once. Large ones! It's a medical emergency! Murray, fetch a basin of water, there's a good chap.”
Burton and Swinburne collapsed into big leather armchairs and gratefully accepted the proffered drinks.
“What happened?” Bendyshe asked. “Did you get caught up in the public disorder like Brabrooke?”
“Brabrooke? What happened to him?”
“He was hit over the head with a spade. A crossing cleaner attacked him out of the blue, for no good reason.”
“He's all right,” said Bradlaugh. “He has a mild concussion and a nasty laceration but he'll be on his feet again in a couple of days.”
“Poor old Brabrooke!” Swinburne exclaimed.
“So you were in the thick of it too, hey?” Milnes asked.
“Somewhat,” Burton answered. “We were at Speakers’ Corner when the fracas began.”
“Ah ha!” Bendyshe shouted gleefully. “So you started it, hey? Was young Swinburne giving a public performance? Is that what set them off?”
“The performance wasn't from Algernon. It was from the Tichborne Claimant.”
“Gad!” Milnes exclaimed. “That character is certainly stirring up a hornets’ nest.”
“He is. We managed to extricate ourselves, but then, on the way here, we were set upon by a prostitute.”
The men burst out laughing.
“Ha ha!” Bendyshe yelled triumphantly. “Surely beastly Burton hasn't been trounced by a terrible trollop?”
“I can assure you that it was no laughing matter. And less of the ‘beastly,’ if you don't mind.”
“She was half crazed,” Swinburne said. “And she was lashing at us with whips!” He grinned and shuddered with pleasure.
“But what on earth did you do to set her off, dear boy?” Milnes asked.
“Took his shilling's worth and the shilling as well, I'll wager!” Bendyshe guffawed.
“Not a bit of it,” Burton grumbled. “We were on our way here and got caught up in it through no fault of our own.”
“The unwashed masses have gone mad,” opined Murray, who'd just reentered the room with a basin of warm water in his hands and white towels draped over his forearms. “It's this Tichborne character.”
“Yes, Milnes was just saying,” Bradlaugh offered.
“The Claimant's become some sort of figurehead,” Murray continued. “To the lower classes, he represents everything that's bad in an aristocrat and everything that's good in a working man, all wrapped up in one extremely bulbous bundle. It's patently absurd. Here, wipe the blood off yourselves. You look perfectly horrific.”
“It occurs to me,” said Burton, “that a symbol cannot gain such potency unless there's a real desire for it. Another port, if you please, Henry. I appear to have swallowed mine in a single gulp.”
He picked up a towel, dipped a corner into the water, and began to rub it over his face. He looked up at Richard Monckton Milnes. “As a matter of fact, the Tichborne situation is what we've come to talk to you about. The Claimant seems to have acquired a bodyguard of Rakes. Do you have any idea why?”
“Has he, indeed? That seems rather peculiar!”
“That's what we thought. What are the Rakes up to these days? Who's their new leader?”
“I'm afraid I can't cast much light on the matter. The veil of secrecy surrounding the faction has never been more impenetrable. The new leader is a Russian, I believe, and arrived in this country early in February. Who he is, where he's staying-those are questions I can't answer.”
“He?” said Burton. “Or she?”
“Hmm. I couldn't say. A woman, though? Doesn't that seem rather unlikely? What I can tell you is this: since he-or she-took over, the Rakes have been holding seances around the clock.”
“Well now, that's interesting! Are they trying to communicate with someone who's died? Laurence Oliphant or Henry Beresford, perhaps?”
“I don't know, Richard, but if they are speaking to the departed, then I doubt that it's their former leaders they're conversing with.”
“Why so?”
“Simply because the Rakes who were closest to Oliphant and the Mad Marquess have been rather on the out and out these months past. The new regime has been assiduous in sidelining the old.”
“So who's close to the new leader? Can you name names?”
Milnes looked thoughtful for a moment but then shrugged and said: “I'd help if I could, but I simply don't know any of the new crowd.”
Swinburne piped up: “What about a chap named Boyle or Foyle? A tall, stooped fellow with a big beard and wire-rimmed spectacles.”
Milnes shook his head. “Doesn't ring any bells.”
“Do you mean Doyle?” Bradlaugh asked.
“I don't know. Do I?”
“He fits the description and he's a Rake, of that I'm sure. He was at a party at my place a few months back. You were there, too. A little before Christmas. You were in your cups at the time. So was I, come to think of it.”
Swinburne threw up his hands. “I was at a party at your place?”
Bradlaugh chuckled. “Your absence of memory is no surprise. You'd been at it long before you even arrived. My footman opened your carriage's door and you plopped out face-first onto the street, while your topper rolled away into the gutter. If it's any consolation, Doyle is a much worse drunkard than you ever were.”
Bendyshe snorted. “I don't know about that! There was that time when-” He stopped as Burton's hand clamped his arm tightly.
“Sorry, Tom, but this could be important. Bradlaugh, this Doyle fellow-who is he?”
“A storybook artist. From Edinburgh. Charles Altamont Doyle. He's the brother of my friend Richard Doyle, who's also an artist-you've probably seen his work, he's quite successful. Charles, on the other hand-at least from what I know of him-is simply too unworldly to make much of himself. He's an awfully morbid sort-prone to black moods and fits of despair. I think that's what drives him to drink. It's a tragedy, really. He has a young wife and God knows how many children to support, but what little he earns is spent on the demon booze. He has a taste for burgundy and will sink to any depths to get it, and if he can't, he'll resort to anything else he can lay his hands on. Rumour has it that on one particularly desperate occasion he drank a bottle of furniture polish.”
“Good lord!” James Hunt exclaimed. “The man should be in an asylum!”
“I have no doubt that he will be soon,” Bradlaugh responded. “At the aforementioned party, he certainly appeared to be teetering on the brink of insanity. He has a pet obsession, a delusion, which seems to haunt his every waking hour. He ranted about it interminably that night; didn't stop until he passed out.”
“What is it?” Swinburne asked.
“He's convinced that fairies exist and are communicating with him from the unseen world.”
Sir Richard Francis Burton felt goosebumps rise on his forearms.
Bismillah! Fairies again!
“You mean he hears voices in his head?” said Swinburne.
