to a hospital.”
“No,” Burke responded hoarsely. “We need to get to Whitehall. I'll give you the address.”
“But you need your wounds seen to, man!”
“We'll get medical assistance there. Please, do as I say.”
Slaughter shrugged. “Very well, sir.”
Constable Bhatti muttered, in a low voice: “Captain, I saw Mr. Swinburne a little while ago and managed to snatch a quick word with him. He was with Herbert Spencer-and disguised as an urchin. They were on the trail of a fellow named Doyle.”
“How long ago? Any idea where they were headed?”
“Perhaps an hour, and to the Cheshire Cheese tavern on Fleet Street.”
“Good. Maybe they're still there.”
“If you're going to follow, I recommend you take the same route they did-along the Embankment and up Farringdon Street. It's a little less direct but whatever you do, don't try to pass through the Strand. There are monsters running rampant and no one who's gone in has come out again.”
“Monsters? What do you mean?”
“I don't know what they are. One has been glimpsed through the smoke. Huge, apparently. We tried to do a recce by air but our rotorchairs dropped like stones. We lost four men. Then we tried to fly swans over the area but they panicked as soon as they got near and flapped off in the other direction, taking their drivers with them. Only our runners and parakeets can get in and out, but, of course, that's not doing us much good. Now we're waiting until morning before we try to clear the area. By the way, what's wrong with Mr. Swinburne?”
“Wrong? What do you mean?”
“He seems, um-how shall I put it?-even more incomprehensible than usual.”
“Ah. Yes. My fault. I mesmerised him. I'm sure the side effects will wear off in due course.”
“Mesmerised! Why?”
“I believe this rioting is being instigated by some sort of mediumistic transmission. I was trying to shield him against it.”
“Phew!” Bhatti exclaimed. “I wish you'd stay and give my colleagues the same treatment. We've had men going off half-cocked about Roger Tichborne, men running into the Strand and not returning, men collapsing with headaches-it's been bloody mayhem!”
“And you, Constable? How are you faring?”
“I've had a throbbing skull since this chaos began but I'll survive. Is that the carriage I hear?”
“I believe so. Will Burke and Hare be taken care of?”
“Yes, Captain, Sergeant Slaughter will get them to where they need to go.”
Burton turned to Palmerston's men, both of whom were conscious now, both slumped against the side of a tollbooth.
“I'm going to leave you in Sergeant Slaughter and Constable Bhatti's capable hands, fellows.”
“Right you are, sir,” Damien Burke said. “Incidentally, we never got the chance to ask: was our mission successful?”
“It was. My thanks to you both.”
“Good luck, Captain.”
Burton gave a nod of his head, slapped Bhatti's shoulder, nodded to Slaughter, and ran off into the swirling haze. He sprinted to the end of the bridge, past constables who, having learned of his presence, allowed him through the cordon, then descended the steps to the Albert Embankment, which he followed eastward.
The foul stench of the Thames enveloped him as he ran, the exertion causing him to gulp lungfuls of the poisonous, particle-laden air. He started to cough, his eyes and nose streamed, and when he reached the end of Middle Temple Lane, he stopped, bent double, and spewed black vomit into the gutter.
His head was spinning and his chest wheezed horribly, reminding him of Isambard Kingdom Brunel's creaking bellows. He spat, trying to rid his mouth of the foul taste of ash, bile, and pollutants.
He pushed on.
Time and again he saw wraiths but only two actual men tried to accost him and both went down in an instant with cactus spines in their thighs.
He reached Farringdon and moved in a northerly direction along the thoroughfare, away from the reek of the river. There were fewer buildings ablaze here and the smoke cleared somewhat, allowing him a better view of the abandoned street.
A runner went past him, a blur of grey. He saw more of the dogs speeding back and forth. He guessed they were carrying messages between police stations; the force made extensive use of the postal system.
There were just a few people stumbling about, looking dazed and bewildered, barely conscious of their surroundings. He shot a man who lurched at him, but the others left him alone. Then it dawned on him that every tavern he'd passed appeared full, each producing the sounds of merriment and arguments, songs, shouts, and laughter. Obviously, now that the evening was drawing in, the rioters were taking shelter and refreshment, preparing to see the night through with copious amounts of alcohol. He wondered whether it would loosen the grip of whatever was influencing them, as it had with Swinburne.
He entered Fleet Street and had progressed but a few yards when he spotted Herbert Spencer standing in the shelter of a doorway.
“Boss!” the vagrant philosopher exclaimed. “I weren't expectin’ to see you!”
“Hallo, Herbert. Where's Algernon?”
“In there,” Spencer replied, pointing at an ancient tavern. The sign above the door read Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese. “He found out from Mrs. Doyle that her ne'er-do-well husband was livin’ in a flat above a public house what's called the Frog and Squirrel. He went there disguised as a street waif an’ sure enough found the man himself proppin’ up the bar. Drunk as a skunk, he was. Doyle has some sort of appointment later on, and Master Swinburne has tagged along with him as far as this here pub. I saw ’em headin’ down to the Embankment, to give the Strand a wide berth, so I followed and managed to exchange a few words with the lad on the sly. Incidentally, the Strand is where the wraiths are thickest-an’ there are crowds of Rakes wanderin’ about in it, too, but the thing is-” He stopped and shuddered.
“What is it, Herbert?”
“Them Rakes what I glimpsed-”
“Yes?”
“I think they was dead.”
Burton frowned. “How can they be wandering about if they're dead?”
“I know. It ain't possible, but that's what I saw. They're dead, but they ain't realised it yet!”
“Walking dead? By God! And what's this about huge monsters? Constable Bhatti said something of the sort had been seen.”
“Yus, but it's just one and it's the Tichborne Claimant, Boss, grown fatter than a whale! I tells you, if'n you go into the Strand, the wraiths will confuse your mind, the dead Rakes will beat you senseless, an’ the Claimant will bloomin’ well eat you!”
“Eat you?”
“Yus. He's got a taste for human flesh-an’ those what are riotin’ are followin’ his lead!”
“I saw as much. What the hell is happening, Herbert?”
“Dunno, Boss, but it ain't nuthin’ good. An’ to think back in March we thought it were just a simple diamond robbery!”
“I wonder if Algy has discovered anything useful from that Doyle fellow. Do you think I can get into the tavern without having the living daylights kicked out of me?”
“If you muss yourself up a bit more and go in your shirtsleeves, you'll pass muster, what with your face all sooty, as it is.”
Burton slipped out of his jacket and waistcoat, handed them to the vagrant, and looked ruefully at his one- armed shirt.
“I suppose this will be regarded as a qualification,” he muttered. “At least I look like I've been in a scrap!”
“Yus. An’ if you don't mind me a-sayin’ so, you have the face of a pugilist, too.”
