rolled over, turned, and looked up. Blood was streaming down his face from a wound in his forehead. He jerked a hand toward the policeman. Blue flame grew around his fingers.
“None of that!” the Flying Squad man groaned, and whacked his truncheon down onto the hand.
Kenealy screamed as his finger bones crunched.
Krishnamurthy slumped forward and passed out.
“What's the meaning of this!” demanded a voice from the doorway. It was Mrs. Picklethorpe, resplendent in her nightgown and hair curlers. A pan, launched by Bogle, hit her square between the eyes. She toppled back against the corridor wall and slid to the floor.
Swinburne flung a full bottle of wine at Bogle and whooped with satisfaction as it bounced off the Jamaican's head and exploded against a cupboard behind him. The butler swayed and buckled, dropping onto Kenealy.
The lawyer pushed his uninjured hand out in Swinburne's direction.
“I'll kill you!” he snarled.
Spencer bounded across the room and sent a thick hardbound cookery book thudding down onto Kenealy's head, knocking him cold. The heavy volume fell open at the title page: Miss Mayson's Book of Household Management.
“Well, I'll be blowed!” Herbert muttered. He bent and retrieved the volume then sent it slapping into the side of Waite's head. The Rake collapsed, out for the count.
Jankyn sat up and moaned. He held both his hands flat against his left side. Blood leaked between his fingers.
“Bastards!” he said huskily.
“You're hardly in a position to insult us,” Swinburne observed. “I assume Guilfoyle shot you?”
Spencer knelt and helped the recovering Krishnamurthy to his feet.
“Yes,” Jankyn groaned. “He tried to take Burton from us. Kenealy killed him but the man's shotgun went off as he died. The only working gun on the whole bloody estate, and I have to get it!”
“What was that lightning Kenealy fired from his hand?”
“Get me to a hospital. I'm bleeding to death.”
“Answer my questions and I'll consider it,” the poet answered, and Spencer had never heard the little man sound so grim.
“It's etheric energy. Kenealy has a talent for channelling it, which the mistress has enhanced.”
“The mistress? Who's she?
“She's the leader of-Ah! It hurts! I need treatment, man!”
“The leader of the Rakes? I know. And she's a Russian. But what's her name?”
“I haven't the foggiest, I swear! Enough! Enough! Look at this blood! Help me, damn it!”
“Is Burton alive?” Swinburne demanded.
“Possibly. He's in the centre of the labyrinth.”
“How many are in there, guarding him?”
“None.”
“You're lying.”
“I'm not.”
“If that's the way you want to play it, fine. Physician, heal thyself, and if you bleed to death, I'll not mind one little bit, you damned blackguard.”
“All right! All right! There's just one man, I swear. His name is Smithers. He and Waite took Burton from a seance to Paddington Station. They were-” he groaned and whimpered, then continued in a whisper “-they were joined by Kenealy there and all rode a train to Winchester. Bogle met them at the station with a carriage, but just outside Alresford the steam-horse broke down. They had to continue on foot, dragging Burton between them. As they crossed the grounds, Guilfoyle interfered and paid the price. Please, get me to the doctor now. I don't want to die.”
Krishnamurthy, who was being supported by Herbert Spencer, swore vociferously. “Neither did Sam Hoare, but he's lying there dead, you swine!”
Jankyn fell onto his side on the table and said faintly: “It wasn't me. Kenealy killed him.”
“Gentlemen,” Krishnamurthy said hoarsely, “if you'd be so kind as to help me bind and gag these three rogues-“he indicated the unconscious Kenealy, Bogle, and Waite”-I'll then remain here and see what I can do for the cook. Maybe, if the mood takes me, I'll attend to Jankyn, too. On the other hand, I might just let him die like the diseased dog he is.”
“Will you be all right? You look done in,” Swinburne said.
The commander was, indeed, in a bad way. There was blood oozing from his eyes, nose, and ears, and he was trembling uncontrollably.
“I'm afraid I'm not much up to running through tunnels at present but I'll be fine. I'll rest here once these bounders are secured, then I'll rustle up the local constabulary to sort this mess out while you get your man back to London.”
It took a few minutes to tie the men's hands and feet, after which Swinburne and the vagrant philosopher entered the pantry containing the door to the labyrinth. Fidget looked into the kitchen, saw that the violence had ended, and scampered after them.
They stepped into the tunnel and took off along it, passing under the house, beneath the carriageway, and toward the Crawls. The passages were well lit and nothing occurred to hamper their progress through the folding- back-on-itself spiral until they were close to the central chamber, when Swinburne, who was barrelling along as fast as his short legs would allow, skidded around one of the turns and ran slap bang into the Rake, Smithers, who'd been walking in the other direction. The two men went down in a tangle and started to punch, kick, and wrestle frantically until Spencer caught up with them. The philosopher calmly bent, grasped a handful of Smithers's hair, lifted the man's head, and slammed it hard against the stone floor. The Rake's arms flopped down and he lay still.
“Let's pull him along with us to the central chamber,” Swinburne panted.
They took an ankle each and dragged the prone form the last few yards until they exited the tunnel into the inner room.
“Is that you, um-um-um?” came a familiar voice.
“Algernon Swinburne. Hello, Colonel.”
“Bally good show! That is to say, I'm very pleased to see you.”
Lushington was sitting against the wall, hands bound behind his back, looking bedraggled, with his extravagant side whiskers drooping miserably.
“Burton's a goner, I fear,” he announced, nodding toward the small waterfall. “Lost his mind, the poor chap.”
The king's agent was slumped lifelessly in the water channel with his arms spread wide, wrists shackled to the wall on either side of the falling stream. Flowing out of the slot above, the hot water was descending straight down onto his head.
Swinburne let loose a shriek of rage and bounded across to his friend.
“Herbert, help me unbolt these bloody manacles!”
While he and the philosopher got to work, Lushington gave an account of himself.
“Not entirely certain how I came to be here, to be frank. These past months have been rather hazy. Bit of a nightmare, really. Was I supporting that fat fake? Rather think I was. Couldn't help myself. Every time he was anywhere near me, I was convinced he was Sir Roger. By Gad, I even spoke for the bounder in court! Didn't come to my senses, regain my wits, start to think straight, until I found myself being held captive here, wherever here is.”
“You're under the Crawls,” Swinburne revealed.
“Am I, indeed? Am I? Closer to home than I thought, then! Barely seen a soul for-how long? Days? Weeks?- apart from that scoundrel Bogle, who's been keeping me fed, and Kenealy, damn him for the rogue he is.”
“That's got it, lad,” Spencer muttered, yanking the manacles off Burton's wrists. He and Swinburne pulled the limp explorer across the floor, away from the water, and laid him down. His eyes opened and rolled aimlessly. He mumbled something. The poet bent closer.
“What was that, Richard?”
