means to use the Eyes to wage a clandestine war on Prussia through clairvoyance, prophecy, and mediumistic assassinations. He intends that Bismarck will never unite the Germanic states. Do you see now why I'm wishing this expedition had never been commissioned?”
He received a weak nod of understanding. “Yes,” came the whispered response. “You can't possibly allow Palmerston that kind of power. By God, he could manipulate the whole world!”
“Just as Darwin and Galton and their cronies would have done.”
Monckton Milnes gazed at his friend a moment. “By James, I wouldn't be in your shoes for anything, Richard. What are you going to do?”
Burton shrugged. “I have to retrieve the stone if only to prevent it from falling into Prussian hands. I feel certain that my erstwhile partner is going after it, with Bismarck's sponsorship. As to what I'll do with it once I have it-I don't know. There's a further complication: it was the African Eye that Rasputin employed in 1914 to probe into the past. So I already know I'm fated to find it, and, after I do, it will somehow, eventually, be transported to Russia.”
They sat in silence for a few minutes, then Burton muttered, “I feel like a bloody pawn in a game of chess.”
Monckton Milnes roused himself from the reverie he'd fallen into. “I have every faith in you, Richard,” he said. “Go to Africa. Do whatever you must. You'll find an answer, of that I'm certain.”
Burton sighed and gave a slight jerk of his head. He became conscious of the buzz of conversation and merriment that filled Fryston. He looked down at himself, then at his friend, and suddenly chuckled. “Bismillah! King Shahryar of
Monckton Milnes smiled. “Go back to the party. Relax. Enjoy yourself. I'll join you in a few minutes. I want to sit here a little longer.”
Burton rose and crossed to the door. He looked back and said, “If Palmerston learns that we had this conversation, I'll be thrown into the Tower.”
“Bedlam, more like,” Monckton Milnes murmured.
“No. The government keeps secret rooms, including prison cells, beneath the Tower of London.”
His friend held up his hands as if to ward off the king's agent. “Have mercy! No more, I beg of you!” he cried. “My capacity for revelations is all used up!”
Burton unlocked the door and left the room. He made his way back across the entrance hall, through the parlour, and into the smoking room.
“I say, Captain,” Humpty Dumpty called as he entered. “Where's that wonderful housekeeper of yours?”
Burton turned to the rotund fairy-tale figure. “Is that you in there, Trounce?”
“Yes, and I feel an absolute ass, but it was Mrs. Trounce's idea and I thought it wise not to kick up a fuss, seeing as I'm abandoning her for the next few months. It's blasted awkward, I can tell you. I'm having dashed difficulty in steering food and wine lipwards, so to speak.”
“I shouldn't complain. It looks like you could stand to lose a pound or two.”
“That's quite enough of that, if you don't mind! You know full well that my current circumference is all padding!”
“If you say so. Who has the esteemed Mrs. Trounce come as?”
“Old Mother Hubbard, which, admittedly, didn't require much by way of dressing up. She's eager for a gossip with Mrs. Angell but what with all these fancy getups she can't locate the dear lady. So where is she and who, or what, has she come as?”
“She's a rather too matronly Queen Boadicea, and is off doing your wife's job, I think.”
“What do you mean?”
“She's gone to give a dog a bone.”
“Eh?”
“She's down in the kitchen procuring a morsel for Fidget, though I suspect she's actually seeking refuge from all these lords and ladies. She feels a little out of place, but I insisted upon her attendance. She deserves a taste of the high life after all I've put her through recently.”
“You brought your confounded basset hound as well?”
“She made him a part of her costume-harnessed him to a toy war chariot and had him trotting along beside her. He was most indignant about it.”
A loud high-pitched howl rose above the general hubbub.
“Would you excuse me?” Burton said. “It sounds like Algy needs to be reined in.”
He moved back toward the bay window. As he reached the group gathered there, a waiter pushed a glass of port into his hand. Absently, Burton placed it on the table, his attention on Swinburne, who was hopping up and down, waving his arms like a madman.
“I'm not in the slightest bit tipsy!” the poet was protesting vociferously. “What an utter disaster! I've become immune to alcohol!”
“Through overfamiliarity, perhaps?” Cornewall Lewis offered.
“Nonsense! We meet frequently, I'll admit, but we're naught but nodding acquaintances!”
Doctor James Hunt, a Cannibal Club member, joined the group just in time to hear this. He roared with laughter and declared: “Hah! I rather think there's a great deal more intimacy than that, Algy! You and alcohol are practically wedded!”
“Tosh and piffle!” Swinburne objected. “Claptrap, balderdash, cobblers, and bunkum!”
Someone spoke quietly at Burton's side: “I should have you arrested.”
The explorer turned and found himself facing Sir Richard Mayne, the lean-faced chief commissioner of Scotland Yard.
“Something to do with me whisking four of your men off to Africa?” he asked, with a raised eyebrow.
“Yes,” Mayne answered, glancing disapprovingly at Swinburne's histrionics. “Trounce and Honesty are among my best detectives, Krishnamurthy commands my Flying Squad, and Constable Bhatti is in line for promotion. I can hardly afford to have them all gallivanting around the Dark Continent for a year. I can only conclude that you're in league with London's criminal underclasses. Am I right, Sir Richard? Are you getting my men out of the way prior to some villainous coup? Perhaps plotting to have them consumed by lions and tigers so you can break into the Tower of London and steal the Crown jewels?”
Burton smiled. “Funny, I was just talking about the Tower. But no, and there are no tigers in Africa, sir. Did Lord Palmerston explain the situation?”
“He delivered to me some vague waffle about it being a matter of national security.”
“It is.”
“And he ordered me in no uncertain terms to provide you with whatever you want. I shall do so, of course.”
“Thank you. I ask only that the men receive extended leave and that their families are looked after.”
“Have no worries on that account.” The commissioner took a sip of his wine. He sighed. “Keep them safe, won't you?”
“I'll do my best.”
They shook hands. Mayne wandered away. Burton reached for his drink and was surprised to find that his glass had mysteriously emptied itself. He pursed his lips and looked at his assistant, who was still stamping his feet and protesting his sobriety. He concluded that Swinburne was either in the midst of one of his infamous drinking sprees or he was the victim of mischief. Then he noticed the Grim Reaper hovering behind the little poet and, though he quickly recognised Thomas Bendyshe-which explained everything, for the anthropologist and atheist was Swinburne's most dedicated tormenter-he nevertheless felt a momentary chill needling at his spine.
“Richard!” Swinburne screeched. “You've seen me in my cups more than most. Do I seem inebriated to you?”
“Of all people, Algy, you are the one in whom it's hardest to tell the difference,” Burton answered.
The poet gave a shriek of despair. He yelled for a waiter.
Time passed, the party continued, and the king's agent moved from group to group, chatting with some, debating with others, joking with a few.
At a quarter-past eleven, Monckton Milnes reappeared, with makeup restored, and herded his guests into the
