“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 music room, where Florence Nightingale surprised Burton by demonstrating an unexpected proficiency on the piano as she accompanied Sister Raghavendra, whose singing voice proved equally impressive. They entertained the gathering until close on midnight, at which point everyone fell silent and listened to the chimes of the grandfather clock. As the final note clanged, they hooked their arms, Nightingale started playing, and the Sister sang:
“Should old acquaintance be forgot,
and never brought to mind?
Should old acquaintance be forgot,
and old lang syne?”
The guests happily launched into the chorus:
“For auld lang syne, my dear,
for auld lang syne,
we'll take a cup of kindness yet,
for auld lang syne!”
“And surely you'll buy your pint cup,” the young singer trilled. “And surely I'll buy mine—”
“Oh God!” someone yelled.
“And we'll take a cup o' kindness yet, for auld lang syne.”
“Oh, sweet Jesus!” came the agonised voice.
Burton peered around the room as the crowd launched into the chorus again.
“For auld lang syne, my dear,
for auld lang syne,
we'll take a cup of—”
The song tailed off and the music stopped as someone screamed: “Please, Mary mother of God, save me!”
The explorer unhooked his arms from his neighbours, pushed people aside, and hurried toward a commotion near the fireplace. Men were kneeling beside a prone figure. It was Bendyshe. His skull mask had been removed and his face was contorted into a ghastly expression, eyes wide and glassy, mouth stretched into a hideous rictus grin. His whole body was convulsing with such ferocity that it required four men to hold him down. He writhed and jerked, his backbone arching, his heels drumming on the floor.
Detective Inspector Honesty—a slight, wiry man with a flamboyantly wide moustache that curled upward at the ends, who normally sported lacquered-flat hair, parted in the middle, and displayed a fussy dress sense, but who was currently outfitted as one of the Three Musketeers—appeared at Burton's side and muttered, “Fit. Overdoing it. Excessive indulgence.”
“No,” Burton said. “This is something else.” He pushed forward until he reached Monckton Milnes's side and hissed, “Get the crowd out of here.”
The host of the party looked at him and said, “Gad, what am I thinking? Of course.”
Monckton Milnes turned and, in a loud voice, announced: “Ladies and gentlemen, unfortunately one of our fellows has been taken ill. Would you mind moving into the other rooms, please? We should give the poor chap space to breathe.”
With utterances of sympathy, people started to wander away.
A hand gripped Burton by the elbow. It belonged to Doctor James Hunt.
“Come here,” he whispered, and dragged the king's agent over to the window, away from everyone else.
“What is it, Jim? Is Bendyshe going to be all right?”
“No. Quite the opposite.” Hunt caught his lower lip between his teeth. There was a sheen of sweat on his brow. “I'd recognise the symptoms anywhere,” he hissed. “Bloody strychnine. The poor devil's been poisoned!”
Burton momentarily fought for balance as his knees buckled. “What?”
“Poisoned. Purposely. A man doesn't get strychnine in his system by accident.”
“Can you save him?”
“Not a chance. He'll be dead within the hour.”
“No! Please, Jim, work with Nurse Nightingale and Sister Raghavendra. Do whatever you can for him.”
Hunt gave Burton's arm a squeeze and returned to the dying man. The king's agent saw Trounce standing by the doorway and moved over to him.
“Get out of that ridiculous costume. There's trouble.”
“What's happened?”
“Murder, Trounce. Someone has poisoned Tom Bendyshe.”
“Great heavens! I—um—I'll round up the troops at once. Damn this bloody padding! Help me out of it, would you?”
Some minutes later, Trounce, Sir Richard Mayne, and Detective Inspector Honesty ushered the guests and staff upstairs, while Commander Krishnamurthy and Constable Bhatti guarded Fryston's front and back doors to ensure no one slipped out.
Bendyshe was now frothing at the mouth and thrashing even more wildly.
Charles Bradlaugh, sitting on his friend's legs and being bucked about as they spasmed beneath him, looked at Burton as the explorer squatted beside the dying man. “I can't believe it,” he croaked, his eyes filling with tears. “Hunt says it's poison. Who would do this to poor Tom? He never hurt a soul!”
“I don't know, Charles. What was he up to before he was taken ill?”
“Singing along with the rest of us. He was rather sloshed—he's been stealing Algy's drinks all night.”
Burton turned to James Hunt. “Could strychnine have been in one of the glasses?”
“Yes.” The doctor nodded. “It's an incredibly bitter poison but if he was blotto enough he might have swallowed it without noticing the taste.”
“He was half-cut, to be sure,” Bradlaugh put in.
Burton reached past Nurse Nightingale, who was mopping Bendyshe's brow, and placed a hand on the man's chest. He could feel the muscles jumping beneath his palm.
“Tom,” he whispered.
He cleared his throat, stood, and gestured for Hunt to follow him. The two men left the music room and went into the smoking room, crossing to the table near the bay window.
“The poison was probably in one of these glasses,” Burton said, indicating the various empty vessels.