Monckton Milnes and Bradlaugh exchanged questioning glances. “An hour or so,” said Bradlaugh.
Burton nodded. “We’ll call James Hunt. He’ll know what to do and, perhaps more importantly, he’ll keep this quiet.”
Burton got up, went to the front door, grabbed a lantern, and lit it. Taking a police whistle from a pocket of his robe, he opened the door and blew three quick, short bursts.
“For God’s sake man,” said Monckton Milnes. “You’re summoning the police?”
“Don’t be so dramatic,” answered the explorer. “I’m calling a messenger. There’s a street urchin who sleeps in the alley across the way. He does odd jobs for me from time to time.” Burton closed the door.
No sooner had he done so than there was a light knock at the portal. Burton opened it again to find a spindle-thin boy of about twelve years of age standing there expectantly and, despite the late—or rather, early—hour, wide awake. His threadbare clothes were almost one size too small, and he stood shivering in a worn topcoat and fingerless gloves.
“Ah, Master Thomas,” said Burton with a smile. “I was afraid you’d not hear my whistle.”
“I’m a light sleeper, guv,” said the boy. Burton knew little about the boy, except he answered to the name Thomas Malenfant. But he was hardworking and trustworthy, and Burton liked the bright-eyed energy of the youth.
“I have a special task for you this night,” said Burton as he handed the boy a shilling. “Go and fetch Dr. James Hunt.” He gave the boy the address. “Do it quietly. When you return with him I’ll give you another shilling.”
“Yessiree, guv!”
“Do so within the hour and I’ll give you two shillings.”
“Right-o, Cap’n Sir Richard, sir!” he said, taking the lantern from Burton, leaping down the steps, and disappearing into the fog-shrouded gloom.
Burton shut the door with a chuckle and returned to the sitting room, glancing at his friend the poet. “I’ve never seen him like this. Even when he’s three sheets to the bloody wind.”
“This isn’t the drink,” repeated Bradlaugh. “This is something else.”
The two men had already helped themselves to Burton’s supply of brandy, so Burton shrugged and joined them. There would be no more sleep for him this night, he knew. When Miss Angell brought coffee on a silver serving tray, the three Cannibals added their brandies to the steaming cups and drank deeply while the housekeeper worried and fussed over the prone Swinburne, mopping his forehead with a cool, wet cloth.
They talked nervously, careful to spare Miss Angell the gory details of how Swinburne had fallen into this sorry state. At last, there was a knock at the door.
“Ah, that’ll be Hunt.” Burton got up from his chair to answer the door.
Dr. James Hunt stood in his nightgown and coat, clutching his medical bag. The boy Thomas Malenfant stood beside him, beaming expectantly for the promised shillings. Burton ushered them inside quickly, paid the boy, and sent him with Miss Angell to the kitchen to fetch him something to eat. He also asked Miss Angell to set up his old army cot in the pantry so Thomas could sleep. He might need the boy’s services again, and he wanted him well-rested.
After delivering these instructions, Burton turned his attention to James Hunt, who was examining the unconscious poet. Charles Bradlaugh and Monckton Milnes had already recounted what the three of them had been doing when this mysterious ailment befell Swinburne. When the good doctor finished, he looked up from his patient. “Other than his unconsciousness, I can’t find a blasted thing wrong with him. But what’s more, his is not the first case I’ve seen today.”
Burton arched an eyebrow. “Oh?”
“The first instance was this morning. A barrister who lives near Trafalgar Square fell suddenly while on his way to work. His poor wife found him face first in the front garden. And I have heard through my medical contacts of at least four more, all over the city, all at different hours of the day. Swinburne is the last, I hope.”
“And are these men all right?” said Burton, a worried edge to his voice.
James Hunt shook his head. “All still unconscious, the last I heard. I just checked on my barrister patient around six o’clock, before heading home. It’s all so very strange, and has now hit closer to home than I would like.”
Monckton Milnes poured another brandy down his throat. “What can we do?”
“Nothing but wait,” said James Hunt. “Make him as comfortable as you can. I’ll be around to check on him later in the day. In the meantime, I’d best return home and get some sleep. I have a feeling I’m going to be quite busy upon sunrise.”
He took one last look at his patient before turning once more toward Burton. “And I will keep the circumstances of the onset of Swinburne’s…ailment a closely guarded secret.”
“Thank you,” said Burton. He walked with James Hunt to the door and let him out.
Miss Angell stood quivering in the door, a bundle of nervous energy ready to pounce upon the first thing that needed doing. “Young Thomas very nearly ate us out of house and home, but he’s tucked away in your cot fast asleep.”
“Excellent. Will you get the spare bed ready?”
Miss Angell nodded and disappeared upstairs.
“Let’s get him to bed,” said Burton, and the three of them carried the unconscious poet carefully up the stairs. Fortunately, the young man wasn’t heavy, and within a few minutes they had him tucked into Burton’s spare bedroom. Their task completed, they retired to Burton’s study just down the hall, where Monckton Milnes and Bradlaugh helped themselves to more brandy while Burton got a fire going, then collapsed into his favorite chair and lit a cigar. Sleep was the furthest thing from his mind. His every thought was on his young friend and the mysterious ailment that had so suddenly befallen him.
2. Burton is Summoned
Burton had a dream.
In it, he was probing inky green depths. Around him was the iron shell of the Nautilus, though configured differently than he remembered. He caught a glimpse of his reflection in a polished brass surface, and realized he was different too. His beard was wild and unkempt, almost white. He wore a dull blue Naval jacket and a black leather eye patch concealed his right eye. He reached up to pull it back, fearful of what he might find underneath.
“Richard!”
Burton awoke with a start, his head lolling painfully to the right as he sat up with a jerk. He had fallen asleep in his chair, the blackened remains of a cigar still clutched in his fingers. He tossed it into the fireplace, temporarily brightening the dwindling flames. Charles Bradlaugh leaned over him. “You have a visitor.”
Burton looked around Bradlaugh, expecting to find Dr. James Hunt standing there, medical bag in hand, ready to give an updated prognosis on Swinburne. Instead, he found Chief Inspector Frederick George Abberline, worrying his bowler hat nervously in his hands.
“I’m sorry to call so early, but you are needed.”
Burton scowled, climbing from the chair. He winced at an awful hitch in his back, and he worked to straighten it. “Whatever Mycroft Holmes wants now, it can bloody well wait.”
“You’ll change your mind when you hear what I have to say,” said the policeman. “Miss Angell told me about your friend Swinburne. I’m sorry. But I think my summons and his condition are related.”
“Is this the copper you told us about?” said Bradlaugh. He went to Abberline and introduced himself. The two men shook hands. Monckton Milnes had his head down on Burton’s writing desk, snoring soundly.
“What’s this all about?” said Burton, the vestiges of his dream thoroughly forgotten.