“I was sent here to fetch you regarding this strange sleeping ailment that has befallen several prominent men throughout the city,” said Abberline. “Neither Mr. Holmes nor I were aware your poet friend was also affected. When did he take ill?”
“Midnight,” said Burton. “I heard there were others, but what does our mutual taskmaster think I can do about it? I’m no bloody physician.”
“Well,” said Abberline, worrying his poor bowler even further, turning it about in his hands. “It has to do with, um, our uh…” He looked self-consciously at Bradlaugh, who was in the process of rousing Monckton Milnes.
“Go home, Charles, if you please,” said Burton. “Take Richard with you.”
“Very well, Dick,” said Bradlaugh. “You can keep your secrets. We were just leaving.” He got Monckton Milnes awake enough to take instruction, and the two of them stumbled out the door of Burton’s study and disappeared down the stairs.
“Shadow Council,” Abberline finished when they were gone, his voice a stage whisper. “Mr. Holmes thinks that this strange sleeping sickness points to something sinister afoot. Something not of this earth.”
“I still don’t see how that qualifies me,” said Burton. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a sick friend to take care of.”
Burton pushed past Abberline and went to the next room, where Swinburne still lay in bed, as unconscious as he had been when Monckton Milnes and Bradlaugh had dragged him to Burton’s doorstep earlier that morning. For all anyone could tell, the poet was in a deep, peaceful sleep. Burton touched the poet’s hand. It was warm to the touch, but not feverish.
“I’m sorry for your friend,” said Abberline, following him into the room.
Burton nodded. “How many people are affected?”
“There are six of them so far counting Mr. Swinburne,” said Abberline. “The first was stricken yesterday morning.”
“The barrister near Trafalgar Square,” said Burton.
“Yes. One Nigel Goforth. How did you know?”
“I have my sources too. Who else?”
Abberline pulled a well-worn notebook from his pocket and flipped through its pages. “There’s a bookbinder by the name of Nathanial Peacock, a bank clerk called Mortimer Greensmith, William Nash, a clerk from Kensington, and an actor called Oliver Whiteside.”
“Nothing connecting them?”
“Not that we can surmise. They are scattered all over the city, and so far as we can tell have never met nor been in contact with one another. Nor would they have any occasion to do so.”
Burton turned toward Abberline. “That is indeed strange. But I see nothing of the occult at work here. Tell Holmes to find someone else. I’m busy seeing to my friend.”
Abberline stared at him for a long moment, a look of befuddlement on his face. “Very well, Captain. Good day to you, sir. I hope Mr. Swinburne recovers soon.”
Burton turned once more toward his friend. “So do I,” he murmured as Abberline let himself out.
3. The Awakened
Burton sat by Swinburne’s bedside all morning. He talked to Swinburne, and when young Thomas fetched the morning paper from the vendor around the corner, read to him, pausing to comment on certain topics in which he and the young poet shared a mutual interest. Burton could almost imagine the youth uttering squeals of delight at some bit of literary news, or expressing colorful disdain over some draconian measure being considered by Parliament. But there was no response from the poet. He lay there peacefully, as one dead.
Burton feared for his friend, for he knew that Swinburne couldn’t last long in this state. Without nourishment, his body would slowly but inexorably wither away. Miss Angell came in every few minutes to dab his lips with a sopping wet cloth and dote over him. She begged Burton to eat, but he refused.
At midmorning, Dr. James Hunt came around again. “I’ve got some good news,” he said as he checked Swinburne’s temperature and blood pressure. “The barrister awoke this morning.”
“Splendid.”
“Yes. I just came from there. Sat bolt upright, stared at his wife of thirty-two years, and began to utter a bizarre string of gibberish.”
“Is he all right?” asked Burton.
James Hunt shrugged. “He seems to be now. From her story, I was convinced he’d had a stroke, but he’s alert and eating, though he still seems befuddled, as if he doesn’t know who he is or where he is. But I think his memory will come back in time.”
Burton scowled. “And this is good news?”
“Yes, of a sort. It means that perhaps this sleeping sickness won’t last very long. I also heard through the grapevine that two of the other men have also recovered, all showing similar behavior.”
Burton uttered a sigh of relief. “Roughly twenty-four hours since they fell ill. So Algy should recover by sometime tonight.”
James Hunt shrugged again, packing up his medical bag where it rested at the foot of the bed. “Makes as much sense as anything else regarding this malady. I’ve never seen anything like it, Richard. No one has. It has the medical community thoroughly flummoxed.”
Burton nodded grimly. “My contact in the government seems to think this sickness has broad, sinister implications for the Empire.”
The good doctor laughed. “I wouldn’t go that far. But I’d watch Algy’s behavior closely once he does regain consciousness. I’ll be round again this afternoon to check on him.”
He paused in the doorway. “Algy isn’t my only patient.”
“I know,” said Burton. “I appreciate your help and your discretion.”
“That’s not what I mean,” said Hunt. “I was talking about you. Get something to eat. Get some rest. I have a feeling you’re going to need it. This thing, whatever it is, isn’t over yet.”
With that he stepped through the portal and was gone.
Bradlaugh and Monckton Milnes arrived at noon, the former carrying a bundle of afternoon newspapers he plopped unceremoniously onto the sideboard, almost knocking over a bottle of Saltzman’s Tincture.
“What the bloody devil?” said Burton.
“The whole city is talking about it,” said Milnes. “About them.” He pointed at Swinburne, lying in peaceful repose like a ginger cherub.
“What are you talking about?”
“They’re calling them the Awakened,” said Bradlaugh. “It seems they’ve all recovered, roughly twenty-four hours from when they first fell ill.”
“But they’re talking gibberish,” added Milnes.
“Yes, I heard as much from James Hunt this morning,” said Burton.
“What the bloody hell do you think is going on?” said Bradlaugh.
“I don’t know. We’ll have to see how Algy behaves once he awakens. At least now we have some glimmer of hope that he will.”
Miss Angell came up and shooed everyone out while she worried over Swinburne. Burton, Bradlaugh and Monckton Milnes took the papers into Burton’s study and pored over them, scouring every detail they could glean about these so-called Awakened.
The most information came from the barrister, Harrison Goforth, who had been the first to fall ill and hence the first to recover. He was still at home, recuperating, surrounded by family and friends and exhibiting some odd behavior the article did not touch on in any detail. The other cases were similar. Several of the articles detailed the backgrounds of these singular men, but Burton saw no connection whatsoever between them and Swinburne, and couldn’t imagine that Algy had ever met these men or interacted with anyone they knew. The only link any of these men had with one another was the strange ailment that befell them.
Burton ate a plate of cold cuts and smoked a cheroot, then wrote a letter to Isabel, who was visiting with her family in the country. Milnes and Bradlaugh had slunk out at some point, so Burton busied himself with working on his translation of A Thousand Nights and a Night, but couldn’t focus on it. He kept thinking about Swinburne. Nervous energy filled him and he couldn’t rest. He didn’t want to miss the poet’s awakening from this unusual ailment.