“Over there, gents,” said Abberline. A dozen pairs of eyes locked on the frightful creature Burton had seen. It ducked back into the fracture and was gone. “Go get it!”
In the lantern light Burton saw several more of the small creatures in shadow, loping away. Something about the way they moved gave him an idea.
“They’re afraid of the light!” he called. “We need more lights down here.”
Gunshots rang out as a group of Abberline’s policemen engaged with what must be the Morlocks, while another set dealt with their newly freed prisoners.
“Get them out of here!” Abberline barked, drawing his gun. “Get them to the surface.”
The people were effusive in their thanks. Abberline nodded to them as they passed. Burton wished they could do something more, but he wondered how quickly they would be back down here, simply because they had nowhere else to go.
Another gunshot echoed in the distance. Burton wondered if any of the bullets found their targets, or if the Morlocks, if that is what they were, would just vanish like so much smoke. He vowed to have a long talk with Herbert when this was done.
“They’re gone, sir!” one of the coppers called, running back toward them up the tunnel.
Burton flashed the lantern around. Beyond the cages, on the other side of the swirling tributary, there were other things. Brass glinted in the lantern light, and the steady green glow of the phosphorescent lichen picked out pieces of queer machinery. “How do we get over there?”
“What?” said Abberline.
“We need to get across.” Burton pointed at the collection of machinery.
Abberline glanced around. “There.” He pointed to a wide wooden plank spread across a narrow span of the underground river. Burton ran toward it, testing it with his right foot before putting his full weight upon it. He then bounded across it, followed closely by Abberline. The policeman stood holding a lantern high while Burton inspected the equipment.
“What is all this? Do you think those—those monsters built this?”
Burton’s eyes caught on a framework of brass with two levers at the front and a hammered copper dish at the back. It was crude and looked as if it had been cobbled together from other, much older machinery, but the design was unmistakable.
“Frederick, what does this look like to you?”
The detective moved closer, shining his lantern down full upon the contraption. “Why, if I didn’t know any better, I would say it’s a bloody Time Machine.”
“I was afraid of that.”
The two men looked at each other, their faces heavy with the implications of what they had found.
“We must destroy this,” said Burton. “Dismantle it.”
“Are you sure?”
“Until we know exactly what we are dealing with, yes.”
Abberline waved over three of his men and instructed them to dismantle the strange device. They went at the task with gusto, making short work of it with pry-bars and truncheons. Burton thought he heard something overhead. Expecting another Morlock, he looked up and saw a black-cloaked human figure staring down at them.
“Up there!” Burton shouted.
Every head lifted up. The black-garbed figure barked laughter and retreated into the shadows.
“Bloody hell!” said Abberline. “Who was that?”
Burton’s eyes narrowed to slits. “I don’t know. But I intend to find out.”
3. Swinburne in Bedlam
The hansom carried Burton and Abberline through the gates of Bedlam and up to the high stone steps. “Are you sure you want to do this?” asked Abberline. “We had a long night.”
The explorer looked at the policeman, a grim expression souring his already hard countenance. “I must, Frederick.” He had returned home with the dawn to a letter brought earlier the previous evening by messenger from a Dr. Seward at Brightmoor Asylum. It said that his friend, the poet Algernon Charles Swinburne, a recent inmate of the dismal place, wanted to see him at once.
Abberline nodded, and the two got out. Burton paid the fare and the two men started up the steps to the tall oaken doors. Abberline stared up at the imposing edifice and shivered. “I’ve never liked this place,” he muttered, as if he feared the building would hear him and take offense. Burton simply nodded and hauled open one of the oaken double doors. As he did so they heard a muffled wailing coming from somewhere inside, the cry of some tortured soul. Burton wrinkled his nose as they entered. The smell of antiseptic masking vomit and urine assaulted his nostrils. They moved to the front desk and rang the bell.
The biggest woman Burton had ever seen looked up at him impatiently. “Yes?”
“I’m here to see a patient of yours,” said Burton. “Algernon Charles Swinburne.”
“Sign your name here,” she said, pointing to a ledger. Burton dipped a nib pen in ink and scrawled his name. The woman spun the ledger around and read it. “Oh, Captain Burton. Dr. Seward has been expecting you.”
“Will you take me to him, please?”
“Follow me.” The woman stepped through an adjoining door into the hallway and Burton and Abberline followed. They came to a row of doors and the woman knocked on one of them. They heard a muffled, “Come in,” and she opened the door.
“Dr. Seward,” she said. “Captain Burton is here to see Mr. Swinburne.”
Burton heard the creak of a wooden chair and a man popped his head out the door, smiling at Burton.
“Hello,” he said, stepping into the corridor. “I am Dr. John Seward.” He extended his hand, and Burton took it, giving the man a brisk shake. “Who is your associate?”
“Detective Inspector Frederick Abberline,” said the policeman, shaking hands with Seward as well.
“Splendid. Well, I know you want to see about your friend right away. His has been a most interesting case. When he began asking for you, I knew I must get word to you immediately.”
“I’m glad you did,” said Burton. “Are you sure my presence won’t hinder his healing?”
“On the contrary,” said Seward. “I believe seeing you may bring him back to himself. If you will follow me.”
Taking a ring of ponderous keys from the nurse, Seward led Burton and Abberline through a veritable maze. The urine-and-vomit smell was stronger, and behind heavy doors they heard more sounds of human torment. Stopping in front of one of the doors, Seward inserted one of the heavy keys and unlocked it. “His is a most unusual case. Mr. Swinburne is quite a brilliant poet. I’ve been familiarizing myself with is work.”
Burton and Abberline followed Seward into a padded cell. Swinburne huddled in the far corner of that room, tied in a straitjacket, drooling.
“Is this how you treat all of your patients?” said Burton, scowling.
“My apologies, Captain Burton. Mr. Swinburne tends to get overwrought at times. He’s been, uh, finding ways to hurt himself. For instance, goading the orderlies into thrashing him. He seems to, ah, enjoy it.”
Burton nodded. “Yes. Algy’s body interprets pain as pleasure.”
“Ah,” said Seward. “So he was like this… um before? Well, it’s very interesting. But what I’m most interested in is his state of mind. He has shared with me some most outrageous things. Things I’ve never heard before from any of my other patients. His psychosis is very peculiar.”
“Swinburne is a peculiar fellow,” Abberline offered. Burton silenced him with a stare. You’d be in a similar state if your mind had been imprisoned for weeks inside an alien body in the remote past, Burton wanted to say to the policeman. But he had been forbidden by Mycroft Holmes from discussing the exact particulars of what happened to the poet, and at any rate, had he told anyone the truth he’d likely be tied in a straitjacket right next to Swinburne. “I assume that is what you wanted to see me about?”