“Yes,” said Seward. Addressing Swinburne he said, “Algy, you have visitors. Captain Burton and Inspector Abberline.”
Swinburne stared straight ahead, not looking at either of them, a glazed look in his eyes. His fiery red hair was flayed all about his head.
“Talk to him,” Seward urged. “It may do some good. For you both.” He stepped out of the way as Burton leaned toward his friend.
“Algy?”
“Richard? My hat! I need a drink.”
“I know, old friend. I’m sorry.”
At first Burton had thought his friend had suffered no ill effects from having his mind usurped by a member of the Time-traveling Great Race of Yith. But then, weeks later, he started to be tormented by strange dreams of his captivity in the deep past. Then other things began to assail him. Hallucinations. Foul moods. It got so bad that his parents had him committed.
“Bloody hell, Richard. The shoggoths.”
“The shoggoths are all gone, Algy.”
“No. Just sleeping,” said the poet. “’That which is dead can eternal lie, but with strange eons even death may die.’”
“What?” said Burton. He had heard that sinister phrase before, uttered by the deceased John Hanning Speke in his own dreams. It sounded even worse coming from Swinburne’s lips, more real and therefore more dangerous.
“Time out of joint,” said Swinburne. “Captain Richard Francis Burton has come unstuck in Time. My Aunt Petunia’s pretty lace bonnet. Unstuck. Captain bloody Richard Gloucester Place Burton.”
“He’s out of his bloomin’ tree,” Abberline mused. Burton ignored him.
“Algernon. What do you mean Time is out of joint? What do you mean I’ve come unstuck?”
“Time, Richard. It’s off kilter. Mycroft knows. Mycroft bloody Holmes well knows. Look at the Sphinx!”
“Sphinx, Algy? In Egypt?”
“The White Sphinx,” the poet corrected, shaking his head. “On the hill. The damned Morlocks. In the tunnels, Richard. Don’t go in the tunnels!”
“Remarkable,” said Seward, writing something on a notepad.
“Under London, Richard. Don’t go under London.”
“We’ve already been, Algy. Last night,” Burton whispered, conscious of Seward listening in right behind him. He lowered his voice to a whisper. “We saw the Morlocks.”
Swinburne stared wide-eyed, but said nothing.
“How long has he been this way?” Burton asked Seward.
“Since he was first brought to my attention,” said the doctor. “I specialize in extreme cases such as his, and came all the way from Carfax to study—er—treat him.”
“What seems to be the matter with him?” Abberline asked.
“I’m not sure,” said Seward. “He’s suffered some trauma which has greatly interfered with his sense of time. He talks about things that have already happened as if they haven’t yet occurred, and current affairs as if they are old news.”
“By the Fungi of Yuggoth,” the poet screeched. “My hat, Richard. The bloody Morlocks are mucking about through Time.”
“What do you mean, Algy?” said Burton leaning close and locking eyes with the poet. “What must I do?”
Swinburne returned the explorer’s gaze for the first time since Burton had entered the padded cell. “You must go all the way to the end, then stop. You must stop Mycroft bloody know-it-all Holmes from getting the map.”
“Map? What map?”
“The Map of Time.”
“What the devil is he talking about?” said Abberline.
“I wish I knew,” said Burton, standing and turning to face Seward.
“Listen,” said the poet, “Richard Francis Burton has come unstuck in Time.” He giggled, as if what he’d just uttered was the most fantastic joke, one of the bawdy tales he used to regale them with at the Cannibal Club. “Richard? Richard?”
Burton shuddered. “I’m right here, Algy. I haven’t gone anywhere.”
The poet giggled once more, his eyes wild.
“Did any of that make sense to you?” asked the doctor.
“Some,” said the explorer.
“’We are not sure of sorrow, and joy was never sure; Today will die tomorrow, Time stoops to no man’s lure,’” the poet muttered, giggling.
“That was a bit of his verse,” explained Burton. He reached into his jacket and handed Seward his card. “You will contact me if his condition changes, for good or ill?”
“Of-of course,” said Seward, taking the proffered card.
“Richard,” said Swinburne as Burton turned to leave.
“Yes, Algy?”
“’At the door of life, by the gate of breath, There are worse things waiting for men than death.’”
More of the poet’s verse. Burton nodded to his old friend. “Get some rest, Algy.”
“I must say, Captain,” said Abberline as they walked down the steps of Bedlam. “That raised far more questions than it answered.”
Burton said nothing as they exited the gate and walked slowly up the street. A mass of steel gray clouds had stacked up toward the east, giving the whole city a somber cast to match Burton’s mood. “A few things are immediately clear,” he offered as they moved away from the imposing insane asylum.
“Well, then would you kindly explain them to me?” said Abberline.
“I don’t think Algy is mad, merely affected by what happened to him two months ago, as anyone naturally would be. And I think he was trying to tell me something.”
“The shoggoths I understood,” said Abberline. “All too well. But what was that other rot about sphinxes and so forth?”
“I don’t know. Morlocks I have heard of, though, prior to our strange encounter beneath the streets last night.” Burton whistled, and a hansom clopped to stop before them. “Kew Gardens, please,” Burton told the driver as he and Abberline climbed inside.
“Yes?” said Abberline. “From whom?”
“Our mutual friend, the Time Traveler. I believe these Morlocks have something to do with his first journey through Time.”
“But what about that other stuff?” said Abberline. “Mycroft Holmes knows? I don’t like the sound of that at all. Things get downright mad when he’s involved.”
“Nor do I,” said Burton. “But I think Algy was trying to tell us something about consequences. The consequences of our actions.”
“Consequences of Time travel,” Abberline offered.
Burton nodded. “Perhaps. That’s why I must interview Herbert at once.”
They reached Kew Gardens within the hour, and Burton had the hansom’s driver take them right to Herbert’s doorstep. Paying the fare, they alighted and knocked loudly on the door. After almost a minute, Herbert’s housekeeper, Mrs. Watchett, appeared, scowling up at Burton.
“You again,” she said.
“Is your master at home?” said Burton. “I need to speak with him on an urgent matter.”
“He’s gone,” she said. “Again. Went down to his basement laboratory three days ago and, poof! Gone. Him and that queer contraption of his.”
“Did he given any indication of where he might have gone?” asked Abberline.
Ms. Watchett shrugged her hunched shoulders. “Probably to that future he’s always blabbing about. Not healthy, you ask me. Man wasn’t meant to go gallivantin’ through Time. Ain’t natural.”
Burton gave her his card. “Will you please be sure he gets this when he returns?”
She stared at the card as if it were a venomous snake before finally taking it. “Yes, sir.”
“Very good. Thank you,” said Burton. “Have a nice—”