“Sadly so,” said Spencer. “There is a principle which is a bar against all information, which is proof against all arguments, and which cannot fail to keep a man in everlasting ignorance-that principle is contempt prior to investigation; contempt carved from the immovable rock of faith.
“Thus it is, gentlemen, that the masses are not only kept from the knowledge that would aid their ability to adapt and evolve, but they also actively reject it. Minds have become trammelled by ingrained social conditions. Working-class parents instill in their children the concept that reality offers nothing but hardship, that poverty always beckons, and that small rewards can be achieved only through strife and labour. Why should they teach differently when, under those same conditions, they themselves have survived? The child takes this as the unquestionable truth of the world. Opportunities are not recognised. The desire for change remains within the realm of dreams. Adaptability is devalued. Evolution is halted.”
Spencer's face suddenly dropped into an expression of abject misery.
“I'm runnin’ out o’ steam,” he said. “Me bloomin’ brain can't cope with it!”
His arms suddenly dropped and dangled over the sides of his chair, his head nodded forward, and he emitted a loud snore.
“Good lord!” Swinburne exclaimed.
“Asleep,” Burton noted. “What an extraordinary man!”
“I say, Richard, what do you make of all that?”
Burton reached for his cigar case. “I think this warrants a two-Manila muse, Algy. Sit quietly, would you, while I give it a ponder.”
Sitting quietly didn't come naturally to the diminutive poet but he gritted his teeth and managed to remain silent for ten minutes while Spencer snored and Burton smoked.
“Fascinating!” Burton said, speaking at last.
Herbert Spencer snorted and looked up. “Hallo, Boss! Did I take forty winks?”
“You did, Herbert. Does that always happen after you philosophise?”
“Yus. It exhausts me bloomin’ brain. How did I do? I hope I didn't humiliate meself.”
“Humiliate?” Swinburne cried. “Good lord, no, Herbert! You did splendidly! You are absolutely remarkable!”
Burton blew out a plume of tobacco smoke and said, “Forgive the question, Herbert-I mean no offence-but why on earth aren't you a sensation? With an intellect like yours, you should be writing books and touring universities!”
Spencer shrugged and tapped the side of his head. “When a man's knowledge ain't in order, the more of it he has, the greater is his confusion.” He looked at Admiral Lord Nelson and sighed. “I should be more like him! There's one what's got an ordered mind!”
“But no knowledge, Herbert,” Burton said. “No knowledge at all. So do you mean to say that your thinking processes are more usually in disarray?”
“Yus, just that. When I sits down an’ talks, it's all fine, but for most o’ the time, me brainbox is a right old jumble.”
“Hmm. I wonder if that has some bearing on your immunity to the Tichborne influence?”
“Richard, that doesn't make sense,” Swinburne objected. “In the main, it's the working classes who've come out in support of the Claimant, which suggests they're most affected by whatever this emanation is. If a disordered mind is immune, then the working classes have ordered minds and most of London's gentry, including yourself, don't!”
“No, Algy, that's not it at all. Let me pose a question: what would you be if you weren't a poet?”
“Dead.”
“Seriously.”
“I am serious. There's nothing else I could be. I was born a poet. I think like a poet. I act like a poet. I look like a poet. I'm a poet.”
“Accepted. By contrast, Herbert here, when we first met him, made it quite clear that he wasn't at all sure that he was cut out to be a philosopher.”
“It's no way to earn a livin’, that's for certain,” Spencer muttered.
“As for me,” Burton continued, “I've never possessed a clear idea of my function in society. I've been a soldier, a spy, a geographer, an interpreter, an explorer, an author, a surveyor, and now the king's agent, whatever the blazes that is. As for this country's gentry, I think you'll find that they mostly have a sense that life is filled with options; that, in terms of what they actually do with their time, there are few limitations.”
“Herbert used the word ‘trammelled.’ Are you suggesting that the trammelled mind is the susceptible mind?”
“Precisely.”
“Funny. I've never considered myself trammelled. Quite the opposite, in fact!”
“It's not that your mind or imagination is in any respect confined, Algy. It's simply that you've never given consideration to the notion of doing anything else. You even offered your services as my assistant because you felt the danger involved would cure your ennui and inspire greater depth in your poetry.”
“Which it has. You suspect, then, that the black diamonds somehow break down the mental structures that keep a mind channelled, which is why the working classes are suddenly feeling hard done by-they're realising that they're being cheated out of alternatives?”
“Yes. Remember the line in the poem? Vexations in the poor enables. And what about Edwin Brundleweed's story of how, the afternoon before the robbery, he suddenly and inexplicably felt dissatisfied with his lot in life?”
“But what's it all about, Richard? What's the point?”
“Judging by today's events, I'd say the point is chaos; maybe even insurgency-an assault against the very fabric of our society. I would even go so far as to say that the British Empire is under attack.”
“My hat! By a foreign power?”
“Or a budding despot. You understand now why John Speke can probably be discounted?”
Swinburne nodded. “Unless it's the Prussians. You did say he'd gone to Prussia. On the other hand, our ghost is Russian.”
Burton asked Admiral Lord Nelson to top up their cups from the coffee pot and they sat in silence for a few moments.
“Are we on the brink of a revolution?” Swinburne whispered. “Think of it! A reign of terror could descend on us just as it did on France. We might end up under the rule of an abominable tyrant like Napoleon!”
“Or we might not,” Spencer muttered. “Would it be so bad if the workin’ man-an’ woman, I might add-gained some measure of power? Don't you think it's becomin’ a matter of urgency that they do?”
“Maybe so,” Burton replied, thinking of Countess Sabina and his subsequent dream: a transition begins-a melting of one great cycle into another. “But do we really want such a change to be forced upon us by an external power? I find it inconceivable that they might be doing it for our own good!”
He flicked the stub of his cheroot into the fireplace, stood, and paced back across to the window.
“We must get to the root of this.”
His eyes scanned the road below. Two labourers were trailing along behind a gentleman, mocking him relentlessly. Despite this scene, Montagu Place was unusually quiet for the hour.
“In order to strengthen our campaign against the enemy, Algy, we must first strengthen ourselves. I've resisted it in the past, but I think it's time I mesmerised you.”
“Really?”
“Really. I want to see whether I can stop you becoming a Tichborne supporter every time the Claimant is nearby. If I can't, the only other option is for you to stay permanently drunk, and I'd rather avoid that.”
Swinburne puffed out his cheeks and expelled a breath with a pop. “Oh, it wouldn't be so bad! Besides, you've always refused to exercise your mental magnetism on me before!”
“True,” Burton affirmed. “I was concerned that your excitable disposition might react in an unpredictable manner. However, seeing as this affair is making you unpredictable anyway, my former caution seems somewhat misplaced. I shall employ a Sufi technique to fortify my own psychic defences, too. Then I have a task for you.”
“Good! What?”