“The Rake connection interests me. We've yet to identify their new leader. I want you to dig around-but keep out of mischief.”
“I'll talk to my Libertine chums. I say, though-Rakes and Tichborne-it seems a contradiction, doesn't it? If our mysterious opponent is attempting to stir up the working classes, why employ Rakes, who epitomise the idea of the insouciant aristo?”
“My thought exactly!”
Swinburne suddenly froze and looked at his friend with a puzzled expression.
“That wraith,” he said. “The one by the chaunter. You saw it?”
“Clearly!”
“For a moment, it seemed to manifest rather more solidly and took on the appearance of a tall bearded man. I swear he was wearing wire-rimmed spectacles, too. The thing of it is, I feel I've seen him somewhere before.”
“You recognised the manifestation as an actual person?”
“Yes. That wisp of steam resembled someone whose path I've crossed at some point, I'm sure of it, but for the life of me I can't recall whom. The name ‘Boyle’ or ‘Foyle’ springs to mind.”
“Keep thinking on it, Algy-it could be important.”
Spencer rubbed a hand over his bald scalp and said, “Is there anythin’ I can do to help, Boss?”
“Thank you, Herbert, there is. Your immunity and your-if you don't mind me saying so-disreputable appearance, enable you to wander through the thick of it without being molested. I'd like you to keep an eye on things at street level, see how widespread the apparitions are, and, if possible, find out where they're most numerous.”
“Right you are!”
“First, though, I'd like you to return to Miss Mayson's to make a purchase on my behalf.”
He explained further and supplied the philosopher with the requisite amount of money.
Swinburne piped up: “It's a quarter to eight, Richard. What say you we toddle on over to the Cannibal Club for a natter with Monckton Milnes? He usually has a better handle on what the Rakes are up to than I do. You can mesmerise me afterward.”
“An excellent idea. We'll take the penny-farthings. I don't fancy walking the streets at night, not while the rank and file are up in arms.”
Half an hour later, Herbert Spencer descended the steps of 14 Montagu Place and headed off toward SPARTA on Orange Street.
Meanwhile, Burton and Swinburne left the study and went down the stairs to Mrs. Angell's domain. While Swinburne waited by the back door, Burton tapped lightly on the entrance to the old lady's parlour. A voice called from within. He poked his head into the room beyond.
“I thought I'd check to see how you are,” he said. “I hope you didn't tire yourself cooking for us. It was very kind of you to do so.”
“I'm fine, Sir Richard. No need to worry. A bruised hip, nothing more. How's little Elsie?”
“Doctor Steinhaueser gave her a sedative. She's asleep in the guest room and certainly won't wake up before morning. I sent a message to her parents and they'll come to pick her up soon. You needn't do anything more this evening. Just rest, my dear, and if you want anything, ring for Admiral Lord Nelson.”
“I will. Thank you.”
Burton returned to Swinburne and they went out to the garage. A few moments later they steered their penny-farthings into Wyndham Mews and set off toward Leicester Square.
The evening sky was clear, a dark and deepening blue, with three or four stars already twinkling. It was warm. A slight, directionless breeze stirred the air lazily.
At ground level, ribbons of steam twisted slowly across the surface of the road, occasionally rising up like serpents poised to strike. They swirled away from passing traffic then curled back inward.
There were far fewer vehicles on the streets than usual.
“Where is everyone?” Swinburne called over the racket of his penny-farthing's chugging engine.
“Sheltering behind locked doors, I imagine,” Burton responded. “Or resting after a hard day's rioting!”
“By golly, what a lot of broken windows! It looks as if a tornado passed through town!”
“Watch where you steer. There might be debris in the road. Hey! Where are you going?”
“This way, it's a short cut!” the poet shrilled, suddenly veering off the main street and into a narrow lane.
“Blast it, Algy, what are you up to?”
“Follow me!”
The steam proved to be much thicker in the backstreets; a dense milky pall, reminiscent of that which rose from the Crawls in the grounds of Tichborne House. The top of the cloud was almost level with the saddles of the velocipedes-about the same height as the top of an average man's head-and the two penny-farthings, as they clattered through it, left a widening wake behind them, exactly as if they were steering through a liquid.
Gas lamps flared, casting sharp shadows on the sides of the buildings and walls on either side of the lane, and making the top of the mist glaringly luminescent.
“Slow down, Algy! I can't see the surface of the road! Are you sure you know where we're going?”
“Yes, don't worry! I've been this way many a time!”
“Why?”
“For Verbena Lodge!”
“The brothel?”
“Yes!”
“I might have-” Burton's teeth clacked together as his vehicle bounced over a pothole “-known!”
They turned right into a less well-lit street, then left into another, and immediately found themselves in the midst of a disturbance. Yells and screams rose out of the cloud, women's shouts and men's protestations.
There came a loud report, almost like a gunshot, and Swinburne suddenly vanished.
The king's agent saw the small rear wheel of his assistant's velocipede fly upward before dropping back into the mist. He heard the machine's engine race, cough, splutter, and die.
He squeezed his brake levers and swung down from his vehicle, plunging into the cloud.
“Algy? Did you hit something? Are you all right?”
“Over here, Richard! I-”
Crack!
“Yow!”
Burton moved toward the raised voices, peering into the murk. Were those figures just ahead?
“Algernon?” he called.
“Gah!” came the response.
A man ran out of the rolling vapour. He was dressed in nothing but a ripped and bloodied shirt, a top hat, and a pair of socks held up by gaiters. “She's bloody insane!” he wailed, and sped past.
Another gentleman followed, barefoot and buttoning up his trousers. “Get out of here! The strumpet is spitting feathers!”
A woman in a floral dressing gown hurried into view and shouted after them: “Oy! Sir George! Mr. Fiddlehampton! Come back! Sirs! Sirs! You ain't paid the bleedin’ Governess!”
She looked at Burton. “You a bloody rozzer, or what? ’Cos if you are, you can bleedin’ well stuff it.”
“I'm not the police. What's all that noise about? Who's screaming?”
Crack!
“Yow! Ow! Ow! Ow! Ha ha!”
That was Algy!
“What's happening? Answer me!”
The girl shrugged and gestured over her shoulder. “It's Betsy, ain't it? She's gone bloody loopy. ’Ere, if ya ain't a rozzer, maybe we could-”
Burton pushed past her and strode forward until he found himself mingling with a small crowd of semi-clad men and girls who'd gathered in a wide ring around a curvaceous brunette. She was heavily made-up, and wore little more than a tight black whalebone bodice, French bloomers, and high-heeled boots.
In her left hand she held a whip, the end of which was coiled around the neck of a man kneeling meekly behind her wearing nothing but underpants. She had a second whip in her right hand, and with this, she was lashing at a small figure that hopped, jerked, and danced before her.
It was Algernon Swinburne.
Crack!
The leather thong coiled around the poet's hindquarters.
“Ouch! Ouch! Hah, yes! But really, Betsy, what do you think-”
Crack!
It slashed at his waist, ripping his shirt and slicing through his belt.
“Woweee! No! Ow! Ow!-do you think you are doing with that-”