“Castro is still here?”
“Yes, on this floor, in the observation chamber.”
“Why were we not shown that room?”
“Doctor Monroe and the senior staff have had their memory of the room removed. An aversion to the door that leads to it has been implanted into them. They think it's a broom cupboard.”
“So, with the exception of the Russian and Kenealy, are you the only person who visits Castro?”
“Yes.”
“Take me to him.”
“Yes.”
Nightingale stood and, as if sleepwalking, drifted across and out of the room, leading Burton along the corridor to a nondescript door. She pulled a bunch of keys from her apron pocket and unlocked it. Burton followed her across the threshold and down a short passage leading to a heavily bolted portal.
“There,” Nightingale said.
“Lead the way,” he replied.
Keys were inserted and turned, bolts drawn, a padlock opened, and a chain removed. With the nurse's shoulder pressed against it, the barrier swung aside with a painful creak. She stepped onto a platform that ran around the wall of a tall circular chamber, about fifteen feet up from the floor. The room was fifty feet or so in diameter, fitfully illuminated by four gas lamps, and was sparsely furnished with a bed, table, chair, and a wooden screen, which, Burton guessed, concealed a toilet and basin.
A thin chain, attached to an iron ring set in the middle of the floor, snaked across to where a man lay on the bed. It was joined to a manacle that encircled his left ankle.
He was dressed only in ragged trousers and an undershirt, and was dreadfully thin. His left arm ended in a bandaged stump just below the elbow. His face was encased in an iron mask, featureless but for four horizontal slits, one for each eye, one level with his nostrils, and one for the mouth.
Tomas Castro.
The man struggled to a sitting position and looked up at them.
“ Ce qui maintenant? ” he whispered huskily. “Is there to be more torment? Who is this? I have not seen him before.”
He spoke with a French accent.
Burton turned to Nightingale. “Follow me.”
He walked along the platform until he came to a ladder and descended to the chamber floor.
Castro rose weakly to his feet as Burton approached.
“Please, don't exert yourself,” the king's agent said. “Remain seated. You are Sir Roger Tichborne, I take it?”
“Tichborne? Mon dieu! You are the first to call me that in a long time. It has been Castro, only Castro.” His voice sounded hollow behind the mask.
Burton took the chair and placed it near the bed. He sat down. Tichborne fell back onto the thin mattress and said: “But you address me as ‘Sir.’ Is it that I have inherited the baronetcy?”
“No little time ago. I'm afraid your uncle and father both died within a week of each other back in ’54, shortly before you were committed. It was reported that you were lost at sea whilst voyaging back to England. Your brother Alfred took the title. I regret to inform you that he, too, is dead. He was murdered by your enemies earlier this year.”
“Alfred,” Tichborne croaked. “ Mon cher frere! ” He raised his hand and rested the front of his mask against it. “And this year, it is?” came his muffled voice.
“It is now September of 1862.”
There was a moment of silence, broken when the prisoner began to quietly weep.
Burton leaned forward and placed a hand on the man's upper arm.
“Sir, there has been a vast and terrible conspiracy against you. I am trying to untangle the web, to discover who has spun it and why. It would help considerably if you could tell me your story. Do you have the strength?”
Tichborne raised his head. “Then you mean to help me?”
“I will do everything in my power. My name is Richard Burton. I am an agent of the king.”
“No, wait,” said Tichborne. “ Non. Non. It cannot be. Non. This, it is a trick. That-” he pointed at Nightingale “-that fiend is one of the conspirators. If she is with you, then you are with them! ”
“You are mistaken, sir. This woman, who you may know as Sister Camberwick, is, in fact, named Florence Nightingale. She has been operating under a deep mesmeric trance. She knows neither what she has done nor why. She is as much a victim as you are.”
“Ce n'est pas possible! And now? Why is she not screaming for help?”
“Because I myself have a modicum of talent as a mesmerist and have gained control of her.”
Tichborne sat silently, gazing at the nurse. Burton could see his wet, lidless eyes shining through the slits of the mask.
“My story,” the baronet whispered. “My story.” He looked at Burton. “Very well. I shall tell it. Where would you like me to begin?”
“With your voyage to South America-but we have little time, Sir Roger, so broad strokes, if you please.”
“ Bien. I sailed in ’54. I had been wooing a distant cousin, Kattie-”
“Katherine Doughty,” Burton interjected.
“ Ah! Oui. Elle vit? ”
“Yes, she lives. She is well.”
Tichborne nodded, paused, and asked: “Married?”
“Yes.”
“ Oui. Oui. Naturellement. ” He looked down, ran his fingers over the stump of his left arm, looked up, and went on: “Kattie's parents, they were not in favour of me, and I cannot blame them. I was young and irresponsible. I felt I had to prove myself to them, and got it into my head that I would go to Chile to follow in my grandfather's footsteps, for there is a legend in the family that he discovered a fabulous diamond in that country, and though no one has ever seen it-and the legend is no doubt untrue-it fired my imagination. What a fool I was! I arrived in Valparaiso-”
“Which is where they say you received the news that your uncle had passed away.”
“ Mais non! I never did! I stayed in the port for but a day then began my journey inland toward Santiago. I eventually settled in a town named Melipilla, at the foot of the Cerro Patagua Range, which is where I suspected my grandfather had done his prospecting. I lived with the family of a man named Tomas Castro, and in his company made forays into the mountains, sometimes living in tents for many days before returning to his home.
“What happened next, monsieur, is difficult for me to explain, for my memories, they are confused. Castro and I had ventured farther into the mountains than ever before, and were both suffering from the altitude and thin air. My friend seemed to be the most affected. He began to experience wild hallucinations and became delirious. He insisted that we had displeased the secret inhabitants of the mountains by our presence, and that the only way to placate them was by sacrifice. I began to fear for my life, for he seemed to me to be losing his mind.”
“Secret inhabitants?” Burton asked. “Did he have a name for them?”
“ Oui. He called them the Cherufe. He said they were the ghosts of an ancient race that had once inhabited the Earth.”
“What happened?”
“As the days passed, I was stricken by terror, not only of him, but also of the things I began to see hiding amid the rocks and undergrowth.”
“What things?”
“I am embarrassed to say. You must understand, monsieur, that they were not real. I was suffering from visions caused by an insufficiency of oxygen.”
“It's important, Sir Roger. What did you see?”
“I saw fairies, tiny people with the wings of moths, butterflies, and dragonflies. I saw them in broad daylight, and at night they came to me in my dreams. I know now that I was going insane. Certainly, Castro was, for one night, he tried to murder me. He struck me on the head and laid me on a rock. It would serve as an altar, he said. He then took a knife and went to thrust it into my heart. I rolled from the rock and we fought. He was savage, a wild beast, his eyes were filled with madness. I pushed him. He fell and cracked his skull. The blow killed him.