“The little people had gathered to watch our conflict. They terrified me, and I think, monsieur, that the fear broke my mind. I remember little else until, one day, I became aware that I was in an asylum. They called me Tomas Castro. It seems I had taken my victim's name. I protested that I was an English gentleman but they would not believe me. I was trapped in a nightmare and my sanity was a frail thing. I am sure it failed me again and again. The time I spent in that hell-it-it-”
Tichborne bent and was wracked by a great sob that shook him from head to toe. Burton held tight to the man's shoulder.
“Sir Roger, your suffering is coming to an end, I give you my word. You must hold yourself together for just a little while longer.”
“I-I apologise, Monsieur Burton. I am weak. If you had-if-”
“I understand. Pray finish your account.”
“That woman-” he nodded toward Florence Nightingale, where she stood, blank-eyed “-came to the asylum one day, sedated me, and took me away. I was brought to this place. How long I have been here, I do not know. I have seen no one but her, a Russian bitch, and a lunatic named Kenealy.”
“And these latter two, what did they want of you?”
“The diamond! Always the diamond! I said to them again and again: ‘There is no diamond, it is a myth! The story is as absurd as the legendary Tichborne curse!’ So then they wanted to know all about that, and I told them of Roger de Tichborne and Lady Mabella and the Tichborne dole, and then-and then-”
“Yes?”
“Then they took me into a room, strapped me to a table, and sedated me. In my last moments of consciousness, I saw her, the connasse -” he jabbed a finger at Nightingale “-lean over me with a scalpel in her hand. When I awoke, she had taken my arm and my face. Mon dieu! Mon dieu! ”
“I am sorry,” Burton said. “They have kept you prisoner here since then?”
“Yes, but that is not all. They visit me frequently and ask always about my life and my habits. They want to know everything! Every detail! On and on! Questions! Questions! Questions!”
“It is because they have a man masquerading as you,” Burton revealed.
“They have-what? Why?”
“Their scheme is elaborate and I'm still unsure of the ultimate motive. I shall find out, though, you can be sure of that. I will stop them, Sir Roger, and soon. When I do, you will be liberated from this frightful place. Until then, you must remain here and keep this visit of mine a secret. Can I trust you to do that?”
“Yes. Me, you can trust-but her?”
“I am going to bring Nurse Nightingale out of her trance now. I will reveal the truth to her. I believe she will work with us to secure your freedom. She's a strange woman; her dedication to medical research has driven her into ethically dubious territory in recent years, but no one can forget what she did during and after the Crimea. I believe that, at heart, she desires only the greater good.”
“I will trust your judgement, Monsieur Burton. But you cannot take me with you now?”
“If I do so, your enemies will know that I'm moving against them. They may flee before we ever learn their intentions. It's better that they remain in the dark.”
“So you wish me to stay? Truly, I don't know that I can! If I allow myself to believe that liberation is close at hand, every extra moment in this hell will seem an eternity. But no, no, I understand your reasoning. Stay, I must-and stay, I shall! What matters a few more days or weeks after all this time?”
“Good man. I must hurry now. I've already been away for too long.”
He stood and paced over to Florence Nightingale.
“You have listened to this discussion?”
“Yes,” she replied dully.
“I am going to take you through some breathing exercises. They will bring you to full awareness. You will remember everything.”
“Ah, Mr. Cribbins, at last. You've taken a deuce of a- ugh! -time!”
“My apologies, Doctor Monroe, I became fascinated by one of your unfortunates. Patient 1036 on corridor nine.”
“1036? 1036? Which one is that?”
“The gentleman who ate his mother.”
“Oh, yes. A fascinating study. We tested an interesting therapy on that one. We- ugh! -introduced him to another of our patients. A mother who ate her son.”
“And what happened?”
“They had dinner together.”
“Are you serious?”
“There were doctors in attendance, of course.”
Damien Burke stepped forward. “A most intriguing scenario, Doctor Monroe, but I feel we've already taken up far too much of your valuable time. We should be going, isn't that right, Mr. Skylark?”
“Absolutely correct, Mr. Faithfull. Do you agree, Mr. Cribbins?”
“Indeed! Indeed! My apologies, Doctor Monroe, and thank you very much indeed for allowing us to tour your fine establishment. I think it fair to say that it has made an indelible impression on all three of us.”
Monroe smiled and shook Burton's hand, then Burke's, then Hare's.
They proceeded down to the lobby and out onto the front steps. Monroe bade them a final farewell and indicated a horse-drawn carriage waiting on the driveway. “This will take you across the grounds to the main- Ugh! ”
“Gate,” Burton finished.
Monroe blinked at him, pursed his lips, turned, and disappeared back into the hospital.
The king's agent looked at the sky and frowned. The atmosphere was thick and steamy, and through it, ugly smudges of smoke could be seen drifting raggedly overhead. Flakes of ash were falling.
“It's been a while since we had a London particular,” he muttered.
They climbed into the carriage and, a couple of minutes later, arrived at the big main gate, in which a smaller door was set.
They thanked the driver and tipped their hats to the guard who opened the door for them.
Sir Richard Francis Burton, Damien Burke, and Gregory Hare stepped out of the mental asylum into- madness!
L ondon was ablaze.
At ground level, the smoke was suffocating. Hellish red and orange light flared through the swirling clouds.
“What the-”
Burton was cut off by a scream of fury. A man came tearing out of the murk, dressed only in trousers and boots, his naked upper body smeared with blood, sweat, and soot. His face was contorted with animal ferocity, and before they could react, he swung a pitchfork with vicious force into Damien Burke's upper left arm.
Burke fell sideways with a yell of pain.
Gregory Hare jumped onto the back of the attacker, snatched the pitchfork out of his hand and threw it aside, wrapped a huge forearm around the man's neck, and squeezed. Seconds later, he was lowering the limp body to the pavement.
Burton snapped back into himself. The assault had been so sudden and brutal that he'd stood frozen, disassociated.
“Damn it!” he muttered, and joined Hare on his knees at Burke's side.
“It's bad,” Burke gasped. “Broken.”
“You're losing blood. Hare, give me your cravat. We need to get a tourniquet on him right away. Don't worry, old man,” he encouraged Burke. “We'll have you fixed up in no time.”
“Mr. Hare will attend to me, Captain,” Burke responded weakly. “I recommend you draw your spine-gun and see to our defence.” He nodded at the street behind Burton.
The king's agent twisted around and saw five individuals shuffling into view. There were two men and three women. All wore dishevelled clothing and diabolical grins. Their eyes were wide and glazed.
One of the women held a dripping severed arm that had, apparently, been torn from its owner's shoulder.
She seemed to recognise the shock in Burton's eyes and responded to it by shouting: “Meat! Tichborne wants meat!” She then raised the limb to her mouth and clamped her teeth into it with a muffled giggle. The giggle turned into a gurgle as blood bubbled down over her chin.