He entered Fleet Street and had progressed but a few yards when he spotted Herbert Spencer standing in the shelter of a doorway.
“Boss!” the vagrant philosopher exclaimed. “I weren't expectin’ to see you!”
“Hallo, Herbert. Where's Algernon?”
“In there,” Spencer replied, pointing at an ancient tavern. The sign above the door read Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese. “He found out from Mrs. Doyle that her ne'er-do-well husband was livin’ in a flat above a public house what's called the Frog and Squirrel. He went there disguised as a street waif an’ sure enough found the man himself proppin’ up the bar. Drunk as a skunk, he was. Doyle has some sort of appointment later on, and Master Swinburne has tagged along with him as far as this here pub. I saw ’em headin’ down to the Embankment, to give the Strand a wide berth, so I followed and managed to exchange a few words with the lad on the sly. Incidentally, the Strand is where the wraiths are thickest-an’ there are crowds of Rakes wanderin’ about in it, too, but the thing is-” He stopped and shuddered.
“What is it, Herbert?”
“Them Rakes what I glimpsed-”
“Yes?”
“I think they was dead.”
Burton frowned. “How can they be wandering about if they're dead?”
“I know. It ain't possible, but that's what I saw. They're dead, but they ain't realised it yet!”
“Walking dead? By God! And what's this about huge monsters? Constable Bhatti said something of the sort had been seen.”
“Yus, but it's just one and it's the Tichborne Claimant, Boss, grown fatter than a whale! I tells you, if'n you go into the Strand, the wraiths will confuse your mind, the dead Rakes will beat you senseless, an’ the Claimant will bloomin’ well eat you!”
“Eat you?”
“Yus. He's got a taste for human flesh-an’ those what are riotin’ are followin’ his lead!”
“I saw as much. What the hell is happening, Herbert?”
“Dunno, Boss, but it ain't nuthin’ good. An’ to think back in March we thought it were just a simple diamond robbery!”
“I wonder if Algy has discovered anything useful from that Doyle fellow. Do you think I can get into the tavern without having the living daylights kicked out of me?”
“If you muss yourself up a bit more and go in your shirtsleeves, you'll pass muster, what with your face all sooty, as it is.”
Burton slipped out of his jacket and waistcoat, handed them to the vagrant, and looked ruefully at his one-armed shirt.
“I suppose this will be regarded as a qualification,” he muttered. “At least I look like I've been in a scrap!”
“Yus. An’ if you don't mind me a-sayin’ so, you have the face of a pugilist, too.”
“Forgive me if I don't thank you for that comment. So, do I look the part?”
“Muss up your hair a little bit more, Boss.”
Burton did so.
“Perfect.”
“Wait here, Herbert. I hope this won't take too long. It depends how drunk my wayward assistant is.”
He crossed the street, paused outside the tavern, pushed the door open, and entered.
The low-ceilinged interior was quite literally packed to the rafters with working men and women of the very lowest order, with, no doubt, thieves, murderers, and whores mixed liberally among them. They were drunk and boisterous, and many appeared glassy-eyed with something beyond alcoholic intoxication. A few were so far gone they were practically catatonic, standing motionless amid the cacophony with slack faces and eyes rolled up into their sockets.
He pushed his way through the laughing, shouting, singing, squabbling mob, feeling that, at any moment, a knife might be thrust between his ribs or a broken bottle mashed into his face.
“To hell with soddin’ aristocrats!” someone bellowed.
A roar of approval went up and Burton joined in, so as not to stand out.
“Ari-sto-craaats-” rasped a man beside him.
“Three cheers for Sir Roger!”
Burton cheered with them.
“Up with the working man!”
“Aye!” they yelled.
“Aye!” Burton shouted.
As he shoved through what looked to be a group of poorhouse workers, they broke out in song: “When the Jury said I was not Roger,
Oh! How they made me stagger,
The pretty girls they'll always think
Of poor Roger's wagga wagga!”
A wave of maniacal laughter greeted the verse. One man's guffawing turned into a loud, incoherent wail then cut off abruptly. He stood grinning stupidly, with spittle oozing down his chin.
“Pour more booze down the silly bugger's neck,” someone called. “That'll get ’is engine runnin’ again!”
“Aye!” shouted another. “Them what's not quaffin’ will end up in a coffin!”
This was greeted with more mirth and raised glasses.
Burton registered the paradox that those who were most inebriated were apparently also the ones who retained most of their wits. It confirmed that alcohol did, indeed, go some way to counter the effect of the Tichborne emanations.
He saw Swinburne, looking every inch the guttersnipe, squashed into a corner with a hollow-eyed, bespectacled, long-bearded individual.
“Oy! Nipper!” he roared. “Get yer arse over ’ere, yer little brat!”
“You tell ’im, mister!” A dirty-faced strumpet giggled, nudging him in the side. “Put the scamp over yer knee and give ’im a bloody good spankin’-an’ after that, you can do the same to me!”
Raucous laughter erupted around him. He joined in, and bawled, “Aye! An’ the flat of me hand ain't all you'll be a-hankerin’ after, is it? I has it in mind that you'll be a-wantin’ a bloody good roger, too-an’ I don't mean his nibs Tichborne!”
A deafening cheer greeted his gibe and, under cover of the clamour, raised tankards, and gleeful scoffing, he signalled Swinburne to join him.
The poet said something to his companion, stood, and pushed his way through to Burton's side. The king's agent thumbed toward the door, mouthing, “Let's get out of here!” then grabbed his assistant by the ear and dragged him through the pub and out onto the street.
“My ear!” the poet squeaked.
“Dramatic necessity,” Burton grunted.
They crossed the road and joined Spencer.
“How are you holding up, Algy?” the explorer asked.
Swinburne rubbed his ear and said, “Fine. Fine. What about that spanking?”
“You got quite enough of that outside Verbena Lodge. What's Doyle up to?”
“Drinking, drinking, and more drinking. He can really knock it back. I'm astonished he's still standing, and, as you know, I'm a past master in such endeavours. I really am very impressed. If it came down to a challenge, I'd-”
“Stop babbling, please.”
Burton wondered whether mesmerising the poet had been such a good idea. As he'd suspected, the consequential behaviour was proving unpredictable, Swinburne's verbosity being the most obvious symptom.
“He's on his way to a seance, Richard. It's at ten o'clock at 5 Gallows Tree Lane, on the outskirts of Clerkenwell, very close to the Literary Gentlemen's Unpublishables Club. You know the place-I believe you once went there with old Monckton Milnes. If I remember rightly, you wanted to consult their copy of The Seven Perilous Postures of Love by one of your obscure-or do I mean ‘obscene’?-Arabian poets. It's the club with the supposedly secret scroll of-”
“I know! I know!” Burton interrupted.
“My hat! Do you think they chose Gallows Tree Lane because of its name? Nice and morbid for summoning spirits!”
“Be quiet a moment, Algy. I need to think.”