“I had unfinished business to attend to.”
“As we observed. Rather stupid of you to leave the contents of the pantry piled up in the kitchen. Bogle brought it to my attention.”
“How did you open the door?”
“I found a lever in the left-hand room-a shelf that slides sideways and twists upward.”
“I was a fool to miss it.”
“You had no right to be nosing around. I should have you arrested.”
“Arrested,” drawled the mountain of flesh standing in the centre of the chamber. The Claimant surveyed Burton with mindless eyes.
“Try it,” the king's agent challenged.
“Why are you meddling?” Kenealy demanded. “You're a geographer, sir! An explorer! A Livingstone! What has this affair to do with you?”
Burton ignored the question, especially the Livingstone reference, and pointed nonchalantly at the Claimant.
“Who-or should I ask what -is that, Kenealy?”
“It's Sir Roger Tichborne.”
“We both know that's not true, don't we?”
“I insist that it's Sir Roger Tichborne.” The lawyer looked past Burton. “Is that not so, Doctor Jankyn?”
“Absolutely!” said the physician.
“And what do you think, Mr. Swinburne?” Kenealy asked.
“Me? I think my arms are aching. May I lower them?”
“Yes. Step away from him, Jankyn, but keep your pistol steady. If our guests misbehave, shoot to kill.”
“Thank you,” Swinburne said. “And may I say, you're an absolute charmer, Mr. Kenealy.”
“Answer my question. Is this, in your opinion, Sir Roger Tichborne?”
Swinburne hesitated.
“I think-”
He raised a hand to his head and winced.
Burton watched his assistant carefully.
“I think-”
The Claimant let loose a bubbling chuckle.
“I think,” the poet groaned, “that-he is-is probably-Tichborne.”
“Ah. There we have it.” Kenealy smiled.
“Are you quite all right, Algy?” Burton asked.
“Yes. No. Yes. I-my head hurts.”
“Sir Roger,” the lawyer said, turning to the Claimant, “there is an intruder on your property. You have every right to protect your interests.”
“Protect!” the Claimant rumbled. He lumbered forward. “Protect!”
“Kenealy!” Burton snapped. “There is no need to-”
The Claimant's elephantine body blocked his view of the chamber. A meaty hand shot out and grasped the lapels of Burton's jacket and shirt. Cloth ripped as the fingers closed.
Burton was hauled off his feet, swung around, and thrown with tremendous force clear across the room. He slammed into a wall, bounced from it, and landed in a loose-limbed heap on the floor.
“Sir Roger!” Swinburne cried. “Don't!”
“Heh heh!” the Claimant gurgled. He shuffled over to the prone man.
“Perfectly legal, of course,” Kenealy observed.
“I say! He's a jolly strong bounder, what!” Jankyn exclaimed as Burton was hoisted over the Claimant's head and thrown back across the chamber.
“He is, Doctor,” Kenealy agreed. “Life in the colonies does that to a man, even if he was born an aristocrat.”
Burton rolled, reached into his jacket pocket, and pulled out his pistol. As the light from the burning torches pushed the Claimant's vast shadow across him, he raised the weapon and pulled the trigger. The shot was deafening in the enclosed space and everyone flinched. A hole appeared in the cloth stretched across his assailant's belly, but no blood flowed and the bullet appeared to have little effect.
“Baaad man,” the Claimant moaned, reaching down.
The gun was wrenched from Burton's fingers and flung away.
“Leave him alone!” Swinburne pleaded as Burton was gripped by the neck and jerked to his feet. “Sir Roger! Think of your family's good name! God! My head!”
Burton launched a ferocious uppercut into his opponent's chin. His fist sank into a wobbling mass of fat. In reply, he was shaken like a rat caught in the jaws of a carnivore. His teeth rattled together. Desperately, he loosed a furious tattoo of blows into the gargantuan body, hammering it around the ribs, but he might have been punching a pillow for all the damage he did; the rib cage was buried deep beneath layers of blubber. The Claimant took the assault without so much as a groan.
Squirming out of the creature's grasp, Burton ducked under groping hands and, like a whirlwind, dealt out roundhouse punches that should have rocked his opponent on his heels. It was useless.
The Claimant lunged and swept his arms around Burton's shoulders. The king's agent felt them tighten and tried to slip downward, but the creature held him with the strength of a grizzly bear. Terrible agony shot through the explorer's chest and it felt as if every bone in his torso must splinter.
It was not the embrace of a human being. Beneath the thick jellied padding flexed the tremendous muscles of a predatory beast.
Pain exploded in Burton's back and his lower spine creaked audibly. Blood pounded in his ears as the awful constriction increased. The monotonous tone of the diamond was filling his head. His legs flopped uselessly and, when the Claimant lifted him from the floor, his feet dangled as loosely as a rag doll's.
Swinburne looked on helplessly as his friend was hoisted up over the creature's head, ready to be dashed against the wall once again.
“Tell me, Swinburne!” Kenealy said. “You don't happen to know where Sir Henry concealed that black diamond of his, do you?”
“No,” the poet whimpered. “Except that-”
“Yes?”
The Claimant swung Burton back to fling him into the air. As he did so, a spark of vitality flared in the explorer's dimming consciousness and, with a desperate effort of will, he put all the strength he could muster into a jab, hooking his stiffly held fingers down into his opponent's right eye.
The creature let loose a howl and dropped him. Burton hit the ground at the Claimant's feet.
“Except the poem,” said Swinburne.
“Poem, sir? What poem is that?”
“Algy, don't,” Burton croaked.
“The tears, that weep within My Lady's round,” Swinburne proclaimed. “Do you mind if I sit down? I have the most dreadful headache.”
“Please, be my guest.” Kenealy grinned. His glasses magnified his little red-rimmed eyes.
Jankyn strode over to Burton and looked down at him. “My goodness. He doesn't look at all well!”
“I bow to your expertise, Doctor,” Kenealy said. “Sir Roger, be careful! Don't break him! You may be defending yourself against a ruthless intruder but a charge of manslaughter would be most inconvenient at present. Tears, Mr. Swinburne?”
“I can't help it. It's the pain. My brain is afire!”
“I was referring to the poem.”
“Oh, that gobbledygook. The diamond's behind the waterfall, obviously.”
The Claimant bent to pick Burton up. The explorer quickly drew in his legs and kicked his booted feet into the fat man's face. His left heel caught one of the seven lumps that circled the bloated thing's skull, ripping open the little line of stitches.
The Claimant's head snapped back.
“Ouch! Hurt me!” he complained, clutching Burton's arm and dragging him upright.
The king's agent caught sight of a black diamond glittering inside his opponent's wound.
“Choir Stone!” he mumbled.
A massive fist crashed into his face.
He looked up at the off-yellow canvas of his tent.
The exhaustion and fevers and diseases and infections and wounds ate into his body.
There was not a single inch of him that didn't hurt.
“Bismillah!”
No more Africa. Never again. Nothing is worth this agony. Leave the source of the Nile for younger men to find. I don't care anymore. All it's brought me is sickness and treachery.
Damn Speke!
Don't step back. They'll think that we're retiring.
How could he possibly have interpreted that order as a personal slight? How could he have so easily used it as an excuse for betrayal?
“Damn him!”