The light sank down over the surface of the picture, and for a moment the eyes blazed through the shadow, then dimmed as the illumination retreated back across the room, slithering over the floor as if the clockwork lantern were sucking it in. It flickered and died, plunging them into darkness. Only a silvery parallelogram of moonlight remained, stretched across the floor, framing the two men's shadows.
Burton's heart hammered in his chest.
As his eyes adjusted, they were drawn to the door that he'd been about to open earlier.
Its handle began to turn.
Burton stood transfixed, unaware that Spencer, too, was staring at the door.
Agonisingly, little by little, the brass handle revolved.
From a great way off, the sound of the piano chord returned, coming closer and closer, filling the room.
The piano chimed.
The door opened.
A weird figure stepped in.
Burton and his companion yelled in fright.
“My hat! What on earth's the matter?” Swinburne shrilled, for the bizarre figure was his: small, slope-shouldered, his head framed by a corona of fiery red hair. He looked on bemused as his companions collapsed against each other, panting hard. “I say! Have you been drinking? And you didn't invite me? Blessed scoundrels!”
Burton let loose a peal of near hysterical laughter, turned to the patio door, then cried out and stepped back in horror as a demonic face glared at him from the darkness outside.
It was his reflection.
“Bismillah!”
“You're as white as a sheet!” Swinburne exclaimed.
“What-what are you playing at sneaking around at this time of night?” Burton demanded, failing to suppress the tremor in his voice.
“We agreed I'd take over at three.”
“It's three already?”
“I think so. My watch has stopped.”
Burton pulled his own pocket watch from his waistcoat and looked at it. It, too, had stopped. He shook it, wound it, and shook it again. It refused to work.
He twisted the clockwork lantern, only to find that it was also broken; there was no resistance in its spring.
“Herbert,” he muttered, “what were you doing out there?”
The vagrant philosopher swallowed nervously, wiped a sleeve across his brow, and shrugged. “I-I could-couldn't get any kip on account o’ Mrs. Picklethorpe's bloomin’ snoring. Her bedchamber is next to the kitchen an’ I'm two rooms away, but sound carries strangely in that part of the house an’ I swear it sounded like her trumpetin’ were a-comin’ from the walls themselves. Anyways, I couldn't take another blasted minute of it, so I thought to go an’ check on the swans. I hoped a spot o’ night air might encourage a visit from what's-’is-name-Morpheus. I was just headin’ back to the house when them wraiths surrounded me. Fair panicked, I did!”
“Wraiths?” Swinburne asked excitedly. “What? What?”
“Herbert thought he saw figures in the mist,” Burton explained.
“Of the mist,” the philosopher corrected.
“And the knocking?” the poet enquired. “Where was that coming from?”
“Knocking?”
“You didn't hear it? It was either from this room or the next, but it stopped when I came along the corridor.”
“Hmm,” Burton grunted. “Well, there was certainly a strange atmosphere in here and I haven't a notion how to explain it. It seems entirely normal now, though. Herbert, why don't you get yourself back to bed? There's no point in all of us losing sleep. Algy and I will have a poke around for a few minutes, then I think we'll call it a night.”
“Right you are, Boss. Blimey! I'll take the bloomin’ snorin’ over this malarkey any day o’ the week!”
An hour later, Burton was lying in his bed, trying to work out exactly what he'd experienced. Some form of mesmerism, perhaps? Or maybe an intoxicating gas, as he'd suspected at Brundleweed's? How, though, could either of those account for the sudden loss of elasticity in the springs of his watch and lantern?
Whatever the explanation, the room's malevolent aura had vanished upon Swinburne's arrival, and the two of them had encountered nothing more during their subsequent patrol.
He slept.
It wasn't until fairly late the next morning that Burton and his assistant made an appearance downstairs. They were informed by Bogle that Colonel Lushington was awaiting them in the library with the Tichborne family lawyer. Upon entering, they saw the two men standing near the fireplace and were immediately struck by the gravity of their host's expression.
“There's news,” the colonel announced. “It's bad. The Dowager Lady Henriette-Felicite passed away last night at her apartment. The one in Paris.”
“The cause of death?” Burton asked.
“Heart stopped. Failed. Old age, no doubt. She'd been ailing for a considerable period.”
He looked from his two guests to the other man and back again.
“Forgive me, I should make introductions. Polite thing to do. Ahem! Forgot myself. This gentleman is Mr. Henry Hawkins. A lawyer. He'll be defending the family against the Claimant. Mr. Hawkins, may I present Sir Richard Burton and Mr.-um-um-um-”
“Algernon Swinburne.” Swinburne sighed.
“A pleasure to meet you,” said Hawkins, stepping forward to shake their hands. He was an average-sized and average-looking individual whose bland features were at odds with his reputation, for Burton had heard of “Hanging Hawkins,” and knew him for a man whose cross-examinations in court were probing in the extreme-“savage,” some might say. A hint of this came with Hawkins's next comment: “Of course, the dowager's death is more a blow to our opponent than it is to us. A mother's recognition would be virtually indestructible in court, were it demonstrated in person. Now, though, we can reduce it to the status of hearsay.”
“Was the man who claims to be her son present at her death?” Burton enquired.
“No. He's already in London. He'll be arriving here tomorrow afternoon.”
“What about Sir Alfred?” Swinburne put in. “Has he been informed?”
Colonel Lushington nodded. “About an hour ago. I'm afraid it didn't do much for his nerves. Jankyn is attending to him. How was your midnight patrol? Did you encounter the mice-that is to say, Lady Mabella?”
“Pardon me, what's this?” Hawkins interrupted.
“Oh, just some nonsense about the Tichborne family curse,” Lushington answered. “Utter tosh and balderdash, without a doubt. Young Alfred has got it into his head that the house is haunted. By a ghost, be damned! A ghost!”
“My word! We mustn't let him mention it in court. He'll lose all credibility!”
“What if it's true?” Swinburne asked.
Burton jabbed his fingers into the poet's ribs.
“To answer your question, Colonel,” said the king's agent, “no, I didn't see a ghostly woman floating about last night. Nor did I expect to. There was, however, a rather remarkable mist flowing past the house, down the slope, and into the lake.”
“Ah, yes,” said Lushington. “It's a fairly common occurrence. It's a mist, plain and simple. It arises in the Crawls and flows down into the hollow. Covers the lake.”
“Intriguing!” Burton exclaimed. “It only forms over the Crawls? Not the other wheat fields?”
“That's so. Absolutely the case. Odd, now that I think about it. I don't know why. Something to do with the lie of the land, perhaps? Have you eaten?”
“No.”
“Neither has Mr. Hawkins. Come to think of it, neither have I. I suggest we have a late breakfast. What do you say? A cup of tea, at least? Good for the stamina.”
Later that day, while Lushington and Hawkins worked on their legal case in the library, Burton and Swinburne sat in the smoking room and considered the Tichborne poem.
“I'm pretty certain that Eye blacker than Lady Mabella's is a reference to the Eye of Naga,” Burton announced.
“I don't disagree,” said Swinburne. He imitated Lushington: “Or do I? I don't know!”