They entered the hunting room and the king's agent pulled open the door to the patio. Dense mist enveloped the men as they stepped outside.
“I can't see a thing!” said Jankyn.
“Over here.”
Burton knelt beside Sir Alfred Tichborne, who lay broken upon the pavement, blood pooling from the back of his head.
Jankyn joined them.
“He was thrown from the window,” Burton explained.
Tichborne looked up at them, blinked, coughed, and whispered: “It hurts, Doctor Jankyn.”
“Lie still,” the physician ordered.
Sir Alfred's eyes held Burton's. “There's something-” He winced and groaned. “There's something I want-I want you to-do.”
“What is it, Sir Alfred?”
A tear slid from the baronet's eye. “No matter who claims this-this estate tomorrow, my brother-my real brother-he and I were the last Tichbornes. Don't allow anyone else to-to take the name.”
He closed his eyes and emitted a deep sigh.
Jankyn leaned over him. He looked back at Burton.
“Sir Alfred has joined his mother.”
Even though it was near enough midnight, Burton took a horse and trap and galloped to Alresford, where he hammered on the door of the post office until the inhabitants opened a window and demanded to know what in blue blazes he thought he was bally well doing. Displaying the credentials granted to him by the prime minister, he quickly gained access to the aviary and gave one of the parakeets a message for the attention of Scotland Yard.
Early the next morning, an irregular ribbon of steam appeared high over the eastern horizon and arced down toward the estate. It was generated by a rotorchair, which landed with a thump and a bounce and skidded over the gravel on the carriageway in front of Tichborne House.
A burly figure clambered out of it, pulled leather-bound goggles from his eyes, and was mounting the steps to the portico when the front door opened and Burton emerged.
“Hello, Trounce. Glad to see you!”
They shook hands.
“Captain, please tell me the parakeet was joking!”
“Joking?”
“It told me murder had been done-by ghosts!”
“As bizarre as it sounds, I'm afraid it's true; I saw it with my own eyes.”
Trounce sighed and ran his fingers through his short, bristly hair.
“Ye gods, how the devil am I supposed to report that to Commissioner Mayne?”
“Come through to the parlour, I'll give you a full account.”
Some little time later, Detective Inspector Trounce had been introduced to Colonel Lushington, Henry Hawkins, and Doctor Jankyn, and had taken a statement from each of them. He then examined Sir Alfred's body, which lay in a small bedroom, awaiting the arrival of the county coroner.
Trounce settled in the smoking room with Burton and Swinburne.
“It's plain enough that he was killed by the fall,” he muttered. “But how am I to begin the investigation? Ghosts, by Jove! It's absurd! First Brundleweed and now Tichborne!”
“That's a very interesting point,” Burton said. “We can at least establish that the two crimes are linked-beyond the presence of a ghost, I mean.”
“How so?”
“We dismissed Brundleweed's spook as either imagination or a gas-induced hallucination. However, last night I witnessed ghosts pulling poor Sir Alfred straight through solid matter. It strikes me that if they can do that with a man, then they can certainly do it with diamonds.”
“You mean to suggest that, some little time before Brunel's clockwork raiding party arrived, Brundleweed's ghost reached into his safe and pulled the Francois Garnier gems right out, replacing them with onyx stones, all without even opening the door?”
“Yes. Exactly that.”
“And was it the Tichborne ghost, Captain? This Lady Mabella?”
“It would be fair to assume so. The motive appears to be the same; she has an interest in black diamonds. There's rumoured to be one, of the same variety as the Choir Stones, concealed somewhere on this estate. Lady Mabella has spent night after night knocking on the walls around the house. What does that suggest to you?”
“That she's been searching for a secret hiding place?”
“Precisely-although it's strange that she should knock on walls when she has the ability to walk right through them. That aside, we appear to have a diamond-hungry spook on our hands. I propose that our priority should be to discover the stone before she does; perhaps then we can find out why it's so important to her.”
Trounce rubbed his hands over his face, his expression a picture of exasperation. “Fine! Fine! But it beats me why a diamond should be of any blessed use to a ghost!”
“As I say, my friend, that is the crux of the matter.”
“And why murder Sir Alfred?”
“Perhaps to make way for the Claimant?”
Algernon Swinburne clapped his hands together. “Dastardly!” he cried. “The witch and the imposter are hand-in-glove!”
Trounce groaned. “I was the laughing stock of the Yard for decades because I believed in Spring Heeled Jack. Lord knows what mockery I'm letting myself in for now, but I suppose we'd better get on with it. Where do we start?”
“In the kitchen.”
“The kitchen? Why the kitchen?”
“Of course!” Swinburne enthused, as realisation dawned. “Mrs. Picklethorpe's snoring!”
Trounce looked from the king's agent to the diminutive poet and back again.
“You know, I could easily grow to dislike you two. What in the devil's name are you jabbering about?”
“We have Herbert Spencer the vagrant philosopher with us,” Burton explained. “He's staying down in the servants’ quarters. He complained that the cook snores, and that the sound reverberates through the walls. Perhaps it's because the walls are hollow.”
“And there's a dreadful old family poem,” Swinburne added, “which says Consume if thou wouldst uncover. We think the diamond is hidden somewhere under the two wheat fields at the front of the house. Initially, we speculated that the doggerel was instructing whoever wanted to find it to get rid of the crop and dig, but perhaps there's an easier way.”
“You mean a secret passage from the kitchen?” Trounce asked.
“Or, more specifically, from one of the famous pantries,” Burton responded.
“Gad!” Trounce exclaimed. Then again: “Gad!”
“The Claimant is due here soon, so I suggest we have a poke around straightaway. I don't know how welcome we'll be in the manor once he sets foot in it.”
Trounce jerked his head in agreement.
They left the smoking room and sought out Colonel Lushington, who they found pacing in the study, next to the library.
He looked up as they entered. “More news,” he announced. “Bad. Maybe good. Not sure. Could be either. Depends how it goes. Hawkins is of the opinion that it'll be a civil triaclass="underline" Tichborne versus Lushington.”
“Why so?” Burton asked.
“The Claimant, under the name Roger Tichborne, will contest my right to act on the family's behalf. He'll try to have me removed from the house. Ejected. Out on my ear, so to speak. However, if he's not Roger Tichborne, we'll counter by suing for a criminal trial. Court. Jury. So forth. King versus Claimant. ”
“Good!” Trounce grunted. “That would bring Scotland Yard in on the matter.”
Lushington agreed. “High time. I'd certainly like to know more about what the Claimant fellow got up to in Australia when he was calling himself Tomas Castro!”
“Rest assured, Colonel, the moment it becomes a criminal matter, the Yard will send someone to the colonies.”
Burton interrupted: “Colonel, it may seem trivial and badly timed but, as I mentioned last night, I have good reason for wanting to examine the kitchens. I assure you it's relevant to this whole affair. Would you mind?”
Lushington looked puzzled but nodded. He summoned Bogle and told him to take Burton, Swinburne, and Trounce “below stairs.”