The conversation had already touched on the Afterlife and the existence—or not—of the soul. Now, Burton—who’d already divulged state secrets to Detective Inspector Trounce, Detective Inspector Slaughter, and Eliphas Levi—decided to bring Swinburne into the fold. He knew it was a risk. The little man was wild and idiosyncratic, but Burton felt an immediate trust, and he always allowed himself to be guided by instinct.
“Algernon,” he said.
“Algy, please, Sir Richard. Brandy dissolves formalities.”
“Very well. Then drop the Sir. It still feels like an absurd trimming to me. I understand you once met an individual named Abdu El Yezdi?”
“I did, and—my hat!—what a hideous creature he was, too!”
Burton glanced first at Monckton Milnes then at Levi.
“Would you tell us about it?”
Swinburne had been sitting with one leg crossed over the other, his foot swinging spasmodically. He now tucked it under himself, adopting the position that Burton already associated with the poet taking centre stage.
“It was five years ago,” Swinburne began. “I was seventeen years old and eager to be a cavalryman—forlorn hopes and riotous charges!—but my father forbade it. I was holidaying with my family on the Isle of Wight at the time, and one day I decided to put my courage to the test by climbing Culver Cliff.”
He addressed Levi, “Monsieur, it is a sheer face of chalk and flint, averaging three hundred feet in height.”
“Très dangereux, non?” Levi muttered.
“Indeed so. Before commencing the climb, I swam in the sea, which was tremendously rough that day. It was the beginning of my love affair with storm-wracked waters—I’ve never been able to resist them since. Having survived the waves, I then made my first attempt at the rock face, but an overhanging ledge defeated me and I was forced to make my way back to the beach. I chose another route, gritted my teeth, and swore I would not come down alive again. So I climbed, and the wind, penetrating the nooks and crannies, made a sound like the Eton Chapel organ, and gulls wheeled around me and I feared they would peck out my eyes. But on I went, until, just as I came close to the top, the chalk crumbled beneath my feet and I was left dangling by my fingertips from a ledge. Thankfully, I was able to carefully gain a different foothold, and with that to secure me, hauled myself over the top and onto the edge of the Culver Downs. Gents, I was immobilised by exhaustion, on my back with eyes closed, when a voice said, ‘Roll to your left, Algy, else you might find that going down is far quicker than coming up.’”
“He knew your name?” Burton asked.
“Yes. So I shifted away from the cliff edge and saw an extraordinary figure sitting cross-legged nearby.”
“What did he look like? Hideous, you said?”
“Fat! He was dressed in white Arabian robes, with a keffiyeh covering his head. His skin was dark, his right eye blind and milky, and his teeth large, crooked, and rotten. An enormous beard flowed down over his protruding belly, and when he spoke, he moved his hands constantly. ‘As-salamu alaykum,’ he said. ‘I am Abdu El Yezdi. Are you satisfied now? Do you feel yourself courageous?’”
Burton frowned. “Then he was also aware of the purpose of your climb?”
“He was. And I replied, ‘Courageous enough to ascend a cliff, anyway,’ to which he responded, ‘Courage, Algy, is not accurately measured in isolated acts of bravery, but in the ongoing ability to express your own true nature, no matter how you are judged or feted or damned.’”
“Mon Dieu! Combien vrai!” Levi exclaimed.
The poet nodded. “He then said, ‘Listen to me, young man. Soon your courage will be tested in a manner you can’t imagine. When that time comes, do not doubt yourself, for your instincts are true. Look for—’” Swinburne paused and suddenly gawped at Burton.
“What is it?” the explorer asked.
“He—he said, ‘Look for the man with a scar on his face. When he comes, your travails will begin.’”
Burton reached up and with his fingertips traced the deep scar that scored his cheek. He was conscious that the poet, Levi, and Monckton Milnes were all staring at him.
A minute passed, then Swinburne went on, “The next thing I knew, I awoke, lying there, and was alone. I couldn’t even remember falling asleep.”
Monckton Milnes murmured, “Mesmerism?”
“Undoubtedly,” Burton agreed.
“There’s one more thing,” Swinburne added. “I have a vague impression of Abdu El Yezdi leaning over me.”
“What was he doing?” Burton asked.
“He was saying, ‘Thank you.’”
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The following morning, the remnants of ruined chimneys, dislodged roof tiles, and pieces of a decimated summer house were heaped against the walls of Wallington Hall, along with a huge mass of unidentifiable debris. The grounds were strewn with leaves, twigs, branches, and fallen trees. A phaeton carriage—not belonging to the estate and probably not even from Kirkwhelpington—lay crumpled beside an ornamental pond. South-facing windows had broken and rooms were in disarray. The guests confined themselves to the inner chambers while the staff cleared the mess and started repairs.
“I’ve never seen anything like it,” Lady Pauline declared. “What a storm!”
No one had slept well. They’d risen late and breakfast was more of an early lunch. After it, Burton, Monckton Milnes, and Levi took a stroll to survey the damage. The winds were still high and the sky filled with scudding clouds.
“I think I’ll head back to Fryston,” Monckton Milnes said. “I’m concerned there might be nothing left of it. Will you come, Richard?”
“I’ll pass, if you don’t mind, old fellow. I want to spend a little more time with young Algernon. Perhaps he’ll allow me to mesmerise him. As you suggested, El Yezdi certainly did so, and I’d like to peel away whatever mantle he cast over the lad’s memory.”
“You think there was more to their meeting, then?”
“I suspect so. I can’t imagine how or why, but the poet is obviously connected with the business.”
“And with you, my scar-faced friend. Gad! It’s confirmed, then. The whole El Yezdi in the Afterlife idea was nonsense, and the British Empire has been manipulated for two decades by—by—”
“By a living person,” Burton said. “And you find that less acceptable than a ghost?”
“I was going to say, by a foreigner.”
Burton laughed. “By Allah’s beard! That’s far, far worse!”
“Désastreux!” Levi agreed.
They rounded a corner and saw a steam sphere tearing up the drive toward the house. It skidded to a halt in front of the main entrance, hissing forth a final plume of vapour before its engine fell silent. The vehicle’s door hinged upward and Detective Inspector Trounce stepped out. He saw them and waved them over.
“By Jove, Burton,” he cried out. “You’ve a lot to answer for!”
“What on earth are you doing here, Trounce? And what do you mean?”
“Chief Commissioner Mayne has issued a temporary ban on me flying police rotorchairs.”
“Why so?”
“Because you destroyed two of the confounded things while under my supervision. So, what with last night’s storm throwing tree trunks all over railway tracks, I had no option but to come here in this contraption. What a bloody drive! The roads are hellish!”