The constable whistled to a portly gentleman, who waddled over and was introduced as Bevan Llewelyn, proprietor of the Rhoslligwyspite Inn. The name might have been unpronounceable, but the prospect of ale, warmth, and comfort was enough to propel Swinburne back to his feet with a cry of, “Lead on, dear fellow! A tipple will do me a world of good!”
“You didn’t swallow enough of the Irish Sea?” Trounce enquired.
Bram passed over the poet’s clothes and a minute later Swinburne was hastening toward Moelfre with the rest of them trying to keep up.
“Is this him fagged?” Trounce wondered. “By Jove, Burton, but you keep some strange company!”
Bram piped up, “He’s like one of ’em froons what captured ye in Greece, is that not the case, Mr. Fogg?”
“You probably mean fauns,” Burton put in. “And whatever you’re referring to was just a story, lad.”
“To be sure, sir! The Baker Street Detective, issue nine hundred and eight, if I be rememberin’ rightly. The Case of the Greek Interloper.”
“I’m not Macallister Fogg,” Trounce protested.
Bram grinned and gave him an exaggerated wink. “Don’t you be a-worrying, sir. Me lips are sealed, so they are.”
When they reached the outskirts of the village, Burton looked back and saw a long line of people, all in pairs, slowly carrying the drowned toward the little settlement. He shook his head sadly. He was no stranger to death, but had never witnessed such a terrible toll.
The Rhoslligwyspite Inn—or “Rosie with Spite,” as Swinburne rechristened it, before then mutating it into “The Spiteful Rosie”—was a small but comfortable pub. It had two upstairs rooms available for guests, both of which Burton paid for. He, Levi, and Swinburne changed into dry clothes. Neither Trounce nor Stoker had brought any, so they requested that the fire be lit in one of the chambers, then stood in front of it and steamed.
They all rested. Llewelyn delivered well-filled bowls of beef stew and bottles of ale, all “on the house” due to Swinburne being regarded as a hero. Slowly, the bar downstairs filled, though its conversations were subdued. The villagers had been up all the previous night and through the day, so didn’t remain for long. By eleven o’clock, silence reigned, and even the wind had worn itself out and could only manage a few pitiful whimpers.
Burton and his colleagues—minus Bram, who’d fallen asleep—gathered in the downstairs lounge, pulling armchairs around a coffee table by the fireplace. Llewelyn told them they could help themselves to beer, then locked up and went to bed.
“Damned calamity,” Trounce muttered. “Worst wreck in living memory. I shall never get the image of all those corpses out of my head.”
“Il était terrible,” Levi agreed.
Burton adjusted the wick of the nearest lamp and, by its increased light, started to unwrap the package Swinburne had recovered.
“I meant to ask, Trounce—how did you know?”
“About the ship? The lifeguard station here telegraphed the Admiralty as soon as the clipper was grounded. In such cases, because a police presence is often required shoreside, the Force is always alerted. I was just finishing my shift when I happened to overhear a conversation about it. You’d already shown me the telegraph message received on the Orpheus during the aurora phenomenon,” he tapped his head, “and things clicked, so I jumped into a steam sphere and drove all night through the storm. Thus the bags under my eyes.”
“Good man,” Burton said. “By James, this package is tightly swaddled!”
He unfolded the sealskin only to find a second layer beneath. This, too, was removed.
Swinburne leaned forward. “What is it?”
“The ship’s log.” Burton opened the book. “Somewhat damp and some of the ink has run, but the wrapping did a good job. It’s readable.” He spent a few minutes examining it page by page. “The captain was Thomas Taylor.”
“Lashed himself to the wheel,” Swinburne murmured.
“He do it himself?” Levi exclaimed.
“Yes. I could tell by the manner in which he was bound.”
Burton read from the log. “Departed Melbourne on the first of August, bound for Liverpool. Three hundred and seventy-five passengers. A hundred and twelve crew. Carrying a large consignment of gold.”
He turned one page after the other. “She was making good headway.” He moved a few pages on, stopped, frowned, and flicked backward to an earlier point. “Strange. Algy, would you mind reading to us? Are you up to it?”
Trounce moved to object—surely the poet was exhausted!—but before he could utter a sound, Burton’s eyes flashed a warning. The detective froze, then leaned back in his chair and said nothing.
“I most certainly am,” Swinburne cried out. “Hand it over.”
Burton passed the logbook to Swinburne, open at the page he’d selected. The poet curled his left foot up onto the chair and began to read. His voice took on the unique quality Burton had noticed at Wallington Hall, and within moments the explorer, occultist, and Scotland Yard man were entirely immersed in the account.
LIVERPOOL & AUSTRALIAN NAVIGATION COMPANY
STEAM FROM AUSTRALIA TO LIVERPOOL
UNDER 60 DAYS
THE MAGNIFICENT STEAM CLIPPER
“ROYAL CHARTER”
Thursday. 1st day of September 1859.
8.00 a.m.
In Doldrums off West Africa. Unable to establish exact position. Compass spinning. At midnight, the Northern Lights appeared (this far south? I’ve never heard of such a thing). As bright as day. No stars visible for the remainder of the night. No breath of wind. A curious atmospheric effect: all flames have died, and no match will strike. We can’t fire-up the engines. I’ve traversed the tropics hundreds of times and have never before seen combustion suppressed this way. The men are mad with the loss of their pipes and cigars.
3.00 p.m.
A slight current has got up. Drifting eastward, albeit slowly. Crew short-tempered. How we all depend on our tobacco!
10.00 p.m.
Another night with light from horizon to horizon. The sea is like glass and so reflective we appear to be floating through clouds of shifting colours. A marvellous but very unnerving effect.
Friday. 2nd day of September 1859.
8.00 a.m.
Still becalmed. No wind. No fire. Compass useless. Humidity tremendous, making sleep almost impossible. Second Officer Cowie reports the passengers are increasingly restless and quarrelsome. He broke up two disputes last night.
Noon
Indications that we’re still moved by a current in a generally easterly (perhaps NE) direction.
11.00 p.m.
No change. Again, the Northern Lights. Passengers rowdy. More fighting. A man named Samuel Grenfell (gold miner) stabbed another, William James Ferris (storekeeper) in the arm. Has been locked in his cabin.
Saturday. 3rd day of September 1859.
2.00 a.m.
Seaman William Draper reports he can “smell land.”
11.00 a.m.
Lack of sleep overtaking all. Thank God passengers too tired for troublemaking.
Midnight
The aurora has partially cleared, now being confined to a portion of sky to the east of us, and has taken on a most curious aspect, funnelling downward onto a mountainous island just visible on the horizon. We’re at 3°10′N 8°42′E. According to my charts, the island is Fernando Po. The current is pushing us toward it. Still no fire.
Sunday. 4th day of September 1859.
7.00 p.m.
No change in our circumstance. A deep lassitude creeping over all.