Half an hour later, the growler stopped, the driver knocked on the roof, and they disembarked. Burton peered up at the man, who was but a shadow in the dense haze, and said, “How much?”
“On the ’ouse, guv’nor!” The cabbie leaned down until his face was visible. He pushed up his goggles, gave a grin and a wink, shouted, “Gee-up!” and sent his vehicle careening away.
“Penniforth!” Burton yelled. He started after the growler but had run only a few steps before it vanished into the gloom.
A police constable materialised at his side, stepping out of the eddying pea-souper.
“Trouble, Sir Richard?”
“No, not really. You know me?”
“Detective Inspector Slaughter has posted me to Montagu Place to keep an eye on things, sir. I understand there’s some threat to you.”
“I see. Well, thank you. I’ll be sure to shout if I need your assistance, Constable—?”
“Krishnamurthy, sir. Goodnight.”
On Friday morning, Eliphas Levi immersed himself in Burton’s library while his host attended to his correspondence, which included the usual flood of letters from New Wardour Castle, plus a summons from Edward.
After composing a reply to his fiancée, Burton made his apologies—Levi was happy to remain and continue with his reading—then stepped out of the house and yelled at a hansom he vaguely perceived trundling through the miasma. He checked its driver wasn’t Penniforth, then opened its door and was about to climb in when Constable Krishnamurthy called from the opposite pavement. “I’m under orders to keep guard over number fourteen, sir, but if you’d like me to accompany you—?”
“No, Constable, keep to your sentry duty. I don’t expect to be gone for long.”
He boarded the vehicle. “The Royal Venetia Hotel, please.”
The murk made it slow going, enfolding the city in such gloom that gas lamps remained lit, hovering dimly like chains of tiny depleted suns. It took an hour to reach the Strand. The thoroughfare had returned to its normal state; the huge sewer tunnel was covered over and a new road surface laid. Bazalgette’s workmen were now at Aldgate, digging their way ever closer to the East End—the “Cauldron”—and its teeming hordes of villains and beggars.
Grumbles ushered Burton into his brother’s presence.
The minister of mediumistic affairs was in his red dressing gown and customary position. There was a cup of tea and a stack of documents on the table beside his armchair. He was holding a sheaf of papers, which he put down as Burton entered. “You look as if you’ve been trampled by a herd of cattle. It’s a considerable improvement over when I last saw you.”
“Thank you. I have a vague recollection of you being at the hospital. Is that what it takes to get you out of your chair—your brother nearly being blown to kingdom come?”
“No. It takes an order from His Majesty King George the Fifth, who was concerned at the possible loss of a valuable resource.”
“Then I apologise for inconveniencing you.”
“Accepted. Where have you been?”
“In Anglesey.”
“The Royal Charter? It’s all over the newspapers. What has that to do with the affair? Sit.”
Burton neither sat nor answered the question, but instead asked one of his own. “What do you want?”
Edward took a police file from the table. “Countess Sabina. Dead. Your report is unsatisfactory, to say the least. Chief Commissioner Mayne is not happy. Neither am I. Explain.”
“I answer to the king, not to you, and the report will make more sense when included with the rest of the case files.”
“Then give them to me.”
“They aren’t written. The investigation is ongoing.”
“Damnation, Dick! What the hell happened to her? You realise that, by your choice of words in this account, you’ve made of yourself—as far as the police are concerned—the principal suspect?”
“I didn’t kill the countess, Edward.”
The minister sighed, threw the file to the floor, and selected another, which he held out to his brother. “I know. Read this.”
The explorer stepped forward, took the cardboard folder, and opened it. The document within was adorned with the Bethlem Royal Hospital letterhead and had been written by Doctor Monroe.
REPORT: PATIENT 466. LAURENCE OLIPHANT.
Wednesday, 26th October 1859.
I set this down in detail, for the case is the most extraordinary I have ever encountered.
At seven o’clock yesterday evening, Nurse Bracegirdle informed me that Laurence Oliphant had something of the utmost importance to impart. Having informed the nurse that I would see the patient in the morning, I was told that Oliphant was “extremely persistent and liable to have one of his violent fits” if I did not attend him immediately. Knowing Bracegirdle’s judgement to be sound, I consented to the request and went to Oliphant’s room, where I found him to be considerably unsettled, though perfectly rational in speech.
He said to me, “Thank you for coming, Doctor Monroe, and thank you, too, for providing me with lodgings these weeks past. I am grateful, but must inform you that the time for my departure is upon us.”
“What has occasioned it, sir?” I asked, careful to humour him while neither endorsing nor contradicting his statement.
“Why, simply that I am restored to health and have much work ahead of me,” he said. “I must leave here at once, this very minute, in order to fulfill my obligations.”
Upon enquiring as to the nature of these obligations, I was told, “They are of a confidential nature. I am bound to secrecy. But come, you can see with your own eyes that I am perfectly sound in body and mind. I have no wish to further impose upon you.”
“It is no imposition,” I said, “and I cannot release you without knowing your intentions.”
“Will you not simply trust that my presence is required elsewhere? Your duty is not to me, Doctor Monroe, but to he whom I obey.”
The instant he made this statement, Oliphant flinched and bit his lip. He looked at me with a furtive expression on his face, then suddenly dropped to his knees and held his hands out imploringly.
“Can you not understand? I am not my own master! You have no conception of what you do by keeping me here, or, God help you, of whom you wrong. I entreat you, let me go! Let me go! I am no lunatic swayed by ungovernable emotions! I am sane! Sane! Sane!”
“Mr. Oliphant,” I said sternly, “by your passion and your own actions, you cause me to doubt the veracity of that assertion. No more of this. Off your knees, now.”
Reluctantly, he rose, and slumped onto his bed.
“Then I am lost,” he whispered.
“Not at all, sir,” I assured him. “You are well cared for, and I give you my word that I am working assiduously to understand and cure the delusions that plague you.”
“Delusions!” he said, with a laugh. “Oh, you fool. It is on you now, sir. It is on you.”
He fell into a sullen silence and I departed, instructing Nurse Bracegirdle and Sister Camberwick to make regular checks on him.
Not long after, a terrific storm got up, its wind, rain, and thunder so violent that sleep was impossible. I was still wide awake and clothed when, at 2 a.m., I was again summoned to room 466 by Nurse Bracegirdle, who informed me that Oliphant was suffering a serious fit. I went immediately to the patient and found him tearing apart his appalling “cloak of rats.”
“Irrelevant! Irrelevant!” he screamed. “What a fool I am to think he would require this filth! Besides, I am superseded! He doesn’t need me any more, Doctor Monroe. You have seen to that. I am useless to him locked away as I am. You have killed me, sir! Killed me just as surely as if you strangled me with your own hands!”