His eyes blazed and he showed his teeth and backed away as two of my staff entered bearing a strait waistcoat. “No! No! Not that! Would you now have me unable to defend myself? He’ll come for me, Monroe. I know too much, and I am a medium, which means he can touch me even in this damnable place. In the name of God, leave my arms free that I may at least trace a protective sigil.”
“The restraint is for your own good,” I said.
He shrieked and thrashed but my two men, with help from Bracegirdle and me, were able to hold him down while Sister Camberwick applied a syringe to his neck. The sedative took immediate effect, and the strait waistcoat was put upon him and secured. When this task was done, he was left sitting passively on the edge of the bed. He quite suddenly looked up at me and whispered, “The storm heralds his arrival. He is here. God have mercy on my blighted soul, I am done.”
Nurse Bracegirdle and Sister Camberwick will corroborate what happened next. I thank the Lord that I did not witness it alone, for had I done so, I would be forced to question my own sanity.
Oliphant blinked, and in that split-second, his eyes became completely black; I refer not only to the pupils, but to the whites as well. In a deep and unfamiliar voice, which sounded uncannily like many voices in absolute harmony, he said, “I expect to be fully occupied for some considerable time, Doctor Monroe, but I shall not forget your interference. In due course, there will be a reckoning.”
The patient’s head then twisted through a complete revolution, his neck popping, and he dropped to the floor, dead.
With my hand on the Holy Bible, I swear that all I have set down here is true.
The minister of mediumistic affairs reached for his cup of tea and took a sip. “The countess and Oliphant died in the same manner.”
“They did,” Burton confirmed.
“And do these deaths relate to the abductions?”
“I believe so.”
“Explain.”
Burton took a cheroot from his pocket, lit it, observed his brother’s expression of disgust, and maliciously blew smoke in the fat man’s direction. He then went through the case, explaining it point by point, until—before he’d finished—Edward held up a hand to stop him and said, “Enough! One absurdity after another! Gad! As a child you always had your head buried in the Arabian Nights, and now—”
Burton strode forward and stood looming over his brother. “The title of the book,” he snarled, “is A Thousand Nights and a Night, and this madness we’re caught up in is not from its pages. You bloody fool, Edward. You think I don’t know what’s passing through that Machiavellian brain of yours? You’re terrified that El Yezdi has abandoned you. You’re quivering in your boots at the prospect of losing your political influence. You feel yourself powerless and you fear that, if Perdurabo can reach out and kill mediums, then you—being one—might drop dead at any moment. You’re such a self-obsessed bastard that you’re completely oblivious to your one great advantage.”
“Advantage?” Edward croaked. “What advantage?”
Burton’s mouth twisted into a brutal grin. “That you’re dead, brother. You’re already dead.”
A moment of silence.
Edward’s pupils shrank to pinpricks. “What in God’s name are you babbling about?”
Burton jabbed two fingers, with the cheroot between them, toward the other man’s face. “The first words the Arabian ever spoke to you. ‘This time, you were saved. You’ll recover.’” The explorer allowed that to sink in, then continued, “This time, Edward. This time. The intimation being that, in other versions of history, you weren’t saved. If Perdurabo is so concerned with me—for whatever reason—then in the future he comes from he must have consulted records of my life, which doubtless stated that I had a brother who was killed in 1856. What he doesn’t know is that, thanks to Abdu El Yezdi, in this version of history I have a brother who survived; and one who has influence in every government department. As ludicrous as it may appear—considering your outrageous girth, ingrained inertia, and thoroughly objectionable personality—you, Edward, have been set up as a secret weapon.”
“Facts are chameleons whose tint
Varies with every accident:
Each, prism-like, hath three obvious sides,
And facets ten or more besides.
Events are like the sunny light
On mirrors falling clear and bright
Through windows of a varied hue,
Now yellow seen, now red, now blue.”
—SIR RICHARD FRANCIS BURTON
On the way home, and for the umpteenth time, Burton tried Brundleweed’s jewellery shop. Closed again. In four days, he would be on his way to New Wardour Castle but still didn’t have the engagement ring. He wrote a request for it to be posted there and slipped the note through the letterbox.
When he arrived back at Montagu Place, he tipped his hat first at Mr. Grub, then at Constable Krishnamurthy, before stepping into number 14.
Eliphas Levi had visited the British Library while the explorer was out.
“Ranft’s De masticatione mortuorum in tumulis and Calmet’s Dissertation on the Vampires of Hungary,” the Frenchman announced, holding up two thick volumes. “Beaucoup d’aide dans la compréhension of the creature we deal with, I think. Much information!”
Burton blinked in surprise then moved to one of his desks and took up an ancient and crumbling volume. Its title was printed in Sanskrit.
“The Baital Pachisi,” he said. “A Hindu tale. I’ve been translating it under the title Vikram and the Vampire.”
“Ah, mais oui!” Levi exclaimed. “I have heard of this story. The Baital is a great bat, non? It inhabit and animate the dead.”
“Yes. But surely, monsieur, you don’t suggest that Perdurabo is such?”
“Non. But these legends of the vampire, they are everywhere, in cultures far apart. We must wonder, is there a common basis—a truth at the heart of them? That truth, I think, will tell us how to defeat our enemy.”
Burton carried the old book over to his armchair, gesturing that Levi should take the seat opposite. The occultist brought with him his two volumes, sat with them on his lap, and began to fill his prodigious pipe.
“Would you explain?” Burton asked.
Levi stuck his legs out and rested his feet on the fireplace’s fender. He leaned his head back and puffed for a few moments, then said, “You have, I expect, experience that sensation when the presence of une personne particulière, it drains you, non? You feel exhausted by them, and you want them to go away but they stay and talk and talk and talk until you feel you have no energy left.”
Burton nodded. “Many such attend the Athenaeum Club.”
“Fréquemment,” Levi went on, “these people who so fatigue others, they appear to be weak. They are indecisive and their emotions are undisciplined. Mais non! The truth is, their volonté—willpower—it is very strong, for it feed like une sangsue.”