“He hardly qualifies as a brute,” Swinburne protested. “And at this time of night? In this rain?”
The doctor frowned at him. “I think it rather less likely that we’d have an intruder in such weather, don’t you?”
“It wasn’t Tom,” Lallah said. “It was a—a—a monstrosity!”
“I’m going to take a look outside,” Burton announced. The other men—with the exception of Uncle Renfric and Doctor Bird—immediately elected to accompany him.
While the group changed into overcoats and boots, the cousins Rudolph and Jack went down to the basement storage rooms and returned with five clockwork lanterns.
Separating into pairs, the men left the manor and spread out across the grounds. Burton, with Swinburne, first examined the lawn where it abutted the wall beneath the window, but the grass there was short, springy, and despite being wet, didn’t hold a print.
They spent forty minutes in the unceasing rain.
There were no signs of an interloper.
George Bird gave his wife a mild sedative and the women went to bed. The men stayed up until well past midnight.
When Burton finally retired, he looked in on Bram and found him fast asleep. The explorer hadn’t seen much of the boy—just for the change of clothes after visiting the castle and dressing to dine in the evening—but he knew the Whisperer was enjoying his time “below stairs,” having become a firm favourite with the staff.
The explorer fell into a profoundly deep sleep the moment he laid his head on the pillow. He dreamt he was inside a brightly lit castle, talking to Nurse Florence Nightingale, which was curious because he’d never met her.
“You will lie still, sir, or I shall have you strapped down.”
Damn and blast you, woman! I’m perfectly fine!
“You know that isn’t true.”
I know you’re an interfering, meddlesome, infuriating shrew!
“Undo your shirt. I have to listen to your heart.”
And I have to listen to whatever that blundering young dolt is thinking, which I can’t do with you fussing around me like a bloody gadfly. You’re a confounded distraction, woman!
“Thank you. That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me. Now shut up. You’ve made yourself breathless. Much more nonsense and you’ll have palpitations again, which is, need I remind you, exactly what you brought me here to prevent.”
Then hurry up about it and begone! The crisis is upon us. I must concentrate.
“Richard! Richard!”
Burton woke up. Someone was knocking on the bedroom door.
“Richard! Rouse yourself, man!”
Bram Stoker stepped out of the valet’s room, rubbing his eyes.
“See who that is, lad,” Burton mumbled. He sat up and reached for his watch. It was a quarter to eight.
Bram opened the door. John Steinhaueser, wrapped in a dressing gown, stepped in. “Richard. Come at once. Something is wrong with Isabel.”
“What? Is she ill?” Burton jumped out of bed, lifted his jubbah from the bedpost, and hastily wound it about himself.
“She won’t wake up. Her maid found her in—in—”
“In what?”
“She might be in a coma, Richard.”
Burton told Bram to prepare his clothes then followed Steinhaueser out of the room and along first one corridor, then a second, until they came to Isabel’s room. Her mother and father, both in night attire, were standing by the door, their faces drawn and pale.
Henry Arundell reached out and took the explorer by the elbow. “Steady, son. Doctor Bird and Sister Raghavendra are with her.”
Burton looked past him and saw Isabel in her bed, her pallid features framed by outspread hair. She looked ghastly, her face as white as the sheets on which she lay, her skin translucently taut again her cheekbones, her breathing laboured and painful to hear.
Steinhaueser said, “Mr. Arundell, I should like Richard to be at her bedside. His presence may pull her out of it.”
Arundell looked at his wife, who chewed her bottom lip and gave a hesitant nod.
“Very well,” Arundell said. “Providing Miss Raghavendra is also present.”
Steinhaueser nodded and led Burton into the room. The explorer took hold of Isabel’s hand. It felt cold and limp.
“Deeply unconscious,” Doctor Bird said. “But I can’t fathom why.” He rubbed his chin. “I hear you’re well practised in the art of mesmerism, Sir Richard. Tell me what you think of this.” Leaning over his patient, he used his thumb to lift her right eyelid. Isabel’s pupil was fixed, directed straight ahead, the iris a pinprick.
Burton gave a guttural confirmation. “She appears to be entranced.”
“Not comatose, hmmm?” Steinhaueser asked. “But the sluggishness of her pulse—is that symptomatic of a mesmeric stupor?”
“It is,” Burton said, “as is, in extreme cases, catalepsy.” He dropped his fiancée’s hand and turned to her parents. “Mr. Arundell, I should like to call Monsieur Levi.”
Before Henry Arundell could answer, his wife snapped, “I hardly think the presence of a failed priest is necessary!”
“On the contrary,” Burton said, “Monsieur Levi possesses specialist knowledge. His opinion regarding this is essential.”
Isabel’s mother opened her mouth to respond but was interrupted by Henry Arundell, who gripped her arm, muttered, “Be quiet, dear,” and said to Burton, “I shall fetch him at once, Richard.”
“Thank you, sir. Mrs. Arundell, would you step in, please? I want to send Sister Raghavendra back to her bed.”
Sadhvi shook her head. “I’m all right.”
“No,” Burton said. “Go and rest. You may be needed to nurse Isabel later.”
The Sister reluctantly stood and left the room.
Eliza Arundell whispered, “Doctor Bird, is my daughter in danger?”
“I hardly know, ma’am,” Bird responded. “Mesmerism is Sir Richard’s field of expertise, not mine. Physically, her pulse is weak and she has the symptoms of anaemia, which in themselves are not life-threatening, but as to the cause—” He shrugged.
A few minutes later, Henry Arundell returned and ushered Levi into the room.
Immediately upon seeing Isabel’s prone form, the Frenchman hurried to the side of the bed and bent over her, touching his fingertips to her jugular, lifting her eyelids, and placing a hand mirror under her nostrils so that her breath was visible upon it. He straightened and, with a grim expression, said to Burton, “Sir Richard, nous avons un problème grave.”
“Then it is as I suspect?”
“Oui, I am certain. Les symptômes, they are unmistakable.”
Burton looked down at Isabel. Almost inaudibly, he said, “Bismillah! Why didn’t I recognise the signs earlier? The damnable Beast is among us.”
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In thirty different languages, Sir Richard Francis Burton cursed himself for a bloody fool. Secured in the library with Swinburne, Levi, Monckton Milnes, and Steinhaueser, he fumed and paced, smoked furiously, and uttered every expletive he knew—and he knew a great many.
“I can understand him being upset that Isabel is unwell,” Steinhaueser whispered to Monckton Milnes, “but why is he taking on so?”
“That’s for him to explain,” Monckton Milnes replied, “which he undoubtedly will do once he’s calmed down, else he wouldn’t have invited you to join us.”