“Yaaah! Ooh ooh ooh, yes! Ouch! Ouch! Ha ha!”
Uttering a yell of frustration, Burke sprang forward, took Swinburne by what remained of his collar, yanked him around, and shoved him hard toward the coffin bay in which Burton was held. The poet crashed against the gate and clutched at the bars. He looked at the explorer, winked, grinned, and said, “My hat, Richard, what a dose he’s giving me!”
The cable smacked across his back.
“Oof! Yow! Has Sadhvi got away?”
“Yes. Go for his eyes, Algy. He’s dangerous. We need him out of the picture.”
Crack!
“Ouch! Ouch! Ouch! I’ll see—”
Crack!
“Ha ha ha! What I—”
Crack!
“Aaah! Eek! Oh oh! Can do!”
Crack!
The poet staggered back from the gate. The whip slapped against his shoulder blades and curled around his chest. He immediately raised his arms and pirouetted, winding the cable around himself and dancing closer to his assailant. Furiously, Burke jerked at the line, trying to yank it away from the poet. Swinburne timed it perfectly—just as Burke pulled, he jumped. Their combined strength sent him leaping high. His knees impacted against Burke’s shoulders and as the thug lost balance and went down beneath him, Swinburne fell on top with his thumbs over the man’s eyes and his full weight behind them.
Burke’s howl of agony shattered the spell, and as Swinburne rolled away from him, everyone started moving. One of the Enochians drew a pistol. Crowley snatched it from his hand, paced forward, and smacked the weapon into the poet’s mop of hair. It clunked against Swinburne’s skull and he went limp.
The Trans-Temporal Man straightened and looked down at Burke, who was writhing on the ground emitting scream after scream with his hands clamped to his face and blood welling between the fingers.
“Unfortunately, Mr. Burke, you’re no use to me at all in that state.” He pointed the pistol, shot Burke through the heart, then turned to Galton and said, “Put Swinburne back in the cell. I’ll deal with him at my leisure. It’s time to get going.”
The unconscious poet was returned to the bay beside Burton’s. A few minutes later, the Enochians locked Darwin and Lister into another before gathering at the tunnel mouth and filing out through it. They didn’t appear to notice Raghavendra’s absence.
Aleister Crowley approached Burton and with a cruel smile said, “I forgot to tell you, Isabel was perfectly delicious. How are you bearing up without her?”
Burton stared at him silently for a moment, then said, “She and I once talked about how we’d like to be laid to rest. We settled on a mausoleum. I now realise my post-mortem circumstances will be quite different.”
“Really?”
“Yes. I shall spend eternity in hell with my hands clamped around your throat.”
Crowley laughed. “After what I intend for you, that is quite probable. I’m going to work my way through all those you hold dear, Burton. Swinburne first, then Monckton Milnes, Thomas Bendyshe, Charles Bradlaugh, Edward Brabrooke—oh, I know them all. You’ll watch them die slowly and painfully until your life is desolate.” He clapped his hands. “But such amusements are for tomorrow. First I have a couple of parliaments and royal families to kill. Wait here. I’ll return for you. Perhaps we can lunch together.”
He turned away and walked toward the tunnel.
“Why, Crowley?” Burton shouted after him. “Why me?”
The Trans-Temporal Man looked back, blinked his unnerving eyes, and deliberated for a moment before answering. “In truth? Because you’re the only person I fear.”
He departed.
Burton slammed his hands against the gate. “Damn him! Damn him!”
He heard a crash from Krishnamurthy and Bhatti’s cell.
“What are you doing?”
“Trying to kick my way out,” Bhatti called. “Unsuccessfully. All I’ve managed to do is hurt my blasted foot. For the love of God, do we have to remain here with no idea of what’s happening?”
Burton signalled to Honesty and they put their shoulders to the gate. The heavy wrought iron didn’t budge. The explorer spat an oath and began to examine every inch of the cell. He looked for loose bricks, for a removable flagstone, for a means to lever the barrier from its hinges; he found nothing.
Swinburne groaned.
A voice hissed, “Are they all gone?”
“Trounce!” Burton exclaimed. “Is that you? Yes, we’re alone. How did you find us?”
Detective Inspector Trounce stepped into view, a revolver in his hand. Eliphas Levi and Montague Penniforth followed behind him.
“We waited at the power station,” the policeman said. “When you didn’t return, we came looking for you. We’d just descended into the other catacomb when Sister Raghavendra appeared. She’s gone on to warn Brunel. Is it true? There’s a bomb?”
“It’s true. Get us out of here.”
“Here, let me, guv’nor,” Penniforth rumbled. He stepped forward, gripped the gate near its hinges, put a foot against the wall, and heaved. While he pulled, Burton and Honesty pushed, and after a few seconds of straining, the gate suddenly gave, its hinges breaking free of the brickwork in an explosion of red dust.
The giant cabbie applied himself to the other cells, and in short order all the prisoners were liberated.
“Mon Dieu!” Levi cried out upon seeing Swinburne, who emerged a ragged and bloody mess.
“It’s all right, monsieur,” the poet said. “I’m stinging all over, but it’s perfectly delicious.” He reached up and gingerly felt a large lump on his head. “Apart from this.”
“And you, Monsieur Honesty?” the Frenchman asked. “Comment allez-vous?”
“Regaining some strength,” Honesty answered.
“Très bon! Your weakness is to be expected, but Perdurabo, he possess you only for a few days. You will soon recover, I think.”
“We have to get to the power station at once,” Burton said.
Krishnamurthy addressed Trounce and Levi, “If you don’t mind loaning Bhatti and me your revolvers, sirs, we’ll set off back along the Effra. While you attack the Enochians from the front, we’ll surprise them from the rear.”
The police officer and occultist handed over their weapons and ammunition. Krishnamurthy and Bhatti saluted, said, “Good luck all,” and departed.
“We’ll leave Darwin and Lister,” Burton said, looking at the scientist and surgeon, who were sitting blank-eyed in a cell. “They’re still under Crowley’s mesmeric spell but have obviously played their part for the moment, else he wouldn’t have left them here. We’ll send someone to pick them up.”
He led the remaining group to the secret passage and through to the other catacomb. As they proceeded, Trounce explained, “The violence and hysteria in the Cauldron are out of hand. We managed to prevent the rioters from marching westward but they won’t be contained for another night. The whole city is threatened. As for the less infuriated residents, we’ve evacuated thousands. They’re all scared to death.”
“There are many strigoi morti,” Levi added. “You are correct about Vincent Sneed, who destroy Big Ben. He is one. I stake and behead him. But your boy, Bram, he have nearly a hundred more reports of un-dead. At night, the East End is their place of hunting. In day, they sleep in the cellars and dark places. How we destroy them all, je ne sais pas. It seem impossible.”
They emerged into the vaults, passed Solomon, who was lying handcuffed on the floor—“I’ll send a constable for you,” Trounce promised—climbed the stairs to the church, and ran out into the morning rain, which was falling steadily from a leaden sky.
“Our rotorchairs are at the cemetery entrance,” the detective stated. “I told Sister Raghavendra to take one. There’s not enough left for all of us.”