"Is, sir-he still lives. He was acting CO of the Corps when I met him."
Palmerston tried to raise his brows but they remained motionless on his taut face. He read aloud:
"Here lies the body of Colonel Corsellis,
The rest of the fellow, I fancy, in hell is."
The corner of Burton's mouth twitched. He'd forgotten that youthful doggerel.
"To be fair, he did ask me to write something about him."
"I'm sure he was delighted with the result," replied Palmerston, witheringly. His fingers tapped impatiently on the desk. He looked at Burton thoughtfully. "You were on active service with the 18th Bombay Native Infantry from '42 to '49. It appears to have been seven years of recurring insubordination and frequent sick leave."
"All the men fell ill, sir. India, at that time, was not conducive to good health. As for the insubordination-I was young. I have no other excuse."
Palmerston nodded. "We all commit errors of judgement in our youth. For most of us, they are forgiven and relegated to the past, where they belong. You, however, seem to have a rather stubborn albatross slung around your neck. I refer, of course, to your misjudged investigation in Karachi and the rumour that has attached to it."
"You mean my report concerning male brothels?"
"Yes."
"General Napier was concerned that a great number of British troops were visiting them. He asked me to find out exactly how corrupting the establishments and the practices therein might be. I did my job. I found out."
"You probed too far, according to Pringle."
"An interesting choice of words."
"His, Burton, not mine."
"Indeed. I have often thought that when a man selects one word over another he often reveals far more of himself than he intended."
"And what, in your opinion, does Pringle reveal?"
"The man maliciously besmirched my reputation. He accused me of indulging in the acts of depravity I was sent to investigate. His hounding of me amounted to an irrational obsession which, I believe, suggests but one thing."
"That being?"
"His ill-repressed desire to perform those very acts himself"
"That's quite an accusation."
"It's not an accusation, it's a supposition, and one made in a private interview. Compare that to the frenzied objections he made, in public, to my entirely imagined behaviour. His allegations have haunted my career ever since. He almost ruined me."
Palmerston nodded and turned a page.
"You were subsequently passed over for a position as chief interpreter?"
"In favour of a man who spoke but one language aside from his own, yes."
"That seems rather absurd."
"I'm pleased that someone finally recognises the fact."
"You sound bitter."
Burton didn't answer.
"So you left the East India Company army on medical grounds?"
"I was sick with malaria, dysentery, and ophthalmia."
"And syphilis," added Palmerston.
"Thank you for reminding me. The doctors didn't think I'd live. For that matter, neither did I."
"And your health now?"
"The malaria flares up now and again. A course of quinine usually quells it."
"Or a bottle of gin or two?"
"If necessary."
Another sheet of tightly written notes was turned aside.
"You returned to England in 1850 on sick leave, then prepared for your now famous pilgrimage to Mecca and Medina."
"That's correct, Prime Minister. May I ask why we're reviewing my history?"
Lord Palmerston cast him a baleful look. "All in good time, Burton."
The old man surveyed the next page, then, flicking a quick glance of embarrassment at the explorer, reached into a drawer and retrieved a pair of pince-nez spectacles, which he ruefully clipped to the bridge of his nose. Their lenses were of smoked blue glass.
He cleared his throat. "Why did you do it?"
"The pilgrimage? I was curious. Bored. Restless. I wanted to make a name for myself."
"You certainly achieved that. You completed the entire journey in disguise, as a native, speaking only Arabic?"
"Yes, as Abdullah the dervish. I wanted to be treated as one of the brethren, not as a guest. It has long been my view that an outsider, in any culture, is offered but a fragment of the truth, and that carefully dressed for his consumption, to boot. I desired authenticity."
"And you killed a boy to avoid being exposed as a non-Muslim?"
"I am, it seems, accused of that crime on a daily basis. Only last night, the question was asked of me for the umpteenth time. Did I kill a boy? No, Prime Minister, I did not. I am not guilty of murder; not of a boy nor of a woman nor of a man nor even of a dog."
"Are you capable?"
Burton sat back in his chair, surprised. This theme of murder arising again, so soon after the conversation at the Cannibal Club! It was an extraordinary coincidence and it agitated the superstitious part of his character.
"Am I capable of cold-blooded murder? I think not. Might I kill in the heat of battle or in self-defence? Of course. I may have done so in Berbera; in such circumstances it's impossible to know the outcome of your shots or the cuts of your sword."
"And what if you were in a position of authority and were required to send a man to his almost certain death?"
"I would fulfill my responsibilities."
Lord Palmerston nodded as if satisfied. He reached into his waistcoat pocket, withdrew a snuff tin, and sprinkled a small heap of the fine powder onto the side of his right hand at the base of his thumb. This he raised to his nose and snorted.
He sniffed and turned another page. Burton noticed that the prime minister's fingernails were carefully manicured and coated with clear varnish.
"It was in '55," continued Palmerston, "the Berbera incident. Lieutenant John Hanning Speke was one of the men who accompanied you?"
"Yes."
"Incidentally, I enquired after him last night. He's in the Penfold Private Sanatorium. He shot half his face off; they don't expect him to live."
Burton nodded, his countenance iron hard. "I know."
Palmerston regarded him. "Another enemy?"
"Apparently so. Are you?"
If Palmerston was shocked or surprised at the brazen question, he didn't show it. Mind you, mused Burton, the man was incapable of showing anything.
"Am I your enemy? No, I am not."
"That's encouraging, anyway. Yes, Prime Minister, Lieutenant Speke did indeed accompany me into Somalia. I got a spear through the face and he was also injured. One of our companions, Lieutenant Stroyan, was killed. The following year, after brief service in the Crimea, I organised an expedition to central Africa in search of the source of the Nile. Speke accompanied me and afterwards he betrayed me. The press made the most of it and a confrontation between us was engineered. It was due to take place yesterday at the Bath Assembly Rooms. It didn't. So, that's the history done with. Perhaps now we can move on to my reason for being here?"
Palmerston's mouth opened and a mirthless cackle sounded, though his lips didn't smile.
"Oh my goodness!" he exclaimed. "You are an impatient man!"
"I don't deny it. And to be perfectly frank, Prime Minister, I have a hangover and I badly need a piss, so I'd appreciate it if we could bypass the niceties and get to the core of the matter."
Palmerston banged his right hand up and down on the desk, threw his head back, and let loose a rapid sawing noise, which Burton-phenomenal interpreter though he was-could only guess was laughter. It rasped rhyth mically for too long, passing quickly from genuine to affected, and developed a strange sibilance which, for a bizarre moment, made it seem as if the prime minister had developed a leak and was rapidly deflating.
Then Burton realised that the increasingly loud hiss was coming not from the man opposite but from the odd device on his desk. He turned his eyes to it in time to see the thing suddenly shake frantically. The needle of a gauge on its side swept over into a red-marked segment and, with a sound like a large bung being pulled from a container, the mechanism gave one last jerk and became silent and motionless. A wisp of steam floated from its top. The needle sank back to the left.