Burton turned the sketch over and saw words scrawled in an erratic hand: Your Majesty, there are loups-garous at large in the Cauldron and the people here are greatly afraid. There have been deaths and abductions every night, far beyond that which is usual for this part of the city. The populace hate the police and will not consult them. I have seen one of the loups-garous with nay own eyes. This sketch depicts the thing I saw. It tore out a man's heart as I watched and made away with his boy.
– Dore.
"Good Lord!" exclaimed Burton.
"Personally," said Palmerston, "I think Dore has fallen in with the opium crowd and this is nothing but a drug-fuelled delusion. Maybe you can find out. With your ability to disguise yourself and adopt accents, I thought maybe you could penetrate where the police fear to tread; find this Dore chap and speak to him."
With a rattle and a whistle of steam, a second canister popped up into the contraption on the prime minister's desk. He took it, opened it, read the note, and offered it to Burton.
"Your salary."
Burton looked at the numbers scrawled on the paper.
For the second time that morning, his jaw went slack.
Last night's mist had condensed into a fog, a sickly sulphurous blanket which scratched at Burton's eyes as he waved down a hansom cab along Whitehall. It was one of the new vehicles, pulled by a steam-horse. These four-wheeled engines bore a passing resemblance to the famous Stephenson's Rocket but were a fraction of the size, being about five feet long, three feet wide, and three feet tall, with a thin funnel soaring a full ten feet straight upward. From each end of the front axle two thin, curved steering rods arced up and back to the driver, who sat on his "box" on the top of the cab, which was harnessed behind the engine. Levers on the handgrips controlled the speed and the brakes.
Despite the height of the funnel, smoke still had a tendency to drift into the driver's face, so he wore goggles and a leather cap for protection.
Burton climbed in and gazed out of the window as the hansom chugged away from the curb. The ghostlike forms of London's inhabitants scuttled through the pea-souper, fading in and out of sight as if their very existence was questionable.
His hangover had vanished entirely. He felt strong and positive; he possessed a sense of purpose at last.
Palmerston's final words, though, still echoed in his ears: "This is not a job for a married man, you understand?"
Burton did understand.
Isabel would not.
Penfold Private Sanatorium, which was run by the Sisterhood of Noble Benevolence, was located in St. John's Wood, off Edgware Road.
The hansom drew up near the hospital's entrance and Burton disembarked, handing his fare up to the driver. He mounted the steps and entered the building.
The nurse at the reception desk glanced up at him.
"Oh!" she exclaimed. "Your poor face! But I'm sorry, sir, we don't treat minor wounds here! Can't you see your own doctor? You probably only need your cuts cleaned and some cream on that black eye."
Burton gave a slight smile. "Actually, Sister, I'm here to visit Lieutenant John Speke. Which room is he in?"
She looked surprised. "He's no longer here, sir. They took him last night."
"Took him? Who took him? Where?"
"The-um-his-" She stalled; looked confused. "His family?"
"You're asking me?"
"No! No, sir. I mean to say-yes, his family took him, I believe."
Burton frowned. "Come now! You believe? What's going on?"
"Are you related to Lieutenant Speke, sir?"
"My name is Richard Burton. Perhaps you've heard of me?"
"Oh, I see. Yes, sir, I have. It's that-the thing is-well, the lieutenant was removed from the sanatorium last night while Sister Raghavendra was on duty and she neglected to do the proper paperwork. We have no record of who came for him or where they took him."
"The man was on his death bed! How on earth could she allow his removal without due procedure?"
"She-she said she was taken ill and can't properly recall events, sir."
"Is that so? At what time did this occur?"
"About four in the morning. There were very few staff on duty at the time."
"And Speke was still alive?"
"Yes, sir. Though, in all honesty-and I'm sorry to say this-but it's unlikely that he survived being taken from our care."
"I'd like to see the nurse-Sister Raghavendra-if you please."
"I'm afraid she's not here. She was suspended from duty and sent home. She was very upset."
"Where does she live?"
"Oh, I can't tell you that, Mr. Burton. It's against policy."
"To hell with your policies, Sister! They obviously count for nothing!"
The nurse's eyes widened in shock. "Sir!"
Burton pulled his wallet from his pocket and took out a folded document. He showed it to the nurse.
"Look at this signature, young lady. Do you recognise it?"
"No. Yes. It's-my goodness!-it's the same as the one on pound notes!"
"Now read this paragraph here," he instructed, indicating a short block of text with his finger.
She did so, pursed her lips, and nodded.
"Very well, sir. It seems I have no choice. Sister Raghavendra lives here-" She scribbled an address onto a sheet of paper and handed it to him.
"Thank you," he said, and turned to leave, satisfied with the effectiveness of the document Palmerston had issued to him that morning.
"Sir Richard!" she called after him.
He looked back.
She smiled. "Rub castor oil around your eye. It will reduce the bruising."
He winked at her.
Outside, Burton found the hansom still standing at the curb. He hailed the driver: "Hi, cabbie, still here?"
"Oh aye, sir. Thought it best to wait for the fares to come to me, 'stead o' drivin' through this stinker lookin' for 'em!"
"Can you take me to 3 Bayham Street, near Mornington Crescent?"
"Wiv me eyes closed, sir-which in this 'ere mess o' fog is just as well. 'Op in!"
Burton settled on the seat and closed the door. He rubbed his itchy eyes as the steam-horse growled and the cabin lurched into motion. His skin felt grimy, thinly coated with soot and other pollutants. He wondered whether Limehouse had been evacuated. During the previous fog-two weeks agotoxic gasses had settled into the Thames basin and a great mob of sailors, criminals, drug addicts, and illegal immigrants-mainly Lascars, Dacoits, Chinamen, Africans, and Irish refugees-had swept into Whitechapel, where they'd rioted for three days. When the fog cleared, and they returned to their hovels and opium dens, it was found that they'd piled hundreds of corpsesasphyxiation victims-along Commercial Road. With the risk of a cholera epidemic and a boom in the already unmanageable rat population, the government had called in the army to clear and burn the bodies. Ever since, the newspapers had been calling for an all-out assault on Limehouse, demanding that it be cleared and razed to the ground. This, thought Burton, was unlikely to happen. The opium trade needed Limehouse and, he suspected, there were powerful forces in the Empire that needed the opium trade.
It took far longer to reach Mornington Crescent than it should have; the cabbie took two wrong turns and, when he finally delivered his passenger to Bayham Street, he seemed beside himself with embarrassment.
"Never done that 'afore, I swears to you, guv'nor!" he moaned. "As sure as me name's Montague Penniforth, I knows every nook and cranny of this ere city! But this `particular' has befuddled me senses! I can 'ardly think straight, let alone guide this smokin' horse in the right direction!"
Burton knew what the man meant; some ingredient in the fog was causing him to feel slightly dizzy too, which, after a hard night's drinking, was the last thing he needed.