"You mean the gypsy race? It's true that I bear the name Burton."
"Ah! One of the great families. Your other hand please, Mr. Burton."
He held out his left hand. She took it, without releasing the right, and examined it closely.
"What! So strange!" she whispered, almost as if addressing herself. "This cannot be. Separate roads to tread; separate destinations at which to settle; one of small glories that will become great long after he has passed; another of great victories won in secrecy and never revealed. This cannot be, for both paths are trodden! Both paths! How is this possible?"
Burton felt his flesh crawling.
The woman's hands gripped his own tightly. She started swaying back and forth slightly and a low moan escaped her.
He'd seen this sort of thing before, in India and Arabia, and watched fascinated as she slipped into a trance.
"I will speak, Captain," she muttered.
He started. How did she know his rank?
"I will speak. I will speak. I will speak of-of-of a time that is not a time. Of a time that could be. No! Wait. I do not understand. Of a time that should be? Should? Should? What is this I see? What?"
She fell silent and rocked backward, forward, backward, forward.
"For you, the wrong path is the right path!" she suddenly announced loudly. "Captain Burton: the wrong path is the right path! The way ahead offers choices that should never be offered and challenges that should never be faced. It is false, this path, yet you walk it and it is best that you do so. But what of the other? What of the other? What of that which was spoken but doesn't manifest? The truth is broken and the lie is lived! Kill him, Captain!" She suddenly threw her head back and screamed: "Kill him!"
The room fell silent and she slumped forward. He withdrew his hands. The door clicked behind him.
"I say, is everything all right?" came Swinburne's voice.
"Leave us a moment, Algy. I'll be out shortly."
The poet grunted and closed the door.
Burton moved around the table and, taking the countess by the shoul ders, pulled her upright. Her head fell back, revealing eyes that showed only the whites; the pupils had rolled up into the sockets.
The king's agent crooned a low chant in an ancient language and made a couple of strange passes across her face with his left hand. His words throbbed rhythmically and, gradually, she began to rock again, in time with the chant. Then he stopped and said: "Awake!"
Her pupils snapped down and into focus. She gasped and clutched at his forearm, holding it tightly.
"I cannot help you!" she mumbled, and a tear fell from her long eyelashes. "Your very existence is not as it should be and yet, at the same time, it is exactly as it should be! Listen to the echoes, Captain, the points of time's rhythm, for each is a crossroads. Time is like music. The same refrain emerges again and again, though different in form. What does this mean? What am I saying?"
"Countess," said Burton, "you have told me what I myself have half suspected. Something, somehow, is not as it should be. I know who holds the secret to this mystery and I mean to get it from him."
"The stilt-walker," she hissed.
"Yes. You see much!"
"Beware the stilt-walker. And the panther and the ape, too."
"What are they?"
"I can tell you no more. Please, leave me now. I must retire. I am exhausted."
Burton straightened. He pulled two guineas from his pocket and laid them on the table.
"Thank you, Countess Sabina."
"That is too much, Captain Burton."
"It is what your reading has been worth to me. There is no greater cheiromantist in all London, of that I am certain."
"Thank you, sir."
Burton left and, with Swinburne, departed the premises.
It sounded like you were strangling her," noted the poet.
"I can assure you that I wasn't," replied the king's agent. "Keep your eyes peeled for a hansom. Let's get to Battersea and the Tremors. I need a drink."
They picked up a cab a few minutes later and, as it chugged southward, skirted around Hyde Park, and headed down Sloane Street toward Chelsea Bridge, Burton told Swinburne about his new post, about Spring Heeled Jack, and about his theory that the stilt-walker was a supernatural beingpossibly Moko of Africa's Congo region. He also told the poet about the East End werewolves.
Swinburne spent the entire journey with his wide eyes fixed on his friend.
Finally, as they crossed the Thames and rattled past the prodigious and brightly lit power station, with its four massive copper rods towering against the night sky, the poet said quietly, "You have always been an inveterate storyteller, Richard; this, though, beats any of your Arabian Nights tales!"
"It's certainly as strange as anything recounted by Scheherazade," agreed Burton.
"So we're going to the Tremors to speak to its landlord?"
"Yes. Joseph Robinson, the man who employed Queen Victoria's assassin."
"I'll tell you what I like about your new job, shall I?" said Swinburne.
"What's that?"
"It seems to involve a lot of public houses!"
"Too many. Listen, Algy-I want us both to cut back on the drinking. We've been going at it hammer and tongs these weeks past, letting our frustrations get the better of us. It's time we took ourselves in hand."
"That's easy for you to say, old thing," responded Swinburne. "You have this new job to keep you occupied. Me, though-all I have is my writing, and it's not been well received!"
The hansom steamed past Battersea Fields and stopped on Dock Leaf Lane, where its two passengers disembarked. They paid the driver, crossed the road, and entered the Tremors, a small half-timbered pub with smokeblackened oak beams pitted with the fissures and cracks of age, tilting floors, and crazily askew walls.
There were two rooms, both cosily lit and warmed by log fires, and both containing a few tables and a smattering of customers. Burton and Swinburne passed through them and sat on stools at the counter. An ancient, bald, stooped, grey-bearded man with a merry gnomelike face rounded the corner of the bar, wiping his hands on a cloth. A high collar encased his thick neck and he wore an unfashionably long jacket.
"Evening, gents," he said, in a creaky but jovial voice. "Deerstalker? Finest ale south of the river!"
Burton nodded, and asked, "Are you Joseph Robinson?"
"Aye, sir, that's me," responded the landlord. He held a tankard to a barrel and twisted the tap. "Has someone been talking, then?"
"I was at the Hog in the Pound yesterday. The manager mentioned you."
"Oh ho! That old boozer! My my, what times I had there, I can tell you!" He placed the frothing tankard in front of Burton and looked at Swinburne. "Same for you, lad?"
The poet nodded.
"I was told to ask you about the name of this place," said Burton. "The Tremors. Apparently there's a story behind it?"
Start with a straightforward question, he thought; get him talking first then move on to the subject of Edward Oxford.
"Oh aye, yes, sir, that there is!" exclaimed Robinson. "Let me serve them what's waiting then I'll come tell you all about it."
He placed Swinburne's beer in front of the poet, glanced curiously at the little red-headed man, and left them, walking to the other end of the bar where a corpulent customer stood rattling coins in his hand.
"Will you be embarking on any more expeditions, Richard, or has this new role taken over?" asked Swinburne.