Burton mused, “Mental domination over distance?”

Edward made a noise of disagreement. “Your own prejudice prompts you to search for an explanation that doesn’t involve the Afterlife. I’m sorry, Dick, but El Yezdi later stated quite categorically that he is not of this world, and I, having communicated so closely with him these past four years, am convinced beyond all doubt that he’s a spirit.”

Burton drew a cheroot from his pocket, contemplated it, then put it between his lips and fished for his box of lucifers.

Edward clicked his tongue impatiently and said, “Must you foul the atmosphere?”

Ignoring him, Burton lit the Manila and blew smoke into the air.

Edward sighed his exasperation, and went on, “When I was fit enough for the voyage, Ravindra and Mahakram, at my expense, accompanied me here to London. They delivered me to the sanatorium, where, as you know, Sadhvi Raghavendra nursed me back to health. As El Yezdi had warned, the boys both vanished. I never saw them again. I was unable even to thank them.”

Burton retrieved his glass, gazed into the foam of his beer, and summoned the painful recollection of Edward’s return to England. He’d also been in hospital at the time, and had suddenly been called to the sanatorium. With his own head swathed in bandages, he’d been escorted to a room where he’d found his brother in exactly the same state. However, where Burton’s injury had deprived him of a couple of molars, left him temporarily speechless, and gouged a hideous scar across his left cheek, Edward’s had threatened permanent brain damage. The two Indian lads—both gone by the time Burton arrived—had kept his brother alive, but it was Sadhvi who nursed him back to health. Having witnessed the miracles she’d worked with him, Burton immediately thought of her three years later, when he was planning his Nile expedition. He’d sought her out and, in a very unconventional move, asked her to join his team. He was surprised and delighted when she’d said yes.

“During the early days of my recovery,” Edward said, “I truly thought myself mad.”

“As did I,” Burton replied. “You didn’t say a word for three months.”

“I couldn’t. It was as if two personalities existed within me. I didn’t know which was real. It took a long time to untangle them. Perhaps I wouldn’t have been able to were it not for the Countess Sabina. She came to visit me and explained that Abdu El Yezdi had been communicating with her since 1840. She informed me that I was to take over her role. After giving an account of what it would involve, she then, to my great astonishment, ushered in Disraeli himself, who, at her recommendation, immediately appointed me his new minister of mediumistic affairs.”

Sir Richard Francis Burton drained his glass, put it down, stood, and started to pace the room, carelessly kicking books aside to clear a path. He puffed furiously on his cigar. His brother watched, then signalled to Grumbles to open a window.

“Blast it!” Burton exploded. “Is it really true, Edward? Has this voice in your head been directing government policy for so long?”

“Yes, it has. Twenty years ago, Disraeli was more than willing to listen to El Yezdi. The spirit had, after all, helped him to defeat Palmerston by convincing Monckton Milnes to offer support. Disraeli’s subsequent creation, at the spirit’s behest, of the Department of Guided Science bore such startling fruit that it was almost impossible to doubt the spirit’s benevolence. Then Ireland happened, and it made Abdu El Yezdi the government’s most influential advisor.”

“Ireland?”

“In ’forty-four, a man named Francis Galton presented to Isambard Kingdom Brunel a new science, which he called Eugenics. At its most basic, it concerns the breeding out of inherent weaknesses in plants, animals, and even in humans, and the propagation of their strengths. Galton proposed to test his theories by planting a crop of what he termed Super Solanum tuberosum—”

“Super potatoes?” Burton interrupted, incredulously.

“In essence, yes. He wanted to plant them in Ireland, the idea being that the plants would spread their hardiness to other crops while eliminating the fragilities that had plagued the Irish strains. Brunel put the plan before Disraeli, but Abdu El Yezdi immediately warned, via the countess, that the whole undertaking would be disastrous. He recommended that Eugenics in its entirety be made illegal. Disraeli, however, met Galton in person and allowed himself to be convinced to go ahead with the plan. It was catastrophic. The potatoes caused the entire crop, across the whole of Ireland, to fail. Widespread famine followed. Galton suffered a serious nervous breakdown and has been incarcerated in Bedlam ever since. Eugenics was made illegal, and from that point on Disraeli never again disregarded El Yezdi’s advice.”

Burton flicked his cigar stub into the fireplace and blew smoke from his nostrils.

“What am I to make of all this? The more I learn, the more . . . wrong everything feels. Everything, Edward! I’m expected to track down a man who doesn’t exist!”

“But who once did,” Edward noted.

The explorer stopped his pacing and regarded his brother. “When? Where? Who was he? What did he do? When and how did he die?”

The minister of mediumistic affairs shook his head. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?” Burton snapped. “You’ve had him rattling about inside your bloody skull for four years and you’ve discovered nothing about him?”

“As I told you, it isn’t a discussion. I feel his presence, my thoughts are manipulated into words, and I pass those words on to Disraeli. That’s it.”

“And his final words, aside from the warning about Brunel?”

“He gave assurance that the new unity of Italy is secure. He urged that our government establish bases in Lagos to stop the slave trade there. And—” Edward Burton examined his glass, which was now empty, and held it out to Grumbles for a refill. “And that was it.” He looked at his fingernails and chewed his bottom lip. He glanced up at his brother. “There is something else, something he said a few months ago that might have some relevance to your investigation.”

“It being?”

“The crucial years are upon us. Soon the variations will begin to overlap.”

“What does that signify?”

The minister shrugged.

Burton threw up his hands. “Riddles, obscurities, and voices in my brother’s head!”

Edward answered, “You’ve already asked a very pertinent question—who was Abdu El Yezdi when he lived? The king selected you for this task because you have extraordinary powers of observation. I’ve never met another man who can learn so much about something merely by looking at it. Perhaps if you knew something of El Yezdi’s appearance, you could begin to trace his origins.”

Burton groaned. “Please don’t suggest that I should have a table-tapper summon him out of ectoplasm.”

“I wasn’t going to. You met Rossetti today?”

“Yes.”

“He has a friend who claims to have seen Abdu El Yezdi.”

“In a vision?”

“In the flesh.”

“But you insist that he’s dead!”

“The man I refer to thinks not, but he has a reputation for eccentricity, so it may be nothing but waffle. Nevertheless, it’s worth checking, don’t you think?”

“Who is he?”

Edward took his refilled glass from the clockwork butler.

“A young poet named Algernon Charles Swinburne.”

“The four copper rods of Battersea Power Station extend two and a half miles into the crust of the Earth. They conduct geothermal heat into the station, where it is converted into electrical energy. With this, we thought we’d be able to illuminate London from North to South, West to East. As it happens, the electricity generated is barely enough to light even the station. The project has been a grand, extravagant, ridiculous failure. I must confess, though; I like the building. It makes a good, secure headquarters.”