—FROM THE MEMOIRS OF ISAMBARD KINGDOM BRUNEL.

After spending the remainder of the afternoon strolling in Hyde Park with Isabel, Burton returned home and, shortly before his evening meal, sent a letter by messenger to Rossetti. By the time he’d fished eating—Mrs. Angell insisted on serving ridiculously large portions because he was “infected with Africa and needed fattening up”—a reply had come. Algernon Swinburne was currently touring the continent and wouldn’t be back until the middle of next month. Rossetti had, however, swung an invitation to Wallington Hall for Burton. This grand old manor, located in Northumberland and owned by Sir Walter Trevelyan, was a centre of artistic and intellectual endeavour due to Lady Pauline Trevelyan’s fondness for creative types, whom she collected around herself and, in many cases, generously sponsored. One of her week-long gatherings was set to begin on the 24th of October, and, according to Rossetti, Burton was most welcome to attend.

Swinburne would also be there.

The explorer sent a whispered thank you to Rossetti via the Irish ragamuffin and wrote a letter to Lady Trevelyan.

Later, he wrapped himself in his jubbah, lolled in his armchair, and contemplated the events of the day.

The British Empire was built on foundations laid by a ghost. His friend Monckton Milnes had secretly played a major role in history; and his own brother, whose belief in the Afterlife Burton had considered an aberration caused by brain damage—and whose position as the minister of mediumistic affairs he’d regarded as a joke—was sitting slap bang in the middle of it all.

He closed his eyes and allowed his mind to wander, hoping that, from its depths, some conception would arise to inject sense into what felt like a demented fantasy.

He waited for insight.

He fell asleep.

When he awoke at six on Tuesday morning, he was still in the armchair and his muscles were stiff and sore. He grumbled when Mrs. Angell served him a too-big breakfast but ate it all and drank the whole pot of coffee before dressing and leaving the house in a hurry.

He met Sadhvi Raghavendra and Captain Lawless at William Stroyan’s funeral where they all spoke movingly about their friend to the congregation. Burton struggled with his emotions as the coffin was lowered into the ground. He couldn’t imagine anything more horrifying than being buried.

Afterwards, they took a cab to the RGS.

The next two days were going to be filled with geographical matters, starting with this morning’s public presentation. They would, Burton hoped, be free of surprises. He’d accepted the king’s commission but, right now, didn’t want to think about it.

Isabel and Blanche took a break from their socialising to join the audience. Burton met them at the door and escorted them to seats at the front of the establishment’s auditorium. He then retired to a back room with Raghavendra and Lawless where they reviewed their notes.

By ten o’clock, when they took to the stage, the place was packed with journalists.

Sir Roderick Murchison made a brief speech before Burton moved to the podium and gave a long, detailed, and entertaining account of the expedition, the highlight of which was his description of the moment when he, Raghavendra, Stroyan, and Herne had climbed a hill and looked down on the waterfalls from which the Nile sprang. This was greeted by such wild cheering that it was heard in Scotland Yard and echoed all the way down Whitehall.

When Burton finished, Lawless took centre stage and gave a well-received account of his flight over the eastern shore of the great lake. He was followed by Sister Raghavendra, who told of her experiences and was rewarded with a standing ovation and cries of, “Hurrah for the Lady of the Nile!”

Burton came forward to take questions. Inevitably, the journalists, ever hungry for sensation, were more interested in the murder of Stroyan than in the geography of Africa. Having learned from them that Oliphant was at present locked up in Bedlam, Burton said it was the best place for him, and concurred with the prevalent theory that Lord Elgin’s private secretary had been driven mad by his opium addiction. Stroyan’s death was, unfortunately, needless and meaningless.

The presentation finished at three o’clock, but the explorer spent the rest of the day with his fellow geographers going over maps and measurements, notes and specimens, and didn’t leave the building until nightfall, by which time he was thoroughly exhausted and ready for bed.

There had been one significant moment.

Halfway through his speech, Burton had spotted in the audience the man who called himself Macallister Fogg. A minute later, when he looked again, that individual was gone.

Wednesday was also spent at the Society, this time presenting much more technical material to the senior committee—Murchison, Arthur Findley, Sir James Alexander, Colonel William Sykes, and Clement Markham. They spent considerable time matching Burton’s maps to those made by David Livingstone of the topography to the west of the Lake Region. Central Africa was beginning to make sense. Light was finally shining onto the Dark Continent.

Two busy days, during which Burton threw himself wholeheartedly into his role as the returning hero; the man who solved the riddle of the Nile; the explorer who’d braved dangerous lands and triumphed. He relished it because he knew it was the end. No more risking his life. No further need to prove himself. One preposterous hurdle remained, then Damascus.

He rose on Thursday morning with his geographical duties behind him and a plan of action in place. Foregoing breakfast—much to his housekeeper’s dismay—he left the house and plunged into the day’s fog, which, though not terribly thick, more resembled soot-speckled smoke and was corrosive to the throat and eyes.

The little urchin was on the opposite side of the road with newspapers draped over his arm and piled at his feet. He was yelling, “Death of mediums! Read all about it! Twelve mediums die in a single day! Cause unknown!”

Burton crossed and purchased a Daily Bugle. “What’s happened?”

“A great mystery, so it is, sir. Fortune tellers a-droppin’ dead, an’ there be no explanation for it at all.”

The explorer muttered, “Odd!” He pushed the paper under his arm, bade the lad farewell, and walked on, swinging his cane.

At the corner of Montagu Place, a vendor of hot chestnuts hailed him. “Mornin’, Cap’n! Glad to see you out o’ the jungle!”

“Good morning to you, Mr. Grub,” Burton called. “How’s business?”

“Can’t complain, an’ if I did, it wouldn’t make half a penny’s worth o’ difference! How you copin’ with the ’orrible pong, sir?”

“Pong?”

Grub pointed downward. “Of all that muck what’s swillin’ below!”

Burton remembered that, beneath his feet, sewage was rising in the new tunnels, its flow constricted by sluice gates. Incredibly, after just one week, his nose had already adjusted.

“I appear to have adapted to it, Mr. Grub.”

He continued into Gloucester Place, waved for a cab, and as its burly driver came into view, exclaimed, “You again!”

The hansom crunched to a standstill beside him and Montague Penniforth pushed goggles up from his eyes onto his forehead, looked down, removed a pipe from his mouth, and said, “Hallo hallo! Fancy that! It’s Cap’n Burton ’imself, as I live an’ bloomin’ well breathe!”

“Are you following me, Mr. Penniforth?”

“Not at all, guv’nor, it’s blessed chance, that’s what it is; another blinkin’ coincidence. Hop in. Where you hoff to?”

“The British Museum.”

As he climbed into the cabin, Burton cast a searching and suspicious glance at the driver. Penniforth, though sitting, was plainly very tall and so solid he might have been carved from granite. Burton had once been described as having the physique of a bull, but even if he’d been in full health—which he certainly wasn’t—he doubted he’d last long in a confrontation with this man.