No. Edward was an arrogant and evasive bugger, but he was family, and as distant as they might be now, the bond they’d formed as children remained strong. Burton couldn’t—wouldn’t—believe that his younger sibling was doing anything untoward.

He walked along the corridor toward the stairs. As he passed the door marked 19, he heard it creak open behind him. Fingers suddenly closed over the back of his collar and a pistol was pushed between his shoulder blades. A familiar voice said, “Inside! Now!”

He was yanked into the room, whirled around, and given a violent push. The door slammed shut as he sprawled onto the floor. He rolled and looked up at Macallister Fogg.

“What the—?” he spluttered.

“Be quiet!” Fogg growled, brandishing his gun. “Tell me what you’re doing here.”

“Which?” Burton asked.

“What?”

“Should I be quiet or should I tell you?”

“Humph! Don’t play the clever beggar with me. Answer the confounded question.”

Burton raised a hand. “I’m going to retrieve something from inside my jacket. It isn’t a weapon, so don’t get jittery and start shooting.”

“Slowly.”

Reaching into his inner pocket, Burton pulled out his authorisation card and threw it to Fogg’s feet. The man squatted, his aim remaining steady, retrieved it, and read it.

“By Jove!” he exclaimed. “The king!”

“Exactly,” Burton said. “I’m getting to my feet now.” He pushed himself up. “I suggest you put that pistol away and tell me your real name. I take it you’re an actual police detective rather than a character from the penny bloods.”

“I am. Detective Inspector William Trounce. I entered the lobby while you were talking to Pepperwick, saw you, waited for you to finish with Slaughter, and—” The man shrugged, pocketed his pistol, handed back the authorisation card, and gazed searchingly at Burton. His eyes were bright blue and, Burton thought, despite his aggression, good-natured in appearance.

The explorer said, “What’s it all about? This habit you’re developing of throwing me around is becoming quite irritating. Am I right in thinking you’re the same Trounce who was at The Assassination?”

Trounce’s eyes narrowed. “You saw me there?”

Burton gave a puff of annoyance. “I’ve already told you—I was at sea. So you were the constable who discovered the Mystery Hero?”

The detective’s shoulders slumped. “There’s plenty who say I killed him.”

“Did you?”

“No. You did.”

Burton laughed. He stopped abruptly when he saw that Trounce was serious. He took a deep breath and hissed it out between his teeth.

“All right, Detective Inspector. Why don’t we, as the Americans say, lay our cards on the table? Tell me the whole story, and I give you my word of honour, I’ll answer honestly any question you care to ask.”

Trounce held the explorer’s gaze for a second then gave a curt nod. “Not here,” he said. “As far as The Assassination is concerned, I’ve received nothing but ridicule and suspicion inside this damned building. Will you take a pint with me?”

Burton really didn’t feel like indulging, but he lifted a finger to his bruised eye and said, “You owe me one.”

A few minutes later, the two men stepped out of Scotland Yard, turned left into Whitehall, and followed it along into Parliament Street. They didn’t speak a word until reaching a corner, when Trounce said, “Here.” They rounded it into Derby Street and, a few paces later, arrived at the Red Lion public house.

They ordered beer, settled into a relatively quiet corner, and remained wrapped in their own thoughts until the pot-boy delivered their flagons of ale.

Trounce drank half of his in a single swallow, then regarded Burton and said, “It’s been the bane of my bloody life.”

“The Assassination?”

“Yes.”

“I was reading about it in the British Museum Library this morning.”

“And I suppose you read that I chased the so-called Mystery Hero into the trees where I found him dead?”

“Isn’t that what happened?”

“Not exactly. Certain parts of my report were suppressed.”

“What parts?”

Trounce’s left hand curled into a fist. He looked at it with a slight air of bemusement, as if it were acting under its own volition.

“I found the body, all right, but that’s not all. Draped over a branch beside it, there was the strangest suit of clothes I’ve ever seen. A one-piece costume of shiny white material, like fish scales; a black helmet; and a pair of extraordinary boots, such as a stilt-walker might wear. Before I could take a proper look, I heard movement behind me, turned, and was immediately cracked in the head with a rifle butt. By the time I regained my wits, my attacker and the suit were gone.”

“So someone else was there. No other witnesses?”

“A street-sweeper saw a man climbing over the park wall into Piccadilly. He was carrying a large bag, a jewel case, and a rifle. The description matched the man who knocked me senseless.” Trounce took another swig of beer then angrily dragged his wrist across his mouth. “It was you.”

Burton shook his head. “In your estimation, how old was this man?”

“Your age. No. A few years older.”

“Older than my age now or my age in 1840?”

“Now. I know, I know, it couldn’t have been you.”

“Detective Inspector, I was nineteen and on a ship. My father, who bears no resemblance to me, was in Italy. My brother, who is three years my junior, was in India. All of this can be easily proved. The person you saw had no connection to me whatsoever.”

Reluctantly, Trounce gave a guttural acknowledgement. He stared miserably into his almost empty flagon.

“I was very young—barely out of short trousers—and new to the Force. They said I panicked, reacted to events, and confused the Mystery Hero with the assassin. Some even suggested I killed him, invented the other man, and paid the witness to support my story.” His upper lip curled into a snarl. “Utter bollocks! I saw what I saw!”

Burton observed unfeigned confusion in the detective’s eyes. The man had assaulted him, lied to him, and accused him of a crime, yet the explorer felt himself taking an inexplicable liking to the fellow. There was something very down-to-earth about Trounce. He had passion and sincerity. He appeared trustworthy and reliable.

“Detective Inspector—” he said.

“Just Trounce. I’m off duty now.”

“Very well. Mr. Trounce, I’m investigating Isambard Kingdom Brunel’s disappearance—”

“Slaughter’s case?”

“Yes. But there’s more to it. I can’t tell you what—it’s a state secret. Suffice it to say, certain aspects of it appear to hark back to the time of The Assassination. For that reason, I’d rather like to meet this sweeper of yours. Is he still around?”

“Yes. He lives in Old Ford, a village to the northeast of London. Can you fly a rotorchair?”

“Yes.”

“Come by the Yard tomorrow morning. I’ll procure a machine for you and we’ll pay him a visit.”

“There’s no need for you to—”

Trounce guzzled the last mouthful of beer and slammed his flagon onto the table.

“Whether you like it or not, Burton, I’m going to be behind you every step of the way. I need a solution to this accursed mystery!”

“Very well. In that case, I’ll have the home secretary order Chief Commissioner Mayne to assign you to the investigation. Can you work with Slaughter?”

“Yes, he’s a decent sort. You have the authority to do that?”

“I do. And if Mr. Walpole gives permission, I’ll fill you in on the rest.”

Trounce’s eyes flashed with determination. “By Jove!” he growled. “If you can help me to clear my name, I’ll be in your debt for life!”

He scowled thoughtfully.

“Is there something else?” Burton asked.

Trounce’s nostrils flared slightly. “Just—just—Humph! A suggestion I made at the time. It was dismissed outright.”

“Tell me.”

“When I recovered my wits, I went down to the path and examined Victoria’s corpse.”