“The rifle,” Burton said. “Why did it so catch your attention?”

Old Carter looked at him searchingly and answered, “The barrel was, as I said, wrapped in a coat. Couldn’t see much of it. But I saw the mechanism and it was much more like the weapons we have now than what we had back in ’forty. But smoother, tighter, more—um—compact, and there was a sort of tube fitted over the top of it.”

“Tube?”

“Like, if you were taking aim, you’d have to look through it.”

“Ah, I’ve seen something of the sort—it’s called a telescopic sight—but I thought it a recent invention.”

“It wasn’t the only curious thing, Captain. There was the inscription on the stock, too. I saw it as clear as day. Remember every word of it. And all these years later, I still can’t make head nor tail of it.”

“Go on.”

“Wait. I’ll write it for you, just as I saw it.”

He stood and crossed to a chest of drawers, retrieved a pencil and sheet of paper from it, used the furniture as a desk, and wrote something. He handed it to Burton. The explorer read:

Lee–Enfield MK III. Manufactured in Tabora, Africa, 1918.

Burton passed the note to Trounce, who said to the sweeper, “You didn’t tell me this before.”

Old Carter shrugged. “You didn’t ask about the rifle, and to be honest, when we last spoke, I was shocked by the queen’s murder and addled by my memory loss.”

Burton plucked the paper back out of Trounce’s hand and considered it.

“If Lee–Enfield is the manufacturer, I’ve never heard of them. Nor have I heard of Tabora, and I know Africa perhaps better than any man. It must be in the south. The only rifles made in the north are Arabian flintlocks. And this—is it an issue number?”

He pondered the words and numerals, then shrugged, folded the paper, and put it in his pocket.

“Old Carter,” he said, with a wry smile. “You’ve added bewilderment to my perplexity, but I thank you for your time.”

He stood, and the other two followed suit.

“It’s queer,” Old Carter said. “You so resemble the man I saw that I feel I know you.”

Trounce added, “I feel the same.”

“I wish I could offer an explanation,” Burton said, “but during the week since my return from Africa, I’ve encountered more mystery than I experienced in over a year travelling those unexplored lands.”

Old Carter walked his guests out, into the street, and to their rotorchairs.

“Sangappa,” he said.

Burton turned to him. “What?”

“Polish. Made in India. I was just thinking—the seat of your flying machine would benefit from it. Best in the world for preserving leather.”

“Could it preserve me while I’m flying the confounded thing?”

Old Carter grinned and regarded the contraption. “Aye, it’s a blessed miracle such a lump can get off the ground. You’ll not talk me into one, Captain. Not for all the tea in China.”

“From what I’ve heard, tea from China might become a rare commodity. If someone offers it, I advise you not to refuse.”

Burton and Trounce strapped goggles over their eyes, climbed into their vehicles, and started the engines. They gave Old Carter a wave, rose on cones of billowing steam, and soared into the sky.

Trounce set a southwesterly course and Burton followed. They were soon over the outlying districts of London, and the clear air became smudged with its smoke. Below them, factory chimneys stretched upward as if ambitious to spoil the purer, higher atmosphere.

A thought hit Burton like a punch to the head. Momentarily, he lost control of his machine.

“Bismillah!”

He grappled with the three flight rods as the rotorchair went spinning downward.

“Impossible!” he gasped, yanking at the leftmost rod until the contraption stabilised. He saw a patch of greenery below—the East London Graveyard—and made for it.

“Bloody impossible! It makes no damned sense at all!”

His vehicle angled into the ground, hit it hard, slithered over grass, slammed into the horizontal slab of a grave, and toppled onto its side. The wings broke off with a loud report and went bouncing away. Burton was catapulted out, thudded onto the grass, rolled, and came to rest on his back.

He lay still and looked up at the sky.

“How?” he whispered. “How?”

Staccato chopping cut through the air and Trounce’s rotorchair came into view. The detective must have looked back and seen him go down.

Trounce landed, threw himself out of his vehicle, and raced over to Burton.

“What happened? Are you hurt?”

Burton looked up at him. “The numbers, Trounce! The bloody numbers!”

“Numbers?”

“On the rifle. One thousand, nine hundred and eighteen.”

“So?”

“One thousand. Nine hundred. Ten. Eight.”

Trounce threw his hands into the air. “Did you bang your head? Get up, man! What are you jabbering about?”

Burton didn’t reply.

Oliphant. He had to see Oliphant.

“To secure Damascus for us, I have to first undertake a task for the government. It is a highly confidential matter—I cannot tell even you what it involves, Isabel—and I’m afraid I must ask you to refrain from visiting. I may not be able to see you again until the first of November.”

Burton, Isabel, and Blanche were in the St. James Hotel tea room for Saturday afternoon refreshments. They’d secured an isolated corner table, but, even so, Isabel’s reaction—a quavering cry of, “Seven weeks, Dick?”—drew disapproving stares and a tut or two from the other patrons. Heedlessly, she continued, “After being parted for so long, we must be separated again? This is unendurable!”

He placed his hand over hers. “Lower your voice. The king himself has promised the consulship on this one condition. I’m confident I can complete the assignment by November, if not before. We’ve waited for so long, we can manage another few weeks, can’t we?”

“But what is the nature of this business? Why must it prevent me from visiting?”

Burton hesitated. He wasn’t certain why he was warning his fiancée away. Perhaps the suspicion that Montague Penniforth was keeping an eye on him? Or the feeling that, somehow, inexplicably, he was at the centre of the curious events that had occurred since his return?

He gave her hand a gentle squeeze.

“I once told you how I was employed by Sir Charles Napier in India—”

Blanche interrupted with a gasp and exclaimed, “How exciting! You’re a secret agent again, Richard!”

“Well, I wouldn’t go as far as to say—”

“No!” Isabel snapped. “I’ll not have that! Last time, it ruined your reputation. You’ll not risk everything you’ve achieved since.”

Burton shook his head placatingly. “This is not at all the same sort of thing.”

“Then what?”

Blanche gave a huff of disapproval. “Really, sister! If Richard has been ordered to keep his lips sealed by the king himself then you have no right to subject him to an inquisition.”

“I have every right! I’m to be his wife!”

Burton’s eyes hardened. “In all truthfulness,” he said, “if I tell you more, I will be committing treason. Where then my reputation?”

A tear trickled down Isabel’s cheek. She pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve, covered her eyes, and emitted a quiet sob.

“Please,” Burton said. “Don’t take on so. Consider that, with this one thing, Damascus is assured, and once we have that, we shall never be parted again.”

Blanche added, “Remember how much we have to organise, Isabel. Why, we’ll be so occupied, the days will fly by.”

Burton gave her a small nod of gratitude.

Isabel dried her face. With downcast eyes, she said, in a hoarse whisper, “We should go up to our room now, Blanche. We have to pack our things.”

“You’re leaving in the morning?” Burton asked.

“Yes.”

He stood and moved her chair out of the way as she rose and arranged her crinolines.