“Right you are, sir. You know where to find me.” Bram saluted again and departed. Half a minute later, Burton heard Mrs. Angell cry out, “Not there! Not there! I’ve just brushed it!”

The street door banged. Burton resumed his training. Five minutes passed. The doorbell clanged again. Mrs. Angell reappeared at the study door, this time with a broom in her hand.

“Mr. Monckton Milnes is here. Perhaps you’d consider moving your study to the ground floor? It would save me a lot of running up and down, not to mention sweeping. I’m not as young as I used to be, you know.”

Burton bellowed, “Come on up, old chap!”

Mrs. Angell grumbled, “Well! Bless me! I could have informed him in a rather more civil manner,” and withdrew.

Monckton Milnes entered and announced, “Just dropping by to tell you I’m fleeing the city, old boy. The growing stink is too much for me. Gad! Have you heard? The sewage is already rising into the streets around Saint Pancras. The sooner they release the flow, the better. Anyway, I’m off to Fryston tomorrow. Fresh Yorkshire air. I’ve bagged a berth on the jolly old Orpheus. Phew! What have you been up to?”

“Practising,” Burton replied. He returned his foil to its bracket over the fireplace. “Getting myself back into shape. Tipple?”

“No, thank you.” Monckton Milnes dropped into an armchair. “I’m swearing off the stuff for a few days. Rossetti called on me. So, the truth is out.”

“It is.” Burton sat opposite him. “All these years we’ve been friends, and you were hiding that!”

“Not just from you. I haven’t been allowed to discuss it with anyone beyond Disraeli’s inner circle. One must demonstrate an ability to keep the lips firmly buttoned if one is to be trusted with secrets.”

“Declares the most incorrigible gossip in town.”

“It is to that reputation, my dear fellow, that I owe my success. Through the ceaseless distribution of inconsequential tittle-tattle, I have earned a reputation as a man who cannot keep a confidence, thus not a single person suspects that, in fact, I harbour some of the biggest secrets in the Empire.”

“So you know the rest, I suppose?”

“The disappearances? Burke and Hare? You as king’s agent? Yes, Richard. What I wasn’t already aware of, I was briefed on last week. Now I understand why Florence didn’t return to the theatre. My manly pride is restored but, frankly, I’d gladly give it up to know what has become of her. I’m worried sick. Have you made any progress?”

Burton regarded his friend silently then said, “Before I answer that, tell me two things. First, why me?”

Monckton Milnes gave a slight shrug. “To be the king’s agent? Isn’t it obvious? You have greater skills in your little finger than a dozen men could hope to accrue in a lifetime. Your intellect is ferocious; you are as strong as an ox; you can fight like a demon; and you’re related to, and acquainted with, some of the principal dramatis personæ.”

“And the decision was made the weekend after my return?”

“Yes, in an emergency meeting on the Sunday, in response to Isambard Kingdom Brunel’s abduction. You and I were at the Cannibal Club at the time.”

“Who suggested me for the role?”

“I understand your brother did.”

“I suspected as much. Without his involvement, the coincidences are too remarkable to be credible.”

“What coincidences?”

“My investigation has led again and again to The Assassination, and according to two people, I was there—except, of course, I wasn’t. One of those witnesses says I had with me a rifle upon which the number one thousand, nine hundred, and eighteen was engraved. As you already know, one thousand, nine hundred, ten, and eight were integral to Oliphant’s ritual.”

Monckton Milnes’s eyebrows rose. “By Gad! That’s damned peculiar. What does it mean?”

“It means that Edward was already aware that I am somehow, unknowingly, involved in the events I’m investigating.”

Burton’s friend nodded as if this was a statement of the obvious. “He must have received information to that effect from Abdu El Yezdi, before the latter’s sudden silence. Can you continue to doubt the existence of spirit advisors, Richard?”

Burton pressed his hands together and tapped them against his chin. “Let us just say that I now regard the subject as an avenue worth exploring. Which brings me to my second question. When Countess Sabina first approached you, back in 1840, why did you give her any credence?”

“You and I have on a couple of occasions discussed the pornographic poem The Betuliad.”

Burton nodded. “A celebration of flagellation, author unknown. What of it?”

“The countess knew that it also exists under an alternate title—The Rodiad. She was also aware of the author’s identity.”

“Indeed! Who wrote it?”

“I did.”

Burton laughed. “You deceptive hound!”

“I was just having a little fun at your and everyone else’s expense. No one—absolutely no one—knew it was my work. Yet she did, and I couldn’t ignore or discount her.”

“Then I rescind my earlier refusal,” Burton said. “I would like to meet with her. Might she be willing to see me?”

“I should think so. She’s a virtual recluse these days but she still comes to me when I request it, and I daresay she’ll call on you if I ask her to.”

“Thank you. As to whether I’ve made any progress or not, I can’t judge it, but there have certainly been developments, the main being that, with Oliphant’s help, Burke and Hare have broken Francis Galton out of Bedlam.”

“Good God! They have Galton, of all people? That man’s mastery of Eugenics poses a terrible danger. Are you certain it was Burke and Hare?”

“I’m sure of it.”

“What the hell are they playing at, I wonder?”

“I intend to find out.”

Monckton Milnes, his face creasing with worry, massaged his forehead.

Burton said, “I’m concerned you might also be at risk. I imagine they have a bone to pick with you.”

“Probably not. I strongly doubt that Palmerston’s thugs are aware of the role I played in their master’s fall from grace. I was very much behind the scenes.”

“Good,” Burton responded. “Nevertheless, I’m glad you’re off to Fryston. If Burke and Hare are currently in London, then perhaps it’s best that you’re not.”

Monckton Milnes jumped to his feet. “You’re right, and I’m running late. Sorry to be unsociable but I really must dash. Bags to pack and whatnot. I understand you’ll be at Wallington Hall next month. I’ll see you there.”

Burton rose. “Ah! You’re attending, too, then?”

“I wouldn’t miss it. Rossetti showed me some of young Swinburne’s poetry—it’s quite extraordinary. I’ve never read anything like it. A prodigious talent! He’s going to be an absolute sensation and I’m eager to meet him. I wrote to Lady Trevelyan. She doesn’t entirely approve of me—I’m rather too raffish, apparently. Nevertheless, I managed to wangle an invite. A few days there, then perhaps we can travel together to New Wardour Castle, yes?”

“Certainly.”

They strode across the room. The explorer opened the door and followed his friend through.

“Incidentally,” Burton said as they descended the stairs, “what of your French acquaintance?”

“No word yet—the post isn’t that fast—but I’ll contact you the moment he replies.”

“Very well. Of course, I’ll do likewise if I discover anything about Nurse Nightingale.”

Monckton Milnes took his topper from the hallway stand.

Just as Burton was reaching to open the street door, a tremendous thumping rattled it on its hinges.

“Great heavens!” Monckton Milnes exclaimed. “Are we under attack?”

“It appears so.” Burton turned the handle and opened the door. Detective Inspector Trounce, who was just commencing his next assault, overbalanced and stumbled in.

Burton caught him. He introduced his guests to one another, and pointed at the detective’s hat. “What on earth is that?”