Arthur Hughes said, “But can you not see that the intricate beauty of this world is nothing short of miraculous? How can its creator be anything less than divine?”

“I recently met Charles Darwin,” Burton interjected. “You’ve heard of him? The Voyage of the Beagle? He’s formulated a rather astonishing and elegant hypothesis in which he proposes that a particular system of nature is enough to explain the extraordinary diversity and interconnectedness of life.” He went on to repeat, as best he could, Darwin’s summary of the theory of natural selection.

“No God need apply,” Rossetti murmured.

Sir Walter opened his mouth to speak. He was cut off by a splintering crash as the French doors suddenly flew open and wind came shrieking into the chamber, overturning glasses and small tables, sending ornaments, antimacassars, and doilies flying, and causing the guests to leap out of their chairs in panic.

Burton and Eliphas Levi dived across the room and forced the doors shut.

“The latch has broken,” Burton called to the others. “Rossetti, drag that chair over—we’ll jam it against the handles.”

This was done, and with the doors secured, they surveyed the chaos.

“I call an end to all discussions relating to God,” Sir Walter proclaimed, “for whether He exists or not, we have obviously infuriated Him! What!”

Lady Pauline summoned the butler and asked him to have the staff clean up. The group then divided, with the Trevelyans ushering Rossetti, Hughes, and Dodgson to Lady Pauline’s private gallery, while Burton, Monckton Milnes, Levi, and Swinburne retired to the library. There, until long past midnight while the storm raged on with ever-increasing ferocity, they discussed the merits of Darwin’s theory. Even Eliphas Levi, who’d trained as a Catholic priest, agreed that it had the potential to lead mankind to a new respect and responsibility for the world and its many wonders.

Despite his growing state of inebriation, Swinburne so impressed Burton and Monckton Milnes with his unique outlook and intuitive intelligence that, by two in the morning, they’d invited him to join the Cannibal Club. Burton had taken an instant liking to the poet. They shared a similar philosophical outlook—an aversion to physical, moral, and intellectual boundaries; a fascination with the banned, the censored, and the denunciated; and a restless dissatisfaction with the mores and manners of British society—but he also detected in Swinburne an indefinable ennui, as if a normal life couldn’t offer the poet even one jot of fulfilment. This, Burton understood.

The conversation had already touched on the Afterlife and the existence—or not—of the soul. Now, Burton—who’d already divulged state secrets to Detective Inspector Trounce, Detective Inspector Slaughter, and Eliphas Levi—decided to bring Swinburne into the fold. He knew it was a risk. The little man was wild and idiosyncratic, but Burton felt an immediate trust, and he always allowed himself to be guided by instinct.

“Algernon,” he said.

“Algy, please, Sir Richard. Brandy dissolves formalities.”

“Very well. Then drop the Sir. It still feels like an absurd trimming to me. I understand you once met an individual named Abdu El Yezdi?”

“I did, and—my hat!—what a hideous creature he was, too!”

Burton glanced first at Monckton Milnes then at Levi.

“Would you tell us about it?”

Swinburne had been sitting with one leg crossed over the other, his foot swinging spasmodically. He now tucked it under himself, adopting the position that Burton already associated with the poet taking centre stage.

“It was five years ago,” Swinburne began. “I was seventeen years old and eager to be a cavalryman—forlorn hopes and riotous charges!—but my father forbade it. I was holidaying with my family on the Isle of Wight at the time, and one day I decided to put my courage to the test by climbing Culver Cliff.”

He addressed Levi, “Monsieur, it is a sheer face of chalk and flint, averaging three hundred feet in height.”

“Très dangereux, non?” Levi muttered.

“Indeed so. Before commencing the climb, I swam in the sea, which was tremendously rough that day. It was the beginning of my love affair with storm-wracked waters—I’ve never been able to resist them since. Having survived the waves, I then made my first attempt at the rock face, but an overhanging ledge defeated me and I was forced to make my way back to the beach. I chose another route, gritted my teeth, and swore I would not come down alive again. So I climbed, and the wind, penetrating the nooks and crannies, made a sound like the Eton Chapel organ, and gulls wheeled around me and I feared they would peck out my eyes. But on I went, until, just as I came close to the top, the chalk crumbled beneath my feet and I was left dangling by my fingertips from a ledge. Thankfully, I was able to carefully gain a different foothold, and with that to secure me, hauled myself over the top and onto the edge of the Culver Downs. Gents, I was immobilised by exhaustion, on my back with eyes closed, when a voice said, ‘Roll to your left, Algy, else you might find that going down is far quicker than coming up.’”

“He knew your name?” Burton asked.

“Yes. So I shifted away from the cliff edge and saw an extraordinary figure sitting cross-legged nearby.”

“What did he look like? Hideous, you said?”

“Fat! He was dressed in white Arabian robes, with a keffiyeh covering his head. His skin was dark, his right eye blind and milky, and his teeth large, crooked, and rotten. An enormous beard flowed down over his protruding belly, and when he spoke, he moved his hands constantly. ‘As-salamu alaykum,’ he said. ‘I am Abdu El Yezdi. Are you satisfied now? Do you feel yourself courageous?’”

Burton frowned. “Then he was also aware of the purpose of your climb?”

“He was. And I replied, ‘Courageous enough to ascend a cliff, anyway,’ to which he responded, ‘Courage, Algy, is not accurately measured in isolated acts of bravery, but in the ongoing ability to express your own true nature, no matter how you are judged or feted or damned.’”

“Mon Dieu! Combien vrai!” Levi exclaimed.

The poet nodded. “He then said, ‘Listen to me, young man. Soon your courage will be tested in a manner you can’t imagine. When that time comes, do not doubt yourself, for your instincts are true. Look for—’” Swinburne paused and suddenly gawped at Burton.

“What is it?” the explorer asked.

“He—he said, ‘Look for the man with a scar on his face. When he comes, your travails will begin.’”

Burton reached up and with his fingertips traced the deep scar that scored his cheek. He was conscious that the poet, Levi, and Monckton Milnes were all staring at him.

A minute passed, then Swinburne went on, “The next thing I knew, I awoke, lying there, and was alone. I couldn’t even remember falling asleep.”

Monckton Milnes murmured, “Mesmerism?”

“Undoubtedly,” Burton agreed.

“There’s one more thing,” Swinburne added. “I have a vague impression of Abdu El Yezdi leaning over me.”

“What was he doing?” Burton asked.

“He was saying, ‘Thank you.’”

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