The following morning, the remnants of ruined chimneys, dislodged roof tiles, and pieces of a decimated summer house were heaped against the walls of Wallington Hall, along with a huge mass of unidentifiable debris. The grounds were strewn with leaves, twigs, branches, and fallen trees. A phaeton carriage—not belonging to the estate and probably not even from Kirkwhelpington—lay crumpled beside an ornamental pond. South-facing windows had broken and rooms were in disarray. The guests confined themselves to the inner chambers while the staff cleared the mess and started repairs.

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” Lady Pauline declared. “What a storm!”

No one had slept well. They’d risen late and breakfast was more of an early lunch. After it, Burton, Monckton Milnes, and Levi took a stroll to survey the damage. The winds were still high and the sky filled with scudding clouds.

“I think I’ll head back to Fryston,” Monckton Milnes said. “I’m concerned there might be nothing left of it. Will you come, Richard?”

“I’ll pass, if you don’t mind, old fellow. I want to spend a little more time with young Algernon. Perhaps he’ll allow me to mesmerise him. As you suggested, El Yezdi certainly did so, and I’d like to peel away whatever mantle he cast over the lad’s memory.”

“You think there was more to their meeting, then?”

“I suspect so. I can’t imagine how or why, but the poet is obviously connected with the business.”

“And with you, my scar-faced friend. Gad! It’s confirmed, then. The whole El Yezdi in the Afterlife idea was nonsense, and the British Empire has been manipulated for two decades by—by—”

“By a living person,” Burton said. “And you find that less acceptable than a ghost?”

“I was going to say, by a foreigner.”

Burton laughed. “By Allah’s beard! That’s far, far worse!”

“Désastreux!” Levi agreed.

They rounded a corner and saw a steam sphere tearing up the drive toward the house. It skidded to a halt in front of the main entrance, hissing forth a final plume of vapour before its engine fell silent. The vehicle’s door hinged upward and Detective Inspector Trounce stepped out. He saw them and waved them over.

“By Jove, Burton,” he cried out. “You’ve a lot to answer for!”

“What on earth are you doing here, Trounce? And what do you mean?”

“Chief Commissioner Mayne has issued a temporary ban on me flying police rotorchairs.”

“Why so?”

“Because you destroyed two of the confounded things while under my supervision. So, what with last night’s storm throwing tree trunks all over railway tracks, I had no option but to come here in this contraption. What a bloody drive! The roads are hellish!”

“I doubt a rotorchair would survive these winds, anyway,” Burton said. He contemplated the metal globe and thought he heard something thudding at its rear. “But why make the journey? Has there been another abduction?”

“No, there’s been a shipwreck.”

Monckton Milnes, who’d walked to the back of the vehicle, said, “What have you brought with you, Detective Inspector?”

“Nothing. Not even a change of blessed clothes. Burton, the tempest grounded a ship off Anglesey at one-thirty last night. It’s called the Royal Charter!”

Burton’s hands curled into fists.

“There’s something moving in here,” Monckton Milnes said. He reached down to the latch, clicked it open, and lifted the door of the sphere’s storage compartment.

“Great heavens!”

Burton crossed to him, looked into the vehicle, and saw Abraham Stoker curled up in the confined space.

“Would ye be good enough to help me out?” the youngster moaned. “I can’t move a bloomin’ muscle.”

Trounce joined them and exclaimed, “A stowaway? What the dickens are you playing at, lad? Don’t tell me you’ve been in there all the way from London?”

Burton and Monckton Milnes lifted the boy out and held him while he tried to straighten his limbs.

“Aye, that I have, Mr. Fogg. I’m sorry, but if you’re off on one of your adventures, then you’ll need an assistant, an’ I’m just the boy for the job, so I am!”

Monckton Milnes gave the Scotland Yard man a quizzical look. “Fogg?”

Trounce groaned.

Burton told Monckton Milnes, “When he began investigating me, Trounce tried to throw me off the track by using the name Macallister Fogg, which he took from this boy’s favourite penny blood.”

“Spur of the moment,” Trounce muttered. “And damned foolish. So now I know who’s been following me. What the blazes are we going to do with the little ragamuffin?”

“We’ll have him tag along with us to Anglesey,” the explorer responded. “He might prove useful. He’s a Whisperer.”

Bram started to rub his arms and shake his legs as the blood returned to them. “Ouch! Ouch! I won’t be any trouble, Mr. Fogg. I promise. And—aye!—you’ll have the whole Whispering Web at your disposal, so you will!”

Trounce said, “Humph!”

“And Anglesey, did I hear ye say? Ain’t that in Wales, now? It’s a barren part o’ the country, so it is. There are more Whisperers there than telegraph offices, to be sure.”

The detective held up his hands in surrender and grumbled, “All right, all right!”

Burton surveyed the devastated grounds and the fast-moving clouds. “How the blazes are we going to travel? There are no trains, you say, Trounce?”

“All services cancelled.”

“The Orpheus,” Monckton Milnes offered. “You have the authority to commandeer it, Richard, and the airfield isn’t far from here. I daresay a machine of that size can manage this wind.”

A shrill voice suddenly proclaimed:

Orpheus, the night is full of tears and cries,

And hardly for the storm and ruin shed

Can even thine eyes be certain of her head

Who never passed out of thy spirit’s eyes,

But stood and shone before them in such wise

As when with love her lips and hands were fed,

And with mute mouth out of the dusty dead

Strove to make answer when thou bad’st her rise.

Abraham Stoker gave a yelp of alarm. “Oy! What’s that thing?”

“That thing,” Burton answered, “is Algernon Swinburne.”

The poet—who’d descended the front doorsteps gesticulating wildly as he recited—approached them. His hair flew about his head like a tumultuous conflagration.

“Hallo, hallo, and thrice hallo!” he cried out. “And one for the nipper, too—hallo! The Orpheus? Your African airship, Richard? Surely you’re not leaving us already?”

“We have to fly to Anglesey, Algy. There’s been a shipwreck. It has some bearing on the matters we spoke of last night.”

“On El Yezdi, you mean? Then I’m coming, too!”

“There’s no need for—”

Swinburne stamped his foot and screeched, “Nonsense! Balderdash! Tosh and piffle! Rot and poppycock! A shipwreck? A shipwreck? By my Aunt Betty’s beastly blue bonnet! It’s the very stuff of poetry!”

Trounce whispered to Burton, “Who—?”

“Later,” the explorer replied. He made a snap decision. “We’re wasting time. Trounce, Bram, Algy, we’ll borrow the stagecoach and set off for the airfield at once.” He turned to Monckton Milnes. “Fryston is on the way, I believe? We’ll drop you and Monsieur Levi there. I’m afraid we’ll have to abandon our plan to travel together to New Wardour Castle.”

“I’ll go there by train. I daresay the tracks will be cleared by next week.”

“Un moment, s’il vous plaît,” Levi interrupted. “Is it an inconvenience if I accompany you, Sir Richard? If you are to fly on the Orpheus, I have the opportunity to examine the room where Oliphant make his ritual. I wish to see it, though the glass and floor are clean now, I think. Aussi, this Royal Charter affair is connected, non?”