The wreck lurched. The poet fell. He slithered across the deck and shot into the sea.

The last part of the vessel rolled over, was driven into the rocks, and fragmented.

“Je ne peux pas le voir!” Levi said. “I can’t see him!”

“For the love of God, Trounce,” Burton croaked, “let go of my arm!”

He straightened and cradled his forearm against his body.

The village constable looked around as a man approached and addressed him. He answered and, after the other had departed, said to Burton, “That was Bob Anwyl of the coastguard station. He says the tide is on the turn. There’ll likely be no more bodies washed ashore. We’re going to take these—” he gestured toward the many dead, “—up to Moelfre Church’s hall. The county coroner is on his way. I’m sorry about your friend. He was very brave.”

“And very alive!” Trounce yelled. “By God, will you look at that!”

Sure enough, Swinburne, bedraggled, exhausted, and with a package held tightly under his right arm, was climbing back onto the limestone shelf. Villagers hurried forward to help him, while others enthusiastically cheered his bravery. Burton and Trounce pushed through them. The explorer took off his coat and threw it across the poet’s shoulders.

“He was dead,” Swinburne panted, “and tied to the ship’s wheel. Let me sit down. I’m fagged!” He collapsed to the ground. “This was in his pocket.” He passed the packet up to Burton.

“I should take that, gents,” the constable objected.

“I outrank you, young man,” Trounce said. He indicated Burton. “And he outranks me.”

The parcel was about the size of a book and was very tightly wrapped in sealskin and secured with waxed twine. Burton handed it to Trounce. “We’ll examine it later. Let’s get Algy dry first.”

The constable whistled to a portly gentleman, who waddled over and was introduced as Bevan Llewelyn, proprietor of the Rhoslligwyspite Inn. The name might have been unpronounceable, but the prospect of ale, warmth, and comfort was enough to propel Swinburne back to his feet with a cry of, “Lead on, dear fellow! A tipple will do me a world of good!”

“You didn’t swallow enough of the Irish Sea?” Trounce enquired.

Bram passed over the poet’s clothes and a minute later Swinburne was hastening toward Moelfre with the rest of them trying to keep up.

“Is this him fagged?” Trounce wondered. “By Jove, Burton, but you keep some strange company!”

Bram piped up, “He’s like one of ’em froons what captured ye in Greece, is that not the case, Mr. Fogg?”

“You probably mean fauns,” Burton put in. “And whatever you’re referring to was just a story, lad.”

“To be sure, sir! The Baker Street Detective, issue nine hundred and eight, if I be rememberin’ rightly. The Case of the Greek Interloper.”

“I’m not Macallister Fogg,” Trounce protested.

Bram grinned and gave him an exaggerated wink. “Don’t you be a-worrying, sir. Me lips are sealed, so they are.”

When they reached the outskirts of the village, Burton looked back and saw a long line of people, all in pairs, slowly carrying the drowned toward the little settlement. He shook his head sadly. He was no stranger to death, but had never witnessed such a terrible toll.

The Rhoslligwyspite Inn—or “Rosie with Spite,” as Swinburne rechristened it, before then mutating it into “The Spiteful Rosie”—was a small but comfortable pub. It had two upstairs rooms available for guests, both of which Burton paid for. He, Levi, and Swinburne changed into dry clothes. Neither Trounce nor Stoker had brought any, so they requested that the fire be lit in one of the chambers, then stood in front of it and steamed.

They all rested. Llewelyn delivered well-filled bowls of beef stew and bottles of ale, all “on the house” due to Swinburne being regarded as a hero. Slowly, the bar downstairs filled, though its conversations were subdued. The villagers had been up all the previous night and through the day, so didn’t remain for long. By eleven o’clock, silence reigned, and even the wind had worn itself out and could only manage a few pitiful whimpers.

Burton and his colleagues—minus Bram, who’d fallen asleep—gathered in the downstairs lounge, pulling armchairs around a coffee table by the fireplace. Llewelyn told them they could help themselves to beer, then locked up and went to bed.

“Damned calamity,” Trounce muttered. “Worst wreck in living memory. I shall never get the image of all those corpses out of my head.”

“Il était terrible,” Levi agreed.

Burton adjusted the wick of the nearest lamp and, by its increased light, started to unwrap the package Swinburne had recovered.

“I meant to ask, Trounce—how did you know?”

“About the ship? The lifeguard station here telegraphed the Admiralty as soon as the clipper was grounded. In such cases, because a police presence is often required shoreside, the Force is always alerted. I was just finishing my shift when I happened to overhear a conversation about it. You’d already shown me the telegraph message received on the Orpheus during the aurora phenomenon,” he tapped his head, “and things clicked, so I jumped into a steam sphere and drove all night through the storm. Thus the bags under my eyes.”

“Good man,” Burton said. “By James, this package is tightly swaddled!”

He unfolded the sealskin only to find a second layer beneath. This, too, was removed.

Swinburne leaned forward. “What is it?”

“The ship’s log.” Burton opened the book. “Somewhat damp and some of the ink has run, but the wrapping did a good job. It’s readable.” He spent a few minutes examining it page by page. “The captain was Thomas Taylor.”

“Lashed himself to the wheel,” Swinburne murmured.

“He do it himself?” Levi exclaimed.

“Yes. I could tell by the manner in which he was bound.”

Burton read from the log. “Departed Melbourne on the first of August, bound for Liverpool. Three hundred and seventy-five passengers. A hundred and twelve crew. Carrying a large consignment of gold.”

He turned one page after the other. “She was making good headway.” He moved a few pages on, stopped, frowned, and flicked backward to an earlier point. “Strange. Algy, would you mind reading to us? Are you up to it?”

Trounce moved to object—surely the poet was exhausted!—but before he could utter a sound, Burton’s eyes flashed a warning. The detective froze, then leaned back in his chair and said nothing.

“I most certainly am,” Swinburne cried out. “Hand it over.”

Burton passed the logbook to Swinburne, open at the page he’d selected. The poet curled his left foot up onto the chair and began to read. His voice took on the unique quality Burton had noticed at Wallington Hall, and within moments the explorer, occultist, and Scotland Yard man were entirely immersed in the account.

LIVERPOOL & AUSTRALIAN NAVIGATION COMPANY

STEAM FROM AUSTRALIA TO LIVERPOOL

UNDER 60 DAYS

THE MAGNIFICENT STEAM CLIPPER

“ROYAL CHARTER”

Thursday. 1st day of September 1859.

8.00 a.m.

In Doldrums off West Africa. Unable to establish exact position. Compass spinning. At midnight, the Northern Lights appeared (this far south? I’ve never heard of such a thing). As bright as day. No stars visible for the remainder of the night. No breath of wind. A curious atmospheric effect: all flames have died, and no match will strike. We can’t fire-up the engines. I’ve traversed the tropics hundreds of times and have never before seen combustion suppressed this way. The men are mad with the loss of their pipes and cigars.

3.00 p.m.