He was scared.

Uncle Renfric—having lost his parents to cholera, a brother to consumption, and three children to typhus—was no stranger to death. He took charge. Traditions were observed. Curtains were drawn and candles lit. Clocks were stopped and mirrors covered with black cloth. Flowers and crucifixes were distributed throughout the mansion.

Burton had slept fitfully for three hours. When he awoke, the day was gloomy and it was once again pouring with rain.

Bram, sensing that something was wrong, performed his duties efficiently and silently.

“There’s been a death in the house,” Burton explained. “I expect the servants will be glad of a helping hand today. They’ll have to remove the decorations from the ballroom, for a start. Go and have something to eat, then do what you can to assist them.”

“Right ye are, Cap’n.”

The explorer joined his friends and the Birds and Beetons for breakfast. None of the Arundells was present at the table.

“We thought we might make a quiet withdrawal,” Isabella Beeton told them, “but Mr. Arundell has insisted that we stay for the—the—”

“Funeral,” her husband supplied. “Sunday. Today and tomorrow, the family will stand vigil. On Sunday morning, there’ll be a Requiem Mass in the chapel. In the early afternoon, Isabel will be laid to rest in the family mausoleum.”

“Where is that?” George Bird asked.

“It adjoins the chapel, Doctor.”

“Catholic rituals baffle me,” Swinburne said. “I fear I may accidentally do or say something that offends.”

“Just stay out of the way,” Monckton Milnes advised. “And it might be wise to avoid alcohol.”

“My hat! Whatever are you suggesting?”

“I haven’t known you for long, Algernon, but, if you’ll forgive my impertinence, the hard stuff appears to accentuate your artistic sensibilities to such a degree that you become somewhat incomprehensible to the average man.”

The poet raised his eyebrows but said nothing.

After they’d finished breakfast, Burton and his companions headed toward the library, there to plan their move against Perdurabo. In the hallway, Henry Arundell hailed the explorer, calling him over to meet two newcomers.

“Richard, may I introduce you to Father Quilty, our chaplain, and Mr. Jolly, the county coroner. Gentlemen, this is Sir Richard Burton, my daughter’s intended.” Arundell’s voice was tremulous, his face ashen.

“My sincere sympathies, Sir Richard,” the priest said. He was a rotund little man whose cheeks wobbled when he spoke. “Please be assured, the Lord is close to the broken-hearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.”

Burton heard the words as if from a great distance. He nodded distractedly and turned to the coroner.

“I apologise for my surname,” Jolly said. He was an extremely tall and stooped man with a large hooked nose and a peculiar knob of hair on his chin. “It’s entirely unsuited to my profession. I’ll answer to Christopher, if you prefer.”

“It’s quite all right, Mr. Jolly,” Burton said. “You’ve been informed there were two deaths here last night?”

“Yes, sir, I have.”

“Will you look at this, please?” Burton produced the card that bore his authority and handed it over. The coroner took it, examined it, and handed it back, saying, “Am I to assume this is a police matter, then?”

“Yes. Doctor John Steinhaueser’s neck was broken by an escaped fugitive.”

“And Miss Isabel, sir?”

“I will leave you to assess the cause of her—of her—” Burton’s mouth worked silently for a moment before he finished huskily, “of her demise.”

“Then I shall examine her immediately.”

Arundell waved Nettles over and instructed the butler to escort the two men first to Steinhaueser’s room—to which Burton and his friends had taken the body last night—then to Isabel’s. When they’d gone, he held Burton by the arm and accompanied him into the library, where Swinburne, Monckton Milnes, and Levi were waiting. He said, “I have no idea what bedevils this house, and the fact that none of you has properly explained leads me to conclude that you aren’t in a position to do so—”

Burton made to speak but Arundell cut him short with a raised palm.

“No. Say nothing. I confess I have had my doubts about your character, Richard—and, to be frank, you are unlikely ever to win my wife’s approval—but I don’t for one moment believe you would allow my daughter’s death to remain a mystery to me were you not under some obligation. I will therefore fall in with whatever explanation Mr. Jolly presents. However, I request—no, I demand—one thing of you.”

“Sir?”

“If you plan to act against the fugitive—the man you say infected Isabel with a parasite, though I do not for one moment give credence to that statement—then I must be involved.”

Eliphas Levi interrupted, “Monsieur, we intend to act this very morning, but what we must do, it is très désagréable, and it go badly against your faith. It is better that you do not see.”

“I insist.”

Burton said, “We believe the man is hiding out in the old castle. We plan to confront him at noon.”

“Noon? Why noon? Why not now?”

“It must be at noon, or near enough. I cannot reveal why.”

Henry Arundell stared searchingly at the explorer. His brows furrowed, then he shrugged. “No matter. I shall pry no further. But I will come to the castle with you.”

“Very well.”

“Shall I send for police assistance?”

“No, sir. The police should not witness our actions.”

“Which will be?”

“An execution.”

“Great heavens, man! You can’t take the law into your own hands!”

“I have the king’s authority to do so.”

Henry Arundell took a deep breath and muttered, “This is an ungodly business.”

“Yes,” Burton replied. “That’s exactly what it is.”

An hour later, they moved to the smoking room where they were joined by Quilty, Jolly, and Uncle Renfric. The coroner reported that Isabel had died of heart failure. “The undertaker will visit later this morning to make arrangements,” he said. “He’s a good man. Miss Arundell will receive a first-class interment.”

Renfric added, “Until then, she’ll lie in our chapel. Henry, my boy, send those mechanical footmen of yours to my study. I’ll have them compose the cancellation letters.”

“Cancellation?” Arundell muttered. “Why, yes, of course. The party.”

“What of John Steinhaueser?” Burton asked.

Jolly answered, “As you said, Sir Richard, he was murdered, his neck broken. Should I arrange for him to be reunited with his family?”

“He has none.”

“Where, then, should he be laid to rest?”

“I don’t think he had a preference, sir.”

Quilty said, “May I suggest a small ceremony and burial at Saint John’s in Tisbury? Perhaps—late on Sunday afternoon?”

Burial. Styggins, I’m sorry. I’m sorry.

“Very well. Thank you. Can I rely on you to organise it?”

“Of course.”

Uncle Renfric gave a grunt of satisfaction and ushered the priest and coroner away.

Henry Arundell said, “It’s a quarter-past ten.”

Eliphas Levi interlaced his fingers and cracked his knuckles. “Oui, we must begin. First, we visit your groundsman.”

“Tom Honesty? Why so?”

“Pour faire des préparations, monsieur. To make the preparations.”

Forty minutes later, outside the groundsman’s lodge, the five men stepped down from the Arundell’s steam landau, each dressed in heavy boots and overcoats, each with an umbrella in hand. The rain was falling with violence. It needled against them, battering their brollies, hissing on the ground with such intensity they had to raise their voices to be heard.

Before they could knock on the lodge’s door, a slim and pretty woman opened it.