“Poem?” Swinburne asked.
“Abdu El Yezdi’s. I still haven’t fathomed it.”
“Battersea Power Station.”
Burton started. “What?”
“I thought you must have it. After all, it’s as plain as the nose on your face.”
The poet recited:
Whene’er you doubt thy station in life
Thou shalt take to the tempestuous sea.
To all the four points it shall batter thee
Until you find thine own power, and me.
He concluded, “Station, sea, batter, power, and four points. Bleedin’ obvious!”
Burton muttered, “It is, and I feel an absolute dolt.”
A warning bell jangled and the guardsman’s voice sounded through a speaking tube. “Brace for departure, please. Brace for departure.”
The passengers sat back in the forward-facing seats and waited for the countdown bell’s three clangs. They came. Outside, the bellows squeezed shut. The train shot forward as if fired out of a cannon. Bram Stoker hollered his delight.
London, Burton thought. And vengeance.
“Character is destiny.”
—HERACLITUS, FRAGMENTS
NOTICE
PREVENTIVES OF CHOLERA!
Published by order of the Sanitary Committee,
under the sanction of the Medical Council.
BE TEMPERATE IN EATING & DRINKING!
Avoid Raw Vegetables and Unripe Fruit!
Abstain from COLD WATER,
and above all from ARDENT SPIRITS.
If habit has rendered them indispensable,
take much less than usual.
They were back in the capital by mid-afternoon.
“I need to meditate,” Burton said. “I have to repair the damage done to me. I cannot function like this—my heart is ruling my head. We’re all exhausted, too. I suggest we reconvene tomorrow. Let us face the enemy refreshed.”
“Smashing!” Swinburne exclaimed. “I shall have Betsy thwack some sense into me, else this sensation that I’m stuck in the pages of one of Bram’s lurid penny dreadfuls is liable to continue.” He crossed and uncrossed his arms. “My apologies, Richard. That was insensitive of me. This is all rather too real.”
“It is, Algy. Go to your dolly-mop if you must, but don’t overindulge. We have much to do tomorrow.”
The poet left them while Burton and Levi continued on to Montagu Place. There, the occultist immersed himself once again in the library. Burton sent a summons to Detective Inspector Trounce via the Whispering Web then went up to his bedroom and gulped down an entire bottle of Saltzmann’s Tincture. The cure-all coursed through his veins and turned him into the vacuum at the heart of a swirling storm of light; caused his anguish to flare into countless possibilities; made his isolation branch into infinite multiplicities; but it did not bring back Isabel.
He slumped in his armchair—barely aware of the occultist, who was reading at one of the desks—and for two hours stared at one of the windows, perceiving it to be stacked upon itself, like a pack of cards, as if present over and over.
Shuffle them, select one, and look out at a slightly different world.
He heard a carriage draw up outside.
Watch it. See its door open. Isabel steps out and pays the driver. She crosses to number 14 and yanks the bellpull.
She didn’t ring. She knocked, a strident hammering. It broke the spell.
The explorer let out a small cry, as if wounded.
“Monsieur?” Levi said.
“Dreaming,” Burton muttered. He rubbed his eyes, stood, and went out onto the landing.
The front door was open and Mrs. Angell was arguing with Trounce.
“You could be King George him-bloomin’-self, but you’ll not set foot in this ’ere house until you scrapes yer blessed boots.”
“My dear woman, I’ve practically scraped ’em thin! I have no desire to arrest you, but if you don’t stand aside, so help me, I’ll—”
“It’s all right, Mrs. Angell,” Burton called. “Let him in, please.”
“With all that muck around his soles?” she protested.
“Leave your boots in the hallway, old man,” Burton advised. “You can warm your feet by my fire.”
Reluctantly, Trounce did as instructed and started up the stairs.
Mrs. Angell glowered at his feet and muttered, “An’ them stockings ain’t none-the-cleaner neither!”
The police detective hurried into the study, greeted Levi, and gave a gasp of relief when Burton closed the door behind him.
“By Jove! I feel like I’m committing a felony every time I set foot on your carpets. Have you seen the streets? The sewers are so backed up the filth is overflowing into ’em! What am I supposed to do, walk on stilts?”
“You’ll just have to be patient, like everyone else,” Burton responded. “Wasn’t Bazalgette supposed to have opened the sluice gates by now?”
“He was, but the riots have slowed him down. The tunneling has been halted beneath the Alton Ale warehouse in the Cauldron. Do you mind if I smoke?”
“Not at all. The rioting is really that serious?”
“The whole district has gone barking mad.”
Trounce sat down, took a cigar from his pocket, and toyed with it irresolutely, turning it in his fingers and passing it from hand to hand. “I heard about—about—I’m not much good at—at—well, I’m sorry that—about what happened to—um—Miss Arundell. Are you—are you all right?”
“I’ve not properly dealt with it yet. Let me get you a brandy. I’ll tell you the whole story.”
Over the next half-hour, Burton and Levi gave an account of the events at New Wardour Castle.
The explorer’s mind played tricks. With every incident he reported, the Saltzmann’s caused him to sense all the alternatives that might have occurred, as if each event had produced echoes, every one a slight variation of the original.
Having listened in silence, Trounce said, “This is so far beyond my ken it might as well be a fairy tale. I have no idea how to proceed.”
“By keeping your ears open for any reports of the dead coming back to life,” Burton said. “Perdurabo will continue to feed, and so will his victims. These strigoi morti—as Monsieur Levi refers to them—are going to proliferate, and rapidly. They can’t go unnoticed for long.”
“They hunt at night,” Eliphas Levi commented.
Trounce grunted. “Humph! Very well. May we return to sane matters?”
Burton gestured for him to continue.
“There have been no further abductions reported,” the police detective said, “but something else has come to light. I remembered you saying Eugenics was at the heart of all this, and that it requires medical knowledge and machinery. Four days ago, equipment and supplies were stolen from the chemical laboratories at the University College on Upper Gower Street. It prompted me to go through the records. It turns out there have been a spate of such burglaries all around the city over the past two months. It looks to me as if someone has been gathering the means to create their own laboratory, and an extravagant one, at that.”
Burton said, “Ah! I wonder where.”
“I’ve put out a general order for our constables to keep their eyes peeled, but our resources are stretched thin at the moment. We’ve had to divert a lot of men to the East End.”
“What’s happening there? It’s political agitation, I heard.”
“It is, and it’s worsening every day. We’ve managed to keep it out of the rags so far—fortunately newspapermen are too cowardly to set foot in the Cauldron—but Chief Commissioner Mayne is concerned that when the story breaks, as it inevitably will, it might stir up trouble in other parts of the country. Look at these.”