“And I’ll have a whisky, too,” Swinburne added.

“Say, Swinburne, what business are you in?”

“I’m a poet, sir.”

“Is that so? I do a little in that line myself. Whaddya think of this?” Harris spread his arms wide and recited, in too loud a voice:

To God be praise! This happy work is done:

It spreads towards man the Solar Angel’s pinions.

My mind conceived this poem of the sun

Long years ago, when all the world’s dominions

In clouds of fantasy were veiled; while death

Held empire in man’s universal breath.

Swinburne glanced at Burton. “That’s—um—very interesting, Mr. Harris. Am I then mistaken in my assumption that limericks are the principle form of verse in America?”

“Limericks, sir?”

“Quite so. A spiritual man from Rhode Island, had an uncanny knack to beguile and, seduce lovely women, and leave their heads swimmin’, but he—”

“Mr. Harris,” Burton interrupted hastily, “I’m intrigued by your thesis concerning the nature of angels. Have you been contacted directly?”

“Yup. I’m blessed with vivid dreams, Burton. Blessed is the word. The Lily Queen has revealed much of the true nature of existence to me.”

“Ah, yes, the Lily Queen. She is your wife, if I’m not mistaken?”

“My spirit wife, sir. She exists in Lilistan, the interspace inhabited by the angel folk, and has so far borne me two celestial children.”

Harris had turned to face Burton. Behind his back, Swinburne waggled a forefinger against his temple, stuck his tongue out, and crossed his eyes. Burton tried to ignore him, a task made easier by the arrival of fresh drinks.

“Good health, sir,” Burton toasted.

“Yours, too,” Harris responded. He downed the whisky in one, picked up his pint, and half-emptied it in a single swig. “You see, Burton, we ain’t alone in the universe. All the planets that circle our sun are inhabited by spiritual beings, and there are Lunarians on the far side of our moon who remember Oriana, the world where evil originated, an’ which the moon once orbited.”

“I see,” Burton said.

“This was revealed to you during dreams?” Swinburne asked. “Do you perhaps take anything to help you sleep?”

“It was, an’ I don’t. The thing of it is, if a man could attune himself to the rhythmic chord that leads the harmonic vibrations between these worlds, why, he could live forever. Immortality, Burton! How does that sound, hey?”

“Quite difficult to grasp.”

“Incomprehensible,” Swinburne agreed. “My hat! You appear to have finished your beer already, Mr. Harris. As have I. Shall we order another?”

“Sure, but what say you we get out of this place?” Harris said. “Never mix work with pleasure, that’s my motto. This place is work. Meetin’ you gents is a pleasure.”

“The Red Lion on Derby Street isn’t far from here,” Burton said. “Shall we?”

This was agreed, and the trio settled up at the bar, retrieved their hats, coats, and canes from the cloakroom, and exited into King Street.

The day had been cold and damp, with rain-heavy clouds filling the sky. Now the atmosphere was saturated with water—too thin to be classified as rain, too thick to qualify as mist. Street lamps flared, particles of their orange light seemingly borne aloft by the droplets and sent swirling around the three men as they passed along St. James’s Street and turned left into Pall Mall.

“I should very much enjoy hearing you speak again,” Burton said to Harris as they entered Whitehall. “I understand you’ll be addressing the League of Enochians Gentlemen’s Club tomorrow. Do you think I might attend?”

“Phew!” the American exclaimed. “If it was up to me, for sure, but the Enochians are an exclusive set, Burton, an’ as their guest, I ain’t got the right to invite another.”

“I understand.” Burton waited until a loudly clanking steam-horse had passed by, then went on, “May I ask how you were approached by them?”

“By the Enochians? I got a letter last May from a fella named Laurence Oliphant. An insightful guy—he’d seen the importance of my philosophy and wrote that he recognised me as the twelfth messenger of God.”

“Received in America in May,” Swinburne muttered. “So probably posted in March or thereabouts.”

“The Enochians’ president, Doctor Kenealy, then arranged for me to come here.”

They arrived at the Red Lion, found a corner table, and ordered more drinks.

For the next three hours, Burton plied Harris with alcohol and gave every indication that he was fast becoming an ardent admirer of the spiritualist, artfully hiding his true opinion that the man was a conceited—and only partially sane—nincompoop.

It was near midnight before Harris succumbed to the considerable amount he’d imbibed. Burton picked his moment, then asked, “What are the arrangements for tomorrow? Perhaps I could have dinner with you before you go to the Enochians’ Club?”

“’Fraid not. I have to meet a fella named Count Sobieski outside Saint Martin’s Church at eight o’clock. Gotta work on my presentation beforehand. Perhaps another night, though?”

“Very well,” Burton said, silently vowing to be at the church, too, unseen, ready to follow Harris to what he suspected was a secret entrance to the club.

He nudged Swinburne. “Are you still with us, Algy?”

“Yesh,” the poet slurred. “But I shushpect I might have had one too mummy—money—many.”

“We should get you home. You, too, Mr. Harris. It sounds as if you have a busy day ahead of you.”

They stood and fumbled with their coat buttons; picked up, dropped, and retrieved their hats; tripped over their canes; and stumbled out into the night.

As they emerged into Whitehall, Harris pointed at St. Stephen’s Tower and exclaimed, “Would ya look at that! The clouds are so low you can barely see the clock. Say, though, what’s the story? Ain’t that the famous Big Ben? I’ve not heard a chime all night.”

“The bell’s cracked,” Burton explained. “They made the hammer too big. I believe they’re currently adjusting the mechanism to strike the hour on the quarter bells while the main one’s repaired. It’s the second—” He cried out and whipped his hands up to his eyes, half-blinded by the flash that suddenly burst from the top of the tower. A thunderous detonation smacked against his ears. Peering past his fingers, he saw a ball of flame pushing bricks and masonry away from the edifice. Without thinking, he knocked his companions back into the shelter of Derby Street. Debris started to rain down around them; bricks and concrete thudding and shattering on the roads and smashing through windows; metal and glass clanging and clattering; pieces of flaming wood falling like comets. The noise pummelled them, jumbling their senses, then thick, black dust came at them like an avalanche, enveloping and blinding, filling their mouths and nostrils.

Half a brick ricocheted off the side of Harris’s head. The American slumped into Swinburne’s arms, his weight carrying the poet to the ground.

Burton crouched over them, trying to shield them with his body. Small fragments of stone thudded into his back and bounced all around. He pressed his palms to his ears but the cacophonous sound of destruction penetrated his skull, so harsh that he bellowed with the pain of it.

Finally, silence fell, only gradually giving way to individual sounds: screams; cries of alarm; shouts; police whistles; the rattle of small stones still raining down.

The explorer uncurled and stood, powder cascading off him. He coughed and spat.

“Are you hurt, Algy?”

“No, but you could pull this great lump off me.”

Burton lifted Harris from the poet and laid him on his back.