“Is he dead?” Swinburne asked.

“No. Knocked cold.”

“He’ll be disappointed. The Lily Queen might have been expecting him.”

“The angels will have to wait. Brush yourself down and help me carry him. We’ll take him to the Regency.”

They hoisted the American to his feet and got beneath his arms to support him. He was so limp he might as well have been boneless, and the difference in height between Burton and Swinburne, along with the poet’s inability to walk in a straight line, made the operation extremely awkward. However, they managed to drag him out onto Whitehall, where they stumbled to a halt and gazed in horror at the scene.

The top half of St. Stephen’s Tower had gone and what remained was a shattered and burning stump. Even from this distance, they could feel the heat of the flames. Black smoke and dust were billowing through the streets and debris was strewn everywhere. Fortunately, the lateness of the hour meant there were fewer people about than usual, but nevertheless many individuals could be seen staggering aimlessly, their faces slack with shock.

Burton and Swinburne half-carried, half-dragged Harris northward past the government buildings, then turned right into Whitehall Place in order to rest on the steps of the Royal Geographical Society. They watched policemen and detectives pouring out of Scotland Yard.

“Excuse me, sir. Do you know that gentleman? Is he badly hurt?”

Burton looked up to find a young, round-faced, and sandy-haired man standing beside him. “He’s a visiting American. Thomas Lake Harris. He’s out for the count but not badly wounded, as far as I can make out. Who are you, sir?”

“Detective Inspector Spearing.”

“Ah, then I suppose you’ve been following us? I know you were ordered to keep an eye on this fellow. It’s all right, Spearing—I’m Burton.”

“Oh, I see. Detective Inspector Trounce has told me all about you, of course. Can I be of assistance?”

Swinburne piped up, “You could tell us what the blazes has happened!”

“This is my colleague, Mr. Swinburne,” Burton explained.

“I have no idea, sir,” Spearing said. “They’ve been making repairs in the clock tower, but I can’t credit them with using anything capable of causing such a blast. What are you going to do with Mr. Harris?”

“We’re taking him back to the Regency Hotel.”

“You’ll need a ride. Here, let me lend a hand. We’ll take him through to the back of the Yard. You can commandeer a police vehicle.” Spearing paused, then said, “You won’t crash it, will you?”

“I appear to have gained a reputation,” Burton noted ruefully.

They lifted Harris and carried him across the road, treading carefully to avoid the scattered rubble.

“Through here,” Spearing said, leading them into a narrow alleyway.

At the back of the police headquarters, in a large courtyard lined with stable-like buildings, Spearing left them, entered one of the structures, and a few moments later steered out a steam-horse-drawn brougham. He jumped down from the driver’s seat. “I’d take you myself, sir, but I think it’s a case of all hands on deck at the Yard.”

“I quite understand. Help me get him into the cabin, would you?”

They lifted Harris into the vehicle. The detective pointed to an open gate and said, “That opens onto Northumberland Street.”

“Thank you, Spearing.”

The policeman saluted and hastened away.

Swinburne climbed in beside the American. Burton took the driver’s seat, gripped the tiller, and guided the machine out through the gate and to the left, in the direction of Trafalgar Square. It was slow going—there were lumps of masonry in the road and rapidly expanding crowds of people, all gathering to gaze at the destruction.

When they reached the square, Burton made to steer into the Mall, intending to follow it westward, but Swinburne thumped on the roof and screeched, “Stop! Hey, Richard, stop, I say!”

The explorer pulled over and the poet jumped out and scrambled up beside him.

“I’ve been looking at his face,” Swinburne said breathlessly, “and it’s given me an idea. Let’s take him to your place.”

“Why?” Burton asked, puzzled.

“Because his bone structure is similar to yours. With whitened skin, a false beard, and a few other cosmetic adjustments, you could pass yourself off as him.”

“You intend to hold Harris prisoner, Algy, while I go off to meet this Count Sobieski fellow?”

“Yes! Why not become the twelfth messenger of God?”

Burton considered the poet’s enthusiastic countenance.

“Just how drunk are you?”

“Hah! Considerably!” Swinburne smiled. “How else could I have come up with such a ridiculous scheme?”

“It is ridiculous,” Burton agreed. “And I rather like it.”

The sewer tunnels are constructed from brick and stone and range from six to twenty feet in diameter. The smaller of them are round in section, the larger egg-shaped, with the narrow end downward, which serves to increase the flow and prevent silt from building up. The main interceptor tunnels run from west to east. North-and-south-flowing sewers run into them, the waste being diverted away toward the mouth of the Thames, rather than flowing straight into it. Each tunnel is fitted with many iron sluice gates, some of massive proportions, which can be manually raised or lowered by means of geared mechanisms, and which are used to regulate the flow and, on occasion, to block it, so that sections of the tunnels can be inspected and, if necessary, repaired.

—FROM MR. BAZALGETTE’S UNDERGROUND MARVEL,

THE DAILY BUGLE

Burton leaned on his cane and snapped open his new pocket watch. His eyes lingered on the lock of Isabel’s hair before registering the time. Ten-past eight. Count Sobieski was late.

Earlier that afternoon—it was now Wednesday the 9th of November—Trounce had called again at Montagu Place, finding Swinburne already there with Burton and Levi. The detective inspector was dishevelled and tired, and grateful for a brandy and water. “Seven killed last night and more than a hundred injured. It was a bomb. A big one, too. Three hours after it went off, a chap walked into the offices of the Daily Bugle, introduced himself to the night editor as Vincent Sneed—thirty-two years old, a chimney sweep—and made a full confession. He recently cleaned the flues at the Whitechapel Bell Foundry, where Big Ben was cast, and stole a spare set of tower keys from there.”

“But his motive?” Burton asked. “Why commit such an atrocity?”

Trounce had pulled a notebook from his pocket, extracted a sheet of paper from it, and passed it to the explorer. “The statement he made to the newspaper man.”

Burton read it, handed it to Swinburne, and said, “They don’t strike me as the words of a sweep.”

“I thought the same,” Trounce muttered.

“My hat!” Swinburne exclaimed. “What could possibly warrant such an outpouring of hatred? Smash the German Alliance? Hang Prince Albert as a traitor? Assassinate Bismarck?”

“That last is an oddity in itself,” Burton observed. “Bismarck is out of the picture. Why include him?”

“Why any of it at all?” Trounce asked. “According to Sneed’s apprentice—a lad named William Cornish—the man has never once before expressed a political opinion.”

“Has he said anything more?”

Trounce took up his bowler from beside the chair and punched it in frustration. “That’s the problem. He can’t. He’s dead.”

“Dead?”

“Inexplicably. We put him in a cell, intending to question him this morning, but at dawn he simply stopped breathing. The coroner was unable to identify the cause.”

Eliphas Levi exclaimed, “Mon Dieu! Où est le cadavre maintenant?”

“Eh?”

“The corpse,” Burton translated. “Where is it?”