“In the mortuary.”

The explorer and occultist exchanged a glance.

“Trounce,” Burton said, after a momentary pause, “I have to use my authority to issue you with a direct order.”

“On the basis of that statement, should I expect an unusual one?”

“Yes. Take Monsieur Levi to the mortuary and do exactly as he tells you. It’s probable that Sneed is strigoi morti. He may have been acting under the spell of Perdurabo.”

“I find it hard to believe any of this.”

Levi murmured, “I show you. You will believe.”

“Think of it as a disease,” Burton advised. “John Judge carried it aboard the ship from Fernando Po. If Sneed has been infected, as I suspect he has, he’ll appear to die in daylight but will rise at night. While active, he’ll be highly infectious.”

Trounce scratched his chin. “Then Perdurabo, in the body of Thomas Honesty, is hiding out among the anti-German activists in the Cauldron? Infecting them? Is that what you’re suggesting?”

“It is. Or, at very least, he’s made of the district a hunting ground. Tonight, Levi will accompany you to the East End. Take young Bram, too, but keep him away from any trouble. The Whisperers have a strong presence in the Cauldron—there are more street Arabs there than anywhere else in the city. Use Bram to collect information from the district. Look for signs of the un-dead.” He turned to the Frenchman. “You will advise, monsieur?”

“Oui. We find them and do what must be done.”

Burton said to Trounce, “Come with me.”

They went upstairs to the room where Burton’s half-unpacked African crates were stored. Thomas Lake Harris was bound to a chair in the middle of it with his head bandaged and a gag in his mouth.

“What the blazes?” Trounce cried out. “Who’s this? What are you playing at?”

“It’s Mr. Harris, the American spiritualist Detective Inspector Spearing has been following. He’s due to give a lecture at the Enochians’ Club tonight. I intend to masquerade as him and go in his stead.”

“But—but—by Jove! Is he one of them? Has he done anything wrong?”

“Nothing, unless you count his incessant spouting of sheer nonsense.”

“But you can’t keep him here like that! Hell’s bells! I know the king gave you special dispensation, but this is indefensible.”

“The security of the Empire is at stake.”

Trounce pointed at the prisoner. “From him?”

“No.”

“Then you have to let him go.”

“It would be better if you took him into police custody for the night. It’s for his own protection—he’s in danger of associating with bad people.”

“By the looks of it, he’s already done so.”

“I didn’t thump him over the head, Trounce, he was hit by a falling brick. As for his current incarceration, it inconveniences him, that’s all. It’s necessary.”

“Humph! I’ll put him in a police cell, but I don’t approve of this. The law is the law. You have to realise where the boundaries lie.”

“Need I remind you of our first encounter? You adopted a false name and assaulted me in an alleyway. Hardly legal, I’d venture.”

“I judged it a necessary ploy.”

“As I do this.”

With that, Trounce had departed, accompanied by Levi and a very verbosely indignant Thomas Lake Harris, whose last words to Burton were, “You’d better pray the Lily Queen never gets her hands on you, you goddam snake in the grass!”

Burton spent the next few hours applying makeup and false hair, transforming himself into a convincing approximation of the American. He and Swinburne then rode his velocipedes to Upper St. Martin’s Lane, where the poet was now waiting for Burton in the Queen’s Arms.

Outside the church, Burton put away his timepiece and gazed at a litter-crab as it lumbered past. The already bad weather was worsening and rain was starting to fall again, the water steaming from the machine’s humped back.

Trafalgar Square was congested with traffic. The din was such that he initially failed to hear the individual who stopped behind him and said, “Mr. Harris?” The man reached up and tapped him on the shoulder. “Mr. Harris?”

Burton turned to see a short, ferrety fellow, whose lack of teeth caused his bearded chin to be much closer to his nose than was natural.

“Yes. You are Count Sobieski?”

The man bowed. He didn’t look like a count. His clothes were baggy and unwashed. He smelled bad. His breath reeked of stale gin.

In a Russian-accented voice, he said, “Follow me, please.”

He led Burton toward the Strand but turned left before reaching it and plunged into the network of narrow streets and alleys behind the eastern side of St. Martin’s Lane. They turned left, right, left, and right again, then stopped at a gate. Sobieski pushed it open, crossed a yard, and unlocked the back door of one of the shops lining the main street. Burton followed his guide inside, to the end of a short corridor, and through another door into a workshop. There was a large safe in one corner and a number of workbenches, all scattered with tools. He recognised the place instantly, and a mystery was solved. He was in Brundleweed’s jewellery shop. Plainly, the old man was either captive or done away with.

With difficulty, Burton pushed the thought of his engagement ring aside. He couldn’t allow the pain it brought with it.

“This way,” Sobieski murmured. He opened a door and descended a narrow staircase, emerging into a mildewed basement, empty but for broken packing crates, a rusty iron bedstead, and an old chest of drawers. The far wall had a hole cut into it. There was a dark passage beyond.

Burton’s heart began to thud.

Bismillah! Must I venture underground again?

The Russian lifted an oil lamp from the chest of drawers, lit it, and stepped through the ragged gap. The explorer trailed after him and said, in an American accent, “Say, Count, this is a mighty strange tour you’re takin’ me on. What’s the game?”

“Just a little patience, please, Mr. Harris,” Sobieski replied. “This is a secret route into the clubhouse. All will be explained when we get there. Not far to go now.”

The passage was short. It opened into the side of a clay-walled tunnel through which one of London’s many subterranean rivers flowed, its brown surface heaving and frothing as it sped past.

They went to the right and carefully shuffled along an outward-thrusting shelf, moving upstream. It was slippery, and Burton, using his swordstick for balance, imagined himself sliding from it into the water and being carried into darkness. His corpse, he supposed, would be ejected into the Thames, which—now that he considered it—wasn’t very far away.

They hadn’t gone far before the damp chill permeated the explorer’s bones. His left forearm started to ache.

The lamplight slid over the clay walls. Parts of the roof had been shored up with wooden struts. Their shadows swung disconcertingly beneath the illumination, giving the impression that the tunnel was slowly collapsing. Burton paused and closed his eyes, trying to control his shaking.

Sobieski had stopped just ahead, at the foot of a ladder. He looked back, said, “Come,” and started up it.

Burton’s respiration was rapid and shallow, hissing unsteadily through his teeth. He straightened, opened his eyes, cursed himself, and followed.

The count pushed open a trapdoor and disappeared through it.

Quickly, Burton ascended. He crawled thankfully out into a room furnished with coat-, hat-, and umbrella stands, plus rough mats and stiff-haired brushes. Taking the cue from his companion, he used the latter to clean the mud from his boots.

“I’ll take you to Doctor Kenealy, sir.”

Sobieski opened a door and ushered the explorer through, across a wood-panelled hallway, and into a plushly appointed sitting room.

Two men got up from leather armchairs and faced the newcomers.

“Thank you, Count,” one of them said. “The others are awaiting you in the temple chamber.”