Swinburne’s machine thumped down beside him.

“Phew!” the poet cried out as the rotors slowed and stopped. “I’m wet to the bones!”

Burton removed his goggles and disembarked.

A man with an umbrella stepped out of the inn and pointed at a large wooden shed on the other side of the yard. “Hallo, gentlemen! You can park ’em in there, if you like. There’s a fee, though, unless you want to put up in the inn, of course.”

Burton paid and, to Swinburne’s evident dismay, refused the offer of a hot toddy. “There’s no time for indulgences, as you well know,” he told his companion as they dragged their rotorchairs into the shelter.

“If my insides aren’t warmed soon, I shall come down with a cold,” the poet grumbled.

“If Aleister Crowley has his way, you’ll likely suffer far worse,” Burton said. “Do you think a world beneath his heel will be fit for a poet?”

Swinburne gave a cry of protest and punched at the air. “Certainly not! Let’s get the dog!”

Exiting the yard, they crossed a road, turned a corner, and followed a puddled lane along to the boundary of the graveyard. High pointed railings, designed to deter resurrectionists, enclosed the hill, but after following them around, the two men came to a secured back gate. Burton pulled a set of lock-picks from his pocket. “I’ve had these since India,” he said, applying them to the portal’s keyhole. “They were presented to me by Sir Charles Napier when he made me his agent. I’ve only used them once before.”

“Breaking into an enemy’s hideaway to reconnoitre?” Swinburne asked.

“No. Into a nunnery for a romantic assignation.”

The poet squealed his delight then gave a cry of alarm as thunder boomed overhead.

“Great Scott!” he cried out, pointing at the sky. “Look at that!”

Directly above them, the clouds were swirling around a central point from which lightning crackled and sizzled.

“The eye of the storm,” Burton said. “Ah! Got it!”

The locked clicked and he pushed the gate open.

They entered the cemetery and started along a path through the trees. The steeple of the Episcopal Church could be glimpsed through the branches and, as they rounded a bend, the building itself came into view. A man in a heavy overcoat was sheltering beneath the arch of its front door. He saw them, stepped out, and shouted, “I say! Can I help? Are you looking for a particular tomb? Not a good day for it! It’s tipping it down!”

“You work here, sir?” Burton asked as the man approached.

“Um. Um. Yes, I’m the sexton. May I ask who you’ve come to visit?”

“We’re here to see the catacombs, Mr.—?”

“Oh. Solomon. Yes. Well. Yes. They are rather splendid.”

“How do we enter them?”

“Ah. Er. I suppose—yes. I could show you. They’re dry, I’ll say that for ’em.”

“Thank you.”

“This way, then.”

Solomon walked back to the church door, opened it, and waved them through. He followed then guided them to the right, skirting around the base of the wall, along the outer aisle, and forward into the right-hand transept. He indicated an arch at the top of descending stone steps. “The entrance. Um. Shall we?”

“Lead the way,” Burton responded.

Solomon took a clockwork lantern from his pocket. Its light flared. He started down the stairs with Burton and Swinburne behind.

“No priests, Mr. Solomon?” Swinburne asked. “The church seems awfully empty.”

“Um. Um. Not much call for it on a rainy weekday, I suppose, sir. The vicar is out visiting the sick and elderly, I should think. Ah, here we are.”

They’d arrived at a wooden door, which Solomon pushed open. Its creak echoed hollowly. Burton’s mouth suddenly felt dry. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his own lantern, opening it, winding it, and holding it high.

“Oh, good,” Solomon mumbled. “That’ll help.”

The sexton led them into the catacomb; a tall, long, and narrow vaulted passage of elegant brickwork with three arched doorways on either side, each opening onto narrower but longer corridors. Coffins lay in wall niches, and decorative wrought-iron gates opened onto small bays and loculi in which individuals and families had been interred.

“Shall I light the wall lamps, sir?” Solomon asked.

“Please,” Burton replied. The chill air penetrated his damp clothes and caused him to tremble. Shadows shifted as if creeping furtively away from the visitors.

The duo moved forward, staying close to Solomon as he passed from one wall-mounted lamp to another, applying a flame to each. As the illumination swelled through the passage, Burton felt the presence of the dead crowding around him. He crossed to an arch and raised his lamp, revealing a long, straight corridor.

Silence reigned.

Solomon watched as the explorer and poet passed among the coffins, examining every nook and cranny of the vaults. “Who are you looking for?” he asked.

Burton stopped and regarded the sexton, then gave an exasperated sigh, crossed to him, and punched him in the face. Solomon fell back against a gate, regained his balance, and launched a fist at his assailant. Burton pulled his chin back, avoiding the blow. He slammed his knuckles into the man’s stomach. Solomon doubled over and vomited.

“Hold the lamp, Algy.”

Swinburne took the proffered lantern and asked, “Have you taken a dislike to him?”

Burton took Solomon by the hair and swung him up, around, and face-first into the wall. He grabbed the sexton’s left hand and brutally forced it between his shoulder blades. Solomon screamed with pain.

“Idiot!” Burton spat. “Walking around with that pin in your coat lapel.”

“Pin?” Swinburne enquired.

“He’s an Enochian. It’s their club insignia.”

“Oh, I see.” The poet ran forward and administered a hard kick to the side of Solomon’s knee. “Speak!” he screeched.

“Ow!” Solomon yelled.

“Where is Perdurabo?” Burton demanded.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

Swinburne kicked him again.

“Ouch! Stop it!” Solomon cried out.

“There’s more to these catacombs than meets the eye,” Burton snarled. “Start taking.”

“Go to hell!”

A loud snap sounded. The sexton screamed.

“You have nine digits remaining,” Burton said. “I’ll continue to break them one by one.”

“Please.”

Burton took hold of the man’s forefinger.

“No,” Solomon whimpered. “All right. All right. There are more catacombs.”

“Where?”

“Under the Dissenters’ Church.”

“So take us to it.”

“God! Ease up! Don’t break my fingers. I—I play the piano.”

“I have very little interest in your pastimes, Solomon.”

“Just don’t hurt me. We don’t have to go to the church. A secret passage connects the two catacombs. Over there.” He nodded his head toward the far end of the main corridor.

Burton pulled him away from the wall and, without releasing the man’s hand, pushed him along to the indicated spot. Swinburne followed. With his right foot, Solomon nudged a brick at the base of the wall. It had an eye carved into it. “Push this.”

Swinburne bent and did so. There was a soft clunk.

“Give the wall a shove,” Solomon said.

The poet put his shoulder against the brickwork. A square section of it swung inward.

“Much obliged,” Burton said. He twisted the sexton around and delivered a left hook to his jaw. Solomon crumpled to the floor. The explorer rubbed his forearm and muttered, “The damned thing still hurts. What do you see, Algy?”

“A long, dusty corridor. It’s rather narrow, I’m afraid.”

Burton took the lantern from the poet and, holding it before him, squeezed into the passage.

“Quietly does it,” he said, and pushed ahead.

The path sloped downward.

Sooner than Burton expected, a blank wall barred his way. He couldn’t move forward. Swinburne, behind him, was blocking the route back. He stopped, felt trapped, and for a moment was unable even to think.