“Are you up to it?” Burton asked the groundsman.

Honesty’s grey eyes took on a steely glint. “Fit for retribution.”

“Good man. And you, Algy? You look all in.”

The poet jerked his limbs restlessly and objected, “Not a bit of it. Don’t let the blood and ragged clothing fool you. I’m up for a scrap. Like Honesty here, I have a score to settle.”

“We all do.” Burton turned as clanking footsteps approached. Isambard Kingdom Brunel chimed a greeting. Each of the brass man’s six arms had a large multi-barrelled weapon bolted to it. He held one up and clanged, “Invented by one of our American associates, Doctor Richard Gatling. It loads automatically and has a very rapid rate of fire. Are you ready?”

“Yes.”

Brunel said to Gooch, “Have the men gather at the gates. On the double, please, Daniel.”

“We’ll head east along Riverside Walk,” Burton said. “It’s the most sheltered route between here and the mouth of the Effra.”

“You think that’s the way Crowley and his people will come?” Trounce asked.

“I can’t imagine them strolling along Nine Elms Lane.”

The policeman grunted his agreement.

Brunel’s DOGS, all armed, streamed from the building. The mechanical engineer led Burton’s party out to join them.

Burton addressed the little army. “We’re facing enemies of the Empire, gentlemen. Don’t hesitate to shoot to kill.”

From behind him, a voice said, “You mean lady and gentlemen.”

He turned to find Sister Raghavendra outfitted in men’s clothing and holding a revolver in each hand.

“You’ve played your part splendidly, Sadhvi—and thank you—but this next isn’t for you.”

“Oh dear,” she said. “My mistake. I’ll remain here, then. Perhaps I can knit you a scarf or embroider a doily or two while you’re fighting the insane tyrant who mesmerised me and forced me to assist him.”

Swinburne giggled and said, “Madam, may I declare my everlasting love?”

She ignored the poet. “Are you going to be a brute and stand here arguing, Richard, or shall we get on with it?”

The explorer gave a slight smile then turned and shouted, “Let’s go!”

The crowd filed through the gates and crossed the waste ground, moving along a rough path that led down to Riverside Walk. Here, they headed to the right, passing the Southwark and Vauxhall waterworks.

Even in the rain, the stench of the river was dreadful. “By Jove!” Trounce grumbled. “We have to get the Cauldron under control if only so Bazalgette can finish digging through it. The sooner his sewer system starts operating, the better.”

An idea flirted at the periphery of Burton’s mind then eluded him.

Too tired. Can’t even think straight.

They crossed a small dock at the side of a flour mill and continued on past a pottery, a coal wharf, a row of saw mills, and a brewery. When they reached Brunswick Wharf, Gooch pointed one of his mechanical arms at a large edifice beyond which, made vague by the downpour, Vauxhall Bridge could be seen extending across the choppy Thames. “That’s the Belmont Candle Factory.”

Eliphas Levi murmured, “Mouvement, messieurs.”

Burton squinted through the rain. “Men. Standing at a doorway. Not many.”

“I’ll go,” Brunel said. “They can’t harm me.”

He raised his Gatling guns and strode forward, his metal feet thudding on the wood of the platform that extended from the wharf and along the river-facing side of the factory. In his bell-like tones, he shouted, “Vacate the area, please. Your lives are at risk. Leave at once.”

The many windows of the building suddenly flew open, guns poked out, and a hail of bullets clanged against him, sending sparks flying. The men standing outside the factory ran into it.

“Enochians!” Swinburne yelled. “An ambuscade!” He ducked into cover, took aim, and returned fire.

Brunel aimed his six weapons and let loose. His guns roared, flames shooting from the barrels, and the building’s facade spat thick clouds of dust and glass as his bullets gouged across it, ruining brickwork and shattering windows.

While the enemy was thus distracted, Burton and his fellows took shelter, positioning themselves behind crates, barrels, and the equipment used to offload cargo vessels.

Brunel’s guns whirred to silence. “Give yourselves up. Put down your weapons and come out with your hands in the air.”

Faintly, they heard someone shout, “Hold your fire!”

Silence fell. They waited.

“What are they up to?” Trounce muttered.

“We’re sending someone out to parley,” an Enochian yelled.

“This feels rather too easy,” Burton muttered. “But let’s hear what they have to say.”

A door opened and a man stepped out. He held a white handkerchief aloft and walked toward Brunel, who levelled his guns at him and warned, “No sudden moves, if you please.”

“That’s Count Sobieski,” Burton observed. “Did Slaughter raid the Enochians’ club, Trounce?”

“He did. He got Kenealy and sixteen of his fanatics, and found old Brundleweed and his family being held captive in one of the upstairs rooms.”

“Hmm. Some got away, then; Sobieski among them.”

The count stopped just in front of Brunel and said, “Withdraw. We’ll allow you to go in peace.”

“You don’t appear to understand,” Brunel clanged. “It is you who are trapped.”

“It’s true. Those guns of yours have us pinned down.”

“Then you understand you have no choice.”

“There’s always a choice,” Sobieski said. “We can surrender, or we can get rid of you.”

“You will find the former easy, the latter very difficult.”

“Do you think so?”

Sobieski lowered the handkerchief and raised his other hand. There was something in it. Burton jumped to his feet and yelled, “Brunel, it’s a trick!”

The count pressed down his thumb. He exploded. Isambard Kingdom Brunel was thrown high into the air. Bits of him were ripped away. He cartwheeled out over the Thames, trailing flames and smoke behind him, hit the water, and sank like a stone.

Guns started blazing from the factory windows. Bullets chewed into the wood of the wharf, ploughing up splinters. Three of the DOGS were hit; two killed outright, the third clutching his neck and coughing blood.

“Return fire!” Gooch bellowed.

Burton dived back into cover, aimed his revolver, and started shooting.

For the next fifteen minutes, the battle raged, a constant barrage of bullets hitting the wharf and the factory, the noise deafening, the air filling with smoke despite the continuing rain.

Burton glanced to his right at Sister Raghavendra. She was standing, with a revolver in each hand, in plain view of the enemy, blazing away and seemingly oblivious to the bullets that zipped past her. As he’d done many times before, he marvelled at her courage and her luck.

“Stalemate!” Trounce observed. “But we only have to keep them holed-up in there for another ninety minutes or so and the win will be ours. The ceremony will be over.”

“Blast it, chaps! Something is very wrong about all of this,” Swinburne objected stridently. “It doesn’t make any sense at all. Where is Crowley? Why are we able to use our weapons when he can so easily prevent their functioning?”

“Might Krishnamurthy and Bhatti have him cornered in the tunnel?” Trounce mused.

“I’m going to find out,” Burton said. “Are you with me, Algy?”

“Of course I am!”

“Keep them busy,” Burton said to Trounce and Gooch.

Gesturing for Swinburne to follow, he ran the length of the wharf and along the side of a warehouse until he emerged onto Wandsworth Road, where a crowd had gathered. Five constables immediately pounced on the two men and tried to tear the pistols from their hands. Burton remembered that Crowley had emptied his pockets, and his identity card was back in the catacombs.

“Stop!” he yelled. “We’re with the police! Detective Inspector Trounce! Slaughter! J. D. Pepperwick!”