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Lord Palmerston nodded as if satisfied. He reached into hiswaistcoat pocket, withdrew a snuff tin, and sprinkled a small heapof the fine powder onto the side of his right hand at the base ofhis thumb. This he raised to his nose and snorted.
He sniffed and turned another page. Burton noticed that theprime minister's fingernails were carefully manicured and coatedwith clear varnish.
"It was in '55," continued Palmerston, "the Berbera incident.Lieutenant John Ha
"Yes."
"Incidentally, I enquired after him last night. He's in thePenfold Private Sanatorium. He shot half his face off; they don'texpect him to live."
Burton nodded, his countenance iron hard. "I know."
Palmerston regarded him. "Another enemy?"
"Apparently so. Are you?"
If Palmerston was shocked or surprised at the brazen question,he didn't show it. Mind you, mused Burton, the man was incapable ofshowing anything.
"Am I your enemy? No, I am not."
"That's encouraging, anyway. Yes, Prime Minister, LieutenantSpeke did indeed accompany me into Somalia. I got a spear throughthe face and he was also injured. One of our companions, LieutenantStroyan, was killed. The following year, after brief service in theCrimea, I organised an expedition to central Africa in search ofthe source of the Nile. Speke accompanied me and afterwards hebetrayed me. The press made the most of it and a confrontationbetween us was engineered. It was due to take place yesterday atthe Bath Assembly Rooms. It didn't. So, that's the history donewith. Perhaps now we can move on to my reason for being here?"
Palmerston's mouth opened and a mirthless cackle sounded, thoughhis lips didn't smile.
"Oh my goodness!" he exclaimed. "You are an impatient man!"
"I don't deny it. And to be perfectly frank, Prime Minister, Ihave a hangover and I badly need a piss, so I'd appreciate it if wecould bypass the niceties and get to the core of the matter."
Palmerston banged his right hand up and down on the desk, threwhis head back, and let loose a rapid sawing noise, whichBurton-phenomenal interpreter though he was-could only guess waslaughter. It rasped rhyth mically for too long, passing quicklyfrom genuine to affected, and developed a strange sibilance which,for a bizarre moment, made it seem as if the prime minister haddeveloped a leak and was rapidly deflating.
Then Burton realised that the increasingly loud hiss was comingnot from the man opposite but from the odd device on his desk. Heturned his eyes to it in time to see the thing suddenly shakefrantically. The needle of a gauge on its side swept over into ared-marked segment and, with a sound like a large bung being pulledfrom a container, the mechanism gave one last jerk and becamesilent and motionless. A wisp of steam floated from its top. Theneedle sank back to the left.
Palmerston closed his mouth, looked at the contraption, grunted,reached across, and flipped a switch. A small door swung open and acanister popped out into the prime minister's hand. He twisted thelid from it and pulled a pale blue sheet of paper from within. Heread the note and nodded, then looked up at Burton and a
"How nice," said Burton. "By whom? For what?"
"Why, by Buckingham Palace! Our monarch is offering you ajob!"
For once, Burton was at a loss for words. His jaw hungloosely.
Palmerston's face stretched sideways around the mouth in whatmight have been an attempted grin. It was not a pretty sight.
"That's why I called you here, Burton. The palace has taken aninterest in you. It has been mooted that, with your rather unusualrange of skills and-shall we say forceful?-personality, you can dothe Empire a unique service; something no other man can offer.That's why this position has been created, specifically foryou."
Still Burton said nothing. His mind was racing, grappling withthis entirely unexpected development-and also with the notion thatsomeone at Buckingham Palace might somehow be listening in on thisconversation.
"I must confess," continued Palmerston, "that you presented mewith a quandary. I knew I had to do something with you but I had noidea what. Your talent for making enemies concerned me; I suspectedthat whatever post I gave you, you'd quickly become a liability. Itwas suggested, by one of my colleagues, that I should bury you insome remote consulate. Fernando Po was top of the list-do you knowit?"
A nod. The only response Burton could manage.
Marry the bitch. Settle down. Become consul in Fernando Po,Brazil, Damascus, and wherever the fuck else they send you.
The words blazed through his mind.
"Who knows?" he jerked intently.
"Pardon?
"Who knows about this interview, the job, the consulate?"
"About the job, just myself and the palace." Palmerston tappedthe copper and glass apparatus. "We have communicated privately onthe matter. About you being here? The palace, myself, my privatesecretary, the guards on the door, the butler, any of the householdstaff who might have seen you come in. About the consulate? Thepalace, myself, and Lord Russell, who suggested you for theposition. Why?"
Burton knew what Lord John Russell, the foreign secretary,looked like. He was an elderly, bald-headed, broad-faced man who i
"I think," said Burton slowly, "there's the distinct possibilitythat either the government or the royal household has a spy in itsmidst."
Palmerston became very still. His Adam's apple rose andfell.
"Explain," he said softly.
Rapidly, without embellishment, Burton recounted the attack ofthe previous evening. Palmerston listened attentively and, for allthe movement he made, he might have become the waxwork he soclosely resembled.
When Burton had finished, the prime minister asked him todescribe the apparition in greater detail.
The reply came: "He was tall and emaciated with limbs long,thin, but wiry and strong. His head was encased in a large black,shiny, globular helmet around which a blue flame burned. Fromwithin the headgear red eyes, insane, glared at me. The face wasskull-like: the cheeks sunken, the nose a blade, the mouth a slit.He wore a white skintight costume that resembled fish scales intexture. A lengthy black cloak with a white lining hung from hisshoulders and a flat, circular lamplike affair was affixed to hischest, shining with a reddish light and emitting sparks. His handswere bony and talonlike. The feet and calves were encased by tightboots from which a springlike mechanism projected, attached totwo-foot-high stilts."
Burton paused.
"When I was on the pilgrimage," he continued quietly, "there wasmuch talk of evil djan-"
"Djan?" interposed Palmerston.
"Sorry. It's the plural of `dji
"Perhaps you did," countered Palmerston. He glanced down as theinstrument on his desk trembled and emitted a puff of steam. "Haveyou ever heard of Spring Heeled Jack?"
Burton looked surprised. "That never occurred to me!"
Spring Heeled Jack was a bogeyman, a mythical spook used bymothers to scare naughty children into submission: "Behave! OrSpring Heeled Jack will come for you!"
"So a spy dressed as a character from folklore?" Burtonreflected. "But why? And why attack me? What interest has he inLord Russell's suggestion that you make me a consul?"