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Stanley had also attacked Isabel in the press, vilifying her forher lack of subtlety and overly headstrong character. Burtoncouldn't help but think that she was becoming a liability at thiscrucial point in his career, a situation which Stanley had spottedsome time ago and was revelling in.
"Yum!" exclaimed Oscar.
Mrs. Angell had reappeared with a generous slice of pie. Shehanded it to the youngster.
"It's nothing special, but I hope it fills that bottomless holeyou call a stomach!" she said.
"I have the simplest tastes, Mrs. Angell," declared the newsboy."I am always satisfied with the best!"
Burton ruffled the lad's hair. "Off you go then, Quips. There'llbe a second slice waiting for you when you return."
Oscar heaved a sigh of contentment, picked up his papers, andflitted out through the door, which Burton held open for him.
As he closed the portal, the explorer looked at hislandlady.
"You've heard the news?"
"Yes, sir. May God preserve him. It must have been a terribleshock for you."
"He hated me."
"If you don't mind me saying so, sir, I think he wasmisguided."
"I don't disagree. Have reporters been banging on the door?"
"No, sir, they probably think you're still in Bath."
"Good. If they call, empty a bucket of slops over them. Novisitors, please, Mother Angell. I don't want to see anyone untilyoung Oscar returns."
"Very well. Can I bring you something to eat?"
Burton began to climb the stairs. "Yes, please. And a pot ofcoffee."
"Yes, sir."
The old lady watched him as he reached the landing, turnedright, and disappeared into his study. She pursed her lips. Sheknew Burton well enough to recognise the developing mood.
"Coffee, my eye!" she muttered as she descended to the kitchen."He'll be through a bottle of brandy before the evening isold!"
Burton had, indeed, poured himself a large measure of brandy,and was now slumped in his old saddlebag armchair by the fireplace,his feet resting on the fender. He held the glass in one hand and aletter in the other. It was from 10 Downing Street and read:
Please contact the prime minister's office immediately upon yourreturn to London.
He sipped the brandy and savoured the fire that sank into hisbelly. He was tired but not sleepy, and felt the heavy weight ofdepression dragging at him.
Laying his head back, and with eyes half closed, he focused hismind on his sense of hearing. It was a Sufi trick he'd learned enroute to Mecca. Sight was the primary sense; when another was givenprecedence and the mind was allowed to wander, ideas, insights, andhitherto unseen co
He heard a bookshelf creak slightly as its wood adjusted to thechanging temperature of early evening; it was the only sound fromwithin the study, aside from his own breathing and the ticking ofthe clock on the mantelpiece. From beyond the two large sashwindows, though, came the muffled cacophony of England's capital:voices passing on the pavement below, the clatter and chuggingengines of velocipedes, the cry of a street hawker, the choppyparadiddle of a rotorchair passing overhead, a barking dog, acrying child, the rumble and hiss of steam-horses, the clip-clop ofreal horses, the coarse laughter of prostitutes.
He heard footsteps on the stairs.
A question came to him: What am I to do now?
There was a soft knock at the door.
"Come."
Mrs. Angell entered bearing a tray upon which lay a plate ofsliced meats, cheese, and a chunk of bread. There was also a cupand saucer, a bowl of sugar, and a pot of coffee. She crossed theroom and laid it on the occasional table beside Burton's chair.
"It's getting unseasonably cold, sir-shall I light thefire?"
"It's all right, I'll do it. Would you take a letter forme?"
"Certainly."
The housekeeper, who often performed slight secretarial tasksfor him, sat at one of the three desks, slid a sheet of blank paperonto the leather writing pad, and picked up a pen. She dipped thenib into the inkwell and wrote, at Burton's dictation:
1 ant at hone in London. Awaiting further instructions.Burton.
"Send it by ru
The old lady looked up in surprise. "To where?"
"10 Downing Street. At once, please."
"Yes, sir."
She departed with the note. A few moments later, he heard her atthe front door blowing three blasts on a whistle. Within half aminute, a dogalmost certainly a greyhound-would arrive on thedoorstep and, after she'd fed the animal, the housekeeper wouldplace the letter between its teeth and a
They were part of a fairly new communications system, theseremarkable dogs, the first practical application of eugenicsadopted by the British public. Each hound came into the worldknowing every address within a fifty-mile radius of its birthplaceand with the ability to carry mail between those locations, barkingand scratching at a recipient's door until the letter wascollected. After each task was completed, the ru
Messenger parakeets formed the other half of the system. Thesephenomenal mimics carried spoken communications. A person only hadto visit a post office and give one of the birds a message, thename of the recipient, and the address, and the parakeet would flystraight to the appropriate set of ears.
There was one problem, an issue that had troubled the Eugenicistscientists from the start: namely, that whatever modification theymade to a species, it always seemed to bring with it an unexpectedside effect.
In the case of the parakeets, it was that they swore at, mocked,and offended everyone they encountered. The person on the receivingend of the service would inevitably be given a message liberallypeppered with insults not put there by the sender. Nothing, itseemed, could be done to correct this fault. Originally, it hadbeen hoped that every household would have its own parakeet but, asit turned out, no one could bear the constant abuse in their ownhome. So the Post Office had stepped in and now each branch kept anaviary full of the birds.
In the ru
Burton heard the front door close. His letter was on itsway.
He took a swig of brandy and reached for a cheroot; he had ataste for cheap, strong tobacco.
Explore Dahomey? he thought, still dwelling on what he should donow that the Nile question was out of his hands; for though a newexpedition was required to settle the matter once and for all, heknew that Murchison would not commission him to lead it. The RoyalGeographical Society was already fractured by the verbal duel heand Speke had fought, and the president would doubtlessly offer theexpedition to a neutral geographer.
So, Dahomey? Burton had been wanting to mount an expedition intothat dark and dangerous region of West Africa for some time but nowit was going to be difficult to raise the money.
A private sponsor, perhaps? Maybe a publishing company?
Ah, yes, then there were the books. For a long while he'd wantedto write a definitive translation of The Thousand Nights and aNight; perhaps now would be a good time to begin that ambitiousproject. At very least he should finish Vikram and the Vampire, thecollected tales of Hindu devilry that were currently stacked on oneof his desks, with a