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“An enticing one, to be sure,” Arundell continued. “Certainlyyoung Roger fell under its spell, and decided to visit all theplaces where his grandfather had travelled in the hope that he,too, would stumble upon untold wealth. A quite ridiculousendeavour, and it would have been an utter waste of time had hegone through with it-but no sooner did he step ashore at Valparaisothan word reached him that his uncle, Sir Edward Doughty, hadpassed away.”
“So the baronetcy passed to his father, James?”
“Quite so-until, seven days later, Sir James dropped dead fromheart failure. Our prodigal was now the new baronet, entitled toall the wealth and estates of the Tichbornes. Rather eagerly, Iimagine, he hopped aboard a ship- La Bella -to make his way home.On the 20th of April, 1854, it sank without a trace, and the thirdbaronet in less than a fortnight was lost. His young brother,Alfred, inherited the estate instead, and would have bankrupted itin no time at all had his mother not sent her friend ColonelLushington to Tichborne House to take him in hand.”
Henry Arundell paused to sip his wine and to nod a greeting toan acquaintance seated at a nearby table.
Burton asked: “If Sir Alfred is such a liability, why are theArundell and Doughty families so concerned that his elder brotherhas shown up alive and well? Why contest Roger Tichborne's claimsto the baronetcy?”
The older man blew out an exasperated breath and said in a sharptone: “Simply because the man currently in Paris is most definitelynot Roger Tichborne.”
The king's agent looked surprised. “He isn't? That's not whatLady Henriette-Felicite says. Surely you don't doubt a mother'srecognition of her own son?”
“I do, absolutely!”
“On what grounds?”
“On grounds that the dowager is on death's doorstep and isdesperate for her lost son's return; on grounds that she's almostentirely deaf and blind; on grounds that Roger Tichborne always,without exception, wrote to his mother in French, yet the mancurrently posing as him wrote to her in English-and very, very badEnglish to boot-and on grounds that his handwriting is entirelydifferent.”
“A man's handwriting can change over the course of adecade.”
“Can a man forget how to spell?”
“Hmm,” Burton grunted.
The waiter arrived with their food and for a few minutes the menate in silence.
“So Sir Roger Tichborne-” Burton began.
“The Claimant,” Arundell snapped. “I'll not honour him with thename Tichborne until he's demonstrated beyond a shadow of a doubtthat he is who he says he is.”
“Very well then, the Claimant-he's still in Paris?”
“Yes. Apparently he has a scalp infection and is being treatedby a doctor, though he's expected at Tichborne House during thecourse of the coming week. I fear he means to eject ColonelLushington.”
“I would like to be there when he arrives. Could you arrangeit?”
Arundell looked Burton in the eye. “If you go as representativeof the Arundell and Doughty families, yes. My question is: can Idepend on you to act in our interests? You and I don't have a goodhistory, Burton, and my wife would have a hysterical fit if shefound out I'd drawn you into the affair.”
“It was the prime minister who drew me into the affair, sir, andwhat you can depend on is that I will do my utmost to get to thetruth of the matter, whatever it may be.”
Arundell pushed the food on his plate around with his fork, thensighed and said: “Fair enough. I'll get a message to Lushington.He's a dependable sort, if a little long-winded in ma
“Tomorrow afternoon.”
“Good. You'll definitely be there before the Claimant arrives.In addition to the colonel and Sir Alfred, there are a couple ofother people at the house you should be aware of. The first isDoctor Jankyn, the family physician. He belongs to an unbroken lineof medical practitioners who've been associated with the Tichbornessince the year dot, and he's currently nursing Sir Alfred throughsome sort of nervous complaint.”
“Related to his brother's return?”
“I don't know. The second person is Andrew Bogle, an oldJamaican who served as butler to Sir Edward Doughty and who nowworks in that same capacity for Sir Alfred. Both men knew RogerTichborne before he left for South America.”
With that, Henry Arundell had little more to tell Burton, so thetwo men finished their meal and Isabel's father took his leave.
The king's agent retired to the smoking room and there fell inwith Samuel Baker and John Petherick from the Royal GeographicalSociety. They were bluff, hearty, bushy-bearded men, whose plan togo in search of Henry Morton Stanley by following the course of theNile from Cairo to its source struck Burton as naive and overlyambitious. The warring tribes around the upper reaches of the greatriver had so far prevented any such penetration into the heart ofAfrica.
“It can't be done,” he told them.
“We'll see, Sir Richard. We'll see!” Baker replied, with a smileand a slap to Burton's shoulder.
The three of them discussed the matter for an hour or so beforethe two would-be rescuers took their leave of the more experiencedman. Burton shook his head.
“The bloody fools are going to their deaths,” he muttered.
He swallowed his drink and turned to leave only to find himselffacing another member of the RGS. It was Richard Spruce, abotanist, author of The Hepaticae of the Amazon and the Andes ofPeru and Ecuador; a man who knew South America extremely well.
“Ah, Spruce!” the king's agent enthused. “Just the man! Wouldyou allow me to buy you a tipple? I have an ulterior motive, mind-Iwant to grill you about Brazil and Chile.”
Spruce acceded, and, for half an hour, Burton questioned himabout black diamonds and the mythical Cherufe. Spruce just shruggedand declared that there were no diamonds in that part of the worldand he'd never heard of any prehistoric reptilian civilisation. Hethen turned the subject to his ongoing work with the Eugenicists tosolve the great Irish famine, and talked with such obsessive zealthat Burton began to feel uncomfortable, sensing that he was in thepresence of a fanatic.
“The seeds my fellows and I have developed are already growing!”Spruce raved. “You should see them! They've sprouted into massiveplants! Huge, Burton, huge! And they're pollinating far earlierthan we'd anticipated!”
He banged a fist onto the bar, causing glasses to rattle alongits length.
“It's just the begi
Burton, whose encounters with Charles Darwin and Francis Galton,and, more recently, with Sir Charles Babbage, had made himextremely wary of such propositions, gave an excuse and departed inhaste. There was, he reflected, something quite u
T he next morning, Algernon Swinburne called at 14 Montagu Placeand was ushered through the house by Mrs. Angell, into the yard,and to the garage beyond. Inside, he found Sir Richard FrancisBurton, who was applying oil to his rotorchair's many movingparts.
“I say! What happened to your beard?” the diminutive poetenquired.
“Vanity happened,” Burton admitted. “I got tired of seeing thatforked bird's nest in the mirror.”
“You look younger, but no less barbaric. Are you feeling better?You're still ski
“I'm through the worst of it, Algy, and feeling stronger by theday. What have you been up to? Here, hold this.”
“What is it?”
“The flywheel. I want to lubricate the bearings.”
“Ah.” Swinburne sighed. “I know a rather fetching young doxy whodoes something similar. You'd like her.”
Burton clicked his tongue disapprovingly and said: “Then myquestion is answered. It's quite apparent what you've been upto.”