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“Yes, I'm investigating the matter.”
“Cor blimey! Well, I never did in all me born days! That's aright turn up, an’ no mistake!” Spencer mused, philosophically.
An hour later, the three men, sitting in box kites, badeIsabella Mayson goodbye and were jerked into the air.
They steered between vertical shafts of smoke as they crossedthe great city, heading in a westerly direction with the dome ofSt. Paul's Cathedral glinting in the sunlight behind them.
It was mild and pleasant and Burton felt a thrill of freedom asthe vista expanded around him. England's tight horizons had alwaysgiven him a sense of claustrophobia. They were so unlike the vastdistances of India, Africa, and Arabia, and it felt wonderfullyliberating to see them drawing back as he gained altitude.
Soon, the crowded and dirty city dropped behind until onlytowns, villages, fields, forests, and rivers populated thelandscape. It was densely green and possessed a warm cosiness quitedifferent from any other country he'd ever visited.
“I suppose you're not so bad, old England,” he murmured, andblew out a breath in surprise. That was a sentiment he'd neverexpressed before!
“Wheeee-oooo!” came a cry, and Swinburne shot past, a blur ofwhite swan feathers and bright red poet's hair.
“Look alive, Boss! The race is on!” Spencer yelled, whippingpast Burton on the other side.
The king's agent gri
His swan responded magnificently, pumping its wings so hard thatthe sudden acceleration pushed Burton back in his canvas seat. Inthis still air, his kite glided along smoothly, with none of thegut-churning twisting and tumbling that had characterised hispursuit of Brunel.
The small town of Weybridge slid beneath as Burton's bird caughtup with Spencer's and overtook it.
“Keep up, dawdler!”
As the philosopher fell behind, Burton set his sights onSwinburne, who was by now a considerable distance ahead. The poet'sbird was undoubtedly the fastest of the three, but did it possessendurance enough to hold the lead all the way to TichborneHouse?
Burton settled into the chase.
They soared over Woking, then Aldershot, and, as they passedFarnham, he finally caught up with his assistant.
“Your bird's slowing!” he shouted.
“We shouldn't push them too hard!” Swinburne yelled back. “Iconcede defeat! You've won. Let's rein them in a little.”
They slowed, relaxed, flapped on. Herbert Spencer cameabreast.
The sun was sagging lazily at the edge of the sky as ItchenValley hove into view, the light golden on its pastures, theshadows long and darkly blue.
Burton led them onward, sinking down, flying low over patchworkfields and the rooftops of Bishop's Sutton to the village ofAlresford. They veered in a southwesterly direction, passed overhigh hedges and rich water meadows, and arrived at the Tichborneestate.
Circling a willow-bordered lake, they flew low along its shoreand yanked their release straps. The three box kites separated fromthe birds, drifted earthward, touched the grass, tumbled, and cameto a standstill. The swans beat their wings and swept up over thewillow trees and down onto the water beyond, landing with splashesand honks of delight. They paddled contentedly and watched throughthe drooping branches as the men clambered out of their wood andcanvas carriages, each pulling a portmanteau from the large storagepockets at the rear of the kites.
“It's a precarious experience, landing these blinkin’ things,”Spencer commented.
“Exciting, though,” said Swinburne.
“Yus, lad, that as well,” the philosopher agreed. “I'll go an’remove the birds’ harnesses.”
While Spencer dealt with the swans, Burton and Swinburnedismantled and folded the kites.
A man approached. He was wearing a fustian shooting jacket andbaggy corduroy trousers, and held a double-barrelled shotguncrooked over his elbow. With his short dark hair, droopingmustache, and swarthy skin, he bore a passing resemblance to theking's agent, though he was shorter and lacked the habitualfrown.
“Here, what's this, then?” he demanded.
“Good afternoon. Don't worry yourself, my good man. We'reexpected. I'm Burton.”
“Ah, yes, sir, sorry, sir. Colonel Lushington said you'd bearriving. I'm Guilfoyle, the groundsman.”
“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Guilfoyle. Is it all right with you ifwe leave our swans on the lake?”
“Of course, sir. There's plenty for them to eat in there, sothey won't go hungry.”
Spencer rejoined them and was introduced: “This is Mr. HerbertSpencer, their keeper. He'll be down here from time to time to tendto them.”
“Very well, sir,” Guilfoyle answered, raising his cap toSpencer. “They're expecting you at the house, gentlemen. I'll walkyou up. Leave your kites here. I'll find a place to storethem.”
“Thank you.”
They followed the groundsman up the gently sloping lawn, whichrose from the lake to the back of the house, skirted around theivy-clad building, and arrived at its front. Beyond a carriageway,wheat fields stretched up to the brow of a distant low hill.
“Those are the famous Crawls,” Guilfoyle remarked.
“Crawls?”
“Aye. The fields old Mabella de Tichborne encircled to set thedole. Do you know the legend?”
“Yes. Bismillah! What a distance! No wonder she droppeddead!”
“Aye, sir, and no wonder she cursed the place first!”
Guilfoyle nodded a farewell and made to depart, but then stoppedand gave a slightly strangled cough.
“Is there something else, my man?” Burton asked.
The groundsman removed his cap and pulled it nervously throughhis fingers.
“Well, sir, it's just that-that-well, what I mean is-”
“Yes?”
“Please, gentlemen, if you don't mind me sayin’ so, you shouldbe careful at night. Stay in your rooms. That's all. Stay in yourrooms.”
He turned and walked away, not looking back.
“How extraordinary!” Swinburne exclaimed.
“Yes, very odd,” Burton agreed. “Come on, let's go and a
Four white Tuscan columns framed the entrance to the grandhouse. The three men climbed the steps and passed between them,through the portico. Swinburne tugged at a bellpull. It felt loosein his hand.
“Humph! Seems like the spring's broken!” he grunted, and usedthe brass knocker instead.
After a minute or so, the door was opened and a small, elderly,white-haired, and pleasant-faced Jamaican greeted them. AndrewBogle, the butler.
“Sir Richard Burton and associates to see Colonel Lushington,”the king's agent a
“Yes, sir. Please come in. If you'd like to wait in theReception Room, I'll inform the colonel that you have arrived.”
They were escorted into a plush chamber, where the butler leftthem, and were joined a few minutes later by a tall, smartlydressed, broad-shouldered man of ramrod-straight military bearing.Bronzed by an outdoor life, he appeared to be in his early sixties.He wore his greying hair cut very short, but possessed extravagantmuttonchop whiskers, which stood out horizontally, ending incarefully waxed thin points above the tips of his shoulders.
“Good afternoon,” he barked. “Or evening. Which? No matter!Colonel Franklin Lushington is my name. Lushington will do. Noformality required. Colonel, if you prefer. I'm glad you're here,Sir Richard. Henry Arundell speaks very highly of you. You are SirRichard, aren't you? No mistake?”
“None, sir. I'm Burton.”
They shook hands, and Burton introduced his companions.
After arranging a room for Spencer-“below stairs” with theservants-to which he was escorted by Bogle, Burton and Swinburnefollowed Lushington to the library.
Supplied with the obligatory brandies and cigars, they settledinto high-backed armchairs and got to business.
“Sir Alfred will join us for supper,” Lushington advised. “Orperhaps not. The plain unvarnished fact of the matter is-let's notbeat about the bush-he's been behaving erratically in recent daysand isn't reliable. I tell you that in confidence, of course. Hedoesn't always make sense. Some sort of nervous breakdown, Ifancy.”