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“Trounce, take Bhatti and follow the route from the Cockspurend,” Burton directed. “Algy and I will take the oppositedirection, along Saint Martin's.”
Trounce frowned, held out his hands in a shrug, and asked: “Butwhy? What are we looking for?”
“Can't you see?” Burton cried. “This bloody thing-” he struckthe brass figure with his cane and it clanged loudly “-is nothingbut a decoy! Whoever dropped it off in the square knew it wouldfascinate Bhatti, knew he'd pore over it obsessively beforesummoning help from the Yard, and knew that a fair amount of timewould pass before he returned to his beat!”
“Hell's bells!” Trounce shouted. “You mean there's a crime inprogress? Come on, Constable!”
He shoved bystanders aside, ordered a nearby police sergeant toguard the metal man, and raced away with Bhatti toward the end ofCockspur Street.
Sir Richard Francis Burton and Algernon Swinburne made their wayto the edge of the square and pressed on through the rain to SaintMartin's.
Adrenalin had sobered them but Burton's headache wasintensifying and a familiar ague-a remnant of Africa-was begi
They passed the police station and nodded to Constable Hoare,who was at the side of the road hitching a miserable-looking policehorse to a wagon.
All along the street, gas lamps had fizzled out, their coversinadequate against the downpour. Only a few remained alight, andthe deep shadows and streaming rain reduced visibility to just afew yards.
A little farther on, the two men came to Goddard's and peeredthrough the night grille at the window behind.
“Good gracious!” Swinburne blurted excitedly. “There's aRossetti in there and I modelled for it! I must tell Dante. He'llbe over the moon!”
Dante Gabriel Rossetti was a founding member of the TrueLibertines-the most idealistic faction of the Libertine caste and acounterbalance to the notorious Rakes. He was also one of the“Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood,” a community of artists whose statedaim was to produce works that communicated at a “spiritual” levelwith the common man; a direct challenge to the current trend inpropaganda. Few people admired them. Rossetti and his cohorts weremocked and ridiculed by the press, which claimed the artists wereappealing to a void, since common men-the working classes-lackedanything resembling a well-developed sense of their ownspirituality.
Swinburne often socialised with the group and had posed fortheir paintings on a number of occasions. He was surprised thatGoddard dared display the small, medieval-themed canvas, whichdepicted the poet as a flame-haired knight with lance in hand,mounted on a sturdy horse. Admittedly, the picture was half hiddenbehind a more commercial portrait of the late Francis Galton, whowas shown wielding a syringe and smiling broadly beneath the words:Self-improvement! It doesn't hurt a bit!
The premises was quiet and dark, its door secure, the windowsintact.
“Let's move on,” Burton said. “No one's going to steal aRossetti.”
An old-fashioned horse-drawn brougham-they were stillcommon-came clattering alongside, splashed water onto their trouserlegs, and disappeared into the gloom. Oddly, the sound of itshorse's hooves thundered on, seeming quite out of proportion to thesize of the animal.
“A mega-dray,” Swinburne commented, and Burton realised that hisassistant was right; the heavy clopping wasn't from the brougham'sanimal at all, it was from one of the huge dray horses developed bythe Eugenicists, the biological branch of the Technologist caste.Obviously there was one nearby, though even as Burton thought this,the sound faded into the distance.
Boyd's Antiques, which was on the other side of the road, was,like Goddard's, locked up and undisturbed.
“Nothing happening here,” Swinburne said as they walked on.“Great heavens, Richard, we're in desperate straits-we're bothsoaked, and not with alcohol!”
“Good!” Burton replied. “I thought I'd weaned you off thebottle.”
“You had, but then you tempted me back! You've not been soberfor more than two days since the Spring Heeled Jack hoo-ha!”
“For which I apologise. I think my frustrations over the Nilesituation have been getting the better of me.”
“Give it up, Richard. Africa's no longer your concern.”
“I know, I know. It's just that… I regret the mistakes I madeduring my expedition. I wish I could go back and make amends.”
A man hurried past them, spitting expletives as thestrengthening wind turned his umbrella inside out.
Swinburne gave his friend a sideways glance. “Do you meanphysically return to Africa or go back in time? What on earth's gotinto you? You've been like a bear with a sore head lately.”
Burton pursed his lips, thrust his cane into the crook of hiselbow, and pushed his hands into his pockets.
“Montague Pe
“Who?”
“He was a cab driver-a salt-of-the-earth type. He knew hisposition in society, and despite it being tough and the rewardsslight, he just got on with it, uncomplainingly.”
“So?”
“So I dragged him out of his world and into mine. He got killed,and it was my fault.” Burton looked at his companion, his eyes hardand his expression grim. “William Stroyan, 1854, Berbera. Iunderestimated the natives. I didn't think they'd attack our camp.They did. He was killed. John Ha
“The man who leaped here from the future.”
“Yes. And who accidentally changed the past. He was trying toput it right, and I killed him.”
“He was Spring Heeled Jack. He was insane.”
“My motives were selfish. He revealed to me where my life wasgoing. I broke his neck to prevent any chance that he might succeedin his mission. I didn't want to be the man that his historyrecorded.”
They trudged on through the sodden rubbish and animal waste.Unusually, this end of Saint Martin's Lane hadn't yet been visitedby a litter-crab.
“If he'd lived, Richard,” Swinburne said, “the Technologists andRakes would have used him to manipulate time for their own ends. Wewould have lost control of our destinies.”
“Does not Destiny, by its very nature, deny us control?” Burtoncountered.
Swinburne smiled. “Does it? Then if that's the case,responsibility for Mr. Pe
“Which would make me its tool. Bismillah! That's just what Ineed!”
Burton stopped and indicated a shopfront. “Here's Pride-Manushi,the velocipede place.”
They examined the doors and windows of the establishment. Nolights showed. Everything was secure. They squinted through thegaps in the metal shutter. There was no movement, nothingamiss.
“Brundleweed's next,” Burton murmured.
“Gad! I don't blame you for wishing you were back on the DarkContinent!” Swinburne declared, pulling at his overcoat collar. “Atleast it's warm there. A thousand curses on this rain!”
They crossed the road again. As they mounted the pavement, abeggar stepped out of a shadowy doorway. He was ill kempt and woredisreputable clothes. A profusion of greying hair framed his face,and it was quite apparent that he was well acquainted with neithera comb nor a bar of soap.
“I lost me job, gents,” he wheezed, raising his flat cap ingreeting and revealing a bald scalp. “An’ it serves me bloomin’well right, too. I ask you, why the heck did I choose to be ableedin’ philosopher when me mind's nearly always muddled? Can youspare thruppence?”
Swinburne fished a coin out of his pocket and flipped it to thevagrant. “Here you are, old chap. You were a philosopher?”