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Swinburne piped up: “What about a chap named Boyle or Foyle? Atall, stooped fellow with a big beard and wire-rimmedspectacles.”
Milnes shook his head. “Doesn't ring any bells.”
“Do you mean Doyle?” Bradlaugh asked.
“I don't know. Do I?”
“He fits the description and he's a Rake, of that I'm sure. Hewas at a party at my place a few months back. You were there, too.A little before Christmas. You were in your cups at the time. Sowas I, come to think of it.”
Swinburne threw up his hands. “I was at a party at yourplace?”
Bradlaugh chuckled. “Your absence of memory is no surprise.You'd been at it long before you even arrived. My footman openedyour carriage's door and you plopped out face-first onto thestreet, while your topper rolled away into the gutter. If it's anyconsolation, Doyle is a much worse drunkard than you everwere.”
Bendyshe snorted. “I don't know about that! There was that timewhen-” He stopped as Burton's hand clamped his arm tightly.
“Sorry, Tom, but this could be important. Bradlaugh, this Doylefellow-who is he?”
“A storybook artist. From Edinburgh. Charles Altamont Doyle.He's the brother of my friend Richard Doyle, who's also anartist-you've probably seen his work, he's quite successful.Charles, on the other hand-at least from what I know of him-issimply too unworldly to make much of himself. He's an awfullymorbid sort-prone to black moods and fits of despair. I thinkthat's what drives him to drink. It's a tragedy, really. He has ayoung wife and God knows how many children to support, but whatlittle he earns is spent on the demon booze. He has a taste forburgundy and will sink to any depths to get it, and if he can't,he'll resort to anything else he can lay his hands on. Rumour hasit that on one particularly desperate occasion he drank a bottle offurniture polish.”
“Good lord!” James Hunt exclaimed. “The man should be in anasylum!”
“I have no doubt that he will be soon,” Bradlaugh responded. “Atthe aforementioned party, he certainly appeared to be teetering onthe brink of insanity. He has a pet obsession, a delusion, whichseems to haunt his every waking hour. He ranted about itinterminably that night; didn't stop until he passed out.”
“What is it?” Swinburne asked.
“He's convinced that fairies exist and are communicating withhim from the unseen world.”
Sir Richard Francis Burton felt goosebumps rise on hisforearms.
Bismillah! Fairies again!
“You mean he hears voices in his head?” said Swinburne.
“Absolutely. I should say he's damaged his brain throughexcessive drinking.”
“Where is he now?” Burton asked. “Where does he live?”
“Not with his wife. She threw him out after he stole pocketmoney from his own children. I believe he has lodgings somewhere inthe city but I don't know where.”
“And his wife's address?”
Bradlaugh gave it, and Burton copied it into his notebook.
The king's agent looked at the bloodstained towel in hishands.
“If you'll excuse us for a moment, I think Algy and I shouldrepair to the washroom to get properly cleaned up. We'll rejoin youin a few minutes.”
“Of course! Of course! Is there anything else you need?” Milnesasked.
“I could do with a belt,” Swinburne answered, gripping histrousers as he stood.
“’Tis ever the case,” Bendyshe opined with a smirk.
The following morning, while Algernon Swinburne went to call onCharles Doyle's wife, Sir Richard Francis Burton received a visitfrom Burke and Hare.
Palmerston's odd-job men resembled nothing so much as a coupleof eighteenth-century gravediggers. Despite the hot weather, theywere dressed in their customary black surtouts, with blackwaistcoats and white shirts underneath. The Gladstone collars ofthe latter were cheek-scraping, eye-threatening points that lookedutterly ridiculous to Burton. The shirts were tucked intohigh-waisted knee-length breeches. Yellow tights encased the men'scalves. Their black shoes were decorated with large silver buckles.They each held a stovepipe hat.
As the two men stepped into Burton's study, they were greetedwith: “Slobbering dolts! Bumble thick-wits!”
“My apologies, gentlemen,” Burton said, with a grin. “The newmember of my household is somewhat lacking in ma
“Sod off!” the bird trilled.
“You're a brave man, Captain Burton,” Burke said, in hissepulchral voice. “There's not many could stand having one of thoselittle devils in their home.”
Damien Burke was tall, slightly hunchbacked, extremely bald, andsported the variety of side whiskers popularly known as “Piccadillyweepers.” His face hung in a permanently maudlin expression, with adown-curving mouth, jowly cheeks, and woebegone eyes.
“Have you been in the wars, sir?” he asked. “You appear somewhatbedraggled, if you'll forgive the observation.”
“It wasn't a war, it was a riot,” the king's agent corrected.“But the cuts are shallow and the bruises are healing.”
Burke placed something onto Burton's principal desk.
The king's agent eyed the object, which was wrapped in linen andhad the approximate shape and dimensions of a pistol. “I haven'tbeen outside yet. How is it? Are the streets quieter?”
“Somewhat, sir,” Gregory Hare responded. “Isn't that so, Mr.Burke?” He was shorter than his companion and immensely broad, withmassive shoulders and apish arms. A shock of pure white hair stoodupright from his head and grew down around the angle of his heavysquare jaw to a tuft beneath his chin. His pale-grey eyes shonefrom within deep gristly sockets, his nose was splayed, and hismouth was tremendously wide and filled with large, flat, tightlypacked teeth.
Both men, in Burton's opinion, were hideous-looking.
“Quite so, Mr. Hare,” Burke replied. “I should point out,however, that the Tichborne Claimant intends to address the publicfrom a platform in Saint James's Park at four o'clock.”
“You think it will lead to further rioting?” Burton asked.
“Do you, Captain?”
“I consider it highly likely, yes.”
“We share your opinion, don't we, Mr. Hare?”
“We do, Mr. Burke.”
“Noxious fume-pumpers!” Pox screamed.
Hare ignored the bird and indicated the package. “A gift foryou, Captain.”
“Really?”
Hare took hold of the linen and unfolded it, revealing the itemwrapped inside. It was a green, organic, fleshy-looking thing, witha stubby barrel and a handgrip from the base of which small whiteroots grew. There were various nodules protruding from the object,one being positioned where the trigger would be on a pistol.
“What on earth is it?”
“It's a cactus,” said Burke.
“A cactus?”
“Yes. A cactus. From Ireland.”
“It has no spines.”
“As a matter of fact, it does, but they grow on the inside. Youare aware of a gentleman named Richard Spruce?”
“Yes, of course. He's been much in the public eye of late. He'sa member of the RGS. I bump into him from time to time.”
“He's become something of a pariah, wouldn't you agree?”
Burton nodded. “As far as the public and the press areconcerned, he's solely responsible for the Irish tragedy.”
“Indeed, Captain, indeed. Which, in turn, some say, has led usinto the American conflict. That's a lot of weight for one man tocarry.”
“I would think so.”
“Which may explain why he and a number of his Eugenicistcolleagues met with a German spy named Count Zeppelin last week andattempted to flee to Prussia, taking state secrets with them.”
“He did what? The confounded idiot!”
“Monkey gland!” Pox added.
“You call him an idiot, sir. I call him a traitor. The damage hecould have done selling secrets like this-” Burke nodded at theobject on the desk “-is incalculable.”
“A cactus is a state secret?” Burton asked, puzzled.
“This variety most definitely is.”