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“No power.”
“So, tell me. What happened?”
“The woman.”
“Woman? Who?”
“The Russian. I don't know how she entered my surgery. I wasconducting an experiment and had locked the doors. I didn't want tobe disturbed. I heard a footstep behind me. I turned and there wasthe woman.”
“What did she look like?”
“Medium height. Heavy. The maternal type. Horrible blackeyes.”
“Was she solid? I mean to say, was she an apparition?”
“An apparition? A ghost? No, she was there.”
“What happened next?”
“I-I-I fell into her eyes. Those eyes! I fell right intothem!”
“She mesmerised you. What did she instruct you to do?”
“She told me to travel to Santiago in South America, to go tothe asylum there and use the authority of my name to take charge ofa patient named Tomas Castro. I was to escort him back here toBethlem Royal, but upon entering this hospital I must use the namePatricia Camberwick and forget my true name. Service here had beenprearranged for me and my primary duty was to care for and guardMr. Castro. I must not allow anyone to see him apart from the womanand a man named Edward Kenealy.”
“Castro is still here?”
“Yes, on this floor, in the observation chamber.”
“Why were we not shown that room?”
“Doctor Monroe and the senior staff have had their memory of theroom removed. An aversion to the door that leads to it has beenimplanted into them. They think it's a broom cupboard.”
“So, with the exception of the Russian and Kenealy, are you theonly person who visits Castro?”
“Yes.”
“Take me to him.”
“Yes.”
Nightingale stood and, as if sleepwalking, drifted across andout of the room, leading Burton along the corridor to a nondescriptdoor. She pulled a bunch of keys from her apron pocket and unlockedit. Burton followed her across the threshold and down a shortpassage leading to a heavily bolted portal.
“There,” Nightingale said.
“Lead the way,” he replied.
Keys were inserted and turned, bolts drawn, a padlock opened,and a chain removed. With the nurse's shoulder pressed against it,the barrier swung aside with a painful creak. She stepped onto aplatform that ran around the wall of a tall circular chamber, aboutfifteen feet up from the floor. The room was fifty feet or so indiameter, fitfully illuminated by four gas lamps, and was sparselyfurnished with a bed, table, chair, and a wooden screen, which,Burton guessed, concealed a toilet and basin.
A thin chain, attached to an iron ring set in the middle of thefloor, snaked across to where a man lay on the bed. It was joinedto a manacle that encircled his left ankle.
He was dressed only in ragged trousers and an undershirt, andwas dreadfully thin. His left arm ended in a bandaged stump justbelow the elbow. His face was encased in an iron mask, featurelessbut for four horizontal slits, one for each eye, one level with hisnostrils, and one for the mouth.
Tomas Castro.
The man struggled to a sitting position and looked up atthem.
“ Ce qui maintenant? ” he whispered huskily. “Is there to bemore torment? Who is this? I have not seen him before.”
He spoke with a French accent.
Burton turned to Nightingale. “Follow me.”
He walked along the platform until he came to a ladder anddescended to the chamber floor.
Castro rose weakly to his feet as Burton approached.
“Please, don't exert yourself,” the king's agent said. “Remainseated. You are Sir Roger Tichborne, I take it?”
“Tichborne? Mon dieu! You are the first to call me that in along time. It has been Castro, only Castro.” His voice soundedhollow behind the mask.
Burton took the chair and placed it near the bed. He sat down.Tichborne fell back onto the thin mattress and said: “But youaddress me as ‘Sir.’ Is it that I have inherited thebaronetcy?”
“No little time ago. I'm afraid your uncle and father both diedwithin a week of each other back in ’54, shortly before you werecommitted. It was reported that you were lost at sea whilstvoyaging back to England. Your brother Alfred took the title. Iregret to inform you that he, too, is dead. He was murdered by yourenemies earlier this year.”
“Alfred,” Tichborne croaked. “ Mon cher frere! ” He raised hishand and rested the front of his mask against it. “And this year,it is?” came his muffled voice.
“It is now September of 1862.”
There was a moment of silence, broken when the prisoner began toquietly weep.
Burton leaned forward and placed a hand on the man's upperarm.
“Sir, there has been a vast and terrible conspiracy against you.I am trying to untangle the web, to discover who has spun it andwhy. It would help considerably if you could tell me your story. Doyou have the strength?”
Tichborne raised his head. “Then you mean to help me?”
“I will do everything in my power. My name is Richard Burton. Iam an agent of the king.”
“No, wait,” said Tichborne. “ Non. Non. It ca
“You are mistaken, sir. This woman, who you may know as SisterCamberwick, is, in fact, named Florence Nightingale. She has beenoperating under a deep mesmeric trance. She knows neither what shehas done nor why. She is as much a victim as you are.”
“Ce n'est pas possible! And now? Why is she not screaming forhelp?”
“Because I myself have a modicum of talent as a mesmerist andhave gained control of her.”
Tichborne sat silently, gazing at the nurse. Burton could seehis wet, lidless eyes shining through the slits of the mask.
“My story,” the baronet whispered. “My story.” He looked atBurton. “Very well. I shall tell it. Where would you like me tobegin?”
“With your voyage to South America-but we have little time, SirRoger, so broad strokes, if you please.”
“ Bien. I sailed in ’54. I had been wooing a distant cousin,Kattie-”
“Katherine Doughty,” Burton interjected.
“ Ah! Oui. Elle vit? ”
“Yes, she lives. She is well.”
Tichborne nodded, paused, and asked: “Married?”
“Yes.”
“ Oui. Oui. Naturellement. ” He looked down, ran his fingersover the stump of his left arm, looked up, and went on: “Kattie'sparents, they were not in favour of me, and I ca
“Which is where they say you received the news that your unclehad passed away.”
“ Mais non! I never did! I stayed in the port for but a day thenbegan my journey inland toward Santiago. I eventually settled in atown named Melipilla, at the foot of the Cerro Patagua Range, whichis where I suspected my grandfather had done his prospecting. Ilived with the family of a man named Tomas Castro, and in hiscompany made forays into the mountains, sometimes living in tentsfor many days before returning to his home.
“What happened next, monsieur, is difficult for me to explain,for my memories, they are confused. Castro and I had venturedfarther into the mountains than ever before, and were bothsuffering from the altitude and thin air. My friend seemed to bethe most affected. He began to experience wild hallucinations andbecame delirious. He insisted that we had displeased the secretinhabitants of the mountains by our presence, and that the only wayto placate them was by sacrifice. I began to fear for my life, forhe seemed to me to be losing his mind.”
“Secret inhabitants?” Burton asked. “Did he have a name forthem?”
“ Oui. He called them the Cherufe. He said they were the ghostsof an ancient race that had once inhabited the Earth.”