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There were just a few people stumbling about, looking dazed andbewildered, barely conscious of their surroundings. He shot a manwho lurched at him, but the others left him alone. Then it dawnedon him that every tavern he'd passed appeared full, each producingthe sounds of merriment and arguments, songs, shouts, and laughter.Obviously, now that the evening was drawing in, the rioters weretaking shelter and refreshment, preparing to see the night throughwith copious amounts of alcohol. He wondered whether it wouldloosen the grip of whatever was influencing them, as it had withSwinburne.
He entered Fleet Street and had progressed but a few yards whenhe spotted Herbert Spencer standing in the shelter of adoorway.
“Boss!” the vagrant philosopher exclaimed. “I weren't expectin’to see you!”
“Hallo, Herbert. Where's Algernon?”
“In there,” Spencer replied, pointing at an ancient tavern. Thesign above the door read Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese. “He found outfrom Mrs. Doyle that her ne'er-do-well husband was livin’ in a flatabove a public house what's called the Frog and Squirrel. He wentthere disguised as a street waif an’ sure enough found the manhimself proppin’ up the bar. Drunk as a skunk, he was. Doyle hassome sort of appointment later on, and Master Swinburne has taggedalong with him as far as this here pub. I saw ’em headin’ down tothe Embankment, to give the Strand a wide berth, so I followed andmanaged to exchange a few words with the lad on the sly.Incidentally, the Strand is where the wraiths are thickest-an’there are crowds of Rakes wanderin’ about in it, too, but the thingis-” He stopped and shuddered.
“What is it, Herbert?”
“Them Rakes what I glimpsed-”
“Yes?”
“I think they was dead.”
Burton frowned. “How can they be wandering about if they'redead?”
“I know. It ain't possible, but that's what I saw. They're dead,but they ain't realised it yet!”
“Walking dead? By God! And what's this about huge monsters?Constable Bhatti said something of the sort had been seen.”
“Yus, but it's just one and it's the Tichborne Claimant, Boss,grown fatter than a whale! I tells you, if'n you go into theStrand, the wraiths will confuse your mind, the dead Rakes willbeat you senseless, an’ the Claimant will bloomin’ well eatyou!”
“Eat you?”
“Yus. He's got a taste for human flesh-an’ those what areriotin’ are followin’ his lead!”
“I saw as much. What the hell is happening, Herbert?”
“Du
“I wonder if Algy has discovered anything useful from that Doylefellow. Do you think I can get into the tavern without having theliving daylights kicked out of me?”
“If you muss yourself up a bit more and go in your shirtsleeves,you'll pass muster, what with your face all sooty, as it is.”
Burton slipped out of his jacket and waistcoat, handed them tothe vagrant, and looked ruefully at his one-armed shirt.
“I suppose this will be regarded as a qualification,” hemuttered. “At least I look like I've been in a scrap!”
“Yus. An’ if you don't mind me a-sayin’ so, you have the face ofa pugilist, too.”
“Forgive me if I don't thank you for that comment. So, do I lookthe part?”
“Muss up your hair a little bit more, Boss.”
Burton did so.
“Perfect.”
“Wait here, Herbert. I hope this won't take too long. It dependshow drunk my wayward assistant is.”
He crossed the street, paused outside the tavern, pushed thedoor open, and entered.
The low-ceilinged interior was quite literally packed to therafters with working men and women of the very lowest order, with,no doubt, thieves, murderers, and whores mixed liberally amongthem. They were drunk and boisterous, and many appeared glassy-eyedwith something beyond alcoholic intoxication. A few were so fargone they were practically catatonic, standing motionless amid thecacophony with slack faces and eyes rolled up into theirsockets.
He pushed his way through the laughing, shouting, singing,squabbling mob, feeling that, at any moment, a knife might bethrust between his ribs or a broken bottle mashed into hisface.
“To hell with soddin’ aristocrats!” someone bellowed.
A roar of approval went up and Burton joined in, so as not tostand out.
“Ari-sto-craaats-” rasped a man beside him.
“Three cheers for Sir Roger!”
Burton cheered with them.
“Up with the working man!”
“Aye!” they yelled.
“Aye!” Burton shouted.
As he shoved through what looked to be a group of poorhouseworkers, they broke out in song: “When the Jury said I was notRoger,
Oh! How they made me stagger,
The pretty girls they'll always think
Of poor Roger's wagga wagga!”
A wave of maniacal laughter greeted the verse. One man'sguffawing turned into a loud, incoherent wail then cut offabruptly. He stood gri
“Pour more booze down the silly bugger's neck,” someone called.“That'll get ’is engine ru
“Aye!” shouted another. “Them what's not quaffin’ will end up ina coffin!”
This was greeted with more mirth and raised glasses.
Burton registered the paradox that those who were mostinebriated were apparently also the ones who retained most of theirwits. It confirmed that alcohol did, indeed, go some way to counterthe effect of the Tichborne emanations.
He saw Swinburne, looking every inch the guttersnipe, squashedinto a corner with a hollow-eyed, bespectacled, long-beardedindividual.
“Oy! Nipper!” he roared. “Get yer arse over ’ere, yer littlebrat!”
“You tell ’im, mister!” A dirty-faced strumpet giggled, nudginghim in the side. “Put the scamp over yer knee and give ’im a bloodygood spankin’-an’ after that, you can do the same to me!”
Raucous laughter erupted around him. He joined in, and bawled,“Aye! An’ the flat of me hand ain't all you'll be a-hankerin’after, is it? I has it in mind that you'll be a-wantin’ a bloodygood roger, too-an’ I don't mean his nibs Tichborne!”
A deafening cheer greeted his gibe and, under cover of theclamour, raised tankards, and gleeful scoffing, he signalledSwinburne to join him.
The poet said something to his companion, stood, and pushed hisway through to Burton's side. The king's agent thumbed toward thedoor, mouthing, “Let's get out of here!” then grabbed his assistantby the ear and dragged him through the pub and out onto thestreet.
“My ear!” the poet squeaked.
“Dramatic necessity,” Burton grunted.
They crossed the road and joined Spencer.
“How are you holding up, Algy?” the explorer asked.
Swinburne rubbed his ear and said, “Fine. Fine. What about thatspanking?”
“You got quite enough of that outside Verbena Lodge. What'sDoyle up to?”
“Drinking, drinking, and more drinking. He can really knock itback. I'm astonished he's still standing, and, as you know, I'm apast master in such endeavours. I really am very impressed. If itcame down to a challenge, I'd-”
“Stop babbling, please.”
Burton wondered whether mesmerising the poet had been such agood idea. As he'd suspected, the consequential behaviour wasproving unpredictable, Swinburne's verbosity being the most obvioussymptom.
“He's on his way to a seance, Richard. It's at ten o'clock at 5Gallows Tree Lane, on the outskirts of Clerkenwell, very close tothe Literary Gentlemen's Unpublishables Club. You know the place-Ibelieve you once went there with old Monckton Milnes. If I rememberrightly, you wanted to consult their copy of The Seven PerilousPostures of Love by one of your obscure-or do I mean‘obscene’?-Arabian poets. It's the club with the supposedly secretscroll of-”