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“I know! I know!” Burton interrupted.
“My hat! Do you think they chose Gallows Tree Lane because ofits name? Nice and morbid for summoning spirits!”
“Be quiet a moment, Algy. I need to think.”
“Very well. I shan't say another word. My lips are-”
Burton grabbed his assistant, whirled him around, pulled himclose, clapped a hand over his mouth, and held him tightly.
“Herbert, would you say Doyle is my height?”
“Yus, more or less, but thi
“Reach into the left pocket of my jacket, would you?”
Spencer, who had Burton's jacket draped over his arm, did asdirected and pulled out the brown wig and false beard the king'sagent had worn to Bedlam.
“A decent match, do you think?”
“I'd say so, Boss. P'raps his is a touch lighter in colour, butnot by much.”
“Mmmph!” Swinburne added.
“Good. When Doyle comes out of that tavern, we're going to jumpon him and exchange his jacket and hat for mine. Then I want youand Algy to drag him back to Montagu Place. Keep him there andunder no circumstances let him go. Is that understood?”
“To the hilt.”
“Question him. He's intoxicated, so maybe he'll blab somethingof interest. Ask him about fairies.”
Swinburne squirmed wildly and managed to wriggle out of hisgrasp. The poet hopped up and down excitedly.
“Fairies? Fairies?” he squealed. “Fairies? What's his petobsession got to do with anything?”
“Just ask him, Algy. See what he says.”
Spencer eyed Swinburne. “If he can get a word in edgeways.”
“Richard! Surely you don't intend to-”
“Yes, Algy. I'm going to that seance in the guise of CharlesAltamont Doyle.”
S ir Richard Francis Burton was a master of disguise, but evenhe couldn't masquerade as another man so convincingly that hissubject's friends and acquaintances would be fooled.
He stood on the doorstep of 5 Gallows Tree Lane, anapproximation of Charles Doyle. The foppish jacket he wore was tootight, and while makeup from his pocket kit had hidden his scarsand given his eyes and cheeks the appropriately gaunt cast of anaddict, his pupils were almost black, whereas Doyle's were a paleand watery blue.
He was, therefore, feeling rather nervous when he knocked on thedoor.
It was dark now and the streets were quiet. The throbbing of apolice rotorship pulsed through the air from afar.
The door opened and a man stood silhouetted by gaslight.
“Yes?”
“Am I late?”
“Yes. We've been waiting.”
“The riot-”
“I know. Come in. Leave your hat and cane on the stand.”
Burton stepped inside.
“Put this on. No names. You know the rules.”
Burton was handed a black crepe mask. He placed it over hiseyes, knotting the ribbons behind his head. Inwardly, he sighedwith relief. Now his disguise was more secure.
The man closed the door and turned, revealing that he, too, wasmasked.
“Follow me.”
The king's agent was led through a reception room and into alarge parlour. A dense stratum of blue tobacco smoke floated justabove eye level. There was a big round table in the middle of theroom with seven chairs arranged around it. Two men stood by abureau, three by a fireplace. All were dressed in the Rakishma
“Gentlemen, we can start,” the man who'd answered the doora
Each man did as directed, while the host turned down the gaslamps until the room was in near darkness. His guests moved to thechairs, seeming to sit in preselected positions. Burton hung backuntil it became clear where he should place himself. He sat.
There was a moment of silence, broken only by the ticking of agrandfather clock.
“I shall begin this meeting as I have begun every meeting,” thehost intoned, adopting a low and rhythmic ma
“The greater good of mankind,” the gathering echoed.
Burton's jaw muscle flexed. He was going to have to anticipatethese repetitions and join in.
Don't get it wrong!
“Our watchword is freedom.”
“Freedom!”
“Our object is liberation.”
“Liberation!”
“Our future is anarchy.”
“Anarchy!”
“Join hands, please.”
Burton reached out and felt his hands gripped by hisneighbours.
“True freedom comes not from rights granted in the courts of lawbut from the complete absence of law. True freedom ca
“No god,” they chorused.
“Gentlemen, rules must be broken.”
“Rules must be broken.”
“Propriety must be challenged.”
“Propriety must be challenged.”
“The status quo must be unbalanced.”
“The status quo must be unbalanced.”
“Though each of us here occupies a privileged position, we musteach be willing to sacrifice it that the human species mayprogress, for the cycle of ages turns and a time of transition isupon us.”
Burton stifled an exclamation. Again, those words!
“Each has a part to play in the great upheaval that is to come.Each part is essential to the whole. Do not waver. Do not doubt. Donot question.”
The room was suddenly heavy with a presence, sensed but notseen.
The clock stopped.
A strange tone entered the host's voice; it was as if anotherperson-female-was begi
“We shall go forth this night, as we have done before. We shallcarry the vibrations of change to the people. We shall guide themto true liberty.”
“True liberty!” the group chanted.
“Urk!” the host said.
Burton stared at him. The man had suddenly thrown his head backand opened his mouth. A bubbling, shifting, globular substance wasrising into the air from deep within his throat-the king's agentcould see the sides of the man's esophagus undulating as the matterrose up through it.
Ectoplasm!
Possessing the qualities of both a liquid and a gas, the strangematerial rolled and twisted upward into the cloud of tobacco smoke.Burton squinted, unsure how to interpret the scene that unfoldedbefore him. It appeared that the layer of smoke was glowingslightly and bulging downward over the centre of the table.
The female voice now filled the room. It wasn't coming from theman any longer, but reverberated, it seemed, in the very atmosphereitself.
“Send forth your astral bodies, my sons. Undertake our greatwork. Walk abroad and touch the souls of the unenlightened.”
The bulge in the smoke rapidly congealed into the shape of awoman's head and shoulders, hanging upside down from the cloud. Aswirling, wispy arm reached out and a vague finger touched one ofthe Rakes on the forehead. Burton watched in amazement as a ghostlyform detached itself from the man's seated figure. It hoveredbehind him for a moment before blowing away on an unfelt breeze,dissolving into the gloom of the chamber.
“Go forth, apostles, and liberate the downtrodden and theoppressed.”
She had a Russian accent.
The woman's finger touched a second man and a wraith emergedfrom him and vanished.
She turned until she was facing the Rake sitting on Burton'sleft. Her eyes were jet black, glinting in the smoke likegemstones.
Lady Mabella. The murderer of Sir Alfred Tichborne.
“Travel through the astral plane, my child, and-”
She paused.
Her eyes swivelled to Burton and fixed upon him.
“You!”
He jerked back in his chair and gasped, tried to stand butcouldn't. Pain gripped the back of his head as if a cold hand hadclamped down on his brain.