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He shifted restlessly.
Doyle, draped over the sofa, was breathing deeply andrhythmically, a sound not too far removed from that made by waveslapping at a pebble beach.
The house whispered as the day's heat dissipated, emitting softcreaks and knocks from the floorboards, a gentle tap at the windowas its frame contracted, a low groan from the ceiling rafters.
“Bloody racket,” Swinburne murmured.
From afar came the paradiddle of rotors and the muffled blare ofthe police warning.
“And you can shut up, too!”
He wondered how much damage the riot had caused. There had beena great many acts of arson and vandalism, and beatings and murders,too.
“London,” he hissed. “The bastion of civilisation!”
He could hardly believe that the supposed return of a lost heirhad developed into such mayhem.
He looked at the curtained window.
“What was that?”
Had he heard something?
It came again, a barely audible tap.
“Not a parakeet, surely! Not unless its beak is swathed incotton wool! Good lord, what's the matter with me? I feelpositively spooked!”
Tap tap tap.
“Go away!”
He experienced the horrible sensation that someone other thanDoyle and himself was present in the room. It didn't frightenhim-Swinburne was entirely unfamiliar with that emotion-but itcertainly made him uneasy, and he knew he'd never sleep until heconfronted it head-on.
“Who's there?” he called. “Are you standing behind the curtains?If so, I should warn you that I'm none too keen on cheapmelodrama!”
Tap tap.
He sighed and threw the bed sheets back, sat up, and pushed hisfeet into the too-big Arabian slippers that he'd borrowed fromBurton's room. He stood and lifted a dressing gown from the bedsidechair, wrapped it around himself, and shuffled to the window. Heyanked open the curtains.
Smoke and steam, illuminated by a streetlamp, were seethingagainst the glass.
“Hasn't it cleared up yet?” the poet muttered. “What this cityneeds is a good blast of wind. I say! What's that?”
The fumes were thickening, forming a shape.
“A wraith? Here? What on earth is it up to?”
He pulled up the sash and leaned out of the window.
“What's the meaning of this? Bugger off, will you! I'mthoroughly fed up with phantoms! Go and haunt somebody else! I'mtrying to sleep! Wait! Wait! What? My hat! Is that-is that you,Richard?”
The ghostly features forming just inches from his own were,undoubtedly, those of Sir Richard Francis Burton.
“No!” the poet cried. “You can't be dead, surely!”
His friend's faintly visible lips moved. There was no sound, butit seemed to Swinburne that the defensive walls Burton hadimplanted in his mind suddenly crumbled, and the noise of theirdestruction was like a whispered voice: Help me, Algy!
“Help you? Help you? What? I- My God!”
He stumbled backward away from the window and fell onto thebed.
The ghostly form of Burton had melted away.
He sat for a moment with his mouth hanging open, then sprang up,grabbed his clothes, and raced from the room. He thundered down thestairs and into the study.
“Herbert! Herbert! Wake up, man!”
“Eh?”
“Richard's in trouble! We have to find him!”
“Trouble? What trouble? How do you know?”
“I had a vision!”
The vagrant philosopher eyed the younger man. “Now then, lad,that brandy-”
“No, I'm suddenly sober as a judge, I swear! Get dressed! Move,man! We have to get going! I'll meet you in the backyard!
Spencer threw up his hands. “All right, all right!”
Swinburne somehow combined putting on his clothes withdescending the stairs. In the main hallway, he snatched a leashfrom the hatstand, and continued on to the basement and out of theback door.
The poet crossed the yard and squatted down in front of Fidget'ske
“Wake up, old thing,” he urged, in a low voice. “I know you andI have our differences but there's work to be done. Your masterneeds us!”
There came the sound of a wheezy yawn followed by a rustlingmovement. The basset hound's head emerged. The dog staredmournfully at the poet.
“Your nose is required, Fidget. Here, let me get the lead ontoyou, there's a good dog.”
Swinburne clipped the leather strap onto the hound's collar thenstood and said, “Come on, exercise time!”
Fidget dived at his ankle and nipped it.
“Ow! You rotter! Stop it! We don't have time for games!”
Spencer stepped out of the house, wearing his baggy coat andcap.
“Take this little monster!” Swinburne screeched.
“So where are we off to, lad?” the philosopher asked, grabbingFidget's lead.
“Gallows Tree Lane.”
“It's past midnight the night of a riot! How do you expect us toget to bloomin’ Clerkenwell? Weren't it difficult enough gettin’here from Fleet Street?”
“Follow me-and keep that mongrel away from my ankles!”
Swinburne walked to the back of the yard, opened the door to thegarage, and passed through. “We'll take these,” he said, as Herbertstepped in behind him.
“Rotorchairs? I can't drive a blinkin’ rotorchair!”
“Yes you can. It's easy! Don't worry, I'll show you how. It'sjust a matter of coordination, which means if I can do it, anyonecan.”
“An’ what about the dog?”
“Fidget will sit on your lap.”
“Oh, heck!”
Swinburne opened the main doors and they dragged the machinesout into the mews. Despite his protestations, Spencer absorbed thepoet's instructions without difficulty and was soon familiar withthe principles of flying. It was only experience he lacked.
“Swans I'm happy with,” he grumbled. “They was born to it. Buttakin’ to the air in a lump o’ metal and wood? That's plainpreposterous. How the blazes do these things fly?”
Swinburne nodded and gri
Spencer stared at his companion. “Was that a joke?”
“There's no time for larking about, man! Richard may be in direperil!”
“Um. Yus, well, er-the basset hound won't jump off, willhe?”
“No. Fidget has flown with Richard before. He positivelydelights in the experience.”
Swinburne went to the back of Spencer's machine and started theengine, then crossed to his own and did the same. He clambered intothe leather armchair and buckled himself in. After fitting a pairof goggles over his eyes, he gripped the steering rods and pushedforward on the footplate.
Above his head, six wings unfolded as the flight shaft began torevolve. They snapped out horizontally, turned slowly, picked upspeed, and vanished into a blurry circle. The engine coughed androared and steam surged out from the exhaust fu
The machine's ru
He rose until he was high above the smoke-swathed city. Abovehim, the stars twinkled. Below him, fires flickered.
The riot seemed to have confined itself to the centre of London,and had been concentrated, in particular, around Soho and the WestEnd.
Far off to the east, the Cauldron-the terrible East End-showedno signs of disturbances.
“But, then, why should it?” Swinburne said to himself. “You'llnot find a single representative of High Society for them to railagainst in that part of town. By crikey, though, imagine if thatsleeping dragon awoke!”
Spencer shot up past him, slowed his vehicle, and sank back downuntil he was hovering level with the poet.
Swinburne gave him a thumbs-up, and guided his craft toward theClerkenwell district.