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"When?" asked the king's agent.
Trounce threw himself into an armchair and stretched out his legs to warm his feet by the fire. He took a proffered cigar from his host.
"You said he told you to-what was it?-`enjoy your boots'?"
"No. He said `enjoy your reboot.' A curious turn of phrase. Language is a malleable thing, old chap; it follows a process much like Darwin's evolution-parts of it become defunct and fade from usage, while new forms develop to fit particular needs. I have little doubt that `reboot' has a very specific significance in the future. His future, at least."
"The meaning seems clear enough," mused Swinburne. "Replacing your old boots with new ones is like preparing yourself for a new and potentially long journey. Your old boots may not last for the duration, so you reboot, as it were, before you set off. Like reshoeing a horse."
"It seems as good an explanation as any," agreed Burton. "And it fits the context."
He handed Trounce a brandy and, with his own, sat down and lit a cigar.
"Detective Inspector Honesty should be along soon. Have you two made your peace?"
"I'll say!" enthused the police detective. "The man saved me from a werewolf! He may look like a whippet but he fights like a tiger. I saw him taking on men twice his size with his bare hands-and he downed the blighters! Besides, when the dust had settled he came over, shook my hand, and apologised for ever doubting me. I'm not one to hold a grudge, especially against a man like that!"
"Ow!" yelled Swinburne. "Bloody dog!"
"Come here, Fidget!" ordered Burton. "Sorry, Algy. I forgot he was in the room!"
The basset hound hung his head and ambled over to its master, settling at his feet, from where it gazed fixedly at Swinburne's ankles.
"Blessed pest!" grumbled the poet.
"You owe this blessed pest your life," observed Burton. "Excuse me a moment."
He'd heard a rattle from the messenger tube. A canister thunked into it as he reached the desk. It was a message from Palmerston: Burke and Hare dismantled wreckage. Remains of Darwin, Galton, Beresford, and Oxford identified. Time suit recovered and destroyed. Good work.
"Palmerston says the time suit has been destroyed," he told his guests.
"Do you believe him?" asked Trounce.
"Not at all. It will at least have been put out of harm's way, though."
"We can but hope," muttered Swinburne.
Mrs. Angell entered with a tray of cold meats, pickles, sliced bread, and a pot of coffee. Detective Inspector Honesty stepped in behind her.
"Sorry, late!" he said. "Came on velocipede. Broke down. Accursed things."
"Have a seat, Honesty! Thank you, Mrs. Angell," said Burton.
His housekeeper glanced dolefully at Honesty's well-greased hair, obviously considering the well-being of her embroidered antimacassars. She left the study.
The newly arrived policeman sat, refused a brandy, and lit a pipe.
"A hundred and twenty-six men in custody," he declared. "Seventy-two Rakes. Fifty-four Technologists. All charged with assault."
"And Brunel?" asked Burton, returning to his chair.
"Location unknown. Nothing to charge him with."
"And to be frank," added Trounce, "the chief commissioner is reluctant to press charges, anyway. As far as most people are concerned, Isambard Kingdom Brunel died a national hero a couple of years ago. The powers that be are reluctant to expose his continued existence, the thing that he's become, or the fact that he appears to have crossed ethical boundaries."
"And Florence Nightingale?" asked Swinburne.
"Same," said Honesty. "No charges."
"She's a strange one," mused Swinburne.
"Not as strange as the Edward Oxfords," grunted Trounce. "I still can't get to grips with the fact that the man I saw trying to stop the assassination of Queen Victoria was struggling with his own ancestor, and was the same man as the stilt-walker who ran past me, the same man as the stilt-walker who jumped out of the trees, and the same man we fought over in the Battle of Old Ford twenty years later! Good lord! Time travel! It's more than I can cope with!"
Burton blew out a plume of cigar smoke.
"That's the least of it. We removed the cause but we didn't repair the damage. The fact of the matter is that we live in a world that shouldn't exist. Oxford changed the course of history. His presence sent out ripples that altered everything. If I understand it correctly, this period of time should be called the Victorian Age, and if you care to get up and look out of the window, what you'll see bears only a superficial resemblance to what you'd be looking at had he never travelled back through time."
"And we are changed, too," added Swinburne. "Our time has presented us with different opportunities and challenges; we are not the same as the people recorded in Oxford's history!"
"If we made it into his history at all!" muttered Trounce.
Sir Richard Francis Burton shifted uneasily in his chair.
Marry the bitch. Settle down. Become consul in Fernando Po, Brazil, Damascus, and wherever the fuck else they send you.
For the remainder of that evening, the four men relaxed together, discussed the case, and cemented their friendship. By the time the guests took their leave, another London particular had settled over the city and ash was falling from the dark sky. They waited until they heard a brougham creeping along, called for it, and said their good-byes.
Burton retired back to his study and sat with a book on his lap. His eyes slid over the words without taking them in. He hung his arm over the edge of the chair, his fingers idly fondling Fidget's ears.
He looked down at the basset hound.
"I killed a man, Fidget; cold-bloodedly broke his neck with my bare hands. Palmerston would say it was my duty-that I had to do it to preserve the Empire-but the truth is that I did it to preserve my own existence, as it is now!"
He rested his head on the back of the chair and cleared his mind, using his Sufi training to focus inward, searching for any awareness of a newly incurred karmic debt.
He found none, and was jolted from his meditation by a tapping at the window. Fidget barked. It was a parakeet.
"Message from scum-hugger Henry Arundell. Please meet me at the stinking Venetia at noon tomorrow. Message ends."
"Reply," said Burton. "Message begins. I'll be there. Message ends."
"Underwear-nabber!"
The next morning he do
He stood and shook the older man's hand. They had a difficult relationship, these two; a grudging respect.
Isabel's mother had always disapproved of Burton. To start with, she clung to the dwindling Catholic faith, whereas Burton was rumoured to be a Muslim, though he actually held no religious allegiances at all. Then, of course, there was his reputation-the dark rumours and general consensus that he was "not one of us."
Henry Arundell had none of his wife's prejudices. He did, however, love his daughter, and wanted only the best for her. He'd never been convinced that Burton was the best.