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I left the station with Algy and Sadhvi. The cabriolet dropped him home first, then her, and took me to Montagu Place. I slept fitfully, woke early, wrote the report. I dozed. I ate lunch. I rode here.
As they pushed the pe
He slid his cane from the velocipede’s holder, and they returned to the pavement and started eastward toward Chelsea Bridge. Burton limped, feeling again the damage done to him by his assailant in Leicester Square.
“I can only conclude,” he said, “that I somehow slipped into alternate Burtons in alternate histories and was, for some reason, twice drawn to Babbage’s attempt to revive the damaged time suit.”
“You went sideways, if I might put it like that? And a little back through time? How, Richard? Why?”
“I’m at a loss. Right now, I can hardly think straight.”
They walked on in silence for a few minutes, crossing the Thames, wrinkling their noses.
“Are you sure you’re not becoming malarial again?” Swinburne asked.
“No, Algy. It was all as real as—” Burton gestured at their bright-pink surroundings. “As this.”
The perturbing thought occurred to him that this outlandish vista, too, was not the one to which Sir Richard Francis Burton properly belonged.
They reached the south bank of the river and continued on until they were at the edge of the land bordering the power station.
“I require but a moment,” Burton said, drawing to a halt.
He spent two minutes gazing at the edifice; at its four copper towers, which vanished into the low cloud; at its many high-set windows; and its entrance gates and red brick walls. He could see in the snow the marks made by his, Swinburne’s and Raghavendra’s feet as they’d arrived and departed last night. Physical evidence of a certain truth.
“All as it should be,” he murmured. “Let’s find a watering hole.”
He set off, with Swinburne scampering beside him. They strolled past Battersea Fields until they came to Dock Leaf Lane. The poet pointed his cane at a small half-timbered public house. “How about there?”
“The Tremors,” Burton said. “Very apt.”
“Indeed so,” Swinburne enthused. “It’s the place El Yezdi investigated in his own history when he was hunting for Spring Heeled Jack.”
They crossed the road and entered the premises. Just as El Yezdi had described in his reports, it had smoke-blackened oak roof beams pitted with the fissures and cracks of age, tilting floors, and crazily slanted walls. There were two rooms, both warmed by log fires. Passing through to the smaller of them, they settled on stools at the bar.
An ancient, bald and stooped man with a grey-bearded gnome-like face rounded a corner, wiping his hands on a cloth. A high collar encased his neck, and he wore an unfashionably long jacket.
“Evening gents,” he said in a creaky but jovial voice. His eyes widened when he saw Burton’s battered face. “Ow! Looks like you were on the wrong end of a bunch o’ fives!”
“London,” the king’s agent said ruefully. “It’s the most civilised city in the world.”
“Aye. It’s given me my fair share of punch-ups, that’s for sure. Deerstalker, sirs? Finest beer south of the river. Or would you prefer Alton Ale? I’ve a few bottles left. It’ll be hard to come by until they rebuild the warehouse. You know it burned down?”
“Yes, we’re aware of that,” Burton said. “I’ve developed an aversion to Alton. A pint of Deerstalker will do just fine, thank you.”
“For me, too,” Swinburne added. “What a splendid old pub. Are you Joseph Robinson, sir?”
The publican took an empty tankard from a shelf, held it to a barrel, and twisted the tap. As the beer flowed, he said, “Aye, for me sins, though folks always calls me Bob. Du
“Yes,” Swinburne answered. “From the Hog in the Pound.”
Robinson looked surprised. “That old place! But I owned it well afore your time, youngster.”
“My father had occasion to take a beverage there,” Swinburne lied.
“Oh, I see. Lots did. It was popular in its day.”
Burton searched himself for any sense of déjà vu. He found none, felt relieved, then was suddenly disoriented by the arrival of an elderly man who stood beside Swinburne and greeted the landlord. “All right, Bob?”
“Hallo, Ted,” Robinson replied. “I’ll be right with you just as soon as I’ve finished servin’ these fine gents.”
“I kin wait, so long as it ain’t ’til the beer’s run out.”
The newcomer possessed weather-beaten skin and a bald pate, a huge beak-like nose and a long pointed chin. He resembled Punchinello, and when he spoke sounded like him, too—his tone sharp and snappy.
The king’s agent paled. The coincidence was profound. The man was Ted Toppletree, who was described in El Yezdi’s The Strange Affair of Spring Heeled Jack, and at his feet, eagerly sniffing at Swinburne’s ankles, was the very same basset hound Burton had seen in his “other” study.
Toppletree noticed that his pet had attracted attention.
History began to repeat itself.
“Arternoon, sir,” Punchinello said to Burton. “Ain’t seen you around this way before. I reckon I’d remember a mug—er, I mean a face—like yours, if you don’t mind me a-sayin’ so. You looks like a regular fighter. A pugilist. No offence meant. The name is Toppletree, Ted Toppletree, an’ the dog here is Fidget. He’s the best tracker you’ll ever find; can sniff out anything. He’s fer sale if’n you’re interested.” He addressed Swinburne, “Blimey! He’s taken a right shine to you, ain’t he!”
The poet, whose trouser leg was now being pulled at by the hound, emitted an agonised groan. He’d also recognised the developing scene. Glaring at Burton, he hissed, “Don’t you dare!”
Burton ignored him, cleared his throat, and stuttered, “May—may I offer you a drink, Mr.—Mr.—Mr. Toppletree?”
“Very good of you, sir. Very good indeed. Most generous. Deerstalker. Best ale south of the river.”
Robinson, responding to a nod from Burton, poured the third pint.
Swinburne jerked his ankle away from Fidget only to have the dog lunge forward and bite his shoe.
“Ouch! I say!” he objected. “Confound it! Why won’t he leave me alone?”
“Here, Fidget! Sit still!” Toppletree pulled the hound away. The animal settled, gazing longingly at the little poet’s ankles. “You sure you wouldn’t like to snap ’im up, sir?”
“I’ve never been surer of anything,” Swinburne responded. He took a long gulp of ale. “I do believe you may be right about this beer, though. Very tasty! Perhaps little Fidget will calm down if we offer him a bowl?”
“How—how much?” Burton croaked.
“A pint should be enough to send him into a profound sleep,” Swinburne said.
“I was addressing Mr. Toppletree. How much for the dog?”
“You surely can’t mean to purchase the beast again,” the poet groaned.
“Again?” Toppletree asked. “Wotcha mean again?”
“He doesn’t mean anything,” Burton said. “Two pounds?”
“Daylight robbery!” Swinburne objected.
“Two pounds,” Toppletree quickly agreed, obviously surprised at the phenomenally high offer.
Swinburne moaned and said to Joseph Robinson, “I think I require a stiff brandy.”
The landlord obliged and was paid by Burton, who then slid a couple of pound notes across the bar to Toppletree.
“Much obliged, sir,” the man said. “You won’t regret it. He’s a fine animal.”
“Then why have you sold him?” Swinburne asked.
“He’s rather too fond of nipping me wife, sir. Doesn’t like her, an’ she can’t stand the sight of ’im, the poor little fella.”
“She’s very discerning.”