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Authors: Mark Hodder
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off with a select few and left fakes in their place.”
“The black ones? François Garnier’s Choir Stones?”
“Yes. How did you know?”
“I’ll tell you later, Algy. But you’re wrong. It wasn’t Brunel who took the originals. I need to sleep now. I’ll write up a full report when my strength is back. Oh, by the way, what became of Herbert Spencer?”
“He got a little reward from Scotland Yard for helping us out. Miss Mayson has given him an occasional job, too. He cleans out the parakeet cages at the automated animal academy.”
“He must have a thick skin!”
“He doesn’t need one. Apparently the birds have taken a shine to him and barrage him with compliments!” Swinburne stood. “I’m staying in the spare bedroom. Just ring if you need anything.”
“Thank you,” Burton replied sleepily as his friend departed.
He lay back with his hands behind his head and stared at the ceiling.
----
Two weeks passed.
Burton worked on an expanded edition of his book
The Lake Regions of Central Africa.
He slowly regained his strength. His long-suffering housekeeper, Mrs. Iris Angell, cooked him magnificent meals and despaired when he sent them back barely touched. His appetite had always been slight, but now—as she told him every single morning and every single evening—he needed sustenance.
She underestimated his iron constitution.
Little by little, the gaunt hollows beneath his scarred cheekbones filled out; the dark shadows around his eyes faded; his hands steadied.
Algernon Swinburne, now living back in his own apartment on Grafton Street, Fitzroy Square, was a frequent visitor and observed with satisfaction the normal swarthiness returning to his friend’s jaundiced countenance.
Burton eventually got around to writing a report detailing his confrontation with Sir Charles Babbage. He held nothing back.
Rolling the document, he placed it in a canister, which he slotted into an odd-looking copper and glass contraption on his desk. He dialed the number 222 and pressed a button. There came a gasp, a plume of steam, a rattle, and the canister shot away down a tube, en route to the prime minister’s office.
He was just settling in his armchair and reaching for a cigar when there came a knock and Mrs. Angell entered.
“There’s a Countess Sabina to see you, sir.”
“Is there, by James!? Send her up, please!”
“Should I chaperone?”
“There’s no need, Mrs. Angell. The countess and I are acquainted.”
Moments later, a woman stepped into the study. She was tall and may once have possessed an angular beauty, but now looked careworn; her face was lined, her chestnut hair shot through with grey, her fingernails bitten and unpainted. Her eyes, though, were extraordinary—large, slightly slanted, and of the darkest brown.
She was London’s foremost cheiromantist and prognosticator, and had given Burton much to think about during the Spring Heeled Jack case.
“Countess!” he exclaimed. “This is an unexpected pleasure! Please sit down. Can I get you anything?”
“Just water, please, Captain Burton,” she answered, in a musical, slightly accented voice.
He crossed to the bureau and poured her a glass while she sat and patted down her black crinoline skirt and straightened her bonnet.
“I’m sorry to intrude,” she said as he handed her the drink and sat opposite. “My goodness, you look ill!”
“Recovering, Countess, and I assure you, your visit is very welcome and no intrusion at all. Can I be of some service?”
“Yes—no—yes—I don’t know—maybe the other way around. I—I have been having visions, Captain.”
“And they concern me in some way?”
She nodded and took a sip of water. “When you came to me last year,” she continued, “I saw that you had embarked upon a course never meant for you, yet one that would lead to greater contentment.”
“I remember. You said that for me the wrong path is the right path.”
“Yes. But in recent days, I have
“The black ones? François Garnier’s Choir Stones?”
“Yes. How did you know?”
“I’ll tell you later, Algy. But you’re wrong. It wasn’t Brunel who took the originals. I need to sleep now. I’ll write up a full report when my strength is back. Oh, by the way, what became of Herbert Spencer?”
“He got a little reward from Scotland Yard for helping us out. Miss Mayson has given him an occasional job, too. He cleans out the parakeet cages at the automated animal academy.”
“He must have a thick skin!”
“He doesn’t need one. Apparently the birds have taken a shine to him and barrage him with compliments!” Swinburne stood. “I’m staying in the spare bedroom. Just ring if you need anything.”
“Thank you,” Burton replied sleepily as his friend departed.
He lay back with his hands behind his head and stared at the ceiling.
----
Two weeks passed.
Burton worked on an expanded edition of his book
The Lake Regions of Central Africa.
He slowly regained his strength. His long-suffering housekeeper, Mrs. Iris Angell, cooked him magnificent meals and despaired when he sent them back barely touched. His appetite had always been slight, but now—as she told him every single morning and every single evening—he needed sustenance.
She underestimated his iron constitution.
Little by little, the gaunt hollows beneath his scarred cheekbones filled out; the dark shadows around his eyes faded; his hands steadied.
Algernon Swinburne, now living back in his own apartment on Grafton Street, Fitzroy Square, was a frequent visitor and observed with satisfaction the normal swarthiness returning to his friend’s jaundiced countenance.
Burton eventually got around to writing a report detailing his confrontation with Sir Charles Babbage. He held nothing back.
Rolling the document, he placed it in a canister, which he slotted into an odd-looking copper and glass contraption on his desk. He dialed the number 222 and pressed a button. There came a gasp, a plume of steam, a rattle, and the canister shot away down a tube, en route to the prime minister’s office.
He was just settling in his armchair and reaching for a cigar when there came a knock and Mrs. Angell entered.
“There’s a Countess Sabina to see you, sir.”
“Is there, by James!? Send her up, please!”
“Should I chaperone?”
“There’s no need, Mrs. Angell. The countess and I are acquainted.”
Moments later, a woman stepped into the study. She was tall and may once have possessed an angular beauty, but now looked careworn; her face was lined, her chestnut hair shot through with grey, her fingernails bitten and unpainted. Her eyes, though, were extraordinary—large, slightly slanted, and of the darkest brown.
She was London’s foremost cheiromantist and prognosticator, and had given Burton much to think about during the Spring Heeled Jack case.
“Countess!” he exclaimed. “This is an unexpected pleasure! Please sit down. Can I get you anything?”
“Just water, please, Captain Burton,” she answered, in a musical, slightly accented voice.
He crossed to the bureau and poured her a glass while she sat and patted down her black crinoline skirt and straightened her bonnet.
“I’m sorry to intrude,” she said as he handed her the drink and sat opposite. “My goodness, you look ill!”
“Recovering, Countess, and I assure you, your visit is very welcome and no intrusion at all. Can I be of some service?”
“Yes—no—yes—I don’t know—maybe the other way around. I—I have been having visions, Captain.”
“And they concern me in some way?”
She nodded and took a sip of water. “When you came to me last year,” she continued, “I saw that you had embarked upon a course never meant for you, yet one that would lead to greater contentment.”
“I remember. You said that for me the wrong path is the right path.”
“Yes. But in recent days, I have
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