Read Online The Secret of Abdu El Yezdi by Mark Hodder - Free Book Online

are you?”
    â€œHow old? Rather an impertinent question. Thirty-eight. Why?”
    â€œMind your own business. Where were you on the tenth of June, 1840?”
    Burton frowned, puzzled. “The Assassination? I was on a ship from Italy bound for Dover, on my way to enroll at Oxford University.”
    The other man muttered to himself, “Plausible. But I could swear to it! I could swear!”
    â€œIf there’s something I can—?”
    â€œBe quiet. Let me think for a moment.”
    Burton sighed in exasperation and threw out his arms. “What in blue blazes is this about, Mr. Fogg? Do you intend to rob me?”
    â€œStop moving! Hands on head!”
    The explorer shrugged, put his right foot against the wall, and launched himself forward. He chopped his hand down onto the other’s wrist, knocking the pistol out of his grasp. As the gun went spinning over the cobbles, Burton sent an uppercut crashing into the man’s chin. Fogg’s head snapped back and he stumbled, emitting a loud grunt before steadying himself.
    His pale blue eyes met Burton’s. “So, it’s to be like that, is it?”
    Burton was astonished. He’d boxed at university and in fight pits in India and had never been beaten. The uppercut had been his best shot. It should have knocked the man cold. Was his strength really so diminished?
    â€œI’ll not submit to a mugging,” he growled, and took up the fighter’s stance.
    Fogg grinned, as if relishing the prospect of battle, and mirrored the explorer’s posture. “I have no interest in your valuables,” he said, and suddenly ducked in and sent a fist thudding into Burton’s ribs. The explorer doubled over. Lights exploded in his head as knuckles smashed into the side of it, then into his mouth, then into his right eye. He fell, rolled, and jumped to his feet, stumbling back, suddenly feeling completely sober, horribly weak, and utterly befuddled.
    Fogg had recovered his pistol. Burton looked down its barrel and raised his hands.
    â€œWill you please explain?” he slurred. “Has it something to do with Prince Albert?”
    â€œAlbert? Why would it concern him?”
    â€œI was with him this morning.”
    â€œSo?”
    â€œSo he was Victoria’s husband. He was present when she was shot.”
    â€œIt has nothing to do with Albert,” Fogg said. “Your father—do you resemble him at all?”
    â€œWhat? My father? Not in the slightest bit.”
    â€œBy Jove! It has to be you! Except you’re simply too young. It’s impossible.” Fogg scowled, looked at his gun, hesitated, and lowered it. “Confound it! I suppose I should apologise. A case of mistaken identity, Burton, that’s all.”
    â€œThat’s all ? I’d appreciate a rather more enlightening excuse, if you don’t mind,” Burton said, relaxing his arms.
    â€œI do mind. You’ll not get one.”
    â€œThen your address, please, Mr. Fogg, for the laundry bill.” Burton indicated his dust-stained overcoat and trousers.
    Fogg raised his pistol again. “Enough. Get going.”
    Burton gritted his teeth, picked up his hat and cane, and slowly walked to the end of the alley.
    Just as he was about to turn the corner, his assailant shouted after him, “Hey!”
    Burton looked back.
    â€œIf it’s any consolation,” Fogg called, “my head is still spinning from that uppercut of yours.”
    The explorer’s eyes locked with the other man’s for a moment, then he turned and strode away.

    By the time he reached number 14 Montagu Place, Burton was light-headed, shaking, and perspiration beaded his brow. He opened the door, entered the hallway, and saw Mrs. Iris Angell frozen in mid-step halfway along the passage. His landlady, a white-haired, broad-hipped, sprightly old dame—who also functioned as his housekeeper—was gaping at him as if he were a