James Palmer - Shadows Through Time

They talked nervously, careful to spare Miss Angell the gory details of how Swinburne had fallen into this sorry state. At last, there was a knock at the door.

“Ah, that’ll be Hunt.” Burton got up from his chair to answer the door.

Dr. James Hunt stood in his nightgown and coat, clutching his medical bag. The boy Thomas Malenfant stood beside him, beaming expectantly for the promised shillings. Burton ushered them inside quickly, paid the boy, and sent him with Miss Angell to the kitchen to fetch him something to eat. He also asked Miss Angell to set up his old army cot in the pantry so Thomas could sleep. He might need the boy’s services again, and he wanted him well-rested.

After delivering these instructions, Burton turned his attention to James Hunt, who was examining the unconscious poet. Charles Bradlaugh and Monckton Milnes had already recounted what the three of them had been doing when this mysterious ailment befell Swinburne. When the good doctor finished, he looked up from his patient. “Other than his unconsciousness, I can’t find a blasted thing wrong with him. But what’s more, his is not the first case I’ve seen today.”

Burton arched an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“The first instance was this morning. A barrister who lives near Trafalgar Square fell suddenly while on his way to work. His poor wife found him face first in the front garden. And I have heard through my medical contacts of at least four more, all over the city, all at different hours of the day. Swinburne is the last, I hope.”

“And are these men all right?” said Burton, a worried edge to his voice.

James Hunt shook his head. “All still unconscious, the last I heard. I just checked on my barrister patient around six o’clock, before heading home. It’s all so very strange, and has now hit closer to home than I would like.”

Monckton Milnes poured another brandy down his throat. “What can we do?”

“Nothing but wait,” said James Hunt. “Make him as comfortable as you can. I’ll be around to check on him later in the day. In the meantime, I’d best return home and get some sleep. I have a feeling I’m going to be quite busy upon sunrise.”

He took one last look at his patient before turning once more toward Burton. “And I will keep the circumstances of the onset of Swinburne’s…ailment a closely guarded secret.”

“Thank you,” said Burton. He walked with James Hunt to the door and let him out.

Miss Angell stood quivering in the door, a bundle of nervous energy ready to pounce upon the first thing that needed doing. “Young Thomas very nearly ate us out of house and home, but he’s tucked away in your cot fast asleep.”

“Excellent. Will you get the spare bed ready?”

Miss Angell nodded and disappeared upstairs.

“Let’s get him to bed,” said Burton, and the three of them carried the unconscious poet carefully up the stairs. Fortunately, the young man wasn’t heavy, and within a few minutes they had him tucked into Burton’s spare bedroom. Their task completed, they retired to Burton’s study just down the hall, where Monckton Milnes and Bradlaugh helped themselves to more brandy while Burton got a fire going, then collapsed into his favorite chair and lit a cigar. Sleep was the furthest thing from his mind. His every thought was on his young friend and the mysterious ailment that had so suddenly befallen him.

Burton had a dream.

In it, he was probing inky green depths. Around him was the iron shell of the Nautilus , though configured differently than he remembered. He caught a glimpse of his reflection in a polished brass surface, and realized he was different too. His beard was wild and unkempt, almost white. He wore a dull blue Naval jacket and a black leather eye patch concealed his right eye. He reached up to pull it back, fearful of what he might find underneath.

“Richard!”

Burton awoke with a start, his head lolling painfully to the right as he sat up with a jerk. He had fallen asleep in his chair, the blackened remains of a cigar still clutched in his fingers. He tossed it into the fireplace, temporarily brightening the dwindling flames. Charles Bradlaugh leaned over him. “You have a visitor.”

Burton looked around Bradlaugh, expecting to find Dr. James Hunt standing there, medical bag in hand, ready to give an updated prognosis on Swinburne. Instead, he found Chief Inspector Frederick George Abberline, worrying his bowler hat nervously in his hands.

“I’m sorry to call so early, but you are needed.”

Burton scowled, climbing from the chair. He winced at an awful hitch in his back, and he worked to straighten it. “Whatever Mycroft Holmes wants now, it can bloody well wait.”

“You’ll change your mind when you hear what I have to say,” said the policeman. “Miss Angell told me about your friend Swinburne. I’m sorry. But I think my summons and his condition are related.”

“Is this the copper you told us about?” said Bradlaugh. He went to Abberline and introduced himself. The two men shook hands. Monckton Milnes had his head down on Burton’s writing desk, snoring soundly.

“What’s this all about?” said Burton, the vestiges of his dream thoroughly forgotten.

“I was sent here to fetch you regarding this strange sleeping ailment that has befallen several prominent men throughout the city,” said Abberline. “Neither Mr. Holmes nor I were aware your poet friend was also affected. When did he take ill?”

“Midnight,” said Burton. “I heard there were others, but what does our mutual taskmaster think I can do about it? I’m no bloody physician.”

“Well,” said Abberline, worrying his poor bowler even further, turning it about in his hands. “It has to do with, um, our uh…” He looked self-consciously at Bradlaugh, who was in the process of rousing Monckton Milnes.

“Go home, Charles, if you please,” said Burton. “Take Richard with you.”

“Very well, Dick,” said Bradlaugh. “You can keep your secrets. We were just leaving.” He got Monckton Milnes awake enough to take instruction, and the two of them stumbled out the door of Burton’s study and disappeared down the stairs.

“Shadow Council,” Abberline finished when they were gone, his voice a stage whisper. “Mr. Holmes thinks that this strange sleeping sickness points to something sinister afoot. Something not of this earth.”

“I still don’t see how that qualifies me,” said Burton. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a sick friend to take care of.”

Burton pushed past Abberline and went to the next room, where Swinburne still lay in bed, as unconscious as he had been when Monckton Milnes and Bradlaugh had dragged him to Burton’s doorstep earlier that morning. For all anyone could tell, the poet was in a deep, peaceful sleep. Burton touched the poet’s hand. It was warm to the touch, but not feverish.

“I’m sorry for your friend,” said Abberline, following him into the room.

Burton nodded. “How many people are affected?”

“There are six of them so far counting Mr. Swinburne,” said Abberline. “The first was stricken yesterday morning.”

“The barrister near Trafalgar Square,” said Burton.

“Yes. One Nigel Goforth. How did you know?”

“I have my sources too. Who else?”

Abberline pulled a well-worn notebook from his pocket and flipped through its pages. “There’s a bookbinder by the name of Nathanial Peacock, a bank clerk called Mortimer Greensmith, William Nash, a clerk from Kensington, and an actor called Oliver Whiteside.”

“Nothing connecting them?”

“Not that we can surmise. They are scattered all over the city, and so far as we can tell have never met nor been in contact with one another. Nor would they have any occasion to do so.”