James Palmer - Shadows Through Time

Mycroft Holmes nodded and sipped his tea. “I knew you were the perfect man for this. Utilize whatever resources you deem necessary. I consider this matter a threat to the Crown.”

Burton arched an eyebrow. “I don’t know that I would go that far.”

“I don’t have the luxury of playing it safe,” said Holmes. “Something has commandeered the minds of these men, including your friend Swinburne. As far as I’m concerned, this is tantamount to an invasion.”

“But from where?” asked Abberline.

“That is what we must determine,” said Mycroft Holmes. “Are you up to the task, Captain Burton?”

Burton pondered the shapes he’d seen in the fog on the way over and shivered inwardly. “Yes.”

When Burton returned with Inspector Abberline to Gloucester Place, he found it packed with mutual friends of his and Swinburne’s. All the Cannibals were in attendance, as well as some literary acquaintances of Swinburne’s. The poet smiled as he spoke with them, but gone was his usual frenetic movement, his characteristic twitching, and he didn’t touch a drop of alcohol.

“Frederick,” Burton whispered to Abberline. “You met Algy once, some months ago. What is your impression of him now?”

The detective regarded Swinburne for a long moment. Finally, he said, “Although I met him only briefly, I must say that this is not the man I met. People do change, but not that much. They say the eyes are the windows to the soul. Whatever is peering out at us now isn’t Mr. Swinburne, at least not as I remember him.”

“My sentiments exactly. Ordinarily, Algy would be thoroughly drunk by now, but look at him! He’s stone sober. I’ve never seen him completely sober since I’ve known him.”

“Blimey!” said the inspector. “Never?”

“It’s as if he is a completely different person masquerading as the old one, and not very convincingly. I tell you, Frederick, I made contact with something when I put him under a mesmeric trance earlier. There’s someone—some thing —else in there with him. If the poor man is still in there at all. I’m worried for him.”

Abberline looked at Burton. “I’m genuinely sorry for your friend, Captain. After all we’ve seen and been through together, I’ve learned to take you at your word, no matter how bizarre that word is. This whole thing certainly has Mycroft Holmes flummoxed. And he doesn’t worry easily. He hates not knowing what is going to happen next, and he’s as in the dark as any of us.”

Burton nodded. “His predictive powers, as vast as they may be, are all for naught this time. I admit the man could stand to learn some humility, but this has me scared as well. Something is happening, or about to happen. And we must know what it is.”

“I’ve put some of my best men on the other Awakened. They’ll follow them once they’ve fully recovered, see what they’re up to.”

“What if they fall back into their ordinary routines?” Burton asked.

“Then we have nothing to worry about. But if not…” He let the thought fall off as Miss Angell hove into view, carrying a silver tray loaded with cold cuts.

“I hope you are not expecting me to keep feeding your Cannibal Club lot, Captain Burton,” she said with a gruff tone.

“No, I most certainly do not,” Burton said. “I’ll run them out shortly. You have my word.”

His housekeeper snorted in derision and sauntered off.

Swinburne came around the corner then, beaming at Burton. “Richard, I want to let you know that I will be returning home tonight. I thank you for your hospitality.”

“Are you sure, Algy? You can stay as long as you need.”

The poet shook his head. “No, no. I don’t want to be any more trouble. I think I will recover better at home.”

“Well,” said Burton, “if you think that’s best.”

“I do.”

Swinburne stood there as if searching for something else to say before returning to the bedroom full of their fellow Cannibals, where Charles Duncan Cameron was in the midst of an unsuccessful attempt at a ribald joke.

Burton led Abberline into his study and closed the door. Burton smoked while Abberline helped himself to a rare on-duty brandy. When they were done, Burton told everyone it was time to go, promising they would convene that evening at Bartolini’s for a regular meeting of the Cannibal Club. When Burton saw the last one out—a drunken Thomas Bendyshe—he turned to see Swinburne standing at the top of the stairs in the clothes he had been wearing when Bradlaugh and Monckton Milnes had brought him to Burton’s door two evenings ago. He smiled as he stepped carefully down the stairs, as if still unaccustomed to his legs.

“Leaving so soon?”

“Yes. James Hunt told me I must resume my normal habits if I am to regain all of my memory.”

“Do you know the way home? I could accompany you if you wish.”

“No thank you, Richard. I know the loci…the address.”

Burton opened the door once more and out Swinburne went with nary a look back. They watched him walk calmly down the stairs and turn right toward Baker Street. He disappeared into the afternoon crowd.

“I should put a man on him,” said Abberline once Burton closed the door.

“No, let me look after him.”

“He’ll recognize you.”

Burton grinned. “Do you not remember our sojourn into the Caldron? I assure you, he won’t recognize me.”

“By Jove, you’re right. I almost forgot. My own mum wouldn’t have recognized me in that dingy getup you had me in that night.”

“I’ll let Algy get home and settled, then track his movements from there. Will you keep me apprised of what the other Awakened are up to?”

“Of course,” said Abberline. “You can count on it. We should meet daily to compare notes. I am to meet with Mr. Holmes every afternoon at three o’clock in the Stranger’s Room of the Diogenes Club.”

“Then we shall meet daily at one o’clock,” said Burton.

The two men shook hands and Abberline bid Burton a good afternoon and departed, leaving the explorer alone at the front door, a bundle of nervous energy. He turned and headed upstairs. He needed to prepare his disguise.

Twenty minutes later a man in dark, soot-stained clothes and boots and a threadbare slouch hat walked downstairs. He was about to place his hand on the doorknob and twist it when something struck him on the head, knocking his hat askew.

“Who are you, ruffian?” shouted Miss Angell as she swatted the man with a broom. “Wait until the master of this house hears of this, you miserable lout!”

“Mother Angell!” Burton shouted, grabbing the broom as it came down for another swat. “It’s me!”

Miss Angell’s face went from a chalky white to a deep red of shame. “Captain Burton! Oh, I’m so sorry! I had no idea it was you. You scared me half to death!”

“My apologies,” said Burton as he handed the broom back to his housekeeper.

“Oh, I am sorry too, Captain. Please accept my apology.”

“Your apology is accepted,” said Burton with a wry grin. “I’m no worse for wear. I shall remember never to cross you.”

Miss Angell blushed even more at that. “Oh pish-tosh. You could never get on my bad side. Now, where are you going in that hideous outfit? No. Never you mind. I don’t want to know. Since you’ve taken on with that government fellow, there’s been no end to your clandestine goings on.”

“Mother Angell, you have no idea.”

“And I’d like to keep it that way, if it’s all the same to you, Captain Burton.”

“As you wish,” said Burton, touching his dingy hat and giving a courtly bow. “Now if you will excuse me.” Burton opened the front door and was gone, leaving an embarrassed and befuddled housekeeper staring out after him.