unfortunately, enter Aleister Crowley, who sent his spirit not only backward through time but also sideways, crossing from the future where El Yezdi had encountered him into this, our history. He hunted me and—and—”
Killed the only woman I have ever loved.
“And kidnapped scientists and surgeons,” Swinburne interjected, “forcing them to construct a body for his disembodied spirit to inhabit.”
“I defeated him,” Burton said flatly.
“You met Abdu El Yezdi.”
“My other self succumbed to old age.”
“His allies—Brunel, Babbage, and the Department of Guided Science—are now your allies, and his reports, in which all the aforementioned is explained, and which are filled with the wealth of his experience, are at your disposal.”
Burton was silent for a moment. The stench of the River Thames wafted in through the window. They were close to their destination.
Three steam spheres passed the landau, their drive bands humming.
“What’s your opinion of them, Algy—of the reports, I mean? Specifically, the manner in which the material is presented.”
Swinburne chuckled. “I think his propensity for inflicting them with penny dreadful titles proves conclusively that he was you. The Strange Affair of Spring Heeled Jack. The Curious Case of the Clockwork Man. Expedition to the Mountains of the Moon. They sound like the tales that young valet of yours reads in his—what’s the name of the story paper little Bram’s so addicted to?”
“ The Baker Street Detective , featuring Mr. Macallister Fogg.”
“Sheer hokum, and I’d say the same of the reports had I not met El Yezdi in person. I must say, though, for all their outlandishness, I’m just as fascinated by what he omitted from them than by what he included, especially where the third is concerned. Was he protecting himself, do you think?”
Burton shook his head. “I’ve been in many positions where concealing information would have been the wisest course. The report I made, at Sir Charles Napier’s behest, into male brothels in Karachi ruined my military career and my reputation because it was, quite simply, too complete. That was in 1845, when I was twenty-four years old. El Yezdi had been with us for five years by then. We know from the first of his accounts that, in his native history, he’d presented the very same report when he was twenty-four and suffered the identical consequences, yet he made no move to prevent me from repeating the mistake. It appears that he and I, being one and the same, have shared an utter lack of caution where personal reputation is concerned.”
“So maybe the omissions were to protect others.”
“That’s my suspicion. Perhaps there are some matters his associates are simply better off not knowing.”
“Myself among them.”
“Most assuredly,” Burton agreed. “He never revealed the fate of the Swinburne who, in his own variant of time, accompanied him to Africa. Exactly what happened to you amid the Mountains of the Moon?”
“And why didn’t I return from them?”
With a jerk and a loud detonation from its engine, the landau came to a stop. The driver shouted, “Battersea Power Station, gents!” He saluted down to his passengers as they disembarked. Burton stepped out of the cabin stiffly and with a groan.
Snow fell around them. The cabbie waved a hand at it. “At least it’s turned the right bloomin’ colour, hey? White, just as snow aught to bloomin’ well be!”
“A shilling, I take it?” Swinburne asked.
“Beg pardon?”
“The fare.”
Burton pushed his friend aside and handed up the correct coinage and a little extra. “My companion is convinced that every cab ride, no matter the destination, costs a shilling,” he explained.
“They do!” Swinburne protested. His left leg twitched, causing him to hop up and down.
“Funny in the head, is he?” the man asked.
“Extremely. He’s a poet.”
“Oh dear!”
“An unmitigated loony,” Burton clarified.
“I