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By Root 897 0

and had written some less than flattering articles in the Empire, including one that accused Burton of having murdered a boy who caught him urinating in the European fashion during his famous pilgrimage to Mecca. As Burton had been quick to point out, his disguise, skill with the language, and painstaking observation of customs were convincing enough to fool his fellow pilgrims into believing him an Arab over a period of many months; it was therefore quite unthinkable that he'd have been caught making so basic a mistake as to urinate standing up. Besides which, killing the boy would certainly have led to his exposure as an impostor and a summary execution.

Stanley had also attacked Isabel in the press, vilifying her for her lack of subtlety and overly headstrong character. Burton couldn't help but think that she was becoming a liability at this crucial point in his career, a situation which Stanley had spotted some time ago and was revelling in.

"Yum!" exclaimed Oscar.

Mrs. Angell had reappeared with a generous slice of pie. She handed it to the youngster.

"It's nothing special, but I hope it fills that bottomless hole you call a stomach!" she said.

"I have the simplest tastes, Mrs. Angell," declared the newsboy. "I am always satisfied with the best!"

Burton ruffled the lad's hair. "Off you go then, Quips. There'll be a second slice waiting for you when you return."

Oscar heaved a sigh of contentment, picked up his papers, and flitted out through the door, which Burton held open for him.

As he closed the portal, the explorer looked at his landlady.

"You've heard the news?"

"Yes, sir. May God preserve him. It must have been a terrible shock for you."

"He hated me."

"If you don't mind me saying so, sir, I think he was misguided."

"I don't disagree. Have reporters been banging on the door?"

"No, sir, they probably think you're still in Bath."

"Good. If they call, empty a bucket of slops over them. No visitors, please, Mother Angell. I don't want to see anyone until young Oscar returns."

"Very well. Can I bring you something to eat?"

Burton began to climb the stairs. "Yes, please. And a pot of coffee."

"Yes, sir."

The old lady watched him as he reached the landing, turned right, and disappeared into his study. She pursed her lips. She knew Burton well enough to recognise the developing mood.

"Coffee, my eye!" she muttered as she descended to the kitchen. "He'll be through a bottle of brandy before the evening is old!"

Burton had, indeed, poured himself a large measure of brandy, and was now slumped in his old saddlebag armchair by the fireplace, his feet resting on the fender. He held the glass in one hand and a letter in the other. It was from 10 Downing Street and read:

Please contact the prime minister's office immediately upon your return to London.

He sipped the brandy and savoured the fire that sank into his belly. He was tired but not sleepy, and felt the heavy weight of depression dragging at him.

Laying his head back, and with eyes half closed, he focused his mind on his sense of hearing. It was a Sufi trick he'd learned en route to Mecca. Sight was the primary sense; when another was given precedence and the mind was allowed to wander, ideas, insights, and hitherto unseen connections often bubbled up from its otherwise inaccessible depths.

He heard a bookshelf creak slightly as its wood adjusted to the changing temperature of early evening; it was the only sound from within the study, aside from his own breathing and the ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece. From beyond the two large sash windows, though, came the muffled cacophony of England's capital: voices passing on the pavement below, the clatter and chugging engines of velocipedes, the cry of a street hawker, the choppy paradiddle of a rotorchair passing overhead, a barking dog, a crying child, the rumble and hiss of steam-horses, the clip-clop of real horses, the coarse laughter of prostitutes.

He heard footsteps on the stairs.

A question came to him: What am I to do now?

There was a soft knock at the door.

"Come."

Mrs. Angell