“Algy! Pull your bloody pants up and help me!”

Swinburne hoisted his trousers up to his waist, held them with one hand, shuffled over, and pulled the thong from around Gladstone's neck.

“I'm married,” the politician told him earnestly. “I've never been guilty of an act of infidelity.”

“You may tell that to the marines-” the poet grinned “-but the sailors won't believe you. There. You're free. I suggest you leg it before the police get here.”

“The police!” Gladstone exclaimed in horror, and without a backward glance, he jumped to his bare feet and took off.

“I'd love to see how he gets home,” said Swinburne.

“Damn it!” Burton yelled as Betsy sank her teeth into his wrist. He pushed her from him and backed away, with Swinburne at his side. The woman, with a whip in either hand, spat and snarled like a wild animal.

The crowd had dispersed-the men running off, the women retreating into the brothel.

Crack!

The tip of a whip flicked through the skin of Burton's forehead. He staggered. Blood dribbled into his eyes.

Betsy circled the two men. “Tichborne is innocent!” she said.

The bulky grey metallic form of the litter-crab loomed out of the mist behind her, its eight legs thumping against the road. From beneath its belly, twenty-four thin arms extended downward, flicking back and forth, picking rubbish from the road and depositing it into the mechanism's flaming maw to be incinerated.

“Move aside, madam,” Burton advised.

“Why don't you keep your fat mouth shut?”

“Betsy, there's a litter-crab right behind you,” Swinburne shrilled, urgently.

Betsy giggled insanely. “Stupid bloody toffs.”

“You're going to be-” Burton began.

The prostitute let out a piercing cry and flicked her whip up to strike. Burton flinched in anticipation, but even as he did so, the tip of the girl's weapon flew back and tangled with one of the collector arms under the lumbering machine. The thong was yanked violently, jerking her off her feet. She went sprawling backward and rolled under the advancing crab. The twenty-four metal arms pummelled and thrashed at her. She screeched and writhed and fainted. Seconds later, the litter-crab froze as the fail-safe system activated, a valve clicked open on its back, and steam whistled out at high pressure. The emergency siren started to wail.

Burton stepped over to the machine, bending to peer at the prone body beneath.

“Is she dead?” asked Swinburne, raising his voice over the noise.

“No, just scrapes and bruises.”

The poet gave a sigh of relief. “Thank goodness! She's one of my favourites.”

“Still?”

Swinburne nodded, smiled, and gave a shrug.

His trousers dropped.

“Don't shrug again until you have a new belt,” Burton advised. “Come on, let's get away from this bloody racket. The girl is already coming round and the crab's siren will attract a constable soon enough. We'll let the police sort this one out. I've had quite enough of it!”

They returned to their penny-farthings, restarted the engines, and steered past the hulking street cleaner.

“Ow! Hah! Yes! Ooh!” Swinburne exclaimed. “My hat, Richard! These boneshakers play the merry devil with freshly striped buttocks!”

“Spare me the details.”

They rode out onto a main road.

“It confirms your-ouch!-theory, though,” said the poet.

“What does?”

“The girls in Verbena-ah!-Lodge are all victims of the usual-argh!-sad process. You know the routine, they worked as maids, were seduced by-ooh! Ha!-their masters, fell pregnant, and were coldly thrown out onto the streets to fend for themselves.”

“Despicable!” Burton snarled.

“Indeed. But sadly-yowch!-all too common.”

“You don't feel guilty taking advantage of their misfortune?”

“Please, Richard! I never-ow!-lay a finger on them! I pay them to apply the birch, nothing more!”

“Humph!”

“Anyway, I happen to know that Betsy is an exception. She didn't suffer that cruel fate. She's the only one of them-oy!-who was born in a brothel. She's the daughter of-yow!-a madam. In other words, she's never known anything-oof!-different and has probably never harboured any expectations beyond being a-oh!-working girl.”

“The trammelled mind.”

“Ex-ah!-actly!”

No further incidents interrupted their journey, and they arrived some fifteen minutes later at Bartoloni's Italian restaurant in Leicester Square. It was closed and the window, which had apparently been broken, was boarded up.

Bartoloni responded to Burton's knocking. His eyes widened with surprise when he saw the blood on his visitor's face but he quickly regained his composure and acted as if there was nothing untoward.

“ Vi prego di entrare, signori,” he said, with a slight bow. “ Il ristorante e’ chiuso mai vostri amici sono al piano di sopra. ”

“ Grazie, signore,” Burton responded.

Passing through the eatery, he and Swinburne entered a door marked “Private” and ascended a staircase to the rooms above.

In a large, wood-panelled chamber, comfortably furnished and with its own bar, they found fellow members of the Cannibal Club: Captain Henry Murray, Dr. James Hunt, Thomas Bendyshe, Charles Bradlaugh, and, inevitably, Richard Monckton Milnes.

Tall, handsome, enigmatic, and saturnine in aspect, Milnes was one of Sir Richard Francis Burton's best friends and staunchest supporters. Rich and influential, he'd interceded many times in the past when lesser men had tried to undermine the famous explorer. He also owned the largest collection of erotica ever gathered by a private collector. It included everything written by the Marquis de Sade-plus thousands of banned volumes concerning witchcraft and the occult. He was, of course, a Libertine. However, he was also a man who, at an emotional level, separated himself from others, preferring to conduct all his relationships on a purely intellectual basis. Some thought him cold. Others, Burton among them, realised that he was simply one of life's onlookers, a man who studied everything but who never fully engaged with anything. This included the Libertine movement, which suited his temperament but failed to draw him in too deeply. He rarely became involved with its politics or various causes.

Burton and Swinburne entered the room to find Milnes standing in its centre pontificating about the latest Technologist developments.

“-so they take the species Scarabaeus sacer,” he was saying, “more commonly known as the scarab beetle, and their Eugenicists grow them to the size of a milk wagon!”

“Be damned!” Charles Bradlaugh exclaimed.

“I'm sure the Technologists will be, for once each beetle has matured, the engineers kill the poor creatures, scrape ’em out, and insert a seat and controls in the front and a bench and steam engine in the back. Thus a man can sit in the beetle, with his family behind him, and drive the blessed thing.”

“By thunder!” Henry Murray cried. “Yet another new species of vehicle!”

“My good man!” Milnes objected. “You're missing the point entirely. It's not a species of vehicle, it's a species of insect; and not just any insect, but the one held sacred by the ancient Egyptians! They are being grown on farms and summarily executed, without so much as a by-your-leave, for the express purpose of supplying a ready-made shell. And the Technologists have the temerity to name this vehicle the Folks’ Wagon! It is not a wagon! It's a beetle! It's a living creature, which mankind is mercilessly exploiting for its own ends. It's sacrilege!”

“Interesting that you should rail against the exploitation of insects by scientists when, it seems, the greater percentage of London's population is currently up in arms over the exploitation of the working classes by the aristocracy,” Burton declared. “Are labourers no better than insects, in your view?”

“Richard!” Milnes cried, turning to face the newcomers. “How good to see you! How long have you been standing there, and-by George!-why is that bestial face of yours covered in blood? Don't tell me you've been in yet another scrap? Are you drunk? Hallo, Swinburne!”