“Yes. Me, you can trust-but her?”

“I am going to bring Nurse Nightingale out of her trance now. I will reveal the truth to her. I believe she will work with us to secure your freedom. She's a strange woman; her dedication to medical research has driven her into ethically dubious territory in recent years, but no one can forget what she did during and after the Crimea. I believe that, at heart, she desires only the greater good.”

“I will trust your judgement, Monsieur Burton. But you cannot take me with you now?”

“If I do so, your enemies will know that I'm moving against them. They may flee before we ever learn their intentions. It's better that they remain in the dark.”

“So you wish me to stay? Truly, I don't know that I can! If I allow myself to believe that liberation is close at hand, every extra moment in this hell will seem an eternity. But no, no, I understand your reasoning. Stay, I must-and stay, I shall! What matters a few more days or weeks after all this time?”

“Good man. I must hurry now. I've already been away for too long.”

He stood and paced over to Florence Nightingale.

“You have listened to this discussion?”

“Yes,” she replied dully.

“I am going to take you through some breathing exercises. They will bring you to full awareness. You will remember everything.”

“Ah, Mr. Cribbins, at last. You've taken a deuce of a- ugh! -time!”

“My apologies, Doctor Monroe, I became fascinated by one of your unfortunates. Patient 1036 on corridor nine.”

“1036? 1036? Which one is that?”

“The gentleman who ate his mother.”

“Oh, yes. A fascinating study. We tested an interesting therapy on that one. We- ugh! -introduced him to another of our patients. A mother who ate her son.”

“And what happened?”

“They had dinner together.”

“Are you serious?”

“There were doctors in attendance, of course.”

Damien Burke stepped forward. “A most intriguing scenario, Doctor Monroe, but I feel we've already taken up far too much of your valuable time. We should be going, isn't that right, Mr. Skylark?”

“Absolutely correct, Mr. Faithfull. Do you agree, Mr. Cribbins?”

“Indeed! Indeed! My apologies, Doctor Monroe, and thank you very much indeed for allowing us to tour your fine establishment. I think it fair to say that it has made an indelible impression on all three of us.”

Monroe smiled and shook Burton's hand, then Burke's, then Hare's.

They proceeded down to the lobby and out onto the front steps. Monroe bade them a final farewell and indicated a horse-drawn carriage waiting on the driveway. “This will take you across the grounds to the main- Ugh! ”

“Gate,” Burton finished.

Monroe blinked at him, pursed his lips, turned, and disappeared back into the hospital.

The king's agent looked at the sky and frowned. The atmosphere was thick and steamy, and through it, ugly smudges of smoke could be seen drifting raggedly overhead. Flakes of ash were falling.

“It's been a while since we had a London particular,” he muttered.

They climbed into the carriage and, a couple of minutes later, arrived at the big main gate, in which a smaller door was set.

They thanked the driver and tipped their hats to the guard who opened the door for them.

Sir Richard Francis Burton, Damien Burke, and Gregory Hare stepped out of the mental asylum into- madness!

L ondon was ablaze.

At ground level, the smoke was suffocating. Hellish red and orange light flared through the swirling clouds.

“What the-”

Burton was cut off by a scream of fury. A man came tearing out of the murk, dressed only in trousers and boots, his naked upper body smeared with blood, sweat, and soot. His face was contorted with animal ferocity, and before they could react, he swung a pitchfork with vicious force into Damien Burke's upper left arm.

Burke fell sideways with a yell of pain.

Gregory Hare jumped onto the back of the attacker, snatched the pitchfork out of his hand and threw it aside, wrapped a huge forearm around the man's neck, and squeezed. Seconds later, he was lowering the limp body to the pavement.

Burton snapped back into himself. The assault had been so sudden and brutal that he'd stood frozen, disassociated.

“Damn it!” he muttered, and joined Hare on his knees at Burke's side.

“It's bad,” Burke gasped. “Broken.”

“You're losing blood. Hare, give me your cravat. We need to get a tourniquet on him right away. Don't worry, old man,” he encouraged Burke. “We'll have you fixed up in no time.”

“Mr. Hare will attend to me, Captain,” Burke responded weakly. “I recommend you draw your spine-gun and see to our defence.” He nodded at the street behind Burton.

The king's agent twisted around and saw five individuals shuffling into view. There were two men and three women. All wore dishevelled clothing and diabolical grins. Their eyes were wide and glazed.

One of the women held a dripping severed arm that had, apparently, been torn from its owner's shoulder.

She seemed to recognise the shock in Burton's eyes and responded to it by shouting: “Meat! Tichborne wants meat!” She then raised the limb to her mouth and clamped her teeth into it with a muffled giggle. The giggle turned into a gurgle as blood bubbled down over her chin.

“Your gun, sir!” Damien Burke groaned.

Burton grunted, stood, and reached into his pocket. He pulled out the cactus pistol and pressed the nodule that activated it.

“Die!” said one of the approaching men. “You-upper-crust-bastards.”

The woman with the arm, distracted by the taste of blood, lost interest in Burton and his companions. She squatted on her haunches and began to rip mouthfuls of flesh from the bone, swallowing chunks of raw, bloody human meat.

Burton, sickened, wanted to look away. Instead, he raised his strange pistol and shot her in the forehead.

She collapsed onto her back and lay still with the arm across her throat.

The remaining two men and two women screamed and lurched forward, their arms outstretched, their fingers curled into claws, their eyes rolling aimlessly.

Holding his right wrist with his left hand to keep it steady, Burton shot them each in turn.

He released a shuddering breath, looked at the fallen bodies, and allowed his arms to drop to his sides. He was trembling as if in the grip of another malarial fever.

“What the hell is happening?” he muttered.

Something exploded in the distance.

He stepped back to the hospital gate and hammered upon it.

“Let us in! Hey in there! Open up!”

There was no response. The guard had apparently locked the door before returning to the main building with the carriage driver.

“Help me up with him, if you would, Captain,” Hare said.

Burton lifted his hat, yanked off his wig and false beard, shoved them into a pocket, replaced his topper, and assisted Hare.

“The rioters appear to be rather more zealous than they were yesterday,” the prime minister's man noted. “Yet, equally, rather more mindless. I need to get Mr. Burke back to Whitehall. I suggest we make our way along the Lambeth Road to Saint George's Circus, and follow Waterloo Road to the bridge. What say you?”

“I say let's go.”

“I can support Mr. Burke now that he's up, Captain. You keep that pistol handy.”

Burton nodded and began to move slowly through the eye-watering fumes, with his companions following behind.

Beams of light swept over them from above. A huge police rotorship descended, its turbines roaring, steam belching from its exhausts. The down-draught from its rotors cleared the street of smoke, and Burton saw that debris and bodies were scattered all over.

“This is the police!” an amplified voice announced.

The king's agent looked up and noticed a cluster of speaking trumpets projecting down from the ship's hull.