Shadows Through Time (The Fantastical Adventures of Sir Richard Francis Burton Book 1) by James Palmer

Author:James Palmer [Palmer, James]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Falstaff Books
Published: 2020-02-27T22:00:00+00:00

Burton is Summoned

Burton had a dream.

In it, he was probing inky green depths. Around him was the iron shell of the Nautilus, though configured differently than he remembered. He caught a glimpse of his reflection in a polished brass surface, and realized he was different too. His beard was wild and unkempt, almost white. He wore a dull blue Naval jacket and a black leather eye patch concealed his right eye. He reached up to pull it back, fearful of what he might find underneath.

“Richard!”

Burton awoke with a start, his head lolling painfully to the right as he sat up with a jerk. He had fallen asleep in his chair, the blackened remains of a cigar still clutched in his fingers. He tossed it into the fireplace, temporarily brightening the dwindling flames. Charles Bradlaugh leaned over him. “You have a visitor.”

Burton looked around Bradlaugh, expecting to find Dr. James Hunt standing there, medical bag in hand, ready to give an updated prognosis on Swinburne. Instead, he found Chief Inspector Frederick George Abberline, worrying his bowler hat nervously in his hands.

“I’m sorry to call so early, but you are needed.”

Burton scowled, climbing from the chair. He winced at an awful hitch in his back, and he worked to straighten it. “Whatever Mycroft Holmes wants now, it can bloody well wait.”

“You’ll change your mind when you hear what I have to say,” said the policeman. “Miss Angell told me about your friend Swinburne. I’m sorry. But I think my summons and his condition are related.”

“Is this the copper you told us about?” said Bradlaugh. He went to Abberline and introduced himself. The two men shook hands. Monckton Milnes had his head down on Burton’s writing desk, snoring soundly.

“What’s this all about?” said Burton, the vestiges of his dream thoroughly forgotten.

“I was sent here to fetch you regarding this strange sleeping ailment that has befallen several prominent men throughout the city,” said Abberline. “Neither Mr. Holmes nor I were aware your poet friend was also affected. When did he take ill?”

“Midnight,” said Burton. “I heard there were others, but what does our mutual taskmaster think I can do about it? I’m no bloody physician.”

“Well,” said Abberline, worrying his poor bowler even further, turning it about in his hands. “It has to do with, um, our uh…” He looked self-consciously at Bradlaugh, who was in the process of rousing Monckton Milnes.

“Go home, Charles, if you please,” said Burton. “Take Richard with you.”

“Very well, Dick,” said Bradlaugh. “You can keep your secrets. We were just leaving.” He got Monckton Milnes awake enough to take instruction, and the two of them stumbled out the door of Burton’s study and disappeared down the stairs.

“Shadow Council,” Abberline finished when they were gone, his voice a stage whisper. “Mr. Holmes thinks that this strange sleeping sickness points to something sinister afoot. Something not of this earth.”

“I still don’t see how that qualifies me,” said Burton. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a sick friend to take care of.”

Burton

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