Burton & Swinburne 1 - The Strange Affair Of Spring Heeled Jack by Mark Hodder Page B

exposed as a non-Muslim?”
    “I am, it seems, accused of that crime on a daily basis. Only last night, the question was asked of me for the umpteenth time. Did I kill a boy? No, Prime Minister, I did not. I am not guilty of murder; not of a boy nor of a woman nor of a man nor even of a dog.”
    “Are you capable?”
    Burton sat back in his chair, surprised. This theme of murder arising again, so soon after the conversation at the Cannibal Club! It was an extraordinary coincidence and it agitated the superstitious part of his character.
    “Am I capable of cold-blooded murder? I think not. Might I kill in the heat of battle or in self-defence? Of course. I may have done so in Berbera; in such circumstances it's impossible to know the outcome of your shots or the cuts of your sword.”
    “And what if you were in a position of authority and were required to send a man to his almost certain death?”
    “I would fulfill my responsibilities.”
    Lord Palmerston nodded as if satisfied. He reached into his waistcoat pocket, withdrew a snuff tin, and sprinkled a small heap of the fine powder onto the side of his right hand at the base of his thumb. This he raised to his nose and snorted.
    He sniffed and turned another page. Burton noticed that the prime minister's fingernails were carefully manicured and coated with clear varnish.
    “It was in '55,” continued Palmerston, “the Berbera incident. Lieutenant John Hanning Speke was one of the men who accompanied you?”
    “Yes.”
    “Incidentally, I enquired after him last night. He's in the Penfold Private Sanatorium. He shot half his face off; they don't expect him to live.”
    Burton nodded, his countenance iron hard. “I know.”
    Palmerston regarded him. “Another enemy?”
    “Apparently so. Are you?”
    If Palmerston was shocked or surprised at the brazen question, he didn't show it. Mind you, mused Burton, the man was incapable of showing anything.
    “Am I your enemy? No, I am not.”
    “That's encouraging, anyway. Yes, Prime Minister, Lieutenant Speke did indeed accompany me into Somalia. I got a spear through the face and he was also injured. One of our companions, Lieutenant Stroyan, was killed. The following year, after brief service in the Crimea, I organised an expedition to central Africa in search of the source of the Nile. Speke accompanied me and afterwards he betrayed me. The press made the most of it and a confrontation between us was engineered. It was due to take place yesterday at the Bath Assembly Rooms. It didn't. So, that's the history done with. Perhaps now we can move on to my reason for being here?”
    Palmerston's mouth opened and a mirthless cackle sounded, though his lips didn't smile.
    “Oh my goodness!” he exclaimed. “You are an impatient man!”
    “I don't deny it. And to be perfectly frank, Prime Minister, I have a hangover and I badly need a piss, so I'd appreciate it if we could bypass the niceties and get to the core of the matter.”
    Palmerston banged his right hand up and down on the desk, threw his head back, and let loose a rapid sawing noise, which Burton-phenomenal interpreter though he was-could only guess was laughter. It rasped rhyth mically for too long, passing quickly from genuine to affected, and developed a strange sibilance which, for a bizarre moment, made it seem as if the prime minister had developed a leak and was rapidly deflating.
    Then Burton realised that the increasingly loud hiss was coming not from the man opposite but from the odd device on his desk. He turned his eyes to it in time to see the thing suddenly shake frantically. The needle of a gauge on its side swept over into a red-marked segment and, with a sound like a large bung being pulled from a container, the mechanism gave one last jerk and became silent and motionless. A wisp of steam floated from its top. The needle sank back to the left.
    Palmerston closed his mouth, looked at the contraption, grunted, reached across, and flipped a switch. A