“Imagine the scandal. Imagine the heartache this would inflict on Her Majesty, at her age. Her own spiritualist conspiring against her. My blasted spiritualist. We trusted you, Tibor. Damn you, sir.”

Charismo thought fast. “A trial would cause considerable scandal.”

The duke chuckled, the laugh of a harsh man. “There will be no trial, sir. I have declared you insane and, while you languish inside Bethlehem Lunatic Asylum, I shall systematically erase you from history. Your works will be unofficially banned, your books burned, your songs will never again be heard on the music-hall stage. We shall see which of us survives to see the new century.” A loud click from the earpiece signaled that the conversation was over.

“No!” Charismo protested to Jeffers. “No, I will not stand for it. I am Tibor Charismo.”

Jeffers drew himself to attention. “You are a traitor, sir, possibly foreign to boot. The madhouse is too good for you.”

“This is all a mistake, Captain. If you search downstairs in the kitchen, you will find my manservant. He is the real criminal here.”

“We found your manservant. He, at least, died with honor.”

Reality finally dropped on Charismo like an anvil from the sky. “Barnum dead? I am lost.”

Jeffers stepped close. “There is an option, sir, but I would be amazed if you availed yourself of it. You may accept my challenge and we can end this affair right now.” The captain took off his left glove and struck Charismo across the cheek, causing his mask to fly off.

Jeffers stepped back in momentary horror, but his stiff upper lip quickly reasserted itself.

“My God, man. You are an animal.”

The left side of Tibor’s face was covered with green and brown reptilian scales, which seemed to change color as he moved.

“It was the wormhole!” he howled. “Quantum mutation. The professor swore it would not happen to me.”

Jeffers clicked his fingers. “Take him. I will not fight an animal.”

Tibor continued his rant, even as the privates dragged him from the room to the ambulance outside.

“Make sure he is locked away from the other inmates,” said Jeffers, stamping on the Farspeak until the casing gave up its entrails of wires and fuses. “And send up some squaddies. I want everything taken from this house and burned.” Charismo’s cries echoed through the ruins of his devastated hallway and set the ambulance horses a-whinnying in distress.

Albert Garrick watched events unfold, leaning forward on the park bench in rapt attention. One minute all was quiet on Grosvenor Square, and the next a squad of Her Majesty’s finest had double-timed it to the front door with an honest-to-God cannon in tow, followed by a black carriage.

“Well, blimey,” he said, forgetting his carefully cultivated accent for a moment. “This is a right royal turnup.”

Whatever maneuver was about to be employed would certainly not go off half-cocked. There were enough troops here to fight the Boxers.