by Mark Hodder
“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 rhythmically 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 small door swung open and a canister popped out into the prime minister’s hand. He twisted the lid from it and pulled a pale blue sheet of paper from within. He read the note and nodded, then looked up at Burton and announced: “You are approved!”
“How nice,” said Burton. “By whom? For what?”
“Why, by Buckingham Palace! Our monarch is offering you a job!”
For once, Burton was at a loss for words. His jaw hung loosely.
Palmerston’s face stretched sideways around the mouth in what might have been an attempted grin. It was not a pretty sight.
“That’s why I called you here, Burton. The palace has taken an interest in you. It has been mooted that, with your rather unusual range of skills and—shall we say forceful?—personality, you can do the Empire a unique service; something no other man can offer. That’s why this position has been created, specifically for you.”
Still Burton said nothing. His mind was racing, grappling with this entirely unexpected development—and also with the notion that someone at Buckingham Palace might somehow be listening in on this conversation.
“I must confess,” continued Palmerston, “that you presented me with a quandary. I knew I had to do something with you but I had no idea what. Your talent for making enemies concerned me; I suspected that whatever post I gave you, you’d quickly become a liability. It was suggested, by one of my colleagues, that I should bury you in some remote consulate. Fernando Po was top of the list—do you know it?”
A nod. The only response Burton could manage.
Marry the bitch. Settle down. Become consul in Fernando Po, Brazil, Damascus, and wherever the fuck else they send you.
The words blazed through his mind.
“Who knows?” he jerked intently.
“Pardon?”
“Who knows about this interview, the job, the consulate?”
“About the job, just myself and the palace.” Palmerston tapped the copper and glass apparatus. “We have communicated privately on the matter. About you being here? The palace, myself, my private secretary, the guards on the door, the butler, any of the household staff who might have seen you come in. About the consulate? The palace, myself, and Lord Russell, who suggested you for the position. Why?”
Burton knew what Lord John Russell, the foreign secretary, looked like. He was an elderly, bald-headed, broad-faced man who in no way resembled the apparition of last night.
“I think,” said Burton slowly, “there’s the distinct possibility that either the government or the royal household has a spy in its midst.”
Palmerston became very still. His Adam’s apple rose and fell.
“Explain,” he said softly.
Rapidly, without embellishment, Burton recounted the attack of the previous evening. Palmerston listened attentively and, for all the movement he made, he might have become the waxwork he so closely resembled.
When Burton had finished, the prime minister asked him to describe the apparition in greater detail.
The reply came: “He was tall and emaciated with limbs long, thin, but wiry and strong. His head was encased in a large black, shiny, globular helmet around which a blue flame burned. From within the headgear red eyes, insane, glared at me. The face was skull-like: the cheeks sunken, the nose a blade, the mouth a slit. He wore a white skintight costume that resembled fish scales in texture. A lengthy black cloak with a white lining hung from his shoulders and a flat, circular lamplike affair was affixed to his chest, shining with a reddish light and emitting sparks. His hands were bony and talonlike. The feet and calves were encased by tight boots from which a springlike mechanism projected, attached to two-foot-high stilts.”
Burton paused.
“When I was on the pilgrimage,” he continued quietly, “there was much talk of evil djan—”
“Djan?” interposed Palmerston.
“Sorry. It’s the plural of ‘djinni,’ the evil spirits that supposedly haunt the deserts. I consider myself a reasonably intelligent man, so, of course, I discounted the talk as mere superstition. However, if you were to tell me that last night I came face to face with one such, I might believe you.”
“Perhaps you did,” countered Palmerston. He glanced down as the instrument on his desk trembled and emitted a puff of steam. “Have you ever heard of Spring Heeled Jack?”
Burton looked surprised. “That never occurred to me!”
Spring Heeled Jack was a bogeyman, a mythical spook used by mothers to scare naughty children into submission: “Behave! Or Spring Heeled Jack will come for you!”
“So a spy dressed as a character from folklore?” Burton reflected. “But why? And why attack me? What interest has he in Lord Russell’s suggestion that you make me a consul?”
“He may be rather more than a spy,” suggested Palmerston. “Captain Burton, I want you to talk to Detective Inspector William Trounce of Scotland Yard. In 1840, when he was a constable, he was present at the assassination. He claimed to have seen this jumping Jack thing at the scene, and, despite opposition from his superiors, still maintains that the creature is a fact, rather than an illusion caused by panic or hysteria, as others have asserted. It nearly cost him his career. For a decade afterwards, he was the laughing stock of the Yard and only rose to his current position through dogged determination and hard work. You have your albatross; Spring Heeled Jack is his.”
Burton spread his arms in a shrug. “Talk to him to what end?”
“As a start to your second assignment. I spoke of a job. Our monarch wants to commission you as—for want of a better word—an ‘agent.’ It’s a unique position; you will be required to investigate matters which, perhaps, lie outside of police jurisdiction, or which, due to their nature, require a rather more singular approach than Scotland Yard can offer. You will answer to Buckingham Palace and to me and you w
ill have the authority to command the police when necessary. We live in tumultuous times, Burton. The Technologists are pushing ethical boundaries and the Libertines are pushing moral boundaries. Both castes are too powerful and both have extremist factions. The palace is concerned that science is altering our culture too much and too fast and without proper periods of reflection and consultation. For the good of the Empire, we require someone who can unveil secrets and make snap judgements; someone fearless and independent; someone like you.”
“I’m honoured, sir,” responded Burton, and he meant it.
“It’s not an order. If you don’t want the commission, you can have the consulate instead.”
“I want the commission, Prime Minister.”
“Good. I have an initial assignment for you, but, as I said, I want you to consider this Spring Heeled Jack affair as a second. If there is indeed a spy within the government or at the palace, unmask him! As for the original mission: find out what these are and where they are coming from—”
The prime minister pulled a sheet of paper from his desk drawer and slid it toward Burton. On it there was a rough sketch, in pencil, of a squat, misshapen man with a snoutlike jaw, his face resembling that of a vicious dog.
“You want me to find the artist?” asked Burton.
“No. I know who the artist is—a Frenchman named Paul Gustave Doré. He’s buried himself somewhere in the East End where he’s been surreptitiously sketching scenes of poverty—God knows why; you know how these artists are, with their absurd notions of the nobility of the poor and whatnot. No, I want you to find the man-wolves.”
Burton looked up, puzzled. “Man-wolves? You think this is sketched from life?”
“It is. The royal secretary made it known to Doré that the monarch was interested in his work. In response, the artist has been posting some of his sketches to the palace. This was among them. Look on the back.”
Burton turned the sketch over and saw words scrawled in an erratic hand:
Your Majesty, there are loups-garous at large in the Cauldron and the people here are greatly afraid. There have been deaths and abductions every night, far beyond that which is usual for this part of the city. The populace hate the police and will not consult them. I have seen one of the loups-garous with nay own eyes. This sketch depicts the thing I saw. It tore out a man’s heart as I watched and made away with his boy.
—Doré.
“Good Lord!” exclaimed Burton.
“Personally,” said Palmerston, “I think Doré has fallen in with the opium crowd and this is nothing but a drug-fuelled delusion. Maybe you can find out. With your ability to disguise yourself and adopt accents, I thought maybe you could penetrate where the police fear to tread; find this Doré chap and speak to him.”
With a rattle and a whistle of steam, a second canister popped up into the contraption on the prime minister’s desk. He took it, opened it, read the note, and offered it to Burton.
“Your salary.”
Burton looked at the numbers scrawled on the paper.
For the second time that morning, his jaw went slack.
Last night’s mist had condensed into a fog, a sickly sulphurous blanket which scratched at Burton’s eyes as he waved down a hansom cab along Whitehall. It was one of the new vehicles, pulled by a steam-horse. These four-wheeled engines bore a passing resemblance to the famous Stephenson’s Rocket but were a fraction of the size, being about five feet long, three feet wide, and three feet tall, with a thin funnel soaring a full ten feet straight upward. From each end of the front axle two thin, curved steering rods arced up and back to the driver, who sat on his “box” on the top of the cab, which was harnessed behind the engine. Levers on the handgrips controlled the speed and the brakes.
Despite the height of the funnel, smoke still had a tendency to drift into the driver’s face, so he wore goggles and a leather cap for protection.
Burton climbed in and gazed out of the window as the hansom chugged away from the curb. The ghostlike forms of London’s inhabitants scuttled through the pea-souper, fading in and out of sight as if their very existence was questionable.
His hangover had vanished entirely. He felt strong and positive; he possessed a sense of purpose at last.
Palmerston’s final words, though, still echoed in his ears: “This is not a job for a married man, you understand?”
Burton did understand.
Isabel would not.
Penfold Private Sanatorium, which was run by the Sisterhood of Noble Benevolence, was located in St. John’s Wood, off Edgware Road.
The hansom drew up near the hospital’s entrance and Burton disembarked, handing his fare up to the driver. He mounted the steps and entered the building.
The nurse at the reception desk glanced up at him.
“Oh!” she exclaimed. “Your poor face! But I’m sorry, sir, we don’t treat minor wounds here! Can’t you see your own doctor? You probably only need your cuts cleaned and some cream on that black eye.”
Burton gave a slight smile. “Actually, Sister, I’m here to visit Lieutenant John Speke. Which room is he in?”
She looked surprised. “He’s no longer here, sir. They took him last night.”
“Took him? Who took him? Where?”
“The—um—his—” She stalled; looked confused. “His family?”
“You’re asking me?”
“No! No, sir. I mean to say—yes, his family took him, I believe.”
Burton frowned. “Come now! You believe? What’s going on?”
“Are you related to Lieutenant Speke, sir?”
“My name is Richard Burton. Perhaps you’ve heard of me?”
“Oh, I see. Yes, sir, I have. It’s that—the thing is—well, the lieutenant was removed from the sanatorium last night while Sister Raghavendra was on duty and she neglected to do the proper paperwork. We have no record of who came for him or where they took him.”
“The man was on his death bed! How on earth could she allow his removal without due procedure?”
“She-she said she was taken ill and can’t properly recall events, sir.”
“Is that so? At what time did this occur?”
“About four in the morning. There were very few staff on duty at the time.”
“And Speke was still alive?”
“Yes, sir. Though, in all honesty—and I’m sorry to say this—but it’s unlikely that he survived being taken from our care.”
“I’d like to see the nurse—Sister Raghavendra—if you please.”
“I’m afraid she’s not here. She was suspended from duty and sent home. She was very upset.”
“Where does she live?”
“Oh, I can’t tell you that, Mr. Burton. It’s against policy.”
“To hell with your policies, Sister! They obviously count for nothing!”
The nurse’s eyes widened in shock. “Sir!”
Burton pulled his wallet from his pocket and took out a folded document. He showed it to the nurse.
“Look at this signature, young lady. Do you recognise it?”
“No. Yes. It’s—my goodness!—it’s the same as the one on pound notes!”
“Now read this paragraph here,” he instructed, indicating a short block of text with his finger.
She did so, pursed her lips, and nodded.
“Very well, sir. It seems I have no choice. Sister Raghavendra lives here—” She scribbled an address onto a sheet of paper and handed it to him.
“Thank you,” he said, and turned to leave, satisfied with the effectiveness of the document Palmerston had issued to him that morning.
“Sir Richard!” she called after him.
He looked back.
She smiled. “Rub castor oil around your eye. It will reduce the bruising.”
He winked at her.
Outside, Burton found the hansom still standing at the curb. He hailed the driver: “Hi, cabbie, still here?”
“Oh aye, sir. Thought it best to wait for the far
es to come to me, ‘stead o’ drivin’ through this stinker lookin’ for ‘em!”
“Can you take me to 3 Bayham Street, near Mornington Crescent?”
“Wiv me eyes closed, sir—which in this ‘ere mess o’ fog is just as well. ‘Op in!”
Burton settled on the seat and closed the door. He rubbed his itchy eyes as the steam-horse growled and the cabin lurched into motion. His skin felt grimy, thinly coated with soot and other pollutants. He wondered whether Limehouse had been evacuated. During the previous fog—two weeks agotoxic gasses had settled into the Thames basin and a great mob of sailors, criminals, drug addicts, and illegal immigrants—mainly Lascars, Dacoits, Chinamen, Africans, and Irish refugees—had swept into Whitechapel, where they’d rioted for three days. When the fog cleared, and they returned to their hovels and opium dens, it was found that they’d piled hundreds of corpses—asphyxiation victims—along Commercial Road. With the risk of a cholera epidemic and a boom in the already unmanageable rat population, the government had called in the army to clear and burn the bodies. Ever since, the newspapers had been calling for an all-out assault on Limehouse, demanding that it be cleared and razed to the ground. This, thought Burton, was unlikely to happen. The opium trade needed Limehouse and, he suspected, there were powerful forces in the Empire that needed the opium trade.
It took far longer to reach Mornington Crescent than it should have; the cabbie took two wrong turns and, when he finally delivered his passenger to Bayham Street, he seemed beside himself with embarrassment.
“Never done that ‘afore, I swears to you, guv’nor!” he moaned. “As sure as me name’s Montague Penniforth, I knows every nook and cranny of this ere city! But this ‘particular’ has befuddled me senses! I can ‘ardly think straight, let alone guide this smokin’ horse in the right direction!”
Burton knew what the man meant; some ingredient in the fog was causing him to feel slightly dizzy too, which, after a hard night’s drinking, was the last thing he needed.
“Don’t worry yourself about it, Mr. Penniforth,” he said. “Here’s a couple of bob extra. Why don’t you pack up for the morning? Go spend some time with your missus!”