by Mark Hodder
“Chislehurst?” asked Burton.
“Or thereabouts, yes. Edmund Cottle is one of my regulars, like Ted, here; Arnie Lovitt is still in the neighbourhood; his girl and her husband drink here every Friday night, though I doubt I’ll see them for a while, the poor sods—their daughter, Lucy, went loopy a couple of weeks back; I hear they’re putting her in Bedlam—and Eric Saydso is hanging on but probably won’t be around for much longer—he’s a consumptive. That’s the lot; there was fourteen of us in all, plus the various wives and kids.”
“So the Brigade disbanded,” noted Burton, “and then you gave up the Hog in the Pound?”
“That’s right. I got tired of the blooming place and all those Libertine idiots, so I sold up and bought this little boozer and—to answer your original question, sir—I named it the Tremors on account of the fact that people around here was so certain that the Technologists’ power station would cause earthquakes and the like.”
“You’ve certainly had a high old time of it!” observed Burton. “What with the Technologists, the Libertines, Edward Oxford, and Spring Heeled Jack!”
Punchinello blew out a breath and said, “He attracts crackpots!”
Robinson laughed. “You’ve been my customer for nigh on thirty years, Edward Toppletree, so you may well be right! Anyway, gents, I have customers to serve. Give me a shout when you’re ready for a top-up.”
He gave them a nod and shuffled away.
“Nice talking to you,” said Punchinello. “I’m going to sit by the fire and smoke me pipe. You positive you don’t want to buy Fidget, here? His nose might be the Eighth blinkin’ Wonder of the World!”
“Positive!” replied Swinburne.
They bade him farewell and watched as he shuffled away with the dog at his heels.
“What do you think, Richard?” asked Swinburne quietly.
“I think,” responded Burton, “that we just picked up some very useful information and I’d better speak to Detective Inspector Trounce first thing in the morning!”
BEETLE AND PANTHER
earing loose-fitting white cotton kurta pyjamas, a saffron-coloured turban upon his head, and with his already swarthy skin darkened with walnut oil, Sir Richard Francis Burton strode purposefully along the bank of the Limehouse Cut canal. He’d made his way there through the disreputable streets of Limehouse unmolested by the rogues who inhabited London’s great melting pot. The people of this district kept themselves to themselves, only mingling when there was a shady deal to be made or a dirty deed to be done.
Without a disguise, Burton appeared barbarous enough to have probably avoided trouble. He was cautious though, and felt it best to take on the character of a foreigner. The guise of a Sikh was an obvious choice, for Sikhs possessed a reputation—undeserved, as it happened—for ferocity. This, together with his forked beard and terrible, magnetic eyes, gave him such a fearsome aspect that people quickly stepped out of his path as he swung along, and he’d arrived at the bank of the canal without having been even once approached.
Late last night, after he and Swinburne made their way home from Battersea, Burton had slept much more deeply than usual, not waking until nine in the morning. After bolting down a grilled kipper and a round of toast, he’d gone to Scotland Yard to present Detective Inspector Trounce with the list of Battersea Brigade members.
“By Jove!” the policeman had exclaimed. “I can’t believe they missed this; though I suppose it’s understandable under the circumstances. The Yard didn’t have a detective branch until the early forties, and I guess the fact that the Alsop attack happened near Epping tripped them up. There was no reason to look for a connection between the girls’ fathers. I’ll look into this, Captain Burton. In fact, I’ll go down to Battersea myself today.”
An hour later, back at 14 Montagu Place, Burton found a message waiting for him from Oscar Wilde. Through the “boys’ network,” the youngster had arranged a meeting for him with the Beetle. The appointment was for three o’clock, and the venue was strange, to say the least.
Burton was almost there.
Along the sides of Limehouse Cut—a commercial waterway that linked the lower reaches of the River Lea with the Thames—some of the city’s most active factories belched black smoke into the air and gave a meagre wage to the thousands of workers who toiled within. Many of these men, women, and children had yellow, red, green, or blue skin, permanently coloured by the industrial dyes they worked with; others were disfigured by scorch marks and blisters from hours spent next to furnaces or kilns; and all had callused hands, hard bony bodies, and the haunted look of starvation in their eyes.
Burton walked past the huge, towering premises until he came to one particular building that, unlike its neighbours, had been abandoned. Standing seven storeys high, and with nearly every window either missing, broken, or cracked, it silently loomed over the busy canal—a shell, its chimneys impotent, its entrances bricked up.
He circled it by passing through an arched passageway that gave access to Broomfield Street, crossing its barren frontage with the blocked loading bays and empty stables, then returning back along a second covered alley to the narrow docks at the side of the canal.
People saw and ignored him. That was the way of things in Limehouse.
Beside the dock, on the factory’s wall, in a niche down which rusting gutter pipes ran, he found what he was looking for: iron rungs set into the brickwork.
He shifted the bag that was slung across his shoulders, moving it so that it hung against the small of his back, then began to climb, testing each foothold before putting his weight on it.
There had been a second message waiting for him at home that morning when he returned from Scotland Yard. It was from Isabel, and read:
You will change your mind. We are destined for one another; I knew that the moment I saw you ten years ago. I will wait. For as long as it takes, I will wait.
He’d sat considering it for some time, absently running a forefinger along the scar on his cheek. Then he’d composed and sent a terse reply:
Do not wait. Live your life.
It was brutal, he knew, but as with an amputation, a fast and clean cut is the quickest to heal.
He continued upward until he eventually reached the top of the ladder, then heaved himself over the parapet and sat for a moment to catch his breath, looking across the flat roof at the two long skylights, the cracked panes of which had been made opaque by soot. In the centre of the roof, between the two rows of glass, eight chimneys soared high into the air. It was the third from the eastern side that interested him.
He gingerly picked his way across the debris-covered roof, avoiding the areas that sagged, until he reached the nearest skylight. He skirted around its edge then moved over to the chimney.
It had rungs affixed to it, running from the base all the way to the top. Once again, he climbed, marvelling at the view of London that unfurled beneath him. A cold breeze was blowing, making his loose attire flap, though he was kept warm by a thermal vest.
He stopped, hooked an arm around a rung, and rested. He was halfway up and could see, far away, through the dirty haze and angled columns of smoke that rose like a forest from the city, the magnificent dome of St. Paul’s. A few specks flew between him and the cathedral; rotorchairs and swans, the divergent forms of air transport developed by those two powerful factions within the Technologist caste, the Engineers and the Eugenicists.
He sighed. It had come just too late for him, this new technology. If he’d had the advantage of the swans, as John Speke had during his second expedition, recent history would have been very different indeed.
He continued his ascent, giving silent thanks that he didn’t suffer from a fear of heights.
Minutes later he reached the top and swung himself over to sit with one leg to either side of the chimney’s lip. The breeze tugged at him but with a foot hooked through one of the rungs and his knees clamped tightly against the brickwork, he felt reasonably secure.
/> He noticed that another set of metal rungs descended into the darkness of the flue.
Burton pulled his shoulder bag around, opened it, took out a bound notebook, and started to read.
For ten minutes he sat there, outlined against broken clouds and patches of blue sky, perched a precarious three hundred and fifty feet above the ground, the book in his hand, his noble brow furrowed with concentration, his savage jaw clenched, his clothes fluttering wildly.
Eventually, there came a furtive rustle and scrape from within the chimney.
Burton listened but didn’t react.
The hiss of falling soot.
The scuffing of a boot against metal.
Moments of silence.
Then a quiet, sibilant voice: “What are you reading?”
Without shifting his eyes from his notebook, Burton replied: “It’s my own translation of the Behdristan, which is an imitation of the Gulistan of Sa’di, the celebrated Persian poet. It is written in prose and verse, and treats of ethics and education, though it abounds in moral anecdotes, aphorisms, and amusing stories, too.”
“And the original author?” hissed the voice.
“Niir-ed-Di’n Abd-er-Rahman; the Light of Religion, Servant of the Merciful. He was born, it’s believed, in 1414 in a small town called Ja’m, near Herat, the capital of Khurasin, and adopted Jami as his takhallus, or poetical name. He is considered the last of the great Persian writers.”
“I want it,” whispered the voice from the darkness.
“It is yours,” responded the king’s agent. “And I have other volumes here.” He patted his shoulder bag.
“What are they?”
“My own works: Goa and the Blue Mountains, Scinde or the Unhappy Valley, and A Personal Narrative of a Pilgrimage to El-Medinah and Meccah.”
“You are an author?”
“Among other things, yes.”
“Indian?”
“No, this is a disguise I adopted in order to travel unmolested.”
“Limehouse is dangerous.”
“Yes.”
There was a pause, then the sepulchral tones came again: “What do you ask in return for the books?”
“I ask to be permitted to help.”
“To help? To help with what?”
“Not long ago, I saw wolflike creatures snatch a boy from the street. I know he isn’t the first to have been taken, and I know that all the missing boys are chimney sweeps.”
A long silence followed.
Burton closed his notebook, placed it in his bag, then removed the bag from his shoulders and lowered it by the strap into the darkness.
A small mottled hand, so pale it was almost blue, reached out of the shadows within the flue and took the bag. A satisfied sigh echoed up from below.
Burton said, “The books are yours, whether you give me any information or not.”
“Thank you,” came the response. “It is true—the League of Chimney Sweeps is under attack and we do not know why.”
“How many boys have been taken?”
“Twenty-eight.”
Burton whistled. “As many as that!”
“They all returned but nine. Nine are still missing. Ten if you include the latest, Aubrey Baxter, the boy you saw abducted.”
“They are the ones most recently taken?”
“No, not at all. Most come back; some don’t.”
“And what of those who returned? What did they have to say?”
“They remember nothing.”
“Really? Nothing at all?”
“They don’t even remember the wolves. There is one thing, though.”
“What?” asked Burton.
“All the boys who were taken—when they reappeared, they each bore a mark upon the forehead, between the eyes, about an inch above the bridge of the nose.”
“A mark?”
“A small bruise surrounding a pinprick.”
“Like that made by a syringe?”
“I have never seen the mark made by a syringe, but I imagine so, yes.”
“Can you arrange for me to meet one of these boys?”
“Are you the police?”
“No.”
“Wait.”
Burton waited. He watched a swan flying past in the near distance, a box kite trailing behind it, a man sitting in the kite, gripping the long reins.
“Here,” hissed the Beetle.
The king’s agent looked down and saw the worm-coloured arm reaching up out of the darkness. A piece of paper was held in the small fingers. He bent, stretched down, and took it.
Upon the paper two addresses had been written.
“Most of the boys live in the Cauldron,” murmured the hidden sweep, “but that is too dangerous a place for such as you.”
Don’t I know it! thought Burton.
“There are some lodging houses which I rent in safer areas, such as these two. If you wait until tomorrow, I will see to it that you are expected; just say you have been sent by the Beetle. The first is where you’ll find Billy Tupper, one of the fellows who returned. The second is a boarding house where three of the boys who are still missing lodged.”
“Their names?”
“Jacob Spratt, Rajish Thakarta, and Benny Whymper. All these boys were taken whilst visiting fellow sweeps in the East End.”
“Thank you. This is very useful. Is there anything else you can tell me?”
“On the other side of the paper I’ve listed all the boys who were taken and the dates of their abductions. I know nothing more.”
“Then I’ll take my leave of you, with thanks. If I learn anything about these kidnappings, I’ll return.”
“Drop three stones into the chimney. I’ll respond. Bring more books.”
“On what subject?”
“Philosophy, travel, art, poetry, anything.”
“You fascinate me,” said Burton. “Won’t you come out of the shadows?”
There was no reply.
“Are you still there?”
Silence.
Both his cases were at a temporary standstill, so Burton spent the rest of the day catching up with his correspondence and various writing projects. He was surprised to find, in the Empire, an article by Henry Morton Stanley that, in reviewing the status of the Nile debate, gave well-balanced consideration to both positions. Burton’s theory that the great river flowed out of the as yet unexplored northern shore of Lake Tanganyika was presented as a possibility in need of further investigation. John Speke’s proposal that the Nyanza was the source was deemed more probably correct but, again, further expeditions were required. As for the explorers themselves, Burton, Stanley claimed, had been a victim of severe misfortune when fever prevented him from circumnavigating Tanganyika, while Speke had lacked the skills and experience necessary for geographical surveys and had made serious mistakes. Stanley was also highly critical of Speke’s “renaming” of Nyanza. There was no need, he wrote, for a “Lake Albert” in central Africa.
It was a surprising turnaround, thought Burton, for he’d considered Stanley an implacable enemy, one of the men who’d stoked the fires of Speke’s misplaced resentment against him.
What was the damned Yankee up to?
The answer came a few minutes later when he opened a letter from Sir Roderick Murchison. It was many pages long and covered a range of topics, though was mainly concerned with the financial mess Burton had left behind upon his departure from Zanzibar two years ago. The explorer had denied full payment to most of the porters who’d accompanied him and Speke for seven hundred miles into unexplored territory then seven hundred miles back again. The porters had not, Burton asserted, remained true to their contract, having mutinied and deserted in droves, and therefore did not deserve full payment.
Unfortunately, the British Consul at Zanzibar, Christopher Rigby, was yet another of Burton’s foes. They had known each other back in India, and Rigby had never forgiven the explorer for repeatedly beating him out of his usual first place position in
language examinations. Rigby was now getting his revenge by using his official position to stir up trouble, causing the payment affair to drag on for two tedious years.
This, however, was old news. What really caught Burton’s attention was a paragraph in which Sir Roderick revealed that Henry Morton Stanley had received approval from his editor to mount an expedition of his own to settle the Nile question once and for all. Murchison continued:
I have thus made available to him the fruits of your labours, which I am certain will be of invaluable assistance in this fresh endeavour. Please rest assured, my dear Burton, that your place in history is secure, and it will ever be stated that the results of Stanley’s expedition, whatever they may be, would not have been possible were it not for your outstanding achievements, which, as it were, have “blazed a trail” for all who follow.
Again, Sir Richard Francis Burton was suddenly aware of that peculiar sense of being divided, for he knew that this news would once have infuriated him, yet now he felt nothing. Geographical exploration now belonged, he sensed, to another version of himself; to the doppelganger.
He spent the next few hours writing up his case notes, creating a copy of the Spring Heeled Jack reports that Detective Inspector Trounce had loaned him, and designing a filing system in which to keep records of his cases.
At ten o’clock that evening, Trounce called at the house.
“You’ve cracked it, old chap!” he announced, dropping into an armchair and accepting a proffered glass of whisky. “I’ve had a right old foot slog around the Battersea district today but every twinge of my bunions is worth it! Listen to this!”
Burton sat down and sipped his port while the policeman spoke.
“Of those Brigade members on your list, seven have daughters and the rest can be ignored for now. I shall deal with the seven one by one. The first is Martin Shepherd, still living, sixty-one years old, married to Louisa Buckle. They had two sons and a daughter, Jennifer. She was born in 1822. In 1838, aged sixteen, she was molested by what she described as ‘a hopping demon’ while crossing Battersea Fields. She was shocked but unharmed and the family never reported the incident. In 1842, she married a man named Thomas Shoemaker and they had a daughter, Sarah, who, coincidentally, is now sixteen. The whole family emigrated to South Africa soon after the girl’s birth. Do you mind if I smoke my pipe?”