The Strange Affair of Spring Heeled Jack

by Mark Hodder

  “Henry! You could have tried to stop it!”

  “Don’t you think it’s complicated enough already without me getting involved?”

  Oxford stared at the marquess for a moment then sighed and shrugged.

  “I suppose so.”

  Beresford grinned. “Take off your helmet. Come inside.”

  “I can’t stay long. My suit is on its last legs.”

  It was true; the white scales around the unit on Oxford’s chest were badly scorched, and sparks were continuing to hiss and spit from the strange device, while the aura of blue flame around the helmet now seemed a permanent fixture.

  “It does look rather unhealthy, I’ll admit. Straight to business, then?”

  “Please.”

  “Very well. The first thing I should tell you is that, not unexpectedly, the police have been sniffing around the Hog in the Pound since the shooting. They’re trying to find out whether the assassination was part of a wider conspiracy and my crowd is under suspicion. We’re regarded, apparently, as a bunch of dangerous anarchists.”

  They walked through the ballroom and passed into the corridor beyond.

  “This is exactly what I intended,” continued the marquess. “It’s the reason why I started taking my young bloods to the tavern; for while the coppers are concentrating on my group, they’re ignoring the Battersea Brigade, which, by contrast, seems little more than a gathering of yokels.

  “Then, of course, there’s ‘Young England,’ which is baffling Scotland Yard on account of the fact that, while letters from A. W. Smith were found in Edward Oxford’s room, there seems to be no other trace of him or his organisation.

  “All in all, the wool has been well and truly pulled over the authorities’ eyes.”

  They entered the morning room.

  “And what about the girls, Henry?” asked Oxford. “Did the Original tell you anything useful about them?”

  “I should say! As village idiots go, he was quite a remarkable one. He managed to gather a huge amount of information, enough for you to hop back a couple of years or so and still find them. Here, take a seat; have a spot of tiffin.”

  Oxford sat at the table, where Brock—who was by now Beresford’s last remaining servant—had laid out a platter of bread and cheeses.

  There was an expression of doubt on the time traveller’s face.

  “Buck up, my friend!” exclaimed the marquess. “It’s simple really. You can’t get to the girls in the future because, obviously, we don’t know where they’ll be. You can’t approach them now, because the police are on the lookout for anything unusual in connection with the Hog in the Pound. So that just leaves the past.

  “I have here written descriptions of each girl: Jennifer Shepherd, Mary Stevens, Deborah Goodkind, Lizzie Fraser, Tilly Adams, Jane Alsop, and Sarah Lovitt. I also have details of the times and places where you’ll most likely find them.”

  Oxford took the proffered paper, read it through, and suddenly became more animated.

  “This is very thorough!” he exclaimed. “My ancestor did a good job. He obviously fell for your Young England story hook, line, and sinker. Okay, I’m going to get to work.”

  “Wait! You’ll not stay and eat?”

  “Thank you, Henry. All being well, you’ll see me again in a minute. I’ll eat then.”

  They went out into the grounds.

  “Tallyho, Edward! Bon voyage!” said Beresford.

  HUNT

  If a little knowledge is dangerous, where is the elan who has so much as to be oat of danger?

  —THOMAS HENRY HUXLEY

  May 5, 1838

  very Saturday afternoon at a quarter to two, sixteen-year-old Jenny Shepherd left her parents’ house in Maskelyne Close, Battersea, walked across the southwestern corner of the park, and called at the Calvert family home on Beechmore Road. Rather than knocking on the front door, she went down the steps to the tradesman’s entrance, where she was received by Mrs. Twiddle, the housekeeper.

  Jenny always arrived at two and worked without a break until eight in the evening.

  Her parents called it training. Mrs. Twiddle called it a job. Jenny Shepherd called it slavery.

  She had to admit, though, that in the six months since she started, she’d learned many skills. She could polish silver until it was as clear as a mirror; she knew how to remove stains from cotton and silk; she could set a tea tray so that it was properly balanced; she could bake bread and gut a fish; she could do a whole host of things that she hadn’t been able to do before.

  On this particular summer evening, as Jenny left her employer’s house, she was feeling particularly exhausted, for she’d spent the entire six hours on her hands and knees scrubbing the floors. She ached all over and wanted nothing more than to be home and in bed.

  It was humid and the air was thick with the clawing stench of the Thames. The sun was low but it was still light enough to cut cross the park in defiance of her father’s strict edict that she should always follow the road home.

  She entered through a gate and dragged herself along the path. Her maid’s uniform felt hot and uncomfortable.

  Home. Bed, she thought, and timed it to her steps: Home. Bed. Home. Bed. Home. Bed.

  What was that?

  A movement in the bush off to her left.

  Probably a vagrant finding a sheltered spot for the evening; a place where the bobbies wouldn’t see him and move him along.

  She started to give the bush a wide berth, just in case. This corner of the park was secluded.

  “You can never be too careful, Jenny my lass,” she whispered, quoting her father. “Keep your eyes peeled and your ears open.”

  Home. Bed. Home. Bed. Home. Bed.

  “Jennifer Shepherd!”

  The voice, a loud whisper, came from the bush.

  She stopped and looked at it. There was someone lurking in there; she could see patches of white clothing.

  “Jennifer Shepherd!”

  Someone who knew her!

  “Who’s that?” she demanded. “Is that you up to your tricks again, Herbert Stubbs? Aplayin’ highwayman, are we? Dick Turpin is it? I’ll not stand and I’ll not deliver, my little lad. Ho no! It’s off ‘ome for me, and a nice long sleep ‘twixt cool sheets. So you stay in that there bush and wait for the next mug what comes along!”

  She turned and made to walk away, then stopped and faced the bush again.

  “Hey, Dick Turpin!” she called. “Come and escort me ‘ome like a proper little gentleman. Your mam’ll be wantin’ you back for tea! This is no time for little boys to be out and about!”

  Silence.

  “Herbert! Come out o’ there at once!”

  The bush rustled.

  “Even highwaymen have to eat, my boy!” she declared. “And maybe you’ll—”

  She stopped dead, her mouth open, her eyes wide. Her legs began to shake.

  A tall, gangling figure rose up from the bush and strode out on long storklike legs. Blue flames played around its big black head. It reached her in three strides, squatted, and grabbed her by the shoulders.

  “Is there a mark on your chest?” it hissed.

  She tried to move, to scream, to run, but her body wouldn’t move.

  “Answer me, girl!” snarled the creature. “On your chest, over the heart, is there a birthmark shaped like a rainbow?”

  Home. Bed. Home. Bed. Home. Bed.

  Urine trickled down her leg.

  A horrible whining noise suddenly surrounded her. It started quietly but built rapidly until it hurt her ears. The thing raised an arm and swung it down, the flat of its hand cracking against her cheek. The whining stopped and she realised that it had been coming from her.

  “No!” she sobbed.

  “You don’t have it?”

  “No!” she said loudly.

  “No birthmark?”

  “NO!” she screamed, and, tearing herself out of the monster’s grasp, she hurled herself along the path, running faster than she�
��d ever run before, the tears streaming from her eyes, her aches and pains forgotten.

  October 9, 1837

  She was aged fifteen and had been living with her employer from Mondays to Fridays since she was twelve.

  It was like being sent to gaol on a weekly basis.

  The first rule of the prison was that she should only ever speak when spoken to.

  The second was that whenever she encountered her mistress or master or their son in a hallway, she must turn to face the wall until they’d passed. When the son was on his own, he always brushed a hand over her bottom as he walked by, which she didn’t like at all.

  The third was that she was obliged to pay for anything that she damaged. This was the rule she hated the most, for Mary Stevens was a clumsy girl and the way the year had gone so far, she’d be lucky to have any money left by the end of it.

  The weekends! Goodness, how she loved the weekends! Every Friday night, she left her employer’s house on Lavender Hill, walked along Cut Throat Lane until she reached Clapham Common, then skirted around it to Raspberry Lane, where her parents lived, for two happy days at home.

  This Saturday had been her brother’s fifth birthday and her mother had sewn together a little soldier’s uniform for him from scraps of material which she’d scrimped and saved over the past few months, whilst her father had carved a rifle from a long piece of driftwood.

  As she walked back toward her employer’s house along Cut Throat Lane, Mary remembered her brother’s expression of pure joy as the gifts had been presented. How proudly he’d marched back and forth! And how eagerly, at her father’s barked command, had he stood to attention with his chest out and his shoulders back.

  “Now then, Private Stevens,” her father had said in his sternest voice. “I see your uniform is unbuttoned. Her Majesty Queen Victoria may be new to the throne but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t have established rules and regulations for her brave boys in the Army! Let me tell you, young man, that bright shiny buttons are a requirement for every soldier! What say you?”

  Her brother had glanced uncertainly at his mother.

  “I-I-I—” he’d stammered.

  At which point Mary had stepped forward and said: “I think I might be able to help. Happy birthday, Private Stevens!”

  Her present to him had been six gleaming brass buttons.

  She laughed to herself as she strode along, holding in her mind the image of her brother’s delighted expression. Far better to dwell on that than on the week to come.

  “Mary Stevens!”

  The hoarse voice sounded from behind the fence at her side.

  She stopped. “Yes?”

  “Are you Mary Stevens?”

  “I am, sir. And who are you?”

  Something flew up over the fence, over her head, and into the lane.

  She cried out in shock, spun around, and was grabbed by the throat.

  A hideous face glared into hers and Mary’s legs gave way. She dropped to the cobbles. The thing holding her followed her down, its grip not loosening, bending over her.

  “Your chest, girl! Is there a mark on it?”

  She tried to scream but only a croak came out.

  “Stop struggling, you fool! Answer me!”

  “Wha-what?” she gulped.

  Suddenly the fear flooding through her galvanised her into action. She started to thrash about, her arms and legs flailing, her mouth opening wide to emit a scream.

  Before any sound could emerge, the thing transferred its grip to the collar of her coat and yanked her upright by it. The garment tore open.

  Finally, the scream came out.

  “Shut up! Shut up!” shouted her attacker.

  But she couldn’t stop.

  “Fuck this!” snarled the tall, uncanny figure, and, snatching at her dress, it violently jerked the material, ripping it and the underclothes beneath down from her neck to her waist.

  She fought wildly, twisting this way and that, hitting and kicking, shrieking at the top of her voice.

  The thing, struggling to hold her, lost its grip and she fell backward into the fence with such force that it bent with a splintering crack and collapsed with her on top of it.

  “Oy!” came a distant shout. “What’s going on? Leave her alone!”

  The thing turned its black globular head to look along the lane.

  Mary heard running footsteps drawing closer.

  It looked back down at her, its eyes on her chest.

  She grabbed the material of her dress and drew it over herself.

  “It’s not you, Mary Stevens,” said the thing, and suddenly it bounded high into the air.

  “Bloody hell!” exclaimed a man’s voice.

  “What is it?” came another’s.

  She saw the thing jumping away, taking prodigious leaps, and then it was gone and gentle hands were helping her up.

  “Are you hurt, love?”

  “Steady now.”

  “Pull your coat together, lass. Cover yourself.”

  “Here, take my arm. Can you walk?”

  “Why, it’s Mary Stevens! I know her old man!”

  “What was it, Mary? What was that thing?”

  “Did you see the way it jumped? Blimey, it must have springs in its heels!”

  “Was it a man, Mary?”

  The young girl looked around at the concerned faces. “I don’t know,” she whispered.

  January to May 1838

  Edward Oxford waited in the shade of an ugly monument in the grounds of St. David’s Church on Silverthorne Road. He knew that Deborah Goodkind attended the Sunday service regularly throughout this year, yet he had been here on three consecutive Sundays in January, two in February, and this was his second in March, and hadn’t seen anyone fitting her description.

  “If the information the Original gave to the marquess was wrong, I’ll never find the little bitch,” he muttered to himself. He laughed. He didn’t know why.

  There was snow on the ground. He was cold. The thermal controls in his time suit had stopped working.

  People started filing out of the church. He hadn’t seen her go in but he may have missed her in the crowd. He was getting a clearer view of people’s faces now.

  He drew back a little, concerned that the sparks from his control unit might attract attention. He pulled his cloak around it.

  Half an hour later, the last straggler left the church.

  “Where the hell are you?” he muttered.

  He crouched, jumped up, and landed one month later and ninety minutes earlier.

  It was raining heavily.

  He banged his fist against the side of the monument.

  “Bloody hell. Bloody hell. Come on! Come on!”

  The congregation started to arrive. Their faces were obscured by hats and umbrellas.

  Oxford swore and leaped to May 25.

  After waiting for just over an hour, he saw her at last, coming out of the church.

  She was a small, mousy little thing; her hair colourless, her skin white, her limbs thin and knobbly. She said a few words to the vicar, then to an elderly woman, then to a young couple, then walked down the path, out of the churchyard, and turned left.

  A strangely warm mist clung to the city but it wasn’t thick enough for concealment and Oxford knew that he stood a good chance of being spotted.

  He’d have to risk it.

  He vaulted over the graveyard wall into someone’s back garden and went from there to the next one, bounding along behind the houses that lined Silverthorne Road until he reached an alleyway. Striding to the corner, he peered around it back in the direction from whence he’d come.

  Moments later, the girl walked into view.

  Luck was with him; the road was quiet.

  Oxford leaned against the wall and listed.

  Her light footsteps grew closer.

  He reached out as she passed and jerked her into the mouth of the alley, twisted her around, and pushed her against a wall, clapping a hand ov
er her mouth.

  He pressed his face close to hers and asked the question.

  “Is there a birthmark on your chest?”

  She shook her head.

  “None? Nothing shaped like a rainbow?”

  Again, a shake of the head.

  Oxford let go of her and, with a last look at her strangely calm face, strode away and sprang to a different time and place.

  Deborah Goodkind stood motionless, her shoulders against the bricks.

  She shook her head once more and smiled.

  She raised her right hand and banged the heel of it against her ear.

  She did it again.

  And again.

  And again.

  And she started to giggle.

  And she didn’t stop.

  Not until the year 1849, when she died in Bedlam.

  October 10 and November 28, 1837

  Lizzie Fraser, like Deborah Goodkind, was not where—or when—she was supposed to be.

  Edward Oxford was close to where he’d accosted Mary Stevens the previous day. He was crouching behind a wall on Cedars Mews, a narrow lane leading off from Cedars Road, which crossed Lavender Hill not far to the north.

  This lane was part of the route that Lizzie Fraser walked to reach her home on Taybridge Road after she finished at the haberdashery shop where she worked every day.

  In theory, she passed this way at around eight o’clock each evening, but it was now Tuesday and Oxford had been here seven times so far without seeing her.

  His suit was sending small shocks through him at regular intervals.

  From behind the wall, he could see people passing the end of the lane. Their tightly laced clothing and restrained mannerisms were not real. Their horses and carriages were illusions. The noises of the city were an incoherent mumble scratching unceasingly at his consciousness. He vaguely remembered how, when he first arrived in the past, London had seemed weirdly silent. How wrong! How wrong! The cacophony never stopped! Nightmare. Nightmare. Nightmare.

  He beat his fists against his helmeted head, burning his knuckles in the blue flames but feeling nothing.

  “Every day at eight o’clock, damn you!” he groaned.

  No.

  He couldn’t do this any more.