The strange affair of Spring-heeled Jack bas-1

by Mark Hodder

  John Speke had shot himself in the head.

  Footsteps milling around.

  Voices.

  "Where you going, Gus?"

  "Anywhere that I don't have to look at that mess!"

  Hands lifting him, holding him upright; fingers wandering from pocket to pocket.

  "Steady, old-timer," said a hoarse voice.

  Something moving in his belt.

  "Bugger me, lookit this-anuvver pistol!" Deep voice.

  "Let's see that!" Hoarse voice.

  "Check if it's loaded." Whiny voice.

  The sound of running footsteps as someone departed in a hurry.

  "Oy! Come back wiv that, you thievin' git!" Whiny voice.

  "Ah, let the silly sod scarper; we'll catch up wiv 'im later." Deep voice.

  "Hey, Dad, you wiv us?" Whiny voice.

  Burton opened his eyes.

  A fat, greasy individual was supporting him by the left arm; a small pockmarked man, with legs distorted by rickets, held his right. People were standing around, holding candles or oil lamps, some looking at him, others staring at the mess on the cobbles where a butcher's cart had dropped its load of offal.

  Except-

  Burton doubled over and vomited for the fourth time that night.

  The two men, Hoarse Voice and Whiny Voice, backed away, cursing.

  The king's agent, remembering his disguise, straightened but kept his back hunched. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve and looked again at the ripped and shredded intestines and organs that were spread messily across the cobbles. His eyes followed their long, bloody trail, past the outspread legs, across the torn thigh with its bone glinting wetly in the lamplight, and into the hollowed-out rib cage.

  Above tattered scraps of coat and shirt and skin, the glazed eyes of Montague Penniforth stared up through the fog at whatever lay beyond.

  "It were the dog things," hissed Whiny Voice.

  A gaunt, elderly man limped forward. He had a peg leg and three fingers missing from his right hand.

  "Where are you from, Mister?" he said, in a surprisingly gentle voice.

  "Mile End," mumbled Burton.

  "You've been lucky-the dogs didn't kill you."

  "They weren't dogs. And they took a little kid," said the king's agent, noticing the corpse of the child's companion.

  "They always do. Why don't you get off 'ome? We'll sort this lot out."

  "Sort it out? What do yer mean?"

  "I mean we'll get rid o' the stiffs; beggin yer pardin if that fella was yer boy."

  "What'll yer do with them?"

  "The usual."

  Burton knew what that meant: what was left of Monty would be thrown into the Thames.

  He put a hand to his forehead. How many deaths must he have on his conscience? First Lieutenant Stroyan in Berbera; then Speke, who must surely have died by now; and, tonight, Montague Penniforth.

  He felt sick; he hadn't bargained for this, but what could he do? He couldn't call the police-or even an undertaker to come and collect Monty's remains. No matter how much he wanted the big cabbie to receive a decent burial-and Lord knows he'd willingly pay for it himself-there was no way to get the cadaver out of the East End without arousing suspicion; and if his disguise failed him, he himself would probably end up in the river.

  His head throbbed. He felt wet blood in his hair.

  He dropped his hand and clenched it, fingernails digging into his palm. In the other hand, something got in their way. The note from Findlay!

  No, wait, not from Findlay-so, from whom?

  He waited until Throaty Voice, Whiny Voice, and Peg-Leg were distracted, then surreptitiously unscrewed the paper and glanced at the words on it: Mes yeux discernent mieux les choses que la puplart ici. Je vois a travers votre masque. Rencontrez moi vers la Thames, an bout de Mews Street dans moins dune heure.

  My eyes are more discerning than most here, Burton translated rapidly. I see through your mask. Meet me at the Thames end of Mews Street within the hour.

  He put the note in his pocket and moved over to Peg-Leg's side.

  "'Ere, mate, I gotta get to Mews Street," he grumbled in a low voice. "Which way is it?"

  "What's yer business there?" asked Peg-Leg, his rheumy eyes looking Burton up and down.

  "My business, that's what!" responded Burton.

  "All right, fella, no need to get shirty. That alley over there-take it down to the river then turn right 'n' follow the bank-side road 'til you come to a pawn shop what's closed an' boarded up. That's the corner of Mews Street. You gonna be all right on yer own? You know yer shooter got pinched?"

  "Yus, the thievin' bastards. I'll manage, matey. Me bruvver is expectin' me an' I'm already a good five hours late!"

  "Stopped off at a boozer, hey?"

  "Yus."

  "Sorry abaht yet boy, Dad. Fucking bad way to go."

  Burton forced himself to give a heartless East End shrug and moved away, shuffling into the clouded mouth of the alley that the one-legged man had indicated. The increasing distance between himself and Penniforth strained behind him; stretched to its snapping point-but didn't snap. It, like Stroyan's death and Speke's suicide, would pull at his heart for the rest of his life; he knew that, and he realised the commission he'd received from Palmerston-to be "king's agent"-carried with it a terribly heavy price.

  The alley was cramped, almost entirely devoid of light, and ran crookedly down a slight slope toward the river. Burton kept his fingers on the right-hand wall and allowed it to guide him. He repeatedly stumbled over prone bodies. Some cursed when his foot struck them; others moaned; most remained silent.

  His mouth felt sour with vomit and alcohol. The toxic fog burned his eyes and nostrils. He wanted to go home and forget this disastrous expedition. He wanted to forget all his disastrous expeditions.

  Dammit, Burton! Settle down! Become consul in Fernando Po, Brazil, Damascus, and wherever the fuck else they send you! Write your damned books!

  He walked on, and when a man stepped into his path and said, "'Oo do we 'ave 'ere, then?" Burton didn't reply or miss a step but simply rammed a fist as hard as he could into the man's stomach. He kept going, leaving the wretch lying in the fetal position behind him.

  Every few yards, his hand fell away from the wall as he encountered junctions with other passages. Each time, he walked ahead keeping his arm outstretched until he came to the opposite corner. Eventually, instead of a corner, he found railings spanning his path, and by the intensity of the stench realised that he'd crossed the Thames-side road and was beside the river. He returned to the other side of the street, found the wall, and staggered on in a westward direction.

  As he pushed on through the bilious fog, the fumes seeped into his bloodstream, starving his brain of oxygen. He began to feel a familiar sensation, a feeling which had haunted his malarial deliriums in Africa. It was the notion that he was a divided identity; that two persons existed within him, ever fighting to thwart and oppose each other.

  The death of Penniforth became their battlefield. Pervading guilt struggled with a savage desire for revenge; the impulse to flee from this king's agent role wrestled with the determination to find out where the loups-garous came from and why they were, apparently, abducting children.

  "Monsieur!"

  The word was hissed from a doorway.

  Burton stopped and fought a sudden wave of dizziness. He could just about make out a figure crouched in a rectangle of denser shadow.

  "Monsieur!" came the whisper again.

  "Dore?" he said, softly.

  "Oui, Monsieur."

  Burton moved into the doorway and said, in French: "How did you recognise me, Dore?"

  "Pah! You think you can fool an artist's eye with a dab of stage makeup and a toupee? I have seen your picture in the newspaper, Monsieur Burton. I could not mistake you; those sullen eyes, the cheekbones, the fierce mouth. You have the brow of a god and the jaw of a devil!"

  Burton grunted. "What are you doing here, Dore?
The East End is no place for a Frenchman."

  "I am not merely a Frenchman; I am an artist."

  "And you possess a cast-iron stomach if you can put up with the stink of this place."

  "I have grown used to it."

  In the absence of anything but the dimmest of lights-from three red blemishes floating over the nearby riverbank, perhaps the lights of a merchant vessel or barge-Burton could barely see the Frenchman. He had a vague impression of rags, a long beard, and wild hair.

  "You look like an old vagrant."

  "Mais out! I owe my survival to that fact! They think I possess nothing, so they leave me alone, and quietly and secretly I draw them. But you, Monsieur-why are you in the Cauldron? It is because of the loups-garous, no?"

  "Yes. I've been commissioned to find out where they come from and what they are doing."

  "Where they come from I do not know, but what they are doing? They are stealing the chimney sweeps."

  "They're doing what?"

  "Mais je to jure que c'est vrai! These loups-garous, they are most particular. They take children but not any children-just the boys who work as sweeps."

  "Why the devil would werewolves kidnap chimney sweeps?"

  "This question I cannot answer. You should see the Beetle."

  "Who-or what-is the Beetle?"

  "He is the president of the League of Chimney Sweeps."

  "They have a league?"

  "Out, Monsieur. I regret, though, that I know not where you should look for the boy."

  "My young friend Quips might know."

  "He is a sweep?"

  "No, a newsboy."

  "Ah, out out, he will know. These children, they-what is the expres- sion?-'stick together,' no? I have heard that a word given to one is passed to the next and the next and spreads across your Empire faster than a fire through a dry forest."

  "It's true. Anything else, Monsieur Dore? You know nothing of where the loups-garous come from?"

  "Mais non. I can tell you that they have been hunting here for two months and that their raids now come every night, but I can tell you no more. I must go. It is late and I am tired."

  "Very well. Thank you for your time, Monsieur. Please be careful. I understand that art is your life, but I would not like to hear that you had died for it."

  "You will not. I am nearly finished here. The sketches I have taken, Monsieur Burton-they will make me famous!"

  "I'll keep an eye open for your work," replied Burton. "Tell me, how can I get out of the Cauldron?"

  "Keep going along this road; that way-" He pointed, a vague motion in the darkness. "It is not far. You will come to the bridge."

  "Thank you. Good-bye, Monsieur Dore. Be safe."

  "Au revoir, Monsieur Burton."

  It was past five in the morning by the time Sir Richard Francis Burton collapsed onto his bed and into a deep sleep.

  After his meeting with the French artist, he'd made his way past the Tower of London, following the fog-dulled cacophony of the ever-awake London Docks until he reached London Bridge. He'd then walked northward away from the Thames. As the river receded behind him, the murk thinned somewhat and a greater number of working gas lamps enabled him to better get his bearings. He trudged all the way to Liverpool Street and there waved down a hansom of the old horse-pulled variety.

  At home, under the conviction that his malaria was about to flare up again, he'd dosed himself with quinine before divesting himself of the disguise and washing the soot from his face. Then, gratefully, he slid between crisp, clean sheets and fell into a deep sleep.

  He dreamed of Isabel.

  It was a strange dream. He was standing on a low rocky hill overlooking Damascus and a black horse was pounding up the slope toward him, its hooves drumming noisily on the ground. As it came closer, he saw that it was ridden by Isabel, who was wrapped in Arabian clothing and rode not as a woman, sidesaddle, but as a man. She radiated strength and happiness.

  The animal skidded to a halt and reared before coming to rest in front of him, its sweat-flecked sides heaving.

  Isabel reached up and pulled aside her veil.

  "Hurry, Dick-you'll be late!" she urged, in her deep contralto voice.

  From behind him he heard a distant noise, a clacking. He wanted to turn to see what it was but she stopped him.

  "No! There's no time! You have to come with me!"

  The sound was drawing closer.

  "Dick! Come on!"

  Now he noticed that there was a second horse, tethered to Isabel's. She gestured at it, urging him to mount.

  Clack! Clack! Clack! Clack!

  What was that? He started to turn.

  "No, Dick! No!"

  Clack! Clack! Clack! Clack!

  He twisted and looked up at the hill behind him. A freakish figure was bounding down it, approaching fast, taking huge leaps.

  Clack! Clack! Clack! Clack!

  The sound of its stilts hitting the rock.

  Isabel screamed.

  The thing gave an insane and triumphant yell, its red eyes blazing.

  Burton awoke with a start and sat up.

  Clack! Clack! Clack! Clack!

  A moment's disorientation, then he recognised the sound: someone was hammering at the front door. He glanced at the pocket watch on his bedside table as he dragged himself out of the warm sheets. It was seven o'clock. He'd been asleep for less than two hours.

  He threw his jubbah around himself, the long and loose outer garment he'd worn while on his pilgrimage to Mecca that he now used as a night robe, and headed down the stairs.

  Mrs. Angell reached the front door before him and he could hear her indignant tones as he descended.

  "Have you come to arrest him? No? Then your business can wait until a more civilised hour!" she was saying.

  "I'm most dreadfully sorry, ma'am," came a male voice, "but it's a police emergency. Captain Burton's presence is required."

  "Where?" demanded Burton as he reached the last flight of stairs and started down them.

  "Ah, Captain!" exclaimed the visitor, a young constable, stepping into the hall.

  "Sir!" objected Mrs. Angell.

  "It's all right, Mother," said Burton. "Come in, Constable-?"

  "Kapoor, sir."

  "Come up to my study. Mrs. Angell, back to bed with you."

  The old woman looked from one man to the other. "Should I make a pot of tea first?"

  Burton glanced enquiringly at Kapoor but the constable shook his head and said, "There's no time, sir; but thank you, ma'am."

  The landlady bobbed and returned to her basement domain while the two men climbed the stairs and entered the study.

  Burton made to light the fire but the policeman stopped him with a gesture.

  "Would you dress as fast as possible, please, Captain Burton? Spring Heeled Jack has attacked again!"

  MARVEL'S WOOD

  Detective Inspector Trounce would like you at the scene as quickly as possible, Captain," said Constable Kapoor. "I have a rotorchair waiting for you outside."

  "Where did the attack occur?" asked Burton.

  "Near Chislehurst. I'll wait here, sir."

  Without further ado, Burton raced up to his bedroom, poured water from a jug into a basin, and splashed it onto his face, scrubbing away the last vestiges of soot, before hurriedly dressing. His body was aching after having maintained an old man's posture for so many hours, and his mind felt sluggish from lack of sleep, though he knew from past experience that it would clear soon enough. He had the ability to defer sleep when necessary, often going for days at a time without any before then taking to his bed for a prolonged bout of unconsciousness.

  He joined Constable Kapoor on the first landing and they descended to the hall, where Burton put on his overcoat and top hat and picked up his cane. At the policeman's recommendation, he wrapped a scarf around his throat. They left the house.

  The sun had risen and was sending lazy shafts of light into the pale yellow fog. Black flakes were s
uspended in the pall, neither falling nor swirling about.

  Two rotorchairs waited at the side of the road. Burton was surprised he hadn't heard them land but then remembered his dream and the sound of hooves thudding up the hill.

  "One was flown by me, the other by another constable who's gone back to the Yard," explained Kapoor. "Have you been in one before?"

  "No."

  "It's quite simple to operate, Captain," said the policeman, and, as they came to the nearest rotorchair, he quickly ran through the controls.

  Burton inspected the contraption. It looked like a big studded leather armchair such as could be found in gentlemen's clubs and private libraries. It was affixed to a sledlike frame of polished wood and brass, the runners of which curled up gracefully at either end. In the forward part of this frame, from a control box situated just in front of a footboard, three levers, similar to those found in railway signal boxes but curved, angled back to the driver's position. The middle lever controlled altitude, while those to either side of it steered the vehicle to the left or right. The footboard, when pressed forward with the toes, increased the rotorchair's velocity and forward motion; when pressed backward with the heels, slowed the vehicle; and when pushed all the way back, caused it to hover.

  Affixed to the back of the chair, a vaguely umbrella-like canopy protected the driver from the downdraught caused by the four short, flat, and wide wings which rotated at the top of a shaft rising from the engine; this situated behind the chair. This engine was a larger version of the ones used for velocipedes and operated with the same remarkable efficiency.

  Kapoor handed Burton a pair of round leather-lined goggles.

  "You'll need to wear these, Captain, and you'll have to fly hatless unless you want to lose your topper. There's a storage compartment under the seat. Put it there with your cane, then we'll get going."

  Burton did as advised, then climbed into the chair and secured himself with the belt attached to it.

  "I'll ascend first and wait for you above the fog," said the constable. He moved to the back of the vehicle and the explorer heard him fiddling with the engine, which coughed into life and started to quietly chug, making the seat vibrate.

  Moments later, a second engine spluttered and roared, its pitch and volume increasing rapidly, to be joined seconds later by a rattling thrum, like the noise of a snare drum.