Burton & Swinburne 1 - The Strange Affair Of Spring Heeled Jack (29 page)

The youngster wiped his nose on his wet sleeve, sniffed, and wriggled away.

Swinburne peered around the corner again. Two of the figures were drag ging a coffin out of the waterlogged earth, its rotten wood splitting, the sides falling away, the lid collapsing. The other five men, their hooded cloaks wrapped tightly around them, shambled closer, gathered around the coffin, and bent over its putrid contents. They pushed the pieces of lid aside and reached in. Swinburne heard bones breaking. He tasted bile in the back of his throat.

What happened next occurred so suddenly that Swinburne found himself acting without knowing what he was doing.

Something-maybe the snap of a twig or a careless movement-attracted the cannibalistic grave robbers. As one, their heads turned, and Swinburne knew straightaway that Willy Cornish had been spotted.

The poet rose to his feet and stepped away from the mausoleum.

“Hey!” he shouted.

Seven hoods swung in his direction and seven sets of seething red eyes fixed on him. One of the figures took two steps forward and the dim lamplight angled across its face, revealing a wrinkled snout and white canines.

Loups-gdrous!

For the first time in his life, Swinburne experienced fear. He turned and started to run but went pelting into a gravestone, stumbled, lost his balance, and fell. His legs kicked franticly as he tried to crawl into the shadows but when claws dug into his ankle he knew that the creatures were upon him. He was dragged back over the wet soil, his fingers digging into it but finding no purchase.

Hands gripped and lifted him, and a dread of being torn apart and eaten alive overpowered him, pushing him to the brink of unconsciousness.

The wolf-men snarled and gripped his limbs tightly, pushed their snouts into his clothing, and sniffed at it. They grunted and began to move, the ground rushing past Swinburne's eyes as they raced across it.

In the last seconds of awareness, before he fainted, Swinburne realised that he was being borne away.

The Universe we observe has precisely the properties we should expect if there is, at bottom, no design, no purpose, no evil, no good, nothing but blind, pitiless indifference.

-CHARLES DARWIN

The morning after he and Algernon Swinburne had visited Elephant and Castle, Sir Richard Francis Burton once again donned his Sikh disguise, made his way to the abandoned factory beside the Limehouse Cut, and climbed the chimney. He dropped three pebbles down the flue, one after the other, and, moments later, had his second interview with the Beetle. He and the president of the League of Chimney Sweeps, who once again remained in the darkness, arranged for Swinburne's apprenticeship with Vincent Sneed, then Burton handed over a gift of books and departed.

He made his way to the poet's lodgings and outlined the plan. Swinburne was beside himself with delight and immediately started making his preparations.

Burton then had a meeting with Detective Inspector Trounce at Scotland Yard. He told him about the latest developments, including his suspicion that Oliphant knew something about Spring Heeled Jack, and learned in turn that the two girls, Connie Fairweather and Alicia Pipkiss, had so far been going about their business as normal; there had been no sign of Spring Heeled Jack.

The king's agent arrived back at 14 Montagu Place at two thirty. As he paid the cab driver, he noticed that the roadworks had stopped outside his home, the trench had been filled in, and new cobbles covered it. A thick pipe that hadn't been there before was running up the side of the house. It disappeared into the brickwork just below one of his study windows.

“What's the new pipe?” he asked Mrs. Angell, as he wiped his feet on the doormat.

“Something to do with the gas supply,” she answered. “I must say, they worked tremendously fast.”

He mounted the stairs and went up to his study, passed through it to his dressing room, and removed the Sikh costume and makeup. Half an hour later, he was dressed comfortably, seated at a desk, and picking at his lunch while reading the latest edition of the Empire.

There was a knock at the door and Mrs. Angell entered at his bidding.

“The two workmen wish to see you, sir.”

“Workmen?”

“The ones who put the new gas main in.”

“What do they want?”

“I don't know but they are very insistent.”

“Very well-send them up.”

“Yes, sir.”

She withdrew and moments later two men entered. They were both dressed identically in long black surtouts, with black waistcoats underneath. Their white shirts had high cheek-scraping “Gladstone” collars, the starched points of which threatened to pierce their eyeballs at every turn of the head. Pale yellow cravats encased their necks. Their high-waisted breeches ended just below their knees, giving way to pale yellow tights. They wore buckled shoes.

All in all, their style was at least fifty years out of date.

“Good afternoon, Captain Burton,” said the tall but slightly hunchbacked man on the left. Like his companion, he was holding a stovepipe hat. Unlike his companion, he was extremely bald, with just a short fringe of hair around his ears. As if to compensate for this, he sported the variety of extremely long side whiskers known as “Piccadilly weepers.” His face hung in a naturally maudlin expression: the mouth curved downward, the jowly cheeks drooping, the eyes woebegone. He shifted the brim of his hat through his fingers nervously.

“My name is Damien Burke.”

The second man bobbed his head. He was shorter and immensely broad, with massive shoulders and long, apelike arms. His head was crowned with an upstanding mop of pure white hair that descended before his small puffy ears in a short fringe, angling around his square jawline to a tuft beneath the heavy chin. His pale grey eyes were deeply embedded in gristly sockets; he had a splayed, many-times-broken nose and an extraordinarily wide mouth filled with large flat teeth. In his left hand, he held a big canvas bag.

“And I'm Gregory Hare,” he said, in a rumbling voice. “Where do you want it?”

Burton, who'd risen from his desk, paced over to the men and held his hand out.

“Pleased to meet you,” he said.

Burke looked down at the proffered hand in surprise. He licked his lips then held out his own, as if unfamiliar with such niceties.

They shook.

Hare, who had his hat in one hand and the bag in the other, moved indecisively, put on his hat, quickly shook Burton's hand, then snatched the stovepipe back off his head.

“Where do I want what?” asked Burton.

“Ah, well, there now-that's a question,” replied Burke in funereal tones. “What indeed? Perhaps you have a suggestion, Captain? Messenger pipe? Canister conveyor? Communications tube? For the life of us we've not yet come up with a suitable moniker.”

“Are you referring to the contrivance on Lord Palmerston's desk?”

“Why, of course, sir. But unlike the prime minister, you seem to be replete with desks. Is there a preferred?”

Burton indicated the desk by the windows. “I use this one the most.”

“Very good, sir. We'll have to take the floor up but it'll all be done in a jiffy and we'll leave it as we find it. Would you mind clearing the desk? We wouldn't want to disturb your work. Incidentally, sir, I read your First Footsteps in East Africa-most fascinating; most fascinating indeed!”

The hunchback turned to his colleague. “Come along, Mr. Hare, we don't want to inconvenience Captain Burton for longer than necessary.”

“Of course not, Mr. Burke,” replied the apelike Hare. “That wouldn't do at all!”

While Burton shifted books and documents, his two visitors unpacked tools from their bag and started to jemmy up the floorboards by the window.

An hour later the boards were back in place. The pipe, which entered the house below the study window, now ran under the floor until it reached Burton's desk. It then turned upward and passed through a hole in the boards and desk until it joined a steaming device identical to that which the king's agent had seen in front of Palmerston.

“The operation is simple, Captain,” advised Burke. “This part here must be topped up with water every day. This dial here is how you direct your canisters. Dial one-one-one when you want to send to His Majesty, two-two-two when you want to send to the prime minister, and three-three-three when you need to contact us. You'll forgive me for saying so, I hope, sir, but you have a reputation for not being backward when it comes to being forward. I feel I should advise you that communicating with the king is a privilege that shouldn't be abused. In fact, I'd recommend only speaking when you're spoken to, if you get my drift.”

“Understood,” responded Burton. “What heats the device?”

“Don't worry about that, Captain; we take care of it at our end. The heat is conducted along a special wire in the lining of the pipe. Rather complicated. No need to go into details. Remember--dial three-three-three if you need us. You can also send a parakeet or runner-I believe you have the address?”

“Yes.”

“Very good. One last thing, sir. Mr. Montague Penniforth's remains were recovered by the river police in the early hours of this morning. His widow has been notified, his funeral paid for, and her pension arranged. In the future, should you encounter such unfortunate occurrences, if you can manage to have the deceased either left alone or stored somewhere, we will act the moment you notify us to ensure that disposal is civilised and respectful. Right, then, we'll leave you to get on, Captain. We're sorry to have bothered you, aren't we, Mr. Hare?”

“We are, Mr. Burke,” rumbled Hare. “Very sorry, Captain. Good-bye.”

“Good-bye, Captain,” echoed Burke.

“Good-bye,” said Burton.

The door closed. He heard their footsteps on the stairs. The front door opened and closed.

He crossed to the window and looked down at Montagu Place. He couldn't see them.

So that was Burke and Hare! What an extraordinary duo!

Thirty minutes later, the newly installed contraption began to shake and hiss; it rattled and whistled and a canister thunked into it. Burton opened the door on the side and caught the canister as it plopped out. He cracked off the lid and withdrew a note from inside. It read:

Gifts in the garage. A.

A for Albert. A message from the king of England!

Intrigued, he went downstairs to Mrs. Angell's domain, where he unlocked and opened the back door, and ascended the exterior steps to the backyard. He crossed it and entered the garage. Inside he found two pennyfarthings and a rotorchair.

Later that afternoon, he used one of the velocipedes for the first time, perched high on the saddle, steaming back down to Battersea.

When he returned some hours later, he had a large basket propped on the handlebars.

Three days passed without progress.

There were no reported sightings of Spring Heeled Jack.

Algernon Swinburne was somewhere in the depths of the Cauldron.

Sir Richard Francis Burton fretted and worried. He tried to occupy himself with his books but couldn't concentrate; he researched Moko Jumbi but found little besides the superficial resemblance to connect the African god to the stilt-walker.

Early on the morning of the fourth day there came a knock at the front door. It was young Oscar Wilde, the paperboy.

“Top o' the morning to you, Captain,” he said. “I'm of the opinion that no good deed goes unpunished, but there are some people who I'm prepared to risk all for. Therefore, please take these, and I'll be bidding you good day.”

He held out his hand and released something into Burton's palm, then spun on his heel and walked away, turning once to wave and grin.

Burton was left holding three pebbles. A summons from the Beetle.

He acted immediately, bounding up the stairs, through his study, and into the dressing room, where he donned a roughly woven suit, chopped his beard down to stubble-though keeping his moustaches long and drooping to either side of his chin-ruffled his hair, dirtied his face, neck, and hands, and slipped into a pair of scuffed and cracked boots.

When he left the house, he was not alone.

Burton was tempted to use one of his new vehicles, but where he was going, modern technology was liable to be stolen on sight or vandalised, so he waved down the first cab he saw-a horse-drawn growler-and cried: “Get me to Limehouse Cut as quickly as possible! Hurry, man!”

“Have you the fare?” asked the driver, looking at him suspiciously.

Burton impatiently flashed a handful of coins at the man.

“I'll pay you double if I'm there within thirty minutes!” he cried, pushing his companion into the four-wheeler before clambering in himself.

“Easy money!” muttered the driver, cracking his whip over the two horses' heads.

The growler jerked into motion and went flying down the street. Burton was thrown about and banged his head as the vehicle careened around a corner, but he didn't care-speed was essential now!

The carriage skidded and swerved wildly on the wet cobbles but the driver steered it with an expert hand and delivered his passengers to St. Paul's Road, close to the factory, well within the allotted time.

“Good man!” exclaimed the king's agent, passing coins up to the cabbie. “Money well earned!”

The rain was beating down hard, rinsing the city's muck into the filthy artery that ran through its middle, washing Sir Richard Francis Burton's hopes away. It could ruin his and Swinburne's plan. It could mean the poet's death.

He hurried to the factory and, leaving his companion at the bottom of the ladder, climbed it to the roof, then continued on up to the lip of the chimney.

The rain lashed his face as he dropped the three pebbles into the flue.

Minutes later, the Beetle said, “You look different.”

“What's the news?” snapped Burton.

“Your friend has been taken. He was dragged out of the Squirrel Hill graveyard in Wapping by seven cloaked men. It was witnessed by one of my sweeps, a boy named Willy Cornish. He didn't see the men's faces-they wore hoods-but he says they moved in an odd fashion.”