Burton & Swinburne 1 - The Strange Affair Of Spring Heeled Jack (33 page)

The king's agent, who'd instantly thrown himself after the albino, crashed into the doors, pushed them, pulled them, and realised that his enemy had escaped.

He hurried over to Swinburne and shoved Fidget away.

“Are you all right, Algy?”

“Bloody ecstatic, Richard.”

“Can you walk?”

“I thought I could, then that blasted dog bit me!”

“Idiot. It was just a nip. Come on, up with you.”

He slipped his arm beneath the poet's shoulders and heaved him upright. There was barely an inch of his friend that wasn't smeared with blood.

“I have to get you seen to as quickly as possible,” he said. “We need to get this bleeding stopped.”

“It was marvellous,” gasped Swinburne. “I took everything he dished out! Was that courage, Richard?”

“Yes, Algy; that was courage.”

“Splendid! Absolutely splendid! Oh, by the way, John Speke is in there.”

Before Burton could reply, a howl echoed from the other end of the courtyard.

“Werewolves!” breathed the king's agent. “We've got to get out of here!”

He dragged his friend toward the door in the main gate, scooping up Oliphant's swords tick on the way, but before he got there half a dozen redcloaked wolf-men loped from an arched opening and came racing across the courtyard.

The head of the pack glared out from the shadow of its hood, displayed its sharp teeth in a terrible grin, extended a claw toward the retreating Englishmen, then exploded into flames.

The remaining creatures scattered, diving away from the sudden inferno. In the midst of this confusion, Swinburne thrust himself away from Burton, plunged at something on the ground, snatched it up, then launched himself through the door in the gate, knocking Burton backward. They landed in a heap outside the power station with Fidget tangled in their legs.

The king's agent pushed himself up, grabbed the door, and pulled it shut. There was no way to secure it from the outside, so, while the werewolves were distracted, there was only one thing to do: run!

He grabbed Swinburne, threw him over his shoulder, and took to his heels.

With the basset hound scampering along beside him, he sprinted westward over a patch of wasteland toward railway lines and, beyond them, the busy Kingstown Road and Chelsea Bridge.

“Hurry! They're coming!” cried Swinburne.

A quick backward glance proved the poet right: the loups-garous were pouring through the gate.

Despite his short legs, Fidget put on an astonishing show of speed and sprang ahead across the railway track. Burton tried to keep up but Swinburne's weight slowed him and now he spotted, to his right, a locomotive pelting down the line. There was no way, it seemed, to make it to the other side before the engine passed; his escape route was blocked and the wolf-men were gaining fast.

He set his mind to the task, sucked in a deep breath, and focused every ounce of his being into his pumping legs. Run! Run!

The events of the next few seconds happened so quickly that his consciousness couldn't register them, yet he dreamed about them for many months afterward.

The locomotive was upon him.

He put everything he had into a jump across its path.

His feet left the ground.

Claws ripped through the back of his jacket and ploughed through his skin.

A deafening whistle.

A wall of metal to his right.

Scalding vapour.

Gravel slamming into him.

Rolling.

A thunderous roar.

The blur of passing wheels and, under them, flames.

A receding rumble.

Slowly dissipating steam.

The grey sky.

A spot of rain on his face.

A groan at his side.

A moment of silence.

Then: “Ow! For Pete's sake! The blessed beast bit me again!”

Sir Richard Francis Burton started to laugh. It began in his stomach and rose through his chest and shook his whole body and he didn't want it to stop. He laughed at India. He laughed at Arabia. He laughed at Africa. He laughed at the Nile and the Royal Geographical Society and John Hanning bloody Speke. He laughed at Spring Heeled Jack and the wolf-men and the albino and that silly damned dog that kept biting Swinburne's ankle.

He laughed away his petulant anger, his resentments, his confusion, and his reluctance, and when he finally stopped laughing, he was Sir Richard Francis Burton, the king's agent, in the service of the country of his birth, and it no longer mattered that he was an outsider or that he stood in opposition to the Empire's foreign policies. He had a job to do.

His laughter abated. He lay silently and looked at the grey sky.

London muttered and grumbled.

He sat up and examined Swinburne. The poet had lapsed into unconsciousness. Fidget the basset hound was sitting at the little man's feet, happily chewing at a trouser leg.

The railway track was empty; the locomotive had disappeared from view behind a group of warehouses, though the tracks were still vibrating from its passing.

The loupr-garous were nowhere to be seen; all swept away by the train.

He stood, hoisted his friend back onto his shoulder, and, using Oliphant's cane to help him balance, walked down a gravel slope toward a wooden fence beyond which lay Kingstown Road.

He was halfway down when a loud throbbing filled the air.

Burton turned and looked back at the power station. An incredible machine was rising from it, seemingly pushed upward by the boiling cone of steam that belched from its underside. It was a rotorship; an immense oval platform of grey metal with portholes set along its edge. Its front was pointed and curved upward like the prow of a galleon and from the sides, like banks of oars, pylons projected outward. At their ends, atop vertical shafts, huge wings rotated faster than the eye could follow.

Was Speke aboard that ship? And who else?

He had to get Swinburne treated; had to find out what the poet knew.

As the rotorship ascended and moved northward, Burton continued on down to the thoroughfare and made his way along to Chelsea Bridge. Here he found himself back among London's seething population. There were cries and screams as people caught sight of the little man slumped over his shoulder, and in no time at all a policeman came running over.

“What's all this, sir? Has there been an accident?”

“Yes, Constable,” answered Burton. “Would you flag down a carriage for me? I have to get this fellow to a doctor!”

“I should ride along with you. I'll need to report this!”

“Fine, but hurry, man!”

The policeman ran out into the road and stopped a horse-drawn fourwheeler, ejecting its indignant passengers.

“I say! What the devil do you think you're playing at?” objected the portly old gentleman who suddenly found himself without a ride. “My wife is sixty-two, don't you know!”

“Harold!” gasped his heavily made-up spouse.

“Oh, er, sorry, my dear,” stammered the erstwhile passenger; then, upon spying Swinburne as Burton heaved him onto the seat, he cried: “Great Scott! The poor fellow! By all means take the carriage! By all means!”

“Much obliged,” said Burton, picking up Fidget and climbing in.

The constable followed. “Where to?” he asked.

“Bayham Street, Mornington Crescent! As fast as possible!”

The policeman repeated the address to the driver then shut the door and sat back as the vehicle jerked into motion.

“Constable Yates,” he said by way of an introduction. “So what's the story? You both look proper beat up!”

“King's business, Yates! Take a look at this.”

Burton took his credentials from his wallet and showed them to the constable.

“Bless me! The king's signature! You're the boss, then, sir. What can I do to help?”

Fishing his notebook out of his pocket, Burton started writing.

“We'll drop you at Scotland Yard,” he said. “I want you to deliver this note to Detective Inspector Trounce. I'm recommending an immediate police raid on Battersea Power Station!”

“The Technologist headquarters? That's rather a tall order, if you don't mind me saying so!”

Burton didn't reply, but continued to fill the page with his tiny, cramped handwriting.

The carriage swung eastward onto Grosvenor Road and from there followed the river up via Millbank, past the Houses of Parliament, and on to the Yard. Barely stopping to allow Constable Yates to hop out, it raced on along the Strand, weaving in and out of the traffic, the two horses flecked with sweat, rounded into Kingsway, and continued on up Southampton Row and Eversholt Street. It shot past Mornington Crescent before careening into Bayham Street.

“Here!” shouted Burton as they reached number 3, and he leaped out as the carriage came to a halt. “Wait!”

Striding swiftly to the front door, he gave the bellpull a violent tug and waited impatiently for a response. He was just reaching for it again when the door opened.

“Why, Captain Burton!” exclaimed Widow Wheeltapper. “How nice of you to call!”

“My apologies, ma'am, but there's been an accident. I require Sister Raghavendra's assistance. Is she at home?”

“Oh my! I shall send Polly for her at once!”

Burton stepped into the house and sprang up the stairs, calling back: “Pray don't trouble yourself, my good woman! I'll go!”

“But propriety, Captain! Propriety!” cried the old woman. Her visitor, though, was already halfway to the upper apartment. He was met at the top of the stairs by Sister Raghavendra, who'd come to investigate the commotion.

“Sadhvi!” cried Burton. “I need your help! My friend has been injured! Can you come?”

“At once, Captain!” she said decisively. “A moment!”

She ducked back into her room and emerged a minute later wearing her nurse's bonnet and her jacket, and carrying a carpet bag.

They ran down the stairs and out of the front door, leaving the flustered old widow calling after them: “A chaperone! My goodness, young lady! You haven't a chaperone!”

“Montagu Place, at the double!” commanded Burton as they reached the carriage and clambered in.

The driver cracked his whip and the panting horses set off at a gallop.

Inside the rocking and bumping cabin, Sister Raghavendra examined Swinburne.

“What on earth happened to him?”

“Your albino friend happened,” said Burton.

She paled, her fingers running over the poet's skin, examining the wounds, gauging their severity.

“The albino?” she gasped. “But this looks like the work of a wild animal! ”

“How is he, Sister? He's been unconscious for some time.”

“He's not unconscious, Captain Burton. He's asleep. He must be utterly exhausted.”

Turning from Hampstead Road into Euston Road, the carriage stampeded on past velocipedes and steam-horses, between carts and hansoms, with pedestrians scattering as it thundered along, until, on Marylebone Road, the traffic became so thick that progress was slowed to a crawl.

Burton poked his head out of the window and shouted up to the driver, “Take to the back streets, man!”

The driver obeyed, and as Burton had hoped, the less direct route proved easier to navigate. Minutes later, the carriage drew up outside his home.

“Will you bring the dog?” he asked the nurse as he stepped out and lifted Swinburne. She nodded and scooped up Fidget.

After passing a handful of coins up to the driver, Burton carried his friend to the front door, opened it, and ascended the stairs to the second floor, where he deposited Swinburne in the spare bedroom. For the first time, he noticed that the poet was clutching something. It was a coat, which Burton pulled from his hands and flung into a wardrobe.

Sister Raghavendra, who'd followed him into the room, laid Fidget down and opened her carpet bag. She started to pull out vials, rolls of bandages, and other tools of her trade.

“I'll need a basin of hot water, Captain,” she advised. “This is going to take some time. I've never seen so many cuts and bruises! The poor boy must have suffered terribly.”

Algernon Swinburne opened his eyes. “I did,” he muttered. “And it was glorious!”

It was nine o'clock in the evening and Swinburne was sitting up in bed, sipping at a cup of revitalising beef broth. Sir Richard Francis Burton had carried extra chairs into the room and in them, along with himself, sat Detective Inspector Trounce, who'd just arrived, and Sister Raghavendra. Mrs. Angell had permitted the young woman's unchaperoned attendance on account of her being a professional nurse and a member of the Sisterhood of Noble Benevolence.

“Absolutely no show, I'm afraid,” reported the Yard man, settling into his seat. “We simply couldn't get into the place; it was locked up like a fortress. The lights were blazing and we could see all manner of machinery sparking away inside but of a single man there was no sign. Lord knows what kind of glass they've used in the place; we battered at it with crowbars to absolutely no effect. As for the doors, I doubt even dynamite could shift them. I've posted men around the building, of course, but aside from that, what can I do? But see here, Captain Burton-I took it on faith that you had a good reason for the raid. Perhaps you might enlighten me now?”

“For that, Detective Inspector, we shall turn to my bedridden friend here. May I present Mr. Algernon Swinburne, the esteemed poet,” said Burton, graciously.

“And follower of de Sade!” blurted Trounce.

Mrs. Angell, who was at the back of the room pouring cups of tea, cleared her throat.

“Oh, I say-I'm-er-” mumbled the detective.

Swinburne giggled and said, “Pleased to meet you, Detective Inspector; and I assure you that despite my proclivity for the vices of the aforementioned gentleman-if gentleman is the appropriate word, which it almost certainly isn't-these wounds you see were neither self-inflicted nor delivered by request.”

“Um-by Jove, that's a relief,” responded Trounce, uncertainly.

“I think-” began Mrs. Angell, with a glance at the sister.

Burton held up his hand to stop her and interjected: “There are ladies present, gentlemen; let's not forget that. Now then, Algy, perhaps you can give us an account of your experiences?”