Burton & Swinburne 1 - The Strange Affair Of Spring Heeled Jack (45 page)

White steam boiled from the vehicles and trailed behind them all the way back to the thicket where Trounce had waited. Beneath the slowly rolling vapour, the loups-garous sprinted after their prey. They were close now. They could smell human flesh.

“Blast these machines!” Burton muttered. “They're not fast enough!”

His jaws snapped together as the big front wheel jerked over a pothole.

“Trounce!” he yelled. “Steer in next to Algy!”

The Yard man obeyed, though controlling the contraption proved difficult as it bounced over a particularly rough patch of road.

A long, drawn-out howl sounded from just behind.

“Algy!” called Burton. “Step off your velocipede onto Trounce's!”

“What?” cried his two friends.

“Just do it, man!”

Swinburne, entirely fearless, stood in his stirrups, swung a leg over the saddle so that he was balanced on one side of the main wheel, tried to keep the wildly vibrating handlebars steady with a single hand, and reached across with the other to grasp Detective Inspector Trounce's shoulder. Then, in one quick motion, he leaned over, put his foot on one of the mounting bars of Trounce's machine, and stepped across.

His own boneshaker rattled on, kept upright by its gyroscope. However, without his fingers holding the velocity valve open, it immediately slowed and started to fall to the rear.

Burton drew his pistol. He had three shots left. He looked back.

The wolf-men were streaming around the riderless velocipede. Burton raised his gun, took aim, breathed gently, and squeezed the trigger.

The bullet hit the penny-farthing's furnace. With a startlingly loud detonation, it exploded, blasting red-hot metal into the loups-garous charging along beside it. As the twisted vehicle somersaulted into the air, one of the beasts burst into flames, then a second, and a third. One by one, they erupted and fell writhing to the ground, burning fiercely.

The carnage fell away behind the three men. However, four loups-garous remained in pursuit, snapping at the small back wheels of the vehicles.

“Confound it! My pistol has jammed!” shouted Burton.

Trounce passed his Colt over his shoulder to Swinburne.

“Here you are, lad. I'll steer, you shoot!”

“Terrific!” The poet grinned happily.

He took aim, started firing, and missed with his first three shots.

“By Jove!” announced Trounce. It takes a rare talent to avoid hitting the blighters at this range!"

Swinburne's fourth bullet found its mark and, with a blinding flash, one of the werewolves spontaneously combusted, setting fire to the beasts on either side of it. They fell back, screaming in agony as they died.

Swinburne cheered. The penny-farthing jolted. He dropped the pistol.

“Curse it! Sorry, Trounce, old man! I hope that didn't have any sentimental value!”

“Only insofar as it could save us from being eaten alive, you blockhead!” replied the police detective.

Burton slowed his vehicle slightly and guided it into the path of the last remaining werewolf. With the creature snapping at his legs, he reached down to the vehicle's cane holder and withdrew his recently acquired stick. Its silver top was shaped like a panther's head. It was Oliphant's sword cane, which the king's agent had laid claim to after their fight at Battersea Power Station.

Holding it between his teeth, he drew the blade, leaned over, and with cool precision pushed its point through the wolf-man's right eye and into its brain. The loup-garou crumpled onto the road.

Burton shuddered. In his peripheral vision he could see the cane sticking out from each side of his mouth. It brought back uncomfortable memories of Berbera.

He slipped the sword back into it and returned it to the velocipede's holder.

“Waterford is just ahead, then Old Ford. Which is the village after that?” he asked Trounce.

“Pipers End, I think. Why?”

“I'll tell you when we get there! We have to rouse its innkeeper and get ourselves a room. It's almost dawn, Trounce-we haven't much time to plan our campaign!”

“Campaign?”

“Yes. This very night we're going to face off with our enemies and snatch Spring Heeled Jack from right under their noses!”

Once again, Sir Richard Francis Burton found himself in a drinking establishment: the Cat in the Custard, Pipers End. This time, though, alcohol played no part in the proceedings. Even Swinburne showed no interest in it during the day that followed.

Soon after their arrival, the three men enjoyed strong tea in silence while awaiting a breakfast of scrambled eggs and bacon. Once this was cooked, served, and consumed, they retired to a private sitting room where Burton gave an account of his experience in Darkening Towers.

Having heard the tale of Spring Heeled Jack, Detective Inspector Trounce sat back and ran his thick fingers through his short bristly hair.

“It sounds like utter madness but I'll be damned if I don't believe it!” he exclaimed. “It explains everything! And you know, now that you've told me, I can see that the `Mystery Hero' who struggled with Victoria's assassin had the same face as Spring Heeled Jack. I simply didn't notice it because I was distracted by the bizarreness of Jack's costume! Anyway, I'll get a message to Spearing at the Yard as soon as the post office opens. We'll have Old Ford swarming with men in no time at all.”

“Hold your horses!” objected Burton. “We know the Rakes and Technologists are gathering in and around the village. If we send your men in too soon, we may capture a few-but with what can we charge them? As for Beresford and Darwin and their cohorts, they won't come anywhere near until Spring Heeled Jack arrives. Surely it's best if we amass our forces here then advance on the village when the time traveller shows up and our opponents try to capture him?”

“You mean get the lot of 'em in one fell swoop? I'm not sure I'll have enough men for that, Burton.”

“Don't worry. Algy here is leaving in a moment to recruit reinforcements.”

“I am?” queried Swinburne.

“Yes. Listen-this is what I want you to do-”

After issuing his instructions to the poet, he turned back to Trounce.

“May I ask a favour of you, old chap?”

“Of course!” came the ready reply.

“I promised Detective Inspector Honesty that he'd be in at the final reckoning.”

“That little popinjay? I'm not a great enthusiast, Captain Burton. He's never believed in Spring Heeled Jack.”

“All the more reason to let him see the time traveller with his own eyes. Prove to him that you were right all along!”

“Yes.” Trounce smiled. “I must admit, I'd take a deal of satisfaction in that. Very well, I'll have him bring the men here. What about the girl, Alicia Pipkiss? Shall we remove her from danger?”

“That won't be easy with the Rakes watching the cottage,” mused Burton, “but I think it might be arranged. And what of Connie Fairweather, is she still guarded?”

“No need. The family sailed for Australia yesterday.”

“Did they, by heavens! Perhaps she's the one, then! Algy, you'd better be off, you have a lot to organise. As for us, Trounce, let's get across to the post office and hammer on the door. We can't waste time waiting for it to open!”

At eight thirty that morning, in a house on the outskirts of Hammersmith, Detective Inspector Thomas Honesty placed his homburg upon his head and checked himself in the hall mirror. His moustache was perfectly even, its extravagant curls symmetrical. He brushed lint from his shoulder and reached for his cane.

“Oh, Tom!” came his wife's voice from the lounge. “Tom! There's one of those awful birds at the window!”

Honesty's carefully trimmed eyebrows rose. A messenger parakeet had never called at his house before, though plenty had tapped at his office window.

He stepped to the lounge door and passed through. The small room was an astonishing clutter of knickknacks and ornaments. His wife, a slim, pretty woman, pointed at the window.

“Look!”

“Leave the room, Vera,” he advised.

“But I want to listen! I've never heard one!”

“Bad language. Not suitable. Off you go!”

“Tom, I insist on staying! A little bad language won't offend me! I tell you what-I'll listen with my hands over my ears!”

Honesty looked at his wife, blinked, shrugged, and grunted: “Very well. Warned you.”

He slid the window up.

“Message from Detective Inspector nobble-thwacker Trounce and Sir Richard Francis bottom-squeezer Burton,” cackled the parakeet gleefully.

Mrs. Vera Honesty gave a yelp and fled from the room.

“Gather as many cretinous constables as you possibly can,” continued the bird, “and get them to the filthy-cesspit village of Letty Green at the soonest possible moment. They must be in civilian garb and should all be armed with pistols and flying goggles. Avoid the verminous village of Old Ford at all cost, you mucus-bubbler. From Letty Green, the men must proceed in groups of no more than three morons at a time to the Cat in the Custard at Pipers End. It is of crucial importance that all the nose-picking men have visited this public house before sundown. Honesty, you skunk-tickler, this is a matter of national sodding importance and you can't overestimate the number of constables required. We need a bloody army. I will take full responsibility. Get to the Cat yourself, dirt-slurper, as soon as possible. Bring with you the strumpet Sister Raghavendra of 3 Bayham Street, near Mornington Crescent. Speed is of the essence. Message ends.”

“Well, I'll be blowed!” exclaimed Honesty. It was one of the longest and strangest messages he'd ever heard issue from the beak of a parakeet.

“Tosspot,” squawked the bird.

“Reply,” snapped the Yard man. “Message begins. Doing as you say. This better be good. Message ends. Go.”

With a colourful flutter the parakeet flew from the windowsill and disappeared into the sky. Faintly, its voice floated back: “Buttock-licker!”

Slightly over an hour and a half later, five rotorchairs landed in a field to the west of Letty Green. Detective Inspector Honesty climbed out of the first, removed his goggles, and straightened his clothing. He retrieved his homburg and cane from beneath the seat, then paced over to one of the other chairs and helped its driver out.

“That was utterly wonderful!” Sister Raghavendra laughed. “Though a little tricky to begin with!”

“You did well! First woman to fly!” replied Honesty.

“Really? No, surely not! Me, the first woman to fly?”

“Perhaps, my dear. Perhaps.”

Honesty turned to the three men who awaited his orders.

“Remain here, Constable Krishnamurthy,” he said to one. “Instruct new arrivals.”

“Yes, sir.”

Then to the other two men: “Venables, Ashworth-come!”

He led the girl and the two policemen to a stile in the hedgerow that surrounded the field and climbed over it into the lane beyond. As they proceeded toward nearby Pipers End, three specks appeared in the sky behind them: more rotorchairs arriving from London.

They traipsed on until, forty minutes later, they arrived at the Cat in the Custard and were shown up to the private sitting room.

“Hello, old fellow!” said Burton, shaking Honesty's hand. “I want you to listen to what Trounce has to tell you. It will sound incredible but, believe me, every word is true. We must act fast and we're relying on you.”

Honesty nodded curtly and sat in the chair to which Trounce gestured.

Burton guided Sister Raghavendra out of the room and down into the empty parlour.

“Sadhvi,” he said, placing his hands on her upper arms. “You said you would like to help. You can. But I may be placing you in harm's way.”

“No matter,” she replied eagerly. “Tell me what I must do.”

Later that morning, a flower seller, wearing a red cloak with a hood, entered Old Ford village and started calling from door to door. It was late in the season and her basket contained only magnolias, hydrangeas, geraniums, a makeup kit, and a pistol.

Business was not good. She made few sales, though all the villagers were friendly. One, a retired soldier who introduced himself as “Old Carter the Lamp-lighter,” informed her that she was the most exotic of the blooms.

Eventually, she came to a cottage at the bottom of the hill on the western edge of the village. There were two bobbies standing guard outside and one blocked her path and refused her entry.

She whispered a few words to him.

He nodded, spoke softly to the second constable, then the two men strolled away and didn't come back.

Ignoring the bellpull beside the gate, the flower seller passed through and walked along the short path to the front door. She knocked upon it and, a few moments later, it opened.

A short conversation followed.

The flower seller entered the cottage.

The door closed.

Twenty minutes later, it opened and she stepped out. She walked down the path, out through the gate, and back through the village.

Her basket contained magnolias, hydrangeas, and geraniums.

Old Carter the Lamp-lighter was sweeping the road in front of his house.

“Sold much?” he asked as she passed.

She shook her head and hurried on.

“Funny,” he mumbled. “The exotic bloom seems to have faded.”

As she exited Old Ford along the south road, a man detached himself from the shadow of a tree and wandered along some distance behind her.

A little while later, the flower seller arrived at the Cat in the Custard in the neighbouring village of Pipers End and sat in the parlour, waiting. The man who'd followed her entered.

“Miss Pipkiss?” he asked.

“Yes,” she answered nervously.

“I'm Detective Inspector Trounce. I can assure you that you're quite safe now.”

Alicia Pipkiss pulled back her hood. Her dark skin was much paler around the edges of her hairline and behind the ears and back of the neck.

“Can I wash this makeup off?” she asked.

A deep and mellow voice from across the room said, “I'll ask the landlord to heat some water for you.”

A man had entered. He was big and had a fierce, scarred face that was bruised and cut.

“Hello, Alicia,” he said. “I'm Captain Richard Burton. I'm working with Scotland Yard.”