Burton & Swinburne 1 - The Strange Affair Of Spring Heeled Jack (50 page)

The mist parted and a massive swan emerged from it. Flying extremely low, it shot past him, the long leather straps attached to its harness trailing behind to a box kite in which a redheaded passenger was yelling: “The cottage!”

It was Swinburne-and his message was clear!

Burton started running down the field.

On the well-swept high street of the village, Old Carter the Lamp-lighter was attempting to restrain his neighbours.

“It ain't nothing to concern us!” he announced. “I happen to know that it's a police matter and they'll not brook interference from common folk!”

“Who're you calling common?” shouted a middle-aged man. “Old Ford is our village! It's bad enough we had Spring Heeled Jack back in '38-now we have to put up with giant swans, wolf-things, and all manner of flying contraptions! It ain't natural, I tell you!”

“Aye!” came a cry of agreement. “There's a bloody curse on this village!”

“There ain't no such thing as curses!” objected Old Carter the Lamplighter.

“Then how do you explain all that malarkey?” shouted another, pointing at the battle in the field across the small valley. “I tell you, it's the old mansion in Waterford that's the cause of it! There's been an ill wind blowing through Old Ford ever since the Mad Marquess took up residence there back in '37!”

“It's true!” called a voice from the back of the crowd. “He may be dead but he's not forgotten! His ghost haunts that place!”

“Darkening Towers was built by a mad 'un and it's had mad 'uns in it ever since!” a woman screamed. “We should have burned it to the ground years ago!”

“And what about this Mr. Belljar blighter? Has anyone actually seen him?”

“No!” they roared.

“Who is he? Why did he come here?”

“Look! Look! The flying ship is leaving! It's heading toward Waterford!”

“It's going to Darkening Towers, I'll warrant!”

“Let's follow! Let's find out who this Belljar is, once and for all!”

“Aye, and if it's him what brought this madness upon us, let's string him up!”

“Bravo!”

“Aye! ”

“Hang him!”

“Stop, you fools!” yelled Old Carter the Lamp-lighter, but no one listened, and soon, brandishing makeshift weapons and burning torches, the mob was descending toward Bearbinder Lane, which, if they followed it to the right, would eventually lead to the main thoroughfare to Waterford.

“What the heck!” Old Carter the Lamp-lighter sighed. “If you can't beat em, join 'em!”

He hurried after his neighbours.

Down the hill they marched until, at the bottom, with the Alsop field sloping up before them, they came to the cottage.

Four constables, who'd been guarding the premises since the fight commenced, came forward.

“Folks! You should return to your homes at once!” said one. “It's not safe here!”

“Aye!” cried a villager. “And it'll never be safe until we're rid of Darkening Towers!”

“It's true!” shouted another. “We're going to burn the accursed place to the ground!”

The constable shook his head. “You'll be doing no such thing!”

Suddenly one of the women screamed and pointed at the field. They turned and saw the dirty cloud parting as a dreadful apparition came hopping toward them. The tall, gangling creature was familiar to them all; it had been associated with Old Ford ever since it attacked Jane Alsop twenty-three years ago on the very spot where they were standing. It was Spring Heeled Jack!

With cries of terror, the villagers scattered as the grotesque bogeyman ploughed into them, swinging a shovel left and right while shrieking, “Get away! Get away!”

The constables were mown down by his frenzied attack. The villagers raced away. The cottage was left unprotected.

The stilt-man threw the shovel aside and vaulted over the gate, stalked up the pathway, and slammed his shoulder into the front door. It swung open. He bent and peered into the hallway.

A young woman was standing in it. She held a pistol levelled at his head.

“Tell me, girl-do you have a birthmark on your chest?” he demanded.

“I'm not Alicia Pipkiss,” she replied coolly. “She's been taken to a place of safety. You'll never find her.”

He expelled a sulphuric hiss of fury and for a second Sister Raghavendra thought he was going to pounce upon her, but then a voice rang out: “Edward John Oxford!”

Spring Heeled Jack whirled around.

Sir Richard Francis Burton was standing at the gate.

He held a strange weapon in his hand.

He pulled the trigger.

A bolt crackled through the air and thudded into the time suit's control unit.

Oxford screamed and convulsed as lines of energy writhed up and down his body.

He tottered, nearly fell, crouched, leaped, and vanished.

“Bismillah! Where the hell has he gone now?” muttered Burton.

He heard his name called from the battlefield. It was Detective Inspector Trounce, who was waving his bowler above his head to attract the explorer's attention. He strained to hear what the man was shouting.

“He's here! He's here! The Technologists have him!”

When Spring Heeled Jack leaped out of 1861 with the energised crossbow bolt embedded in his suit's control unit, he had no clear idea of a destination. His mind had been pushed to the brink of unconsciousness by an electrical discharge. He jumped without considering a landing place and, for a split second, or possibly an eternity, he floated beyond time.

He fragmented.

All the elements that had made Edward Oxford the man he was separated from one another and drifted apart. Decisions taken were unmade and became choices; successes and failures reverted to opportunities and challenges; characteristics disengaged and withdrew to become influences.

He lost cohesion until nothing of him remained except potential.

Yet, set apart from this strange process, something observed and wailed and grieved as it watched itself disintegrate into ever smaller components.

It was that same something that clung despairingly to one final possibility; that issued a last command to the ebbing time suit; that hoped against all evidence to the contrary that another attempt to dissuade the original Edward Oxford from assassinating Queen Victoria might-just mightwork, and wipe this crazy version of history out of existence.

Spring Heeled Jack popped into existence above Green Dragon Alley on February 27, 1838, hit the ground, fell, and dragged himself into an angle in the narrow passageway.

He pulled the suit's cloak over his head, seeking darkness and a moment to remember, to gather his thoughts.

Who was he?

Where was he?

Why was he here?

What must he do?

There was a name: Edward Oxford-the Original.

And a place: the Hat and Feathers.

And an enemy: Burton.

And a voice: “Are you sick, Mister? Shall I fetch help?”

He pulled the cloak aside and looked up. A young girl was standing looking at him; a child, also female, just behind her.

He had to rape her, or someone like her.

Rape?

What was he thinking? He'd never done anything like that in his life; he wasn't capable of such brutality! Why was he contemplating such a foul act? Why was his head filled with all this violence? Rape and ripping girls' dresses and assassination and fighting and-

He screamed at the horror of all he'd done and all he'd considered doing.

A jagged line of energy lashed out from his helmet and struck the girl in the face.

She was thrown onto the muddy cobbles. She started to convulse.

The younger girl scrambled over to her, shouting, “What have you done? Help! Help!”

Spring Heeled Jack pushed himself to its feet and yelled, “This is your fault, Burton!”

As he paced away along the alley-less a man than a disjointed bundle of possibilities-he was jolted again and again by shocks.

An emergency program in the damaged control unit suddenly activated. A voice in Spring Heeled Jack's head ordered him to jump into the air. Reflexively, he did so. With its very last resource, the suit flipped him back to where he'd come from, moving him a little to the west to prevent him from colliding with himself.

Thirty seconds after he'd leaped away from Burton, he dropped onto the Alsop field straight into the hands of the retreating Technologists.

“The Technologists have Oxford!” shouted Detective Inspector Trounce as Burton approached. “They're making away with him.”

Burton peered through the gloom at the battle raging at the top of the field. Policemen, led by Detective Inspector Honesty, together with what remained of the Letty Green villagers, were engaged in hand-to-hand combat with a line of Rakes who were holding them at bay while, farther up the field, the Technologists swarmed up the ropes to the rotorship, whose prow was slowly passing over the western line of trees.

Swinburne and his chimney sweeps, swooping around the vast platform, were unable to do further damage to it, having run out of things to throw.

Even as he watched, Burton saw Spring Heeled Jack, who appeared to be unconscious, being hauled up into the massive flying machine.

“If you're fighting them buggers, we're with you!” came a voice. He turned and saw an elderly man leading a group of villagers. They were all squinting, their eyes watering as particles of soot drifted into them.

“Old Carter the Lamp-lighter at your service, sir!” declared the man. “We're from Old Ford, and we're sick to the back teeth of Spring Heeled Jack!”

“Good man!” said Trounce. He pointed to the struggling men. “Do what you can!”

“Aye, sir! Come on, lads, let's have at 'em!”

He led the villagers away.

Burton pulled his shirt from his trousers, ripped a strip from its hem, and, with Trounce's help, bound his bleeding arm.

He glanced toward the rotorship. He knew what he had to do. There was no question. No doubt. No doppelganger haunting him with alternatives.

“I need a rotorchair,” he told the Yard man. “I'm going to see if I can wave one of them down.”

“Use this,” said Trounce, handing over his police whistle.

Burton ran back to the bottom of the field, where the soot was less dense, and began signalling to the flying machines as they passed overhead, waving his arms and blowing short blasts on the whistle. The fourth to fly by turned and descended.

“Nearly missed you!” announced Constable Krishnamurthy as he climbed out of the seat. “Bad visibility. The lamp caught you, though. You look like the devil!”

“I need your machine!” barked Burton, throwing himself into the leather chair. He pulled his panther-headed swordstick from his belt and pushed it under the seat. “How much fuel?”

“Enough, unless you're flying to Brighton,” responded the constable.

The king's agent nodded and eased the machine into the air.

As he gained altitude, the billowing miasma of soot and steam fell away beneath him. It was crawling with light and shadows as the other rotorchairs circled through it.

Ahead, shining silver in the starlight, the Technologists' ship was slowly picking up speed.

Burton accelerated toward it.

A swan slid up beside his vehicle. He looked over and saw Swinburne waving at him from the box kite. The poet was grinning broadly, obviously enjoying himself. He mouthed something but Burton couldn't hear above the sound of his machine, so he just gave a thumbs-up and pointed to the rotorship. Swinburne nodded.

They flew on.

By soaring high over the ship's outspread spinning wings, they were able to avoid the turbulence and descend onto the vast platform. There was a wide railed walkway around the circumference of the oval-shaped vessel and a long structure in the central area. Burton put down on the walkway. For Swinburne, landing was a riskier business. He flew his swan low over the platform and pulled the emergency release strap which cut his box kite free from the bird. Tumbling through the air, the kite hit the deck and slid along it until it brought up hard against the railing. Swinburne shot out of the canvas and disappeared overboard.

With a sick feeling in his stomach, Burton ran over to the rail and looked down.

The poet smiled up at him. He was gripping the edge of the deck with his fingertips, dangling over the long drop.

“Culver Cliffl” he exclaimed as his friend pulled him to safety. “What now?”

“The final reckoning, I hope,” replied the king's agent, unsheathing his sword. “We can't allow Darwin and his cronies to continue with their insane experiments. People should have the right to shape their own destiny, don't you think?”

“Isn't that a contradiction, Richard?”

“We'll save the philosophical argument for later, Algy. Right now, we have to get inside this thing. Do you have a pistol?”

Swinburne drew a Colt from his jacket.

With a nod of approval, Burton began to move around the edge of the central structure. The great ship vibrated beneath their feet as the two men peered into portholes, seeing empty rooms with bunks and tables, offices with desks and cabinets, and engineering stations, some of which contained men who seemed to be monitoring gauges or making adjustments to valves.

They passed two doors that opened onto such stations, and these they ignored, for the rooms were too well occupied. The third, though, gave access to a switchboard room in which just one Technologist laboured, and into this they sprang. Burton held his rapier to the man's throat while Swinburne crossed the room and locked the door.

“If you value your life, you'll not cry out,” advised the king's agent.

The Technologist swallowed and nodded, raising his hands.

“Tell me the layout of the ship,” ordered Burton. “Be succinct.”

“Two decks,” the man responded, speaking rapidly. “This one has the crew cabins and various maintenance and monitoring rooms, all arranged around a central corridor with stairs to the main deck at either end. The main deck is much larger. There are eight engine rooms arranged around the central section, which matches the dimensions of this upper deck. The rear third contains the boilers, water tanks, furnace, and coal rooms. The middle third houses the main turbine. The forward section contains the flight cabin.”