Burton & Swinburne 1 - The Strange Affair Of Spring Heeled Jack (15 page)

The door leading to the stairs opened and a rough-looking oldster with a long white beard stepped in; an ex-seaman if his rolling gait was any indication.

“Hallo, Pa!” greeted Penniforth. “You lookin' for the master of the ouse?”

“Yus,” croaked the new arrival, blinking beneath his beetling white eyebrows. “The beggar owes me three 'n' six an' I can't wait no longer!”

“Ho, he does, does he?”

“Yus. Where is 'e, the rat?”

Penniforth laid down his glass and pushed out his chest. “'Ere now, you'd better watch your tongue, Mister!”

“My tongue, is it?” wheezed the old man. “What yet gonna do abaht it, ay?”

“For a start, me of mucker,” growled Penniforth, “I'll pick you up by the collar of that two-'undred-year-old coat o' yours, an' by the seat of them scabby-lookin' pants, an' I'll throw you out o' this 'ouse right into the gutter, make no mistake!”

“Oh yet will, will yet!”

“Yes I blinkin' well will!”

The oldster let loose a bark of laughter and suddenly grew much taller and a lot wider.

“There'll be no need for that, my good fellow!” came Sir Richard Francis Burton's voice.

Montague Penniforth staggered backward. “My sainted aunt!” he cried. “It's that African )u-)u!”

“No, Monty, it's a white wig, powder in my beard, a little stage makeup to cover the scars, some old clothes, and a spot of playacting!” said the old man, who suddenly didn't seem so old.

“Lord Almighty! You had me proper fooled! You're a blinkin' artist, guv'nor!”

“So you think I'll pass muster in the Cauldron?”

“Cor blimey, yes-no one will look at you twice!”

“Jolly good! Then it just remains for us to arm ourselves and we'll be off, if you're agreeable?”

“Right ho, sir; right ho!”

Burton crossed to the bureau that stood against the wall between the two windows and, opening a drawer, pulled from it a brace of modern pistols. He handed one of the six-shooters to the giant cabbie.

“It's loaded, so be careful. And Monty, this is only to be used in the very last resort, is that understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

“If you have to draw it, be careful where you point it and only pull the trigger if there's no other option.”

“Right you are, guv'nor.”

“Good. Let's be off, then. I'm afraid we'll have to pay one of your competitors to take us there.”

“Don't worry about that,” said Penniforth. “We cabbies have an under- standin' between ourselves. An' whatever chap takes us, I'll 'ave 'im arrange for me steam-horse to be towed away from outside your 'ouse, too.”

They pushed their pistols into their belts, buttoned up their coats, and left the house.

For nigh on five hours, Sir Richard Burton and Montague Penniforth had been trudging around the crowded streets, courts, alleys, and cul-de-sacs of Whitechapel with the fog churning around them and the unspeakable filth sticking to their boots.

The honeycomb of narrow, uneven passages, bordered by the most decrepit and crowded tenements in the city, was flowing with raw sewage and rubbish of every description, including occasional corpses. The stench was overpowering and both men had vomited more than once.

They passed tall houses-“rookeries”-mostly of wood, which slumped upon their own foundations as if tired of standing; houses whose gaping windows were devoid of glass and patched, instead, with paper or cloth or broken pieces of wood; windows from which slops and cracked chamber pots were emptied; from which defeated eyes gazed blankly.

Lines of rope stretched across the alleys, decorated with flea-ridden rags; clothes put out to be washed by the polluted rain, later to dry in the rancid air, but currently marinating in the toxic vapour.

Time and again the two men were approached by girls barely out of childhood, who materialised out of the fog with matted hair and bare feet, smeared with excrement up to their knees, covered only by a rough coat or a thin, torn dress or a man's shirt which hung loosely over their bones; who offered themselves for a few coppers; who lowered the price when refused; who begged and wheedled and finally cursed viciously when the men pushed past.

Time and again they were approached by boys and men in every variety of torn and filthy apparel, who demanded and bullied and threatened and finally, when the pistols appeared, spat and swore and sidled away.

Time and again they passed skeletal women sitting hunched in dark corners clutching tiny bundles to their breasts; poverty and starvation gnawing at them; too weak and hopeless even to raise their heads as the two men walked quietly by.

Burton, the author, the man who'd described in minute detail the character and practices of cultures far removed from his own, felt that he could never find the words to depict the utter squalor of the Cauldron. The dirt and decay, the putrescence and rot and garbage, the viciousness and violence, the despair and emptiness; it was far beyond anything he'd witnessed in the darkest depths of Africa, amid the so-called primitives.

Thus far tonight, the two men had drunk sour-tasting beer in four malodorous public houses. It was the fifth that delivered what they were looking for.

They were approaching Stepney when Burton mumbled, “There's another public house ahead. I have to get this foul taste out of my mouth. We'll take a gin or rum or something; anything, so long as it's not that pisswater they call ale.”

The cabbie nodded wordlessly and stumbled on, his big feet squelching through the slime.

The pub-the White Lion-halfway down a short and crooked lane, bulged out over the mud as if about to collapse into it. The orange light from its windows oozed into the fog and was smeared across the uneven road surface and opposite wall. Shouts, screams, snatches of song, and the wheeze of an accordion came from within the premises.

Burton pushed open the door and they entered, Penniforth bending to avoid knocking his head on the low ceiling.

“Buy us a drink, Dad?” asked a man of Burton before he'd taken two paces toward the bar.

“Buy yer own fuckin' drink,” he replied, in character.

“Watch yet mouth, you old git!” came the reply.

“Watch yours!” warned Penniforth, his massive fist pushing up under the man's chin.

“Steady, mate, no 'arm done,” whined the individual, turning away.

They shouldered through the crowd to the counter and ordered gins.

The barman asked to see their money first.

Leaning on the scarred wood, they gulped down the spirit and immediately ordered another round.

“Thirsty, aint'cha?” commented the man beside Penniforth.

“Yus,” grunted the cabbie.

“Me too. I always gets a thirst on after fightin' with the missus.”

“Been givin' you earache, 'as she?”

“Not 'alf, the bleedin' cow. I ain't seen you in 'ere before.”

“I ain't been 'ere afore.”

“That your old fella?” The man nodded toward Burton.

“Yus,” answered Penniforth, gruffly. “Nosey, ain'tcha?”

“Just bein' neighbourly, that's all. If yet don't wanna talk, it ain't no skin off my nose!”

“Yer, well, fair enough. I thought I'd get 'im out o' Mile End for an 'oliday!”

The other man laughed. “An 'oliday in Stepney! That's rich!”

“At least you don't 'ave bleedin' monsters runnin' around at night!” exclaimed the cabbie.

Burton smiled appreciatively into his glass. Good chap, Monty! Quick work! He ordered more drinks and included a beer for their new acquaintance.

“`Ere yer go, mate-get that down yer neck,” he rasped, sliding the pint over.

“Ta, Dad, much appreciated. The name's Fred, by the way. Fred Spooner.”

“I'm Frank Baker,” offered Burton. “This is me son, Monty.”

They drank to each other's health.

Over in the corner, the man with the accordion began to squeeze out another tune and the crowd roared its bawdy lyrics, which, as far as Burton could make out, told of the various places visited by a pair of bloomers belonging to Old Ma Tucker.

He waited patiently, the odour of old sweat and bad breath and acidic beer and stale piss clogging his nostrils. He didn't have to wait for long.

“So they're in Mile End now, are they?” shouted Spooner above the noise.

“Yus,” said Penniforth.

“They'll be 'ere next, then,” said the East Ender, with an air of resignation. “My mate over in Wapping lost 'is tenant to 'em last week.”

“Wotcher mean, `lost'?”

“They snatched one of the kids what roomed at 'is place. That's what they do-they steal the nippers, though most of the kids what were taken 'ave come back since. They took 'em from Whitechapel first, then Shadwell, Wapping these weeks past, and now I guess it's Mile End's turn.”

“Bloody 'ell. What are they?”

“Dunno, mate. Dogs. Wolves. Men. Summick in-between. You know they explode?”

“Explode?” uttered Burton. “What do yer mean?”

“I've 'eard of three occasions when it's 'appened: they burst into flames for no reason and burn like dry straw 'til there ain't nuffink of'em left! I wish the 'ole lot o' them would go up like that. It's hell draggin' 'em back, if yer arsk me!”

“It's a rum do, that's fer sure!” said Burton.

“Come on, Pa-we'd better be off,” urged Penniforth.

“I'll finish me drink first,” objected Burton.

“'Urry it up, then!”

“You seen an artist around?” Burton asked Spooner.

“Aye. Slick Sid Sedgewick is the best in the business. Why, you got a scam?”

“No, mate. Not a con artist. I mean an artist what draws and paints.”

Spooner spluttered into his glass. “You gotta be jokin'! A paintin' artist around 'ere!”

“I just 'eard there was one, that's all.”

“What is it, Dad? You wanna get yer portrait done 'n' hanged in the National bleedin' Gallery?”

“All right, all right!” protested Burton.

He and Penniforth swigged back the last of their gin and bid Spooner farewell.

“Good luck to yer!” he said as they pushed away from the bar and heaved their way through the throng to the door. They burst out into the alleyway hoping for a breath of fresh air and getting quite the opposite.

It was well past midnight. The atmosphere was thick, loathsome, and catarrhal.

“Wapping's about a mile away as the crow flies,” said Burton in a low voice. “Probably considerably farther through this maze.”

“Don't worry, guv'nor, I knows the way.”

“Are you up for it?”

“In for a penny, in for a pound.”

“Good man! And well done-the way you got information out of that Spooner fellow was admirable! Thanks to you, we now know where the loupsgarous are hunting.”

“The what?”

“Men-wolves.”

They resumed their trek through the hellish backstreets and, once again, were accosted every few minutes with varying degrees of pleading and promised violence. Only their pistols and Montague Penniforth's great size kept the knifemen, club wielders, and garrotters at bay.

Even those deterrents failed as they crossed Cable Street and entered the outskirts of Wapping.

They'd just passed along juniper Street and turned left into an unnamed alley when, from dark doorways to either side, a gang of men hurled themselves out and threw a large blanket over Penniforth, tripping him and, as he crashed to the ground, piling on top of him. He struggled and yelled but with five heavyset thugs applying their full weight, he was helpless.

Meanwhile, Burton found himself surrounded by three hard-eyed mentwo in front of him and one behind-each sneering, each waving a dagger threateningly.

He stood still, maintaining his guise as an elderly seaman, his back a little crooked, his eyes peering short-sightedly at the gang.

“W-what do yer want?” he stuttered, weakly.

“What 'ave you got?” replied one of the men, the apparent leader. He was tall, rat-faced, with a tangled black beard and lank hair.

“Nuffink.”

“Is that so? Funny, 'cos I see a nice pair o' strong boots on yer feet, an' word 'as reached me that there's a pistol under that there warm-lookin' coat o' yours. Don't go for it if yer wanna live.”

Burton heard the man behind taking a step forward.

Just one more, my friend, he thought.

“An' that bowler you're a-wearing on your 'ead will look just fine an' dandy on mine, I reckons.”

“Ummph!” came Penniforth's voice from inside the blanket.

The step was taken.

Burton whirled and straightened, his right arm shot up, and his fist connected with the man's chin with such force that the jawbone broke with an audible snap and the crook's feet left the ground.

Before the man had landed on his back, Burton was facing front and springing at the leader. Taken aback, Rat-face stabbed at him reflexively, the dagger aimed at his throat, but Burton swivelled, brought his own arm up under his opponent's, hooked his elbow and wrist around it, and jerked upward. With a nauseating crunch, Rat-face's arm splintered. His scream was cut short by a ferocious uppercut. He flopped backward, out cold.

As the third man closed in, others left the blanket to come to his assistance. It was a stupid mistake. Penniforth erupted out of it with a bellow of rage, ripping the material asunder.

While the cabbie laid into the gang, Burton took off his bowler and tossed it at the remaining knifeman's face. Momentarily distracted, the crook ducked and his beady eyes wavered, missing Burton's next lightning-fast movement. Before he realised what had happened, the East Ender felt his wrist clutched in a grip of such strength that his fingers opened involuntarily and the dagger fell from them. He was yanked forward and his erstwhile victim's forehead smashed into the bridge of his nose. The thief collapsed to his knees, blood spurting from his face, his wrist still held, as if in a vise. He looked up, half dazed, and the eyes that met his blazed with sullen rage.

“N-no,” he stammered.

“Yes,” said Burton.

He twisted the man's arm out of its socket and put an end to the highpitched shriek with a chop to the neck. The limp crook crumpled into a yellowish puddle.

Burton turned to see how Penniforth was getting on and laughed.