Burton & Swinburne 1 - The Strange Affair Of Spring Heeled Jack (34 page)

The little poet leaned back on his pillow-his hair luminescent against its whiteness-and closed his eyes. He commenced his tale with a description of his apprenticeship with Vincent Sneed then moved on to the events in the cemetery and his subsequent confrontation with Charles Darwin.

As he spoke, he enthralled them with his choice of words and intonation, and, for the first time, Burton realised that his friend truly did possess an astonishing talent, and had the potential to be counted a literary giant if only he could remain sober for long enough to achieve it.

After Swinburne finished, there was a long silence, which was finally broken by Trounce.

“Phew!” he gasped. “They must be maniacs!”

“Triply so,” noted Burton. “In the first place, they're meddling with the natural order of things; in the second, the results of their experiments will be a hopelessly tangled mix of interrelated consequences, which surely defeats the point; and in the third, even if they could separate the fruits of their endeavours, they wouldn't have anything to measure until many generations from now, by which time the experimenters themselves will be long dead. It makes no sense.”

“I told Darwin as much,” Swinburne informed them, “yet he seemed confident enough. He said time was the key and was just about to tell me more when Oliphant arrived and stopped him.”

“Time,” pondered Burton. “Interesting. It occurred to me that, in the case of Spring Heeled Jack, time also seems to be a key-if not the keyelement.”

“And you told me Oliphant repeated almost word for word something that Jack had earlier said to you,” put in Trounce.

“Yes. It's puzzling. Very puzzling indeed.”

“I can have a warrant put out for Charles Darwin's arrest on grounds of abduction, illegal medical experiments, and probably murder,” said Trounce. “Which will no doubt delight what remains of the Church. Nurse Nightingale needs to be rounded up and questioned, too, for she certainly seems to be in the thick of it. Laurence Oliphant can be charged with the murder of little Billy Tupper. He'll dangle by the neck, I don't doubt. But as far as Isambard Kingdom Brunel is concerned, I can't arrest a man-if he is a man-for inventing machines and remaining alive after everyone thinks him dead! ”

“I say,” piped Swinburne. “Where's the coat? I picked up Oliphant's coat. Where is it?”

“Here,” said Burton, rising and stepping to the wardrobe. He withdrew the item of clothing, which was still damp from the rain.

“I thought he might have a pocket book or something.”

“Good lad!” exclaimed Trounce.

“Auguste Dupin!” Swinburne smiled, though the reference was lost on the Yard man.

Burton went through the garment. He found a silver pocket watch, a silk handkerchief, a packet of cigarettes which smelled faintly of opium, a set of peculiar items which Trounce identified as lock-picks, a key chain with four keys upon it, a pencil, and, to Swinburne's delight, a small notebook.

Leafing through the pages, they found recorded all twenty-eight abductions plus the names and ages of each of the chimney sweeps. Disappointingly, this was information that the Beetle had already provided.

Various appointments that had already occurred were noted, though only the dates were given, nothing about the venue or attendees. Indecipherable markings accompanied these entries but Burton, the expert linguist, could see at a glance that they'd be impossible to decode.

There were no future assignations marked.

He sighed. “It was an excellent try, Algy, but no luck, I'm afraid.”

“Blast it!” muttered the poet.

“Excuse me, sir,” interrupted Mrs. Angell. “There's the hat, too.”

“The hat? What hat?”

“The one that horrible albino creature left behind him after jumping through your window. I put it on the stand downstairs. Shall I fetch it?”

“Well done, Mrs. Angell! But you stay put-I'll get it.”

He left the room and they heard his footsteps descending.

Mrs. Angell distributed cups of hot sweet tea.

Sister Raghavendra plumped Swinburne's pillow.

He sighed with delight.

Detective Inspector Trounce reached into his pocket and pulled out a cigar, glanced at the ladies, and pushed it back in again.

Burton returned.

“I could kiss you, Mrs. Angell. I found this in the hat's inner lining.”

He held a small square of paper upon which a few words were written in pencil. He read it to them:

URGENT! 0 confirm: DTs 2909 2300. D y? B y? N y? B.

“More code!” grunted Trounce.

“No, this isn't code, old man. This is simple abbreviation,” stated Burton.

“For what?”

“Look at these letter y's with a question mark. The simplest possible answer to a question is either `yes' or `no.' If these y's represent `yes,' then the question mark, it seems to me, is a request for confirmation.”

“Ah, I follow you!” exclaimed Trounce.

“And, having just listened to Algy's story, how can we doubt that D, B, and N stand for Darwin, Brunel, and Nightingale?”

“By George! Now it seems obvious! And the 0 is Oliphant, who's being asked to confirm something about them! But who is the second B?”

“I don't know. We'll come back to that. As for what it is this mysterious B wants confirmed, the two sets of numbers give it away: it's a date and a time using the twenty-four-hour clock. The 29th of September at eleven o'clock in the evening. That's this coming Sunday night. A meeting, I'll wager.”

“By Jove! You're as sharp as a tack. I'd have been mulling over this note for hours! How about the DTs?”

“Delirium tremens!” suggested Swinburne enthusiastically.

“Silly ass!” Burton smiled. “I'd say it represents the location.”

“If there really is a connection between Spring Heeled Jack and Oliphant, as you suspect,” said Trounce softly, “mightn't DTs represent Darkening Towers? It was, after all, the home of Beresford, who was suspected of being Jack, and who was also the leader of the Rake movement before he died.”

“And Oliphant is his successor!” cried Swinburne.

Burton looked at the Scotland Yard detective with an expression of admiration.

“I'd bet my right arm that you've hit the proverbial nail slap bang on its head! ”

“I'm not so sure,” grumbled the inspector. “It may just be a coincidence.”

“Possibly; but it's a big one. Which just leaves us with the letter B. Who was Beresford's successor to the marquessate? Did he have a son?”

“No, he died without issue and the marquessate became defunct. Dark ening Towers passed to his cousin, the Reverend John de la Poet Beresford, who runs a famine-relief organisation in Ireland and who hasn't ever set foot on English soil. He rents the property, through an agent named Flagg, to one Henry Belljar, a recluse of whom no record seems to exist. Flagg himself has never seen Bell jar; their business has always been conducted entirely by post. So there's your mysterious Mr. B, Captain Burton!”

“It would seem so,” responded Burton thoughtfully. “I would very much like to see this Henry Belljar. In fact, on Sunday night, if 0, D, B, and N are going to have a confab with him at Darkening Towers, then I think a third B should be present, too-B for Burton!”

“If you mean to say that you're going to spy on them, then you can jolly well count me in!” cried Trounce.

“And me!” chorused Swinburne.

“No,” said Burton sharply. “I'm afraid I have to pull rank on you, Inspector; while you, Algy, are in no fit state. One person can move more quietly than three and I have experience in this sort of business-I was a spy for Sir Charles Napier during my time in India and undertook more than one mission where stealth was required.”

“You'll at least allow me to loiter nearby?” grumbled Trounce petulantly. “Just in case you require reinforcements? Surely, though, we could forego the spying and simply raid the place with a squadron of constables?”

“If we do that,” responded Burton, “we might never learn the full extent of their plans or lay our hands on Spring Heeled Jack.”

“I insist on coming along too!” squealed Swinburne, slapping his hands against the bedsheets. “I'll not be left out!”

“Mr. Swinburne!” exclaimed Sister Raghavendra. “You'll stay in bed, sir! You are in no condition to go gallivanting around on dangerous missions!”

“I have two whole days to recover, dear lady! I shall be perfectly fine! Richard, say you'll take me!”

Burton shook his head. “You've contributed more than your fair share to this business, my friend. You nearly got yourself killed.”

Swinburne flung back the sheets and scrambled upright, standing on the bed in oversized pyjamas, bouncing slightly, twitching and jerking with excitement.

“Yes!” he cried. “Yes! I was nearly killed by that fiend! And do you know what I learned from the experience? I learned-”

He threw his arms out and nearly overbalanced. Everyone stood and moved to catch him but he recovered himself and proclaimed:

"How he that loves life overmuch shall die

The dog's death, utterly:

And he that much less loves it than he hates

All wrongdoing that is done

Anywhere always underneath the sun

Shall live a mightier life than time's or fate's."

His knees buckled and he fell against the wall, slowly sliding back down onto the bed.

“Goodness,” he exclaimed weakly. “I think I stood up rather too quickly!”

Sister Raghavendra grabbed him by the shoulders, manoeuvred him back into the bed, and tucked the sheets around him.

“Foolish man!” she snapped. “You're too exhausted to go jumping around on a mattress, let alone chasing after mysterious Mr. Belljars. You'll stay put, sir, and you'll drink beef broth three times a day; isn't that right, Mrs. Angell?”

“Even if I have to sit on him and pour it down his throat,” answered the old housekeeper.

“Richard! Am I to be a prisoner?” pleaded the young poet.

“For two days at least,” confirmed his host. “We'll see how you are on Sunday. Sister, will you visit?”

“Certainly, Captain Burton. Mr. Swinburne is my patient; I will attend him daily until he is well.”

“Bliss!” whispered Swinburne.

“And Captain,” added the young nurse, “if there's any other way I can help, please don't hesitate to ask!”

Detective Inspector Trounce picked up his bowler and dusted a flake of soot from its brim. Mrs. Angell watched it float to the floor. She pursed her lips disapprovingly.

“I'll call again tomorrow, Captain,” announced the Yard man, pacing to the door. “We'll go over our plans for Sunday night. But, I say, do you think this Mr. Belljar chappie is our jumping Jack?”

“I have no idea, Inspector,” muttered Burton. “But I intend to find out!”

I an opposed to the laying down of rules or conditions to be observed in the construction of mechanical devices lest the progress of improvement tomorrow might be embarrassed or shackled by recording or registering as law the prejudices and errors of those sentimental individuals who consider that there is a moral or ethical question inherent in oar technological advancement.

-ISAMBMUN KINGDOM BRUNEL

Darkening Towers well suited its name.

Lying a little beyond the village of Waterford, near Hertford, the estate was some forty or fifty acres in extent, and was entirely surrounded by a high wall of rotten grey stone. Within this crumbling barrier, the ground stretched unevenly, with large areas slumped into damp, pestilent hollows, as if being eaten away from beneath. These depressions were filled with a sluggishly writhing vapour that possessed a green-tinged luminescence, and over them decayed and contorted trees squatted blackly in the moonlight, casting weird shadows and making surreptitious movements. Upon the contaminated soil grass grew in fitful clumps and weeds, brambles, and tendrils twisted hither and thither as if their existence was an unavoidable agony.

In the middle of all this crouched the half-ruined mansion.

Built on the foundations of a Norman manor house, the glowering edifice was terribly dilapidated; its entire west wing had been ravaged by fire at some point and was nothing but a mildewed shell, while the habitable part of the mansion had sagged, opening fissures in its vine-clad, mouldering face.

The windows were pointed arches, and the big double door of the entrance was also set in an arch of the Gothic style. At the bottom of the steps leading up to this were two plinths upon which stone griffins sat, their once proud faces now dark with dirt and fungi, and in the shadow of one of these stood the poet, Algernon Swinburne.

Two days of rest had been all he required. Though his scratches weren't yet fully healed and his bruises had turned black, yellow, and blue, Swinburne's nervous energy had hastened his recovery and his shrill insistence had finally won Sir Richard Francis Burton over.

“You can act as lookout,” had said the explorer. “Nothing more-is that understood?”

So now Swinburne was watching the mansion while Burton circled around it looking for any sign of activity and a means of ingress. Meanwhile, beyond the wall, Detective Inspector Trounce was hiding in a thicket, guarding three penny-farthings and wondering why he'd been given this duty while a poet-a poet.-was accompanying the king's agent into danger.

Trounce would never understand Burton's motivation, for he didn't know Swinburne like the explorer did; hadn't the insight that the little man needed to face Death head-on, else it would rob him of self-worth and kill him slowly via a bottle.

A slight rustle alerted Swinburne to Burton's return.

“Anything?” he hissed.

“There are two rotorships on the other side of the house,” reported the king's agent. “I'm certain the largest is the one that left the power station. People are moving around on board. Lengths of cable are running out of the main ship and into the mansion through veranda doors. We cannot get in that way without being spotted. On this side of the building everything is locked up tight. The place is a wreck but the windows and doors look new. I'm kicking myself-I should have asked Trounce to teach me how to use Oliphant's lock-picks!”