The Strange Affair of Spring Heeled Jack

by Mark Hodder

  “Oui, Monsieur.”

  Burton moved into the doorway and said, in French: “How did you recognise me, Doré?”

  “Pah! You think you can fool an artist’s eye with a dab of stage makeup and a toupee? I have seen your picture in the newspaper, Monsieur Burton. I could not mistake you; those sullen eyes, the cheekbones, the fierce mouth. You have the brow of a god and the jaw of a devil!”

  Burton grunted. “What are you doing here, Doré? The East End is no place for a Frenchman.”

  “I am not merely a Frenchman; I am an artist.”

  “And you possess a cast-iron stomach if you can put up with the stink of this place.”

  “I have grown used to it.”

  In the absence of anything but the dimmest of lights—from three red blemishes floating over the nearby riverbank, perhaps the lights of a merchant vessel or barge—Burton could barely see the Frenchman. He had a vague impression of rags, a long beard, and wild hair.

  “You look like an old vagrant.”

  “Mais out! I owe my survival to that fact! They think I possess nothing, so they leave me alone, and quietly and secretly I draw them. But you, Monsieur—why are you in the Cauldron? It is because of the loups-garous, no?”

  “Yes. I’ve been commissioned to find out where they come from and what they are doing.”

  “Where they come from I do not know, but what they are doing? They are stealing the chimney sweeps.”

  “They’re doing what?”

  “Mais je to jure que c’est vrai! These loups-garous, they are most particular. They take children but not any children—just the boys who work as sweeps.”

  “Why the devil would werewolves kidnap chimney sweeps?”

  “This question I cannot answer. You should see the Beetle.”

  “Who—or what—is the Beetle?”

  “He is the president of the League of Chimney Sweeps.”

  “They have a league?”

  “Out, Monsieur. I regret, though, that I know not where you should look for the boy.”

  “My young friend Quips might know.”

  “He is a sweep?”

  “No, a newsboy.”

  “Ah, out out, he will know. These children, they—what is the expression?—‘stick together,’—no? I have heard that a word given to one is passed to the next and the next and spreads across your Empire faster than a fire through a dry forest.”

  “It’s true. Anything else, Monsieur Doré? You know nothing of where the loups-garous come from?”

  “Mais non. I can tell you that they have been hunting here for two months and that their raids now come every night, but I can tell you no more. I must go. It is late and I am tired.”

  “Very well. Thank you for your time, Monsieur. Please be careful. I understand that art is your life, but I would not like to hear that you had died for it.”

  “You will not. I am nearly finished here. The sketches I have taken, Monsieur Burton—they will make me famous!”

  “I’ll keep an eye open for your work,” replied Burton. “Tell me, how can I get out of the Cauldron?”

  “Keep going along this road; that way—” He pointed, a vague motion in the darkness. “It is not far. You will come to the bridge.”

  “Thank you. Good-bye, Monsieur Doré. Be safe.”

  “Au revoir, Monsieur Burton.”

  It was past five in the morning by the time Sir Richard Francis Burton collapsed onto his bed and into a deep sleep.

  After his meeting with the French artist, he’d made his way past the Tower of London, following the fog-dulled cacophony of the ever-awake London Docks until he reached London Bridge. He’d then walked northward away from the Thames. As the river receded behind him, the murk thinned somewhat and a greater number of working gas lamps enabled him to better get his bearings. He trudged all the way to Liverpool Street and there waved down a hansom of the old horse-pulled variety.

  At home, under the conviction that his malaria was about to flare up again, he’d dosed himself with quinine before divesting himself of the disguise and washing the soot from his face. Then, gratefully, he slid between crisp, clean sheets and fell into a deep sleep.

  He dreamed of Isabel.

  It was a strange dream. He was standing on a low rocky hill overlooking Damascus and a black horse was pounding up the slope toward him, its hooves drumming noisily on the ground. As it came closer, he saw that it was ridden by Isabel, who was wrapped in Arabian clothing and rode not as a woman, sidesaddle, but as a man. She radiated strength and happiness.

  The animal skidded to a halt and reared before coming to rest in front of him, its sweat-flecked sides heaving.

  Isabel reached up and pulled aside her veil.

  “Hurry, Dick—you’ll be late!” she urged, in her deep contralto voice.

  From behind him he heard a distant noise, a clacking. He wanted to turn to see what it was but she stopped him.

  “No! There’s no time! You have to come with me!”

  The sound was drawing closer.

  “Dick! Come on!”

  Now he noticed that there was a second horse, tethered to Isabel’s. She gestured at it, urging him to mount.

  Clack! Clack! Clack! Clack!

  What was that? He started to turn.

  “No, Dick! No!”

  Clack! Clack! Clack! Clack!

  He twisted and looked up at the hill behind him. A freakish figure was bounding down it, approaching fast, taking huge leaps.

  Clack! Clack! Clack! Clack!

  The sound of its stilts hitting the rock.

  Isabel screamed.

  The thing gave an insane and triumphant yell, its red eyes blazing.

  Burton awoke with a start and sat up.

  Clack! Clack! Clack! Clack!

  A moment’s disorientation, then he recognised the sound: someone was hammering at the front door. He glanced at the pocket watch on his bedside table as he dragged himself out of the warm sheets. It was seven o’clock. He’d been asleep for less than two hours.

  He threw his jubbah around himself, the long and loose outer garment he’d worn while on his pilgrimage to Mecca that he now used as a night robe, and headed down the stairs.

  Mrs. Angell reached the front door before him and he could hear her indignant tones as he descended.

  “Have you come to arrest him? No? Then your business can wait until a more civilised hour!” she was saying.

  “I’m most dreadfully sorry, ma’am,” came a male voice, “but it’s a police emergency. Captain Burton’s presence is required.”

  “Where?” demanded Burton as he reached the last flight of stairs and started down them.

  “Ah, Captain!” exclaimed the visitor, a young constable, stepping into the hall.

  “Sir!” objected Mrs. Angell.

  “It’s all right, Mother,” said Burton. “Come in, Constable—?”

  “Kapoor, sir.”

  “Come up to my study. Mrs. Angell, back to bed with you.”

  The old woman looked from one man to the other. “Should I make a pot of tea first?”

  Burton glanced enquiringly at Kapoor but the constable shook his head and said, “There’s no time, sir; but thank you, ma’am.”

  The landlady bobbed and returned to her basement domain while the two men climbed the stairs and entered the study.

  Burton made to light the fire but the policeman stopped him with a gesture.

  “Would you dress as fast as possible, please, Captain Burton? Spring Heeled Jack has attacked again!”

  MARVEL’S WOOD

  etective Inspector Trounce would like you at the scene as quickly as possible, Captain,” said Constable Kapoor. “I have a rotorchair waiting for you outside.”

  “Where did the attack occur?” asked Burton.

  “Near Chislehurst. I’ll wait here, sir.”

  Without further ado, Burton raced up to his bedroom, poured water from a jug into a basin, and splashed it onto his face, scrubbing away th
e last vestiges of soot, before hurriedly dressing. His body was aching after having maintained an old man’s posture for so many hours, and his mind felt sluggish from lack of sleep, though he knew from past experience that it would clear soon enough. He had the ability to defer sleep when necessary, often going for days at a time without any before then taking to his bed for a prolonged bout of unconsciousness.

  He joined Constable Kapoor on the first landing and they descended to the hall, where Burton put on his overcoat and top hat and picked up his cane. At the policeman’s recommendation, he wrapped a scarf around his throat. They left the house.

  The sun had risen and was sending lazy shafts of light into the pale yellow fog. Black flakes were suspended in the pall, neither falling nor swirling about.

  Two rotorchairs waited at the side of the road. Burton was surprised he hadn’t heard them land but then remembered his dream and the sound of hooves thudding up the hill.

  “One was flown by me, the other by another constable who’s gone back to the Yard,” explained Kapoor. “Have you been in one before?”

  “No.”

  “It’s quite simple to operate, Captain,” said the policeman, and, as they came to the nearest rotorchair, he quickly ran through the controls.

  Burton inspected the contraption. It looked like a big studded leather armchair such as could be found in gentlemen’s clubs and private libraries. It was affixed to a sledlike frame of polished wood and brass, the runners of which curled up gracefully at either end. In the forward part of this frame, from a control box situated just in front of a footboard, three levers, similar to those found in railway signal boxes but curved, angled back to the driver’s position. The middle lever controlled altitude, while those to either side of it steered the vehicle to the left or right. The footboard, when pressed forward with the toes, increased the rotorchair’s velocity and forward motion; when pressed backward with the heels, slowed the vehicle; and when pushed all the way back, caused it to hover.

  Affixed to the back of the chair, a vaguely umbrella-like canopy protected the driver from the downdraught caused by the four short, flat, and wide wings which rotated at the top of a shaft rising from the engine; this situated behind the chair. This engine was a larger version of the ones used for velocipedes and operated with the same remarkable efficiency.

  Kapoor handed Burton a pair of round leather-lined goggles.

  “You’ll need to wear these, Captain, and you’ll have to fly hatless unless you want to lose your topper. There’s a storage compartment under the seat. Put it there with your cane, then we’ll get going.”

  Burton did as advised, then climbed into the chair and secured himself with the belt attached to it.

  “I’ll ascend first and wait for you above the fog,” said the constable. He moved to the back of the vehicle and the explorer heard him fiddling with the engine, which coughed into life and started to quietly chug, making the seat vibrate.

  Moments later, a second engine spluttered and roared, its pitch and volume increasing rapidly, to be joined seconds later by a rattling thrum, like the noise of a snare drum.

  The fog rolled away, revealing a wide expanse of Montagu Place. A gentleman, suddenly exposed on the opposite pavement, clutched at the brim of his hat.

  The racket faded upward and tendrils of vapour came snaking back toward Burton.

  He allowed a minute to pass then took hold of the middle lever and gently pulled it while simultaneously pressing his toes down softly on the footboard. The wings above his head jerked, turned, began to rotate, then suddenly transformed into a circular blur.

  The fog whipped away again.

  The rotorchair scraped over the cobbles then slid into the air. The ground dropped away and vanished as the mist closed up beneath the vehicle. Strangely, there was very little sense of movement.

  Entombed in the cloud, Burton felt as if he’d been transported to Limbo, until suddenly his rotorchair burst out of it and he was dazzled by the low morning sun. Grabbing at the left lever, he yanked it to turn the vehicle away from the blazing orb. The rotorchair gyrated crazily. He clutched at the right lever, struggled to stabilise the car, and eventually got it under control.

  The blanket of fog stretched from horizon to horizon. Though dirty, it was made eye-wateringly bright by the sun.

  Burton experimented with the controls until he felt comfortable with them then turned the rotorchair slowly until it faced Constable Kapoor’s machine. A column of steam, like an umbilical cord, streamed from the policeman’s vehicle to the cloud below.

  For a moment they hovered, facing each other, then the policeman banked his machine and flew off in a southeasterly direction. Burton followed the leading vehicle’s white plume. He took deep breaths of the wonderfully fresh air, feeling his tiredness dissipate as the oxygen cleaned out the night’s contaminations.

  The rotorchairs picked up speed and flew across the enshrouded city; over Soho, the Thames, and Waterloo Bridge, Elephant and Castle, Peckham, and on to Lewisham, where the thick pall below started to break up, revealing glimpses of houses, streets, and gardens.

  Burton had never flown before and he was thoroughly enjoying the sensation. He thought of John Speke sitting in a box kite being towed by a giant swan over East Africa and felt a pang of jealousy—then intense regret. Bismillah! It was only three days ago that he’d learned John had shot himself!

  Soon, woods and tracts of cultivated land started to separate the clumps of houses and the fog retreated, reduced to a white mist, which lay in heavier ribbons along the courses of rivers, canals, and streams.

  The rotorchair ahead of Burton started to lose altitude. He gently pushed the middle lever and felt his own machine sink.

  They flew on for a mile, past the outskirts of Chislehurst, then Kapoor angled his machine slightly more eastward and descended, with Burton following. They landed in a field near cottages on the edge of a village, which Burton would later learn was named Mickleham. There were six rotorchairs already parked on the grass beside a mud-caked traction engine to which a plough was attached.

  Even before the wings of Kapoor’s rotorchair had stopped spinning, the young constable was out of it and sprinting across the grass to where a couple of policemen stood by a garden gate outside a ramshackle old dwelling. He spoke to them briefly then came running back, reaching Burton just as he stepped out of his machine.

  “No!” he shouted above the noise of the engines. “We have to go up again!”

  “Why—what’s happening?”

  “Spring Heeled Jack is still in the area! They’ve chased him northward. We’ll have to circle, see if we can spot anything. We’ll spread out and fly low, Captain, cover as much ground as we can. Look out for a group of villagers and policemen—but keep me in sight and head my way if you see me land!”

  Burton jumped back into the rotorchair, buckled himself in, and powered up the wings. He took off and followed Kapoor. The vapour trails they’d made on their way to the field were still hanging in the air.

  Burton bore to the west until the other machine was a mere speck in the sky off to his right, with an irregular white line extending out behind it. They flew back past Chislehurst, the king’s agent peering at the landscape to the right, left, and ahead.

  Five minutes later he saw figures gathered on a golf course. He steered his rotorchair toward it and, as he approached and descended, saw that it was a crowd of constables and townspeople. The latter were milling about, brandishing shovels and broom handles.

  People scattered as he landed the machine, thudding into the grass rather too heavily.

  A burly man came running over; it was Detective Inspector Trounce.

  “Captain Burton!” he yelled. “It’s gone into Marvel’s Wood, there!”—he waved his cane at a wide expanse of forest on the eastern edge of the course”Fly over, see if you can drive it out!”

  The king’s agent nodded and took to the air again.

  As his machine slid over the tree
s, he flew it as low as he dared, sending loose leaves flying in every direction as branches whipped about beneath the rotorchair’s downdraught. Leaning over the side, Burton scanned the woods below, seeing flashes of the ground through the foliage. He passed at a slow speed around the outer part of the wood then began to spiral inward.

  Despite his heavy overcoat, he was feeling cold. The past few days had pushed his body too far; he’d been drunk, attacked, and beaten; had spent an entire night in the noxious atmosphere of the East End; and had slept a mere two hours. The quinine he’d taken might stave off a malarial attack but he was nevertheless concerned; he needed proper rest.

  Something moved below but he’d flown past before he could see what it was. He dug his heels into the footboard, bringing the rotorchair to a stop, then turned it around to face the way he’d come. To avoid flying back into his machine’s trail of steam, he reduced his altitude until the runners were brushing the tops of the trees, then inched forward while looking down through the agitated branches.

  Burton was leaning over the right side when the rotorchair suddenly lurched heavily to the left, shaking horribly as the wings sliced into twigs and leaves. His toes instinctively pressed hard on the footboard and he yanked back the middle lever, sending the rotorchair soaring upward, spinning wildly on its axis. As he fought with the levers, he became aware, through the edge of his goggles, of a large shape clinging to the side of the machine, unbalancing it.

  He turned his head and looked into the eyes of Spring Heeled Jack.

  The creature’s mouth was moving as if shouting something but, though its face was very close to Burton’s, the words were obliterated by the roar of the engines and the drumming of the wings. It reached out and grabbed his wrist.

  The rotorchair spiralled downward.

  Burton struggled to free himself but everything was happening too fast. He’d barely registered the presence of Spring Heeled Jack before the rotorchair plunged into the woods, keeling over sideways, its wings snapping and shooting away, one arcing high into the air, the others clattering through the branches.

  The vehicle twisted and tumbled, knocking its driver this way and that as it fell through the foliage, hit the ground back-end first, then toppled onto its side and came to rest.