by Mark Hodder
The king’s agent pushed himself up, grabbed the door, and pulled it shut. There was no way to secure it from the outside, so, while the werewolves were distracted, there was only one thing to do: run!
He grabbed Swinburne, threw him over his shoulder, and took to his heels.
With the basset hound scampering along beside him, he sprinted westward over a patch of wasteland toward railway lines and, beyond them, the busy Kingstown Road and Chelsea Bridge.
“Hurry! They’re coming!” cried Swinburne.
A quick backward glance proved the poet right: the loups-garous were pouring through the gate.
Despite his short legs, Fidget put on an astonishing show of speed and sprang ahead across the railway track. Burton tried to keep up but Swinburne’s weight slowed him and now he spotted, to his right, a locomotive pelting down the line. There was no way, it seemed, to make it to the other side before the engine passed; his escape route was blocked and the wolf-men were gaining fast.
He set his mind to the task, sucked in a deep breath, and focused every ounce of his being into his pumping legs. Run! Run!
The events of the next few seconds happened so quickly that his consciousness couldn’t register them, yet he dreamed about them for many months afterward.
The locomotive was upon him.
He put everything he had into a jump across its path.
His feet left the ground.
Claws ripped through the back of his jacket and ploughed through his skin.
A deafening whistle.
A wall of metal to his right.
Scalding vapour.
Gravel slamming into him.
Rolling.
A thunderous roar.
The blur of passing wheels and, under them, flames.
A receding rumble.
Slowly dissipating steam.
The grey sky.
A spot of rain on his face.
A groan at his side.
A moment of silence.
Then: “Ow! For Pete’s sake! The blessed beast bit me again!”
Sir Richard Francis Burton started to laugh. It began in his stomach and rose through his chest and shook his whole body and he didn’t want it to stop. He laughed at India. He laughed at Arabia. He laughed at Africa. He laughed at the Nile and the Royal Geographical Society and John Hanning bloody Speke. He laughed at Spring Heeled Jack and the wolf-men and the albino and that silly damned dog that kept biting Swinburne’s ankle.
He laughed away his petulant anger, his resentments, his confusion, and his reluctance, and when he finally stopped laughing, he was Sir Richard Francis Burton, the king’s agent, in the service of the country of his birth, and it no longer mattered that he was an outsider or that he stood in opposition to the Empire’s foreign policies. He had a job to do.
His laughter abated. He lay silently and looked at the grey sky.
London muttered and grumbled.
He sat up and examined Swinburne. The poet had lapsed into unconsciousness. Fidget the basset hound was sitting at the little man’s feet, happily chewing at a trouser leg.
The railway track was empty; the locomotive had disappeared from view behind a group of warehouses, though the tracks were still vibrating from its passing.
The loup-garous were nowhere to be seen; all swept away by the train.
He stood, hoisted his friend back onto his shoulder, and, using Oliphant’s cane to help him balance, walked down a gravel slope toward a wooden fence beyond which lay Kingstown Road.
He was halfway down when a loud throbbing filled the air.
Burton turned and looked back at the power station. An incredible machine was rising from it, seemingly pushed upward by the boiling cone of steam that belched from its underside. It was a rotorship; an immense oval platform of grey metal with portholes set along its edge. Its front was pointed and curved upward like the prow of a galleon and from the sides, like banks of oars, pylons projected outward. At their ends, atop vertical shafts, huge wings rotated faster than the eye could follow.
Was Speke aboard that ship? And who else?
He had to get Swinburne treated; had to find out what the poet knew.
As the rotorship ascended and moved northward, Burton continued on down to the thoroughfare and made his way along to Chelsea Bridge. Here he found himself back among London’s seething population. There were cries and screams as people caught sight of the little man slumped over his shoulder, and in no time at all a policeman came running over.
“What’s all this, sir? Has there been an accident?”
“Yes, Constable,” answered Burton. “Would you flag down a carriage for me? I have to get this fellow to a doctor!”
“I should ride along with you. I’ll need to report this!”
“Fine, but hurry, man!”
The policeman ran out into the road and stopped a horse-drawn fourwheeler, ejecting its indignant passengers.
“I say! What the devil do you think you’re playing at?” objected the portly old gentleman who suddenly found himself without a ride. “My wife is sixty-two, don’t you know!”
“Harold!” gasped his heavily made-up spouse.
“Oh, er, sorry, my dear,” stammered the erstwhile passenger; then, upon spying Swinburne as Burton heaved him onto the seat, he cried: “Great Scott! The poor fellow! By all means take the carriage! By all means!”
“Much obliged,” said Burton, picking up Fidget and climbing in.
The constable followed. “Where to?” he asked.
“Bayham Street, Mornington Crescent! As fast as possible!”
The policeman repeated the address to the driver then shut the door and sat back as the vehicle jerked into motion.
“Constable Yates,” he said by way of an introduction. “So what’s the story? You both look proper beat up!”
“King’s business, Yates! Take a look at this.”
Burton took his credentials from his wallet and showed them to the constable.
“Bless me! The king’s signature! You’re the boss, then, sir. What can I do to help?”
Fishing his notebook out of his pocket, Burton started writing.
“We’ll drop you at Scotland Yard,” he said. “I want you to deliver this note to Detective Inspector Trounce. I’m recommending an immediate police raid on Battersea Power Station!”
“The Technologist headquarters? That’s rather a tall order, if you don’t mind me saying so!”
Burton didn’t reply, but continued to fill the page with his tiny, cramped handwriting.
The carriage swung eastward onto Grosvenor Road and from there followed the river up via Millbank, past the Houses of Parliament, and on to the Yard. Barely stopping to allow Constable Yates to hop out, it raced on along the Strand, weaving in and out of the traffic, the two horses flecked with sweat, rounded into Kingsway, and continued on up Southampton Row and Eversholt Street. It shot past Mornington Crescent before careening into Bayham Street.
“Here!” shouted Burton as they reached number 3, and he leaped out as the carriage came to a halt. “Wait!”
Striding swiftly to the front door, he gave the bellpull a violent tug and waited impatiently for a response. He was just reaching for it again when the door opened.
“Why, Captain Burton!” exclaimed Widow Wheeltapper. “How nice of you to call!”
“My apologies, ma’am, but there’s been an accident. I require Sister Raghavendra’s assistance. Is she at home?”
“Oh my! I shall send Polly for her at once!”
Burton stepped into the house and sprang up the stairs, calling back: “Pray don’t trouble yourself, my good woman! I’ll go!”
“But propriety, Captain! Propriety!” cried the old woman. Her visitor, though, was already halfway to the upper apartment. He was met at the top of the stairs by Sister Raghavendra, who’d come to investigate the commotion.
“Sadhvi!” cried Burton. “I need your help! My friend has been injured! Can you come?”
&nb
sp; “At once, Captain!” she said decisively. “A moment!”
She ducked back into her room and emerged a minute later wearing her nurse’s bonnet and her jacket, and carrying a carpet bag.
They ran down the stairs and out of the front door, leaving the flustered old widow calling after them: “A chaperone! My goodness, young lady! You haven’t a chaperone!”
“Montagu Place, at the double!” commanded Burton as they reached the carriage and clambered in.
The driver cracked his whip and the panting horses set off at a gallop.
Inside the rocking and bumping cabin, Sister Raghavendra examined Swinburne.
“What on earth happened to him?”
“Your albino friend happened,” said Burton.
She paled, her fingers running over the poet’s skin, examining the wounds, gauging their severity.
“The albino?” she gasped. “But this looks like the work of a wild animal! “
“How is he, Sister? He’s been unconscious for some time.”
“He’s not unconscious, Captain Burton. He’s asleep. He must be utterly exhausted.”
Turning from Hampstead Road into Euston Road, the carriage stampeded on past velocipedes and steam-horses, between carts and hansoms, with pedestrians scattering as it thundered along, until, on Marylebone Road, the traffic became so thick that progress was slowed to a crawl.
Burton poked his head out of the window and shouted up to the driver, “Take to the back streets, man!”
The driver obeyed, and as Burton had hoped, the less direct route proved easier to navigate. Minutes later, the carriage drew up outside his home.
“Will you bring the dog?” he asked the nurse as he stepped out and lifted Swinburne. She nodded and scooped up Fidget.
After passing a handful of coins up to the driver, Burton carried his friend to the front door, opened it, and ascended the stairs to the second floor, where he deposited Swinburne in the spare bedroom. For the first time, he noticed that the poet was clutching something. It was a coat, which Burton pulled from his hands and flung into a wardrobe.
Sister Raghavendra, who’d followed him into the room, laid Fidget down and opened her carpet bag. She started to pull out vials, rolls of bandages, and other tools of her trade.
“I’ll need a basin of hot water, Captain,” she advised. “This is going to take some time. I’ve never seen so many cuts and bruises! The poor boy must have suffered terribly.”
Algernon Swinburne opened his eyes. “I did,” he muttered. “And it was glorious!”
It was nine o’clock in the evening and Swinburne was sitting up in bed, sipping at a cup of revitalising beef broth. Sir Richard Francis Burton had carried extra chairs into the room and in them, along with himself, sat Detective Inspector Trounce, who’d just arrived, and Sister Raghavendra. Mrs. Angell had permitted the young woman’s unchaperoned attendance on account of her being a professional nurse and a member of the Sisterhood of Noble Benevolence.
“Absolutely no show, I’m afraid,” reported the Yard man, settling into his seat. “We simply couldn’t get into the place; it was locked up like a fortress. The lights were blazing and we could see all manner of machinery sparking away inside but of a single man there was no sign. Lord knows what kind of glass they’ve used in the place; we battered at it with crowbars to absolutely no effect. As for the doors, I doubt even dynamite could shift them. I’ve posted men around the building, of course, but aside from that, what can I do? But see here, Captain Burton—I took it on faith that you had a good reason for the raid. Perhaps you might enlighten me now?”
“For that, Detective Inspector, we shall turn to my bedridden friend here. May I present Mr. Algernon Swinburne, the esteemed poet,” said Burton, graciously.
“And follower of de Sade!” blurted Trounce.
Mrs. Angell, who was at the back of the room pouring cups of tea, cleared her throat.
“Oh, I say—I’m—er—” mumbled the detective.
Swinburne giggled and said, “Pleased to meet you, Detective Inspector; and I assure you that despite my proclivity for the vices of the aforementioned gentleman—if gentleman is the appropriate word, which it almost certainly isn’t—these wounds you see were neither self-inflicted nor delivered by request.”
“Um—by Jove, that’s a relief,” responded Trounce, uncertainly.
“I think—” began Mrs. Angell, with a glance at the sister.
Burton held up his hand to stop her and interjected: “There are ladies present, gentlemen; let’s not forget that. Now then, Algy, perhaps you can give us an account of your experiences?”
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 key element.”
“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?”
