by Mark Hodder
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 trees, 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.
Steam screamed through a rent in its boiler and Burton, shaken but conscious enough to fear an explosion, fumbled with the buckle straps, finally released them, and crawled out of and away from the machine.
He lay panting, facedown in the loam.
Rustling footsteps approached and, as Burton rolled over onto his back, a foot-or, rather, a stilt-was placed to either side of him.
Spring Heeled Jack, light dappling his face, stood astride the king's agent and gazed down at him. He squatted.
"Who are you?" the creature asked.
Blue flame formed a corona around its head; sparks spat from its chest. The eyes blazed with madness.
"You know damned well who I am," said Burton.
"I don't. I've never seen you before, though I must admit, I feel I should know you."
"Never seen me! You gave me this damned black eye!"
Even as he said it, though, Burton thought abo
ut Trounce's suggestion that there might be more than one of the stilted creatures. "Or maybe that was your brother?" he added.
The creature grinned. "I don't have a brother. I don't even have parents!"
It threw back its head and let loose a peal of insane laughter, then looked down and ran its eyes over Burton's face.
"Where have I seen you before?" it muttered. "Famous, are you?"
"Comparatively," answered Burton. He started using his feet and elbows to shift himself out from between Spring Heeled Jack's stilts, but the thing reached down and grasped the front of his coat.
"Stay still," it commanded. "Yes, I know you now. Sir Richard Francis Burton! One of the great Victorians!"
"What the hell is a Victorian?"
Shouts sounded in the distance-the police and townspeople approaching -and, beyond them, the thrum of Constable Kapoor's rotorchair.
"Listen, Burton," hissed Jack. "I have no idea why you're here but you have to leave me alone to do what I have to do. I know it's not a good thing but I don't mean the girls any harm. If you or anyone else stops me, I can't get back and I won't be able to repair the damage. Everything will stay this way-and it's wrong! It's all wrong! This is not the way things are meant to be! Do you understand?"
Burton shook his head. "Not in the slightest. Let me up, damn it!"
Jack hesitated then released his grip. Burton slid from between the stilts and scrambled to his feet, looking up at the strange apparition.
Spring Heeled Jack was a man, he could see that now, but his costume was bizarre and there was an unearthly air about him.
"So what exactly is it you need to do?" he asked the stilt-walker.
"Restore, Burton! Restore!"
"Restore what?"
"Myself. You. Everything! Do you honestly think the world should have talking orangutans in it? Isn't it obvious to you that something is desperately wrong?"
"Talking orang-?" began Burton.
"Captain Burton!" interrupted a distant shout. Detective Inspector Trounce.
The chopping of Kapoor's rotorchair was close now. Jack looked up through the canopy of leaves overhead.
"The mist has cleared and the sun is high enough. I should be able to recharge."
"Charge at what? You're speaking in riddles, man!" barked the king's agent.
"Time to go," muttered Jack, then suddenly burst into laughter. "Time to go!"
Burton leaped at him but Jack sidestepped swiftly and the explorer crashed past, landing in a tangle of roots. He rolled to his feet just as Jack flashed by and made off into the trees.
"Bloody hell!" cursed Burton, and set off in pursuit.
Despite having to duck under low branches, his quarry moved fast, taking long loping strides, while Burton was hampered by projecting roots, tangled vines, and his own exhaustion. He managed to keep up until Jack burst out of the trees onto the golf course some way north of where the police and townsfolk were milling about; there Jack started to bound ahead on his spring-loaded stilts.
A police whistle blew and a roar went up from the crowd, which, waving makeshift weapons, surged after the strangely costumed man.
Burton stopped and watched, puzzled.
Rather than running away, Spring Heeled Jack seemed to be circling the golf course, almost as if he were toying with his pursuers. Only Constable Kapoor, in his rotorchair, could keep pace with him, but there was little he could do but follow.
"What the devil are you playing at?" muttered Burton, as Jack, who'd receded into the distance, turned southward and hopped along the edge of the course before then changing direction to race northeastward, back toward Burton, who stood on the border of the wood.
The king's agent ran out to intercept him only to have Jack spring a clear fifteen feet over his head.
"Stay out of it, Burton!" shouted the stilt-man.
He took six long bounds, then suddenly launched himself high into the air until, twenty feet up, and just in front of Kapoor's rotorchair, he vanished.
Burton had the impression of some sort of bubble momentarily forming around Jack, its edge touching the front of the flying machine. When it, and the stilt-man, disappeared, so did part of the vehicle.
The rotorchair flew apart and, leaving a spiralling ribbon of steam behind it, plunged to the ground, which it hit with an appalling crash. The boiler exploded and pieces of metal went spinning into the air.
From different directions, Burton, Trounce, and a number of constables ran over to the wreckage.
Constable Kapoor's broken body dangled from the upside-down seat, his expression frozen in shock, blood streaming from his torn flesh down his neck, across his face, over his motionless eyes, and into his hair, from whence it dribbled onto the ripped turf.
"God damn it," breathed Detective Inspector Trounce, leaning with both hands upon his cane. "He was going to be promoted next week."
He stood deep in thought for a moment then shook himself and spoke to a nearby constable.
"Bennett, fetch Sergeant Piper, would you?"
The constable nodded and moved away.
"What the blazes is that thing, Captain Burton?" asked Trounce.
"A man, of that I'm certain," responded the famous explorer. "And a madman, at that."
"The same as I saw at the assassination?"
"It can't be-he didn't appear old enough."
"Great heavens, this is too bizarre! What happened in the woods?"
"He spoke nonsense; said I was a Victorian."
"What's that?"
"I haven't the vaguest idea, though it's fair to assume it has something to do with the late queen. He said that if we stop him doing what he needs to do, everything will stay this way, and what he needs to do is `restore."'
"Restore what?"
"`Myself. You. Everything,' whatever that means. Then he mentioned talking orangutans and said he had to charge at something again."
Trounce shrugged. "None of it makes any sense! It's the ravings of a lunatic!"
"I don't disagree," said Burton.
Trounce turned to an approaching police sergeant who saluted smartly.
"Ah, Piper, the men seem to have the crowd under control."
"Yes, sir. I think they'll be off to their homes soon, now that the jumping man has gone."
"Good. Good. I want you to post a couple of men here and organise for poor Kapoor to be transported to the morgue."
"Right you are, sir. He was a fine man. I'll see to it that he's not left here any longer than needs be."
"Thank you. Captain Burton, would you come with me please? There are a couple of police velocipedes over by the club house; we'll ride them back to Mickleham. I want you to meet the girl who was attacked. Oh, and by the way, Sir Richard Mayne assigned me to the Spring Heeled Jack case, and I suspect I'm indebted to you for that. My gratitude."
"Best man for the job," said Burton, succinctly. "Wait a moment while I retrieve my hat and cane."
He returned to his stricken rotorchair for the items, then rejoined Trounce, who sent four constables into the woods to drag the vehicle out.
The two men started toward the club house.
"Who's the girl?" asked Burton.
"Her name is Angela Tew. Fifteen years old. That's about as much as I know at the moment. Before dawn this morning a parakeet arrived at Scotland Yard. It'd been sent by Mickleham's bobby and stated that the girl had been attacked by the fabled Spring Heeled Jack. I was roused from my bed at about a quarter past six and dashed down here with a few men by rotorchair, having first sent Kapoor to fetch you. When we got here the villagers were on the rampage. They'd spotted Jack loitering at the edge of a field and chased him around the outskirts of Chislehurst and as far as Marvel's Wood. We ran along with them. Idiot that I am, I left the rotorchairs parked in Mickleham and by the time I realised how useful they'd be, it was too late to go back for them. I'm still not accustomed to the damned things, Captain. If I'd had horses, I'd have employed them without a second thought, but,
frankly, this new technology is difficult for a traditional old bobby like me to cope with. Anyway, you arrived just as we reached the golf course. So now let's see the girl and find out what happened."
"It's strange," mused Burton, as they came to the club house and approached a line of police velocipedes parked outside it, guarded by a constable. "He has this supernatural ability to vanish into thin air, which I've witnessed twice now, so why didn't he do so straightaway?"
"I have no idea," answered Trounce, then said to the policeman, "Constable, I have to commandeer a couple of penny-farthings."
"That's quite all right, sir-help yourself," replied his subordinate.
Burton stepped to one of the boneshakers and unclipped a small bellows from the side of its furnace. He inserted the nozzle into a valve and started pumping until steam began to vent from another valve set in the small boiler just below the engine. Then he placed the bellows back in its holder, twisted a toggle switch on the engine, and gave the small wheel beside it a couple of turns. The piston rod jerked and smoke puffed from the two tall, thin funnels. He heard the whine of the gyroscope and kicked the parking stand up; the velocipede didn't need it anymore.
Holding on to the frame, Burton placed his left foot on the lower mounting bar, heaved himself up, swung himself between the front wheel and the funnels, slipped his right foot into the right stirrup, then boosted himself up into the saddle and put his left foot into the left stirrup. It was done in one smooth motion and, though the penny-farthing rocked, the gyroscope kept it stable.
He looked to his right and saw that Trounce had also mounted and was in the act of slipping his cane into the holder affixed for that purpose to the vehicle's frame.
Both men released the brakes. The piston arms moved slowly at first but rapidly picked up speed, the crank pins whirled, steam hissed, the men engaged the gears, and the velocipedes went panting into the road.
"Spring Heeled Jack made mention of the fact that the mist had cleared and the sun was up," called Burton, as they clattered toward Mickleham. "It seemed significant to him."
