by Mark Hodder
In the street, people yelled and screamed.
“What now?” he muttered.
He heard Mrs. Angell cry out in alarm. Fidget woke up, dived beneath a table, and started to bark.
A voice roared, “Burton!”
Heavy footsteps thudded up the stairs, and the study door flew open, slamming against the bookshelf behind it, sending books spilling to the floor.
Spring Heeled Jack ducked through the opening and stalked in.
“Burton! Have I found you? Here? In this side note?”
Burton rapidly backed away until his heels bumped against the hearth. He thought fast and said, “Side note? Perhaps in a biography? A book written about me after my death? One that exists in the future? Is that how you know the places I frequent?”
He observed the intruder’s smooth chest. No scratch. A different mechanism. Not the one he’d fought in Leicester Square.
“Why am I here?” the creature demanded. It shoved a desk aside and kicked a chair out of its way. “What have you done?”
“I don’t—”
Before Burton could finish, Jack pounced forward, seized him by the lapels, and shook him until his teeth rattled. “Why are you significant?”
The king’s agent felt his fingertips brush against a poker. He pulled it from its stand, swept it up, and whipped it against the side of his assailant’s head.
“Get the hell off me!”
Spring Heeled Jack dropped him and staggered to the side, putting a hand to its dented cranium. “Where is the prime minister? What am I doing here? I’m lost! I’m lost!”
“Just stop!” Burton commanded. “Calm down. We can talk.”
The figure crouched, and Burton was convinced that, had there been a face, it would be snarling.
“It’s your fault!” Jack said.
Burton brandished the poker like a sword. “Stay back, I say! What is my fault? From where—and when—have you come?”
Disregarding the questions, the intruder took one slow step closer, its head waving from side to side like a cobra’s. A shudder ran through it. “Prime Minister. Guide me. Please!”
“Which prime minister?” Burton asked. “Whom do you serve?”
Raising its blank face to the ceiling, Jack hollered, “I serve Queen Victoria!”
It lunged forward, knocked the poker from Burton’s hand, and slapped the side of his head with such force that the king’s agent was sent spinning across the room into a desk and to the floor.
Please. Not again.
He glimpsed Mrs. Angell standing in the doorway with Bram Stoker. They both had their hands clenched over their mouths. He cried out, “Stay back! Fetch the pol—”
He was grabbed by the neck, hauled upright, and struck again, viciously. His head jerked sideways, and blood sprayed from his mouth.
“Tell me! Tell me!” Jack screamed. “Why do I fear you?”
Burton rasped, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
He saw his housekeeper crossing the room behind his attacker, opened his mouth to warn her away, but hadn’t a chance to utter a sound before a fist impacted against his eye. He clutched at Spring Heeled Jack’s arms. His muscles, already weakened, were no match for the creature. It shoved him hard against the wall.
The wind knocked out of him, Burton slid to his knees and put a hand down to steady himself. A glutinous string of blood oozed from his mouth and nose. He looked up. “You insane bastard.”
Jack loomed over him. “I want to go home.”
There came a loud thunk. The white head fell from the shoulders and bounced onto the floor. The figure folded down on top of Burton. Blue sparks crackled from its severed neck. They sputtered and died.
He struggled from beneath it.
Mrs. Angell, with her hands clutched around the hilt of a scimitar, said, “It’s kneading the bread and tenderising the meat what does it.”
“Does what?” Burton croaked, as he struggled to his feet.
“Puts the strength in me arms, sir. Did I do the right thing? Panicked, I did. Grabbed this here sword off your wall and afore I knew what I was intending I’d chopped the head off the clockwork man. A new type, is it? I hope they haven’t built many of ’em, not if they loses control of ’emselves like what this ’un did!”
“You were splendid, Mother Angell.” Burton took her by the elbow as the weapon dropped from her hand, and she suddenly swayed. “Sit down, dear.”
“My heart’s all a flutter,” she said tremulously. “It’s lucky you keep your blades so sharp. Goodness gracious, but look at your poor face. Thumped again! You don’t ’alf make an ’abit of it.”
The king’s agent pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and applied it to his mouth. His bottom lip was split, and the cut on his chin had reopened.
“Is our front door broken?” His voice sounded unsteady.
“The main lock, but it weren’t bolted.”
“Stay here. I’ll go and make us a little more secure.” He nudged his foot into the prone form of Spring Heeled Jack—it was completely lifeless—then walked to the door, stopped, and looked back. “That was a very brave thing you did.”
“Oof!” she responded. “Oof!”
He lurched down the stairs, his legs almost giving way, went to the front door, and examined its splintered frame. The lock had been knocked out of the wood, but the bolts at the top and bottom of the portal were intact.
Bram Stoker appeared on the doorstep with two constables in tow.
“I fetched the coppers!” the lad exclaimed. “Crikey! What was it?”
Both policemen were familiar to Burton, and they, in turn, knew he was the king’s agent. He greeted them. “Kapoor. Tamworth. I’ve just been assaulted. Can’t go into details. I need you to stand sentry duty until further notice.”
His authority was absolute. They asked no questions, but saluted and immediately positioned themselves at either side of his doorstep.
“Bram, will you get messages to Mr. Krishnamurthy and Mr. Bhatti. They’re probably at Battersea Power Station. I need them to come here immediately with a wagon big enough to cart off our uninvited guest.”
The boy raced away. Burton addressed P. C. Tamworth. “I’m leaving the door ajar. Let my guests through when they arrive, please.”
Hearing the stairs creak, he turned and saw Mrs. Angell descending with Fidget behind her.
“He ain’t much of a guard dog, is he?” she said.
“You should rest.”
“Oh, don’t fuss. I’m all right. I’m a policeman’s widow, ain’t I? Seen some things in my time, I have, though stilted men without faces takes the biscuit. Fair chills the blood. I’ll fetch a raw steak for that eye an’ me broom for your study.”
“I’ll clean the mess.”
Mrs. Angell grumbled, “Well, see that you do. I don’t care ’ow much time you’ve spent among them African head-hunters, I’ll not ’ave stray noggins layin’ around the house.” She headed toward her basement domain, the dog following.
Burton went up to his bedroom, sponged his wounds, then returned to his study and closed the door. After placing the spilled books back onto the shelves, he crossed to Spring Heeled Jack and retrieved the creature’s decapitated head from beneath a chair. He carried it to one of his desks, sat, and started to inspect it. What he saw unnerved him so much that he dropped it and had to pick it up again. The outer skin of the creature was a waxy, cold and pliable material that he couldn’t identify, but inside, amid manufactured parts, there was pink flesh.
“Bismillah!” Burton muttered. “What are you? Man or machine?”
He had to wait until midnight for Krishnamurthy and Bhatti, and when they arrived, Burton was surprised to hear a third person piling up the stairs with them. They hurtled into the room without ceremony, and the addition proved to be Detective Inspector Trounce.
“Mayhem!” the Scotland Yard man thundered. “Bloody mayhem! Spring Heeled Jacks left, right and centre! By Jove, what the bla
zes has happened here?”
Burton removed the raw steak he’d been holding to his swollen eye and held up the severed head. “This did.”
“You got one!”
“More the case that it got me.”
The two Indians moved over to the stilted body and squatted down beside it. They each gave a cry of surprise at the exposed fleshy interior of its neck.
“How many, Trounce?” Burton asked.
“Hard to say. Six that I’m sure of, counting this one. Leicester Square again. The Royal Geographical Society again. Old Ford village. Marvel’s Wood. Battersea Fields.” He pointed a thick forefinger at Burton. “You. Without a doubt, they’re hunting you. Why?”
“I don’t think they themselves could answer that,” Burton said. “As with the first encounter, this one found me but didn’t know what to do about it.”
Bhatti looked up. “The minister has received further reports about yesterday’s manifestations, Sir Richard. Apparently, our friend here—” he patted the decapitated corpse, “or his brethren—also visited Lucca and Naples in Italy, and Boulogne in France.”
“All places I’ve lived,” Burton said. Inwardly, he flinched. It wasn’t true that he’d lived in Boulogne, but he didn’t want to explain that it was significant for being the place where he’d first met Isabel.
“It’s obvious that a net is being cast with you as its prey,” Bhatti went on, “but what is the point, when you’ve been twice caught with no consequence aside from a severe beating?”
“Consequence enough,” Burton protested. Gingerly, he felt his eye. It had closed almost to a slit.
“And in the meantime people are being frightened witless,” Trounce said. “I’ll not have it! It has to stop!” He snatched his bowler hat from his head, dropped it, and kicked it at the fireplace. It narrowly missed the blaze, bounced from the hearth, and rolled beneath a desk.
Burton said, “We’re doing what we can. Maneesh, what’s the news from Babbage?”
“Probably that he’ll be over the moon when we deliver this body to him. But, also, he needs you at the station straightaway. He thinks he may be able to locate our absconding time suit, but your assistance is required.”
“Mine? What can I do? I’m no scientist.”
“For sure, but you’re the same man as Abdu El Yezdi, which apparently is of considerable significance.” Krishnamurthy and Bhatti lifted the headless cadaver. “Let’s put this into the carriage and get going.”
“Lord help us, cover it with a sheet, at least,” Trounce snapped. “We don’t want to look like confounded body snatchers.”
This was done, and a few minutes later the group squeezed into a steam horse–drawn vehicle, which then went trundling southward, Battersea bound. Trounce had elected to join them and watched as the king’s agent dabbed an alcohol-soaked handkerchief against his latest facial injuries.
“I’m sure it looks worse than it is, Trounce.”
“It looks hideous. Even your bruises have bruises. One more punch-up, and you’ll be unrecognisable.”
“That might prove advantageous.”
There was insufficient light in the cabin to allow for further scrutiny of the Spring Heeled Jack, but Bhatti, who was holding the head upside-down on his lap, remarked, “The texture of its skin is exactly like the cloth of the time suit. More solid, but the same scaly feel.”
It was the last thing said for the duration of the journey. A pensive silence fell upon them.
They travelled down Gloucester Street, past Hyde Park and Green Park, along Buckingham Palace Road, over Chelsea Bridge, and arrived at Battersea Power Station.
A guard opened the doors in response to their knock and ushered them through. “Mr. Babbage is in the workshop, sirs,” he said, peering with interest at the limp, sheet-concealed figure.
They entered, crossed the quadrangle, and went into the workshop. A technician gestured for them to follow him. They did so, trailing between the machines to the central work area.
Yet again, Burton looked upon Charles Babbage, who, with Daniel Gooch, was attending to a throne-like chair beside which the Field Preserver was suspended. The undamaged time suit was on a bench beside it. The men were tinkering with a great mass of wires that stretched between the hanging box and a framework that surrounded the suit’s helmet.
Isambard Kingdom Brunel was standing nearby, completely motionless. Trounce stood in front of him, peered at the metal face, and muttered, “Dead as a doornail.”
Gooch looked up at them as they placed the Spring Heeled Jack on a worktop and removed the sheet. “Sir Richard! You’ve captured one of the mechanisms!”
“I have,” Burton said. “Though I suffered a drubbing in the process.”
“So I see. My goodness, you’ve certainly been in the wars lately.” Gooch approached and started to examine the prone figure. “My stars! This looks like flesh.”
“It is. How’s Brunel?”
“In a total fugue. I checked his probability calculator and it seems fine. We’re leaving him for a while to see whether he comes out of it naturally.”
Burton looked at Babbage, who was so deeply engrossed in his work he had neither glanced up from it nor acknowledged the new arrivals. “I understand my presence is required, Daniel? Why?”
“Charles can explain it best.” Gooch called to the scientist, waited a moment, then, when the old man failed to respond, shouted more loudly, “Charles!”
The elderly scientist finally tore his eyes from the box and looping wires. He clapped his hands together, cried out, “Ah! Burton! Excellent! Just the man!” but then saw the stilted figure and, for the next fifteen minutes, utterly ignored everyone while he pored over it.
Finally, he addressed Gooch. “Have this stored in ice. Send for Mr. Lister. His medical knowledge is required. This mechanism has biological components. Our investigation of it might be more autopsy than dismantlement. Incredible! Incredible!”
Gooch called over a group of technicians and issued orders. Three of them carted the corpse away. A fourth hurried off to summon Lister.
“We shall proceed with our experiment while we await his arrival,” Babbage asserted. He jabbed a finger first at Burton then at the throne. “You. Sit.”
The king’s agent stayed put and folded his arms across his chest. “I’ll not subject myself to anything before you explain it to my satisfaction.”
Babbage gave a cackling laugh. “Ha! The primitive man views scientific processes as the darkest of sorceries, is that it? Don’t you worry, sir. No harm shall come to you. All you have to do is wear the helmet for a few moments and issue an instruction that it will accept from only you.”
Gooch added, “As you know, Sir Richard, Abdu El Yezdi allowed Mr. Babbage to ask questions of the functioning helmet but strictly forbade him to issue it with commands. We still follow that dictate.”
“An absurd precaution,” Babbage spat. “My research is needlessly crippled.”
“My counterpart saw the suit give rise to unhealthy enthusiasms in certain scientists,” Burton commented. “He no doubt intended that you be spared the same.”
“I’m not subject to childish passions.”
“I’m glad to hear it. To return to the matter in hand, what instruction?”
Babbage pressed his fingertips together. “Ah. The instruction. Yes. At the moment the outfit vanished, it broadcast its electromagnetic field with such strength that it was inscribed into my Field Preserver. The reverse of what I intended.”
“The experiment was supposed to record the contents of the healthy headpiece, not the damaged,” Maneesh Krishnamurthy clarified.
“That is what I just indicated, young man. Do you intend to add unnecessary observations to everything I say?”
“No, sir. My apologies.”
Trounce leaned close to Burton and whispered, “By Jove! A tetchy old goat, isn’t he?”
Gooch said, “We’re pretty sure the same burst of energy is what incapacitated Isamba
rd.”
Babbage rapped his knuckles against the Field Preserver. “Thus what is imprinted is, in essence, a thought from the insane mind of Edward Oxford. Burton, I want you to order the functional helmet to access the recording then employ your own intellect to analyse it. You will experience it as an intention, a memory or perhaps an emotion, which you’ll feel as if it’s your own. I believe that, within that frozen thought, you may detect evidence of whoever issued the command that initiated the suit’s disappearance. You might also discover where it has gone.”
He lifted the pristine helmet and the framework that surrounded it. Burton regarded it for a moment. “Very well. Let’s get it over and done with.”
He moved to the throne-like chair and sat. Gooch stepped forward and gave assistance to Babbage, both pushing the headpiece down over Burton’s cranium. The king’s agent felt soft padding pressing against his hair and encasing his skull so completely that only his face was visible to the others.
Babbage leaned over his Field Amplifier, examining its dials.
Gooch asked Burton, “Do you hear it, sir?”
“Hear what?”
“The voice of the synthetic intelligence.”
“I don’t hear anything.”
“You have to wake it. Wait. We need to make a few adjustments first.”
The Field Preserver began to hum.
“Now, Sir Richard,” Gooch said. “Think the words engage interface.”
“What do they mean?”
Babbage growled, “Must you question every statement? Just do as Mr. Gooch says.”
Burton did, and in his mind a male voice answered, “Ready,” causing him to jump in surprise.
“Y-yes,” he stammered. “Now I hear it.”
Babbage rubbed his hands together. “Bravo! Tell it to search for external connections.”
Burton thought, Search for external connections.
“One found,” the voice declared immediately.
“It says it’s found one.”
“That’s the Field Amplifier. Good. Order it to connect and display.”
Burton issued the instruction.
“Warning, the source is corrupted,” came the response.
The king’s agent relayed the words to Babbage, who replied, “Tell it to disregard and proceed.”
