The strange affair of Spring-heeled Jack

THE TRAIL

Sir Richard Francis Burton arrived at the Squirrel Hill Cemetery and quickly found the area where the loops-garous had been feeding. Graves had been torn open, coffins ripped apart, and putrefying corpses shredded and gnawed at, left scattered across the wet mud.

Even though, while in Africa, he'd become fascinated by the notion of cannibalism, Burton actually possessed a deep-seated fear of the ghoulish. Anything connected with graveyards and corpses unnerved him. The many cadavers he'd seen, and even accidentally trodden on, in the East End had filled him with horror; Montague Penniforth's ravaged carcass had sickened him to the core; and now this! His mouth felt dry and his heart hammered in his chest.

At his feet, Fidget growled and whined and pulled at his leash.

Burton squatted and took the dog's head in his hands, looking into the big brown eyes.

"Listen, Fidget," he said quietly. "This damned rain has probably washed away the scent but somehow you have to find it. Do you understand? My friend's life depends on it!"

He took from his pocket a pair of Swinburne's white gloves and pressed them against the basset hound's nose.

"Seek, Fidget! Seek!"

The dog yelped and, as Burton stood, started to snuffle about enthusiastically, moving in an ever-widening circle. Repeatedly, as he came close to the scattered bones and lumps of worm-ridden flesh, he let loose a coughing bark-wuff./-which Burton guessed indicated not the odour of the corpses but the scent of the werewolves. This could be useful, for if their musk was that strong, it would be easier for the dog to follow them than Swinburne.

Ultimately, this proved to be the case. Fidget led him to an area of the cemetery where, even after the rainfall, it was obvious that a struggle had taken place. Deep grooves showed where boot heels had been dragged through the mud and around them were the many footprints of loups-garous. Then all indications of Swinburne's presence vanished and the paw marks trailed away toward a collapsed section of the graveyard's wall.

"They picked him up and carried him," muttered Burton.

Fidget was gazing at him with an apologetic expression. Swinburne's trail had vanished.

"Don't worry, old fellow, the game's not over yet!"

Burton pulled Fidget over to the gap in the wall, stepped through, crouched, and pushed the dog's nose into one of the werewolf paw prints.

A deep rumble sounded in the basset hound's chest and his snout wrinkled in disgust.

"Follow!" ordered Burton.

Fidget whined, gave a yelp, and pulled his master back toward the cemetery.

"No! Wrong direction! That way! Go!"

The hound stopped, blinked at him, looked back along the trail, turned, and started away from the wall.

"Good dog!" encouraged his new master.

Dragged along behind the excited hound, the king's agent descended the hill, skirted a long fence, and passed into a rubbish-strewn alleyway that ran between the backyards of terraced houses until it emerged onto Devonport Street. Fidget turned to the right and raced along, down the inclining road and across the main thoroughfare of Cable Street toward the Thames. Burton was astonished at the dog's assured manner. The rain had been falling for hours, yet enough of the werewolves' scent remained for the remarkable hound to follow.

People milled about, many turning to stare at the man and the small basset hound; there were yells and catcalls but Burton barely noticed, so intent was he on his quest.

Reaching the bank of the river, they turned right again, following the course of the Wapping Wall. The terrible reek of the city's artery assailed Burton's nostrils and turned his stomach, yet Fidget kept on, his nose able to separate one stink from another, pushing aside the distractions, focusing only on that which he'd been ordered to follow.

With the horrors of the Cauldron seething around them, they pressed on in a westerly direction for nearly two miles until London Bridge hove into view in the distance. Across the road, Burton spotted the end of Mews Street and the boarded-up pawnshop where he'd met with Paul Gustave Dore.

Past the docks and the Tower of London went the man and his hound, and down a set of stone steps to a narrow walkway that ran alongside the contaminated waters of the Thames. The stone surface was slick with slime and, though the rain had abated somewhat, the muck squelched beneath Burton's tread and footing was precarious. One slip and he could end up in the river!

They passed into the gloom beneath London Bridge and there Fidget stopped and snuffled at the base of a narrow wooden door upon which a notice warned "Strictly No Entry." Burton put his shoulder to the portal and pushed. With a deep grinding noise, it scraped open, revealing a square chamber.

The king's agent reached into his coat pocket, withdrew a clockwork lantern, and gave it a twist. The flame flared into life inside it and the sides of the device spilled light into the room. It was completely empty but for muddy paw prints on the floor which led through a dark archway in the opposite wall. Urged onward by the dog, Burton pushed the door shut and crossed the chamber. Beyond the archway, stone steps descended into darkness. He followed them.

The deeper he went, the damper it became, until the stone walls were literally running with water. After many minutes had passed, he finally came to the base of the stairs and here found a corridor cut through solid rock, its floor hidden beneath filthy water, with three thick pipes running along the lefthand wall. Gas mains, he supposed.

"You'll not sniff out their trail here," he muttered to Fidget, "but this is the way they must have come, so we'll press on. Here-up with you!"

He bent and hoisted the basset hound up into his arms, then moved down into the cold water. Two steps he descended until he reached the flat floor. The liquid swirled around his knees, filling his boots and clogging his nostrils with the putrid stench of rotting fish.

Droplets fell from above, hitting the water with echoing and strangely musical plops.

He waded along the narrow tunnel, his lantern ticking in his hand, casting its fitful glow on the streaming walls and metal pipes, which shimmered and glistened in the light. Soon there was total darkness ahead, total darkness behind, and Burton experienced the same sensation he'd had when rising through the fog in the rotorchair: that he was moving but going nowhere; that this journey had no end.

He pressed on.

He was under the Thames, that was obvious, and the thought of that great weight above terrified him. He'd never been good with enclosed spaces. Bismillah! What he'd give now for the endless plains of Africa or the evershifting desert sands of Arabia!

"Why did I agree to this?" he whispered into Fidget's ear. "Serving an Empire whose actions I deplore, in a country I can't call home?"

Fidget whimpered and rested his chin on his master's shoulder.

Eventually, and quite unexpectedly, the tunnel ended at a Hight of stairs.

Breathing a heartfelt sigh of relief, Burton stepped out of the water and ascended. He came to a room in every way identical to the one at the other end of the subterranean passage, and, setting Fidget onto the floor, he pushed the hound's nose into a paw print.

"Follow! There's a good boy!"

The dog crossed to the door opposite the entrance to the stairs and looked meaningfully at Burton, as if to say, "Open it!"

The famous adventurer did so and stepped out onto another slimecovered walkway. He was still beneath London Bridge but now on the Southwark side. He snapped off his lantern and shoved it into a pocket.

Fidget led him up onto Tooley Street, where he was met with a scene of utter devastation. This part of London, the Hay's Wharf area, had been completely destroyed by a disastrous fire back in June. Its warehouses had burned for two weeks, and even now, three months later and with the rain falling upon it, the wreckage was still visibly smouldering. To the east, almost as far as the eye could see, lay a ravaged landscape; a black wasteland sprawling beneath a dirty haze that even the rain couldn't wash away.

Burton winced. This was a painful sight, for among the warehouses had been Grindlays, the place where he'd stored the bulk of the Oriental manuscripts he'd spent so much of his Army pay on while in India, plus trunks filled with Oriental and African costumes and mementoes, and a great many of his personal notebooks.

It had all been consumed by the blaze.

He remembered with grim amusement how the clerk at Grindlays' head office, upon seeing his distress, had asked, "Did you lose any plate or jewellery, sir?"

"No, nothing of that nature," had replied Burton.

"Ah, well!" exclaimed the clerk, looking much happier. "That's not so bad then!"

Fidget tugged at his leash.

They turned westward and followed the river as far as Southwark Bridge before then turning inland. With his nose close to the ground, Fidget pulled the king's agent into a bystreet and from there into the depths of the borough.

Burton could see that the route the basset hound was following would probably be quiet at night but now it was past midday and the streets were thronged with citizens going about their business. Pushing their way through the crowds, the man and the dog passed through alley after alley, out of the borough and into Lambeth, through Lambeth and on to Vauxhall, until they finally emerged on Nine Elms Road. Here, the scent trail veered off the highway and through a hole in a wooden fence. It continued ahead, running parallel to the thoroughfare, and already Burton had an idea of the destination, for the sky in front of him was broken by four tall chimneylike structures.

Swinburne couldn't stop laughing.

His entire body hurt. He was bruised and lacerated and every injury was sending a thrill of pleasure coursing through his nerves.

Laurence Oliphant was being driven to a blind fury. He'd thrown down his sword cane, removed and dropped his jacket, rolled up his shirtsleeves, and was now setting about the poet with unrestrained viciousness.

Oh yes, he was going to kill the little man, but he'd be damned if he'd make it easy for the redheaded pipsqueak! No, a long, slow, terrifying death, that's what Swinburne was going to get.

So again and again he allowed his prey to reach that temptingly open door, and again and again he pounced on him at the last second and hurled him back into the courtyard.

And Swinburne laughed.

Oliphant circled the poet, grinned diabolically, swooped in, and struck. Swinburne spun into the air and thudded onto the ground, his clothes shredded, the skin beneath ripped.

He dragged himself along, a ragged, bloodied mess, his eyes wild, his giggle becoming a gurgle as blood streamed from his nose and split lips.

In four long strides, Oliphant was at his side.

"What are you?" gasped Swinburne. "One of Nurse Nightingale's foul experiments?"

"Shut your mouth!"

"What did she do to you, Oliphant?"

"She saved me."

"From what?"

"Death, Swinburne, death. I overindulged in opium, became an addict, and slipped into a coma in a Limehouse drug den. Miss Nightingale rescued the functioning parts of my brain and fused them with a humanised animal."

"What animal?"

"My white panther."

"Ah, that explains it!"

"Explains what?"

"The lingering odour of cat piss I smell every time you come close."

Oliphant emitted a ferocious hiss, grabbed the poet-one hand clutching the back of his neck, the other his right thigh-lifted him, whirled around, and flung him high into the air. Swinburne smashed into the base of a wall, dropped, rolled loosely, and lay still, his green eyes level with the ground, watching the albino's feet approaching.

Through bubbling blood, he croaked:

"Thou hast conquered, 0 pale Galilean;

The world has grown grey f -om thy breath;

We have drunken from things Lethean,

And fed on the fullness of death."

Oliphant bent over him. "Run, little man," he whispered. "Run for the door."

Swinburne rolled onto his back and looked up into the wicked pink eyes.

"Thank you," he mumbled. "But I have it in mind to lie here and compose a poem or two, if you don't mind."

"I mind," answered Oliphant. He grabbed the poet's throat and yanked him up. Then he lifted him off his feet, fingers tight around the skinny neck, and watched with interest as his victim's face began to darken.

Swinburne kicked and struggled, clutching at his assailant's wrists, but couldn't break free.

He caught sight of something over Oliphant's shoulder and suddenly relaxed, hanging limply.

Somehow, he managed to smile.

Oliphant looked at him in wonder.

A deep, commanding voice rang out: "Drop him!"

The albino whirled.

Sir Richard Francis Burton stood just inside the gate. He had picked Oliphant's swordstick up and held it, unsheathed, in his hand. At the adven turer's feet, a small dog backed toward the door, stepped through, and hid behind it, peeking out at Oliphant.

"Burton," breathed the albino.

He let go of Swinburne, who slumped to the ground and lay still, quietly chuckling.

"Come here, you bastard," snapped the king's agent.

"I'm unarmed," revealed Oliphant, walking forward with his arms spread wide.

"I don't care."

"That's not very gentlemanly."

"There are many who claim I am not a gentleman," noted Burton. "They call me Ruffian Dick. At this particular moment in time, it's a title I intend to live down to."

He suddenly sprang at Oliphant and thrust at his heart. The feline man twisted and jumped back, the point of the rapier catching and slicing his shirtsleeve.

"I'm too quick for you, Burton!" he panted, then, lightning fast, ducked down, pounced in, and swiped at the adventurer's thigh with his sharp talons.

Burton predicted the move and caught the albino's hand in his own.

"My reactions aren't bad either," he said.

His grip tightened and bones crunched.

Oliphant screamed.

Burton dropped the rapier and sent his fist crashing into the albino's jaw.

"And I think you'll find that I'm stronger."

With his left hand mercilessly breaking the bones in Oliphant's right, Burton set about pounding his opponent's face to a pulp. Blood spurted as the panther-man's nose snapped and flattened. Canine teeth broke. Skin tore.

Burton was thoroughly scientific about it. He revived the boxing skills of his youth, choosing where to strike with a cold detachment, timing his blows to perfection, measuring the damage to ensure that the albino suffered every crunching blow without slipping into unconsciousness.

It was more than punishment; it was torture, and Burton had no qualms about it.

As the beating continued, Fidget cautiously stepped back in through the door and began to skirt the wall toward Swinburne. Glancing repeatedly at his master, he padded around the edge of the big rectangular space then crept in until he reached Swinburne's feet. He sniffed at the blood-spattered boots, pushed his nose into the too-short trouser leg, then bit the skinny ankle.

"Yaargh!" screeched the poet.

Burton turned, and in that unguarded second, Laurence Oliphant ripped his mangled hand from the explorer's grasp and, with a sudden thrust of his legs, propelled himself away. He rolled, leaped to his feet, and sprinted to the huge doors of the power station. Perfectly balanced, they swung open at his touch and slammed shut behind him.

The king's agent, who'd instantly thrown himself after the albino, crashed into the doors, pushed them, pulled them, and realised that his enemy had escaped.

He hurried over to Swinburne and shoved Fidget away.

"Are you all right, Algy?"

"Bloody ecstatic, Richard."

"Can you walk?"

"I thought I could, then that blasted dog bit me!"

"Idiot. It was just a nip. Come on, up with you."

He slipped his arm beneath the poet's shoulders and heaved him upright. There was barely an inch of his friend that wasn't smeared with blood.

"I have to get you seen to as quickly as possible," he said. "We need to get this bleeding stopped."

"It was marvellous," gasped Swinburne. "I took everything he dished out! Was that courage, Richard?"

"Yes, Algy; that was courage."

"Splendid! Absolutely splendid! Oh, by the way, John Speke is in there."

Before Burton could reply, a howl echoed from the other end of the courtyard.

"Werewolves!" breathed the king's agent. "We've got to get out of here!"

He dragged his friend toward the door in the main gate, scooping up Oliphant's swords tick on the way, but before he got there half a dozen redcloaked wolf-men loped from an arched opening and came racing across the courtyard.

The head of the pack glared out from the shadow of its hood, displayed its sharp teeth in a terrible grin, extended a claw toward the retreating Englishmen, then exploded into flames.

The remaining creatures scattered, diving away from the sudden inferno. In the midst of this confusion, Swinburne thrust himself away from Burton, plunged at something on the ground, snatched it up, then launched himself through the door in the gate, knocking Burton backward. They landed in a heap outside the power station with Fidget tangled in their legs.

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 loupr-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?"

"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 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!"