The Strange Affair of Spring Heeled Jack - Mark Hodder [100]
"We are, Mr. Burke," rumbled Hare. "Very sorry, Captain. Good-bye."
"Good-bye, Captain," echoed Burke.
"Good-bye," said Burton.
The door closed. He heard their footsteps on the stairs. The front door opened and closed.
He crossed to the window and looked down at Montagu Place. He couldn't see them.
So that was Burke and Hare! What an extraordinary duo!
Thirty minutes later, the newly installed contraption began to shake and hiss; it rattled and whistled and a canister thunked into it. Burton opened the door on the side and caught the canister as it plopped out. He cracked off the lid and withdrew a note from inside. It read:
Gifts in the garage. A.
A for Albert. A message from the king of England!
Intrigued, he went downstairs to Mrs. Angell's domain, where he unlocked and opened the back door, and ascended the exterior steps to the backyard. He crossed it and entered the garage. Inside he found two pennyfarthings and a rotorchair.
Later that afternoon, he used one of the velocipedes for the first time, perched high on the saddle, steaming back down to Battersea.
When he returned some hours later, he had a large basket propped on the handlebars.
Three days passed without progress.
There were no reported sightings of Spring Heeled Jack.
Algernon Swinburne was somewhere in the depths of the Cauldron.
Sir Richard Francis Burton fretted and worried. He tried to occupy himself with his books but couldn't concentrate; he researched Moko Jumbi but found little besides the superficial resemblance to connect the African god to the stilt-walker.
Early on the morning of the fourth day there came a knock at the front door. It was young Oscar Wilde, the paperboy.
"Top o' the morning to you, Captain," he said. "I'm of the opinion that no good deed goes unpunished, but there are some people who I'm prepared to risk all for. Therefore, please take these, and I'll be bidding you good day."
He held out his hand and released something into Burton's palm, then spun on his heel and walked away, turning once to wave and grin.
Burton was left holding three pebbles. A summons from the Beetle.
He acted immediately, bounding up the stairs, through his study, and into the dressing room, where he donned a roughly woven suit, chopped his beard down to stubble-though keeping his moustaches long and drooping to either side of his chin-ruffled his hair, dirtied his face, neck, and hands, and slipped into a pair of scuffed and cracked boots.
When he left the house, he was not alone.
Burton was tempted to use one of his new vehicles, but where he was going, modern technology was liable to be stolen on sight or vandalised, so he waved down the first cab he saw-a horse-drawn growler-and cried: "Get me to Limehouse Cut as quickly as possible! Hurry, man!"
"Have you the fare?" asked the driver, looking at him suspiciously.
Burton impatiently flashed a handful of coins at the man.
"I'll pay you double if I'm there within thirty minutes!" he cried, pushing his companion into the four-wheeler before clambering in himself.
"Easy money!" muttered the driver, cracking his whip over the two horses' heads.
The growler jerked into motion and went flying down the street. Burton was thrown about and banged his head as the vehicle careened around a corner, but he didn't care-speed was essential now!
The carriage skidded and swerved wildly on the wet cobbles but the driver steered it with an expert hand and delivered his passengers to St. Paul's Road, close to the factory, well within the allotted time.
"Good man!" exclaimed the king's agent, passing coins up to the cabbie. "Money well earned!"
The rain was beating down hard, rinsing the city's muck into the filthy artery that ran through its middle, washing Sir Richard Francis Burton's hopes away. It could ruin his and Swinburne's plan. It could mean the poet's death.
He hurried to the factory and, leaving his companion at the bottom of the ladder, climbed it to the roof, then continued on up to the lip of the chimney.
The rain lashed his face as he dropped