The Strange Affair of Spring Heeled Jack - Mark Hodder [118]
"You can act as lookout," had said the explorer. "Nothing more-is that understood?"
So now Swinburne was watching the mansion while Burton circled around it looking for any sign of activity and a means of ingress. Meanwhile, beyond the wall, Detective Inspector Trounce was hiding in a thicket, guarding three penny-farthings and wondering why he'd been given this duty while a poet-a poet.-was accompanying the king's agent into danger.
Trounce would never understand Burton's motivation, for he didn't know Swinburne like the explorer did; hadn't the insight that the little man needed to face Death head-on, else it would rob him of self-worth and kill him slowly via a bottle.
A slight rustle alerted Swinburne to Burton's return.
"Anything?" he hissed.
"There are two rotorships on the other side of the house," reported the king's agent. "I'm certain the largest is the one that left the power station. People are moving around on board. Lengths of cable are running out of the main ship and into the mansion through veranda doors. We cannot get in that way without being spotted. On this side of the building everything is locked up tight. The place is a wreck but the windows and doors look new. I'm kicking myself-I should have asked Trounce to teach me how to use Oliphant's lock-picks!"
Swinburne took out his pocket watch and angled it until the moonlight shone on its face.
"Almost eleven," he whispered. "We have to get in there!"
"I, not we," murmured Burton. "I told you, you're here to keep your eyes open, nothing else! No risk taking!"
"If you can't find a way in, Richard, I'm going to have to take a risk."
"What are you talking about?"
"The chimney."
"Eh?"
"I can scale the vines to the roof, climb down the chimney, and open a window from the inside. I'm trained, remember?"
"No, I'll find another way."
However, though he scouted around the mansion again, Burton could find no means of entry, and reluctantly agreed to his friend's proposal.
"Stay here; I'll come and get you," breathed Swinburne.
Impulsively, Burton gripped the poet's hand and shook it. "Good luck!" he said.
Swinburne nodded and padded away.
Moments later Burton spotted a flash of red moving quickly up the side of the building: Swinburne's hair reflecting the moonlight.
Though tiny in stature and rather frail in appearance, the poet ascended with self-assurance, testing each vine before gripping it, rapidly heaving himself up to the cornice, then throwing an arm over a gargoyle and swinging up onto it. From there, he clambered over the crenellations at the edge of the roof and disappeared from view.
Burton inhaled deeply. He hadn't realised he'd been holding his breath.
Here we go again, thought Swinburne as he stepped across the flat walkway behind the faux battlement and settled himself onto the sloping roof. At least this time, if he lost his footing he'd merely slide down to the walkway-no chance of a fatal plummet through space.
He started levering himself up over the moss-covered shingles. They were loose and cracked under his weight. Pieces slipped from under him and rattled down the slope, their noise seeming magnified by the night's silence. He thought it unlikely that anyone inside the building, on the ground floor, would hear the racket, but if anyone was in the upper rooms, there'd be trouble.
What could he do, though, except keep going? So he pushed himself on until he reached the top, and there he stood and moved to one of the chimneys.
He looked up at the sky. It was clear, cold, star-filled, with a slivered moon mounted at its apex.
He looked down the flue. It was dark, filthy, seemingly bottomless, and led straight to his enemies.
Swinburne hoisted himself onto its edge and swung his legs into the shaft. He pressed his knees against the decrepit brickwork, braced himself, then lowered himself in. Using the sides of his feet,