The Strange Affair of Spring Heeled Jack - Mark Hodder [30]
As he counted, her eyelids fluttered and opened, her pupils shrank into focus, she looked at him, her hand flew to her mouth, and she cried: "Dear God! Did that really happen?"
"Yes, Sadhvi, it happened. A combination of shock and mesmeric suggestion caused you to bury the memories-but we have managed to uncover them."
"Those dog-things were abominations!"
"I suspect the Eugenicists have been at work."
"They can't! They can't do that to humans!"
"Maybe they didn't, Sadhvi. Maybe they did it to dogs. Or to wolves."
Her eyes widened. "Yes," she whispered. "Wolves!"
"What's the motive for abducting Speke, though? That's what puzzles me," continued Burton, thoughtfully. He stood up. "Anyway-thank you, Sister Raghavendra. You've been very helpful."
She rose from the sofa, stepped forward, and placed her hands on his chest.
"Captain, that albino fellow-he's-he's evil. I felt it. You will be careful, won't you?"
Burton couldn't help himself; his hands slipped around her slim waist and he pulled her close, looking down into her deep, soulful eyes.
"Oh!" she gasped-but it wasn't a protest.
"I'll be careful," he whispered throatily. "And when the mystery is solved, shall I return to tell you about it?"
"Yes. Come back, please, Captain Burton."
It was midday, but London, buried in the heart of the congealing fog, was deprived of light. It tried to generate its own-gas lamps and windows blazed into the murk, but their fierce illumination was immediately crushed and reduced to vague patches of yellow, orange, and red. Between them, the vast and sickening gloom writhed like a living entity, consuming all.
"That you, guv'nor?" came a gruff voice from above.
"Yes, Mr. Penniforth. You're still breathing?"
"Aye. Been 'avin' a smoke o' me pipe. There ain't nuffink like a whiff o' Latakia for fumigatin' the bellows! Get yourself comfy while I light the bull's-eyes. An' call me Monty."
Burton climbed into the hansom. "Bellows?" he grunted. "I should think your lungs are more like a couple of turbines if they can deal with that fog and Latakia! Take me to Scotland Yard, would you?"
"Right ho. Half a mo', sir!"
While his passenger settled, Penniforth climbed down from the box, struck a lucifer, and put the match to the lamps hanging from the front of the engine, and the front and rear of the cabin. He then hoisted himself back up, wrapped his scarf around the lower half of his face, straightened his goggles, gave the peak of his cap a tug, and took hold of the steering bars.
The machine coughed and spluttered and belched smoke into the already laden atmosphere. It lurched away from the curb, pulling the cab behind it.
"Hoff we go, into the great unknown!" muttered Penniforth.
As he carefully steered the machine out of Mornington Crescent and into Hampstead Road, there came a mighty crash and tinkling of broken glass from somewhere far to the left.
"Watch out!" he exclaimed softly. "You don't want to be drivin' into a shop window, do you! Irresponsible, I calls it, bein' in charge of a vehicle in these 'ere weather conditions!"
By the time the hansom cab reached Tottenham Court Road, the "blacks" were falling: coal dust coalescing with particles of ice in the upper layers of fog before drifting to the ground like black snowflakes. It was an ugly sight.
Penniforth pushed on, guided more by instinct and his incredible knowledge of the city's geography than by his eyes. Even so, he steered down the wrong road on more than one occasion.
The steam-horse gurgled and popped.
"Don't you start complainin'!" the cabbie advised it. "You're the one wiv a nice hot boiler! It's cold enough up here to freeze the whatsits off a thingummybob!"
The engine emitted a whistling sigh.
"Oh, it's like that, is it? Feelin' discontentified, are you?"
It hissed and grumbled.
"Why don't you just watch where you're a-going and stop botherin' me wiv the benny-fits of your wisdom?"
It rattled and clanged over a bump in the road.
"Yup, that's it, of girl! Giddy