The Strange Affair of Spring Heeled Jack - Mark Hodder [44]
He was beginning to agree with Trounce that the Spring Heeled Jack phenomenon might involve more than one person-and perhaps more than one generation.
As was his habit, he slept lightly and restlessly, awoke early, and wrote for three hours before taking breakfast.
Throughout the rest of the morning, the gas lamps glowed in both his study and the library upstairs as he brought down stacks of books and searched through them for references to any mythical being that might resemble his assailant. While he was at it, he kept his eyes open for information concerning wolf-men, too.
In the latter case, there was a plethora of references to loups-garous-or werewolves. Tales had been told of half-man, half-wolf creatures all over the world and throughout history. The same could not be said for Spring Heeled Jack; Burton found but one mention of a stilt-walking spirit.
He was smoking a hookah while studying the reference when Algernon Swinburne called at one o'clock.
The poet stood on tiptoe and peered over a wall of books at Burton, who'd absent-mindedly muttered "send him in" when Mrs. Angell announced his friend's arrival. It was plain that the great explorer was in one of his "scholarly funks"-as Swinburne called them-and was blind to all but the book in his hand.
"Boo!" said the poet.
"Moko Jumbi," announced Burton.
"Eh?"
The explorer looked up. "Oh, hello, Algy. There's nothing. No reference I can find that at all resembles Spring Heeled Jack with the exception of the Caribbean's `Moko Jumbi,' which is represented in carnivals by stilt-walking dancers. The origin is definitely African. Moko is a god of the Congo region; the word means `diviner.' As for jumbi,' I believe it roughly equates with the Arabian `djinni' and probably has its origin in the Congolese word `zumbi.' So: 'Diviner Spirit.' Interesting."
"Is it?" said Swinburne. "Why are you researching Spring Heeled Jack? Are you joining the Rakes? And why do you have a black eye?"
"The one gave me the other."
"What? What? Are you telling me that Spring Heeled Jack whacked you in the eye?" exclaimed Swinburne, moving around the books to sit in the armchair facing Burton's. His elbow caught a stack and sent volumes cascading to the floor.
Burton sighed. `Do you consider `whacked' to be a suitable word for an up-and-coming poet?"
"Shut up and answer the question!"
"If I shut up I can hardly-"
"Richard!" screeched Swinburne, bouncing in his seat.
Burton laughed. It looked like it hurt him; his upper lip curled, revealing over-long canines, and his eyes seemed to wince, as if seldom-used muscles had come into play. Three deep-chested barks, then the face fell back to its normal savage aspect and the penetrating eyes levelled at Swinburne's own pale green orbs.
"It's true, Algy. I was attacked by Spring Heeled Jack after leaving you at the Cannibal Club," he said, putting his book aside. He proceeded to describe the incident.
"Great heavens, but that's wonderful!" enthused Swinburne when he'd finished. "Fancy being punched in the head by a myth! I don't believe you, of course. Have you eaten?"
"I can assure you that I'm telling the truth and it felt far from wonderful. No, I haven't."
"Come on then-let's go for tiffin at the Black Toad."
Burton put the hookah aside and stood. "Very well, but go easy on the ale. Last time we lunched there, I had to carry you out over my shoulder."
"Funny." The little poet chuckled. "I don't remember that at all!"
As he leaped up, his foot clipped another pile of books and sent it crashing down.
A couple of minutes later, the two men, with overcoats buttoned up to their necks, top hats at a jaunty angle on their heads, and canes swinging in their hands, strolled out of 14 Montagu Place and headed east toward Baker Street.
The fog had turned from a deep hellish red to a pustulant pale yellow. People, animals,