The Strange Affair of Spring Heeled Jack - Mark Hodder [74]
The hansom steamed past Battersea Fields and stopped on Dock Leaf Lane, where its two passengers disembarked. They paid the driver, crossed the road, and entered the Tremors, a small half-timbered pub with smokeblackened oak beams pitted with the fissures and cracks of age, tilting floors, and crazily askew walls.
There were two rooms, both cosily lit and warmed by log fires, and both containing a few tables and a smattering of customers. Burton and Swinburne passed through them and sat on stools at the counter. An ancient, bald, stooped, grey-bearded man with a merry gnomelike face rounded the corner of the bar, wiping his hands on a cloth. A high collar encased his thick neck and he wore an unfashionably long jacket.
"Evening, gents," he said, in a creaky but jovial voice. "Deerstalker? Finest ale south of the river!"
Burton nodded, and asked, "Are you Joseph Robinson?"
"Aye, sir, that's me," responded the landlord. He held a tankard to a barrel and twisted the tap. "Has someone been talking, then?"
"I was at the Hog in the Pound yesterday. The manager mentioned you."
"Oh ho! That old boozer! My my, what times I had there, I can tell you!" He placed the frothing tankard in front of Burton and looked at Swinburne. "Same for you, lad?"
The poet nodded.
"I was told to ask you about the name of this place," said Burton. "The Tremors. Apparently there's a story behind it?"
Start with a straightforward question, he thought; get him talking first then move on to the subject of Edward Oxford.
"Oh aye, yes, sir, that there is!" exclaimed Robinson. "Let me serve them what's waiting then I'll come tell you all about it."
He placed Swinburne's beer in front of the poet, glanced curiously at the little red-headed man, and left them, walking to the other end of the bar where a corpulent customer stood rattling coins in his hand.
"Will you be embarking on any more expeditions, Richard, or has this new role taken over?" asked Swinburne.
"It's very much taken over, Algy. It feels right, somehow. It's given me a purpose. Although I must admit, I'm none too keen on the confinements and hustle and bustle of London."
"Perhaps if it offers you action enough, you'll feel less like a caged tiger. What's Isabel's opinion?"
The answer came in a flat, cold tone: "There is no longer an Isabel."
The little poet lowered his glass, leaving white froth on his upper lip, and looked at his friend in astonishment.
"No Isabel? You mean you've parted ways?"
"This role I've taken on is not compatible with marriage."
"Good Lord! I would never have believed it! How did she take it?"
"Not well. I don't want to discuss it, Algernon. It's a mite painful. A fresh wound, so to speak."
"I'm sorry, Richard. Truly, I am."
"You're a good chap, Algy. Here comes old Robinson-let's listen to his tale."
The landlord came lumbering back and treated them to a gap-toothed smile through his bushy beard.
"It was the power station, you see," he announced, leaning his elbows upon the counter. "When Isambard Kingdom Brunel proposed it back in '37, the local community wasn't too happy. Oh no no no, we weren't happy at all. Who'd want that blooming eyesore on their doorstep? And, on top of that, we was afraid. When they started drilling the four holes, no one knew what would happen. Right down into the crust of the Earth they was pushing them blooming great copper rods, so's they could-um-confound the German fleet-no-um-what is it?"
"Conduct the geothermal heat," put in Burton, helpfully.
"That's the one! I remember them saying they'd be able to light the whole blooming city with electricity! What a load of cobblers that turned out to be! The only thing they've ever managed to light is the blooming power station itselfl Anyways, back in the day, folks around here was mighty afraid that the crust of the Earth would split wide open and swallow up the whole area, so me, being the young firebrand I was back then, I went and organised the Battersea Brigade."
"A protest group?" asked Swinburne.
"Yes, laddie. I wasn't