The Strange Affair of Spring Heeled Jack - Mark Hodder [75]
"But you lived in Battersea?" asked Burton.
"Aye. My folks, bless 'em, had lived here all their blooming lives. Old dad used to walk-walk, mind you!-to the Hog and back every day. Three miles there; three miles back! So when he got tired of that, he made me manager, and I did the blooming foot-slog instead!
"Anyways, like I was atelling you, I recruited a bunch of locals and formed the Brigade-and I don't mind admitting that it turned into a nice little earner for me!"
"How so?" asked Burton, pushing his empty tankard forward.
The old man started refilling it.
"It struck me that if we were to stand against those Technologist devils then we'd need a spot of 'Dutch courage,' so to speak. So every Saturday, I used to ship the Brigade up to the Hog in three or four broughams, and give 'em all a drink for free. Heh! Once they got that down their necks they soon wanted more; only, of course, that weren't for free. Ha ha! Those Battersea Brigade meetings always turned into right old knees-ups, I can tell you! I made a tidy profit, thank you very much, and even more a few years later when I had the Brigade in the taproom and those Libertine rapscallions in the parlour!"
"The Libertines?" asked Burton, innocently.
"Why yes, sir, the-" He took Swinburne's empty tankard and started to refill it.
"I'll have a large brandy, too, if you please," said the poet. "And have something for yourself on me."
"Much obliged, sir. Most decent of you. I'll take a whisky. The Libertines-why, the whole thing started at the Hog in the Pound, ain't that right, Ted?"
This last was addressed to an ancient fellow who'd just arrived at the bar. He stood beside Swinburne, and Burton marvelled at his weather-beaten skin and bald pate, huge beaklike nose, and long pointed chin. He looked like Punchinello, and, when he spoke, he sounded like him, too, his tone sharp, snappy, and aggressive, seemingly the voice of a much younger man.
"What's that, Bob? The Libertines? Bah! Bounders and cads! 'Specially that blackguard Beresford!"
"May I buy you a drink, Mr.-?" asked Burton.
"Toppletree. Ted Toppletree. Very good of you, sir. Very good indeed. Most generous. Deerstalker. Best ale south of the river. Never mind the dog, sir."
This last was directed at Swinburne, whose trouser leg was being pulled at by a small basset hound. The poet jerked his ankle away only to have the dog lunge forward and bite his shoe.
"I say!" he shrilled.
"He's only playing with you, sir. Do you want to buy 'im? 'E's the best tracker you'll ever find; can sniff out anything. Fidget's his name."
"No!" squealed Swinburne. "Confound the beast! Why won't he leave me alone?"
"He's taken a right shine to you! Here, Fidget! Sit! Sit!"
The old man pulled the hound away from the poet. It sat, gazing longingly at Swinburne's ankles.
"You sure you wouldn't like to buy 'im, sir?"
"I've never been surer of anything!" Swinburne took a long gulp of ale. "I do believe you may be right about this beer! Very tasty!" he enthused, keeping a suspicious eye directed toward the dog. His upper lip was now entirely concealed behind a frothy white moustache. "Perhaps little Fidget will calm down if we offer him a bowl?"
Joseph Robinson placed a pint before Toppletree who took a swig, then announced: "Scum!"
Burton and Swinburne looked confused.
"Edward Oxford, I mean," explained the old man. "It was him. That's why Beresford and his mob came to the Hog."
Swinburne swallowed his brandy in a single gulp and pushed the glass toward Robinson, glancing ruefully at Burton and shrugging.
The king's agent, who was sipping his drink with more restraint, said, "Edward Oxford? The assassin?"
"Of course!" barked Toppletree. "Bob 'ere employed the bugger!"
Robinson handed the old man his beer and poured more brandy into Swinburne's glass. "It's true," he said. "Oxford used to