The Strange Affair of Spring Heeled Jack

  “I don’t know. We’ll come back to that. As for what it is this mysterious B wants confirmed, the two sets of numbers give it away: it’s a date and a time using the twenty-four-hour clock. The 29th of September at eleven o’clock in the evening. That’s this coming Sunday night. A meeting, I’ll wager.”

  “By Jove! You’re as sharp as a tack. I’d have been mulling over this note for hours! How about the DTs?”

  “Delirium tremens!” suggested Swinburne enthusiastically.

  “Silly ass!” Burton smiled. “I’d say it represents the location.”

  “If there really is a connection between Spring Heeled Jack and Oliphant, as you suspect,” said Trounce softly, “mightn’t DTs represent Darkening Towers? It was, after all, the home of Beresford, who was suspected of being Jack, and who was also the leader of the Rake movement before he died.”

  “And Oliphant is his successor!” cried Swinburne.

  Burton looked at the Scotland Yard detective with an expression of admiration.

  “I’d bet my right arm that you’ve hit the proverbial nail slap bang on its head! “

  “I’m not so sure,” grumbled the inspector. “It may just be a coincidence.”

  “Possibly; but it’s a big one. Which just leaves us with the letter B. Who was Beresford’s successor to the marquessate? Did he have a son?”

  “No, he died without issue and the marquessate became defunct. Darkening Towers passed to his cousin, the Reverend John de la Poet Beresford, who runs a famine-relief organisation in Ireland and who hasn’t ever set foot on English soil. He rents the property, through an agent named Flagg, to one Henry Belljar, a recluse of whom no record seems to exist. Flagg himself has never seen Bell jar; their business has always been conducted entirely by post. So there’s your mysterious Mr. B, Captain Burton!”

  “It would seem so,” responded Burton thoughtfully. “I would very much like to see this Henry Belljar. In fact, on Sunday night, if 0, D, B, and N are going to have a confab with him at Darkening Towers, then I think a third B should be present, too—B for Burton!”

  “If you mean to say that you’re going to spy on them, then you can jolly well count me in!” cried Trounce.

  “And me!” chorused Swinburne.

  “No,” said Burton sharply. “I’m afraid I have to pull rank on you, Inspector; while you, Algy, are in no fit state. One person can move more quietly than three and I have experience in this sort of business—I was a spy for Sir Charles Napier during my time in India and undertook more than one mission where stealth was required.”

  “You’ll at least allow me to loiter nearby?” grumbled Trounce petulantly. “Just in case you require reinforcements? Surely, though, we could forego the spying and simply raid the place with a squadron of constables?”

  “If we do that,” responded Burton, “we might never learn the full extent of their plans or lay our hands on Spring Heeled Jack.”

  “I insist on coming along too!” squealed Swinburne, slapping his hands against the bedsheets. “I’ll not be left out!”

  “Mr. Swinburne!” exclaimed Sister Raghavendra. “You’ll stay in bed, sir! You are in no condition to go gallivanting around on dangerous missions!”

  “I have two whole days to recover, dear lady! I shall be perfectly fine! Richard, say you’ll take me!”

  Burton shook his head. “You’ve contributed more than your fair share to this business, my friend. You nearly got yourself killed.”

  Swinburne flung back the sheets and scrambled upright, standing on the bed in oversized pyjamas, bouncing slightly, twitching and jerking with excitement.

  “Yes!” he cried. “Yes! I was nearly killed by that fiend! And do you know what I learned from the experience? I learned—”

  He threw his arms out and nearly overbalanced. Everyone stood and moved to catch him but he recovered himself and proclaimed:

  “How he that loves life overmuch shall die

  The dog’s death, utterly:

  And he that much less loves it than he hates

  All wrongdoing that is done

  Anywhere always underneath the sun

  Shall live a mightier life than time’s or fate’s.”

  His knees buckled and he fell against the wall, slowly sliding back down onto the bed.

  “Goodness,” he exclaimed weakly. “I think I stood up rather too quickly!”

  Sister Raghavendra grabbed him by the shoulders, manoeuvred him back into the bed, and tucked the sheets around him.

  “Foolish man!” she snapped. “You’re too exhausted to go jumping around on a mattress, let alone chasing after mysterious Mr. Belljars. You’ll stay put, sir, and you’ll drink beef broth three times a day; isn’t that right, Mrs. Angell?”

  “Even if I have to sit on him and pour it down his throat,” answered the old housekeeper.

  “Richard! Am I to be a prisoner?” pleaded the young poet.

  “For two days at least,” confirmed his host. “We’ll see how you are on Sunday. Sister, will you visit?”

  “Certainly, Captain Burton. Mr. Swinburne is my patient; I will attend him daily until he is well.”

  “Bliss!” whispered Swinburne.

  “And Captain,” added the young nurse, “if there’s any other way I can help, please don’t hesitate to ask!”

  Detective Inspector Trounce picked up his bowler and dusted a flake of soot from its brim. Mrs. Angell watched it float to the floor. She pursed her lips disapprovingly.

  “I’ll call again tomorrow, Captain,” announced the Yard man, pacing to the door. “We’ll go over our plans for Sunday night. But, I say, do you think this Mr. Belljar chappie is our jumping Jack?”

  “I have no idea, Inspector,” muttered Burton. “But I intend to find out!”

  DARKENING TOWER

  I an opposed to the laying down of rules or conditions to be observed in the construction of mechanical devices lest the progress of improvement tomorrow might be embarrassed or shackled by recording or registering as law the prejudices and errors of those sentimental individuals who consider that there is a moral or ethical question inherent in oar technological advancement.

  —ISAMBARD KINGDOM BRUNEL

  arkening Towers well suited its name.

  Lying a little beyond the village of Waterford, near Hertford, the estate was some forty or fifty acres in extent, and was entirely surrounded by a high wall of rotten grey stone. Within this crumbling barrier, the ground stretched unevenly, with large areas slumped into damp, pestilent hollows, as if being eaten away from beneath. These depressions were filled with a sluggishly writhing vapour that possessed a green-tinged luminescence, and over them decayed and contorted trees squatted blackly in the moonlight, casting weird shadows and making surreptitious movements. Upon the contaminated soil grass grew in fitful clumps and weeds, brambles, and tendrils twisted hither and thither as if their existence was an unavoidable agony.

  In the middle of all this crouched the half-ruined mansion.

  Built on the foundations of a Norman manor house, the glowering edifice was terribly dilapidated; its entire west wing had been ravaged by fire at some point and was nothing but a mildewed shell, while the habitable part of the mansion had sagged, opening fissures in its vine-clad, mouldering face.

  The windows were pointed arches, and the big double door of the entrance was also set in an arch of the Gothic style. At the bottom of the steps leading up to this were two plinths upon which stone griffins sat, their once proud faces now dark with dirt and fungi, and in the shadow of one of these stood the poet, Algernon Swinburne.

  Two days of rest had been all he required. Though his scratches weren’t yet fully healed and his bruises had turned black, yellow, and blue, Swinburne’s nervous energy had hastened his recovery and his shrill insistence had finally won Sir Richard Francis Burton over.

  “You can act as lookout,” had said the explorer. “Nothing more—is that understood?”

  So now Swinburne was watching t
he 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, his hands, elbows, and shoulders to control his descent, he edged down into pitch darkness.

  Soot crumbled away around him. He’d chosen a chimney far from the part of the mansion where Burton had seen the light, but if anyone passed by the room below, they would certainly hear the susurration of the powder landing in the hearth and would enter to investigate.

  Nevertheless, he kept going, and cheered himself up by thinking about the delectable floggings Vincent Sneed had treated him to not many days previously. Where pain was concerned, Algernon Swinburne was a connoisseur. Unfortunately, the hurt from his many wounds, which now started to trouble him, was of an entirely different order from a birch or belt to the buttocks. It wasn’t nearly so pleasurable!

  He stopped and rested, suddenly shaken by an unanticipated wave of fatigue.

  How much farther to go? There was no chink of light other than the square opening above but he felt sure that the hearth wasn’t far below.

  “Come on!” he mouthed silently. “The meeting must have started by now!”

  Down, down, down into darkness.

  His feet crunched onto ossified wood; he slipped and a metal grate clanged beneath his boots.

  “Damn!” he breathed.

  He felt around, found an opening, and climbed through, his ankle catching a rack of fireplace tools, sending them crashing to the floor. He winced as the clanging echoed in the unlit room, sounding as loud as the bells of Big Ben.

  He shuffled forward, his hands held out in front of him, feeling for any obstruction. He found none until he encountered a wall. Following this, he came to a door, groped for the doorknob, and pulled. With a guttural creak, the portal opened to reveal more darkness beyond.

  He knew that the lit room Burton had seen was somewhere off to his right and toward the back of the mansion, so rather than move in the direction of danger, he turned left and, with a hand against the wall, he crept along what he presumed was a hallway.

  A few moments later, his fingers ran across another door. He opened it. Pitch black beyond.

  “I’ll keep going,” he told himself, and passing the room, he tiptoed on to the next. It was locked, but the one after that wasn’t, and when he pushed open the door, he saw a vague rectangle opposite. He crossed the room, the bare boards complaining beneath his feet, and found himself standing before a curtain-shrouded window. A yank at the material caused it to collapse into a dusty heap at his feet. Moonlight momentarily blinded him. He blinked and looked down at himself: he was completely black.

  As Burton had suggested, the window was solid, though its panes were caked with dust, and looked as if it had been fitted relatively recently; the hard wood was not at all worm-eaten and the catches, which were of an ingenious and intricate design, seemed very modern. For a few minutes they resisted his exploring fingers, but then came a click, and he slid the window up and climbed through it. Dropping to the ground, he ran along the side of the building until he came to the front steps. A shadow loomed from beneath one of the griffins.

  “Algy?”

  “This way, Richard.”

  He led Burton back to the window and they climbed into Darkening Towers.

  Burton pulled his lantern from his pocket and twisted it into life. Its light crawled across dirty walls, illuminating peeling paper and cracked plaster and an old portrait hanging askew. Items of furniture, hidden beneath dust sheets, stood against the walls.

  Dulling the lantern’s glare by holding the clockwork device inside his coat, Burton crossed to the door and passed into the hallway, with Swinburne at his heels. He saw that the floor was thick with dust aside from a trail of sooty footprints that disappeared into the third door along. Beyond that, they proceeded into intricate passages that wound through the mansion with a seeming disrespect for logical design.

  Brushing aside cobwebs and stepping carefully over the rubble of collapsed wall and ceiling plaster and pieces of broken furniture, they moved in silence, ears straining for any sound.

  “Wait!” hissed Burton.

  He twisted his torch, killing the flame.

  There was a soft glow of light ahea
d.

  “Remain here, Algy. I’ll be back in a moment.”

  “Be careful, Richard.”

  Burton crept along the corridor until he reached a junction. Straight ahead, the hallway widened considerably and was free of dust and debris. To his left, a short passage led to large double doors with inset glass panels out of which light streamed. They revealed a ballroom beyond, with a gallery circling it and large chandeliers hanging from the ceiling. A lumbering machine stood within view and Burton recognised it from Swinburne’s description: Isambard Kingdom Brunel. He could hear the muffled sound of bells ringing; Brunel was talking to someone.

  The king’s agent returned to his friend.

  “They’re here, Algy, in the ballroom. There’s a gallery overlooking it. I’m going to find my way up to it. Your help has been invaluable but your job here is done. I want you to take the lantern, retrace our steps, get out through the window, and rejoin Detective Inspector Trounce.”

  “No, Richard—I’m coming with you!” replied Swinburne stubbornly.

  “I forbid it, Algy. If you want to be my assistant, you have to learn to take orders!”

  “Your assistant, Richard? Are you really offering me a job?”

  “If you can demonstrate the self-discipline required, then yes, I think you possess qualities that can be of considerable help to me. Moreover, I believe you’ll benefit from the experience. As I say, though, obeying orders unquestioningly is a requirement of the role.”

  “Then obey I shall,” said Swinburne, and without further word, he took the proffered lantern and walked back the way they’d come.

  Burton waited until his friend had disappeared from sight, then, keeping his head low, ran across the junction to the other side of the corridor. He moved ahead until the gloom enveloped him. If this ballroom was anything like the many he’d visited in the past, there should be a staircase to the gallery nearby. Pulling a box of lucifers from his pocket, he struck one and moved ahead until its unsteady glow revealed a door. Opening this, he entered a large cloakroom. He saw a staircase rising up to his left. Light entered the room from the top of it. He blew out his match.