The Strange Affair of Spring Heeled Jack

  “Cor blimey!” Penniforth coughed. “You must be jokin’! Daisy would have me guts for garters if I turned up on the doorstep ‘afore midnight. She can’t stand the sight o’ me!”

  Burton laughed. “Wait here, then, if you don’t mind. I shan’t be long and I promise you another shilling!”

  “Me lucky day!” The cabbie grinned. “I’ll ‘ave a draw on me pipe while I wait; get some decent fumes into me lungs!”

  Burton left Montague Penniforth cleaning out the bowl of a filthy old cherrywood and crossed the pavement to peer at the house numbers. Number 3 was a four-storey terrace. A dim glow emanated from the fanlight window above the front door. He yanked at the bellpull and heard a distant jangle.

  After a minute, the portal was opened by an elderly woman in mourning dress, her face concealed behind a weeping veil of black crepe.

  “Yes?” she whispered. There was an edge of suspicion to her voice, for though her visitor was obviously a gentleman, his face was cut, bruised, and barbarous in aspect.

  “My apologies, ma’am,” said Burton, courteously. “Do you have a Sister Raghavendra here?”

  “Yes, sir. On the third floor. Are you from the sanatorium?”

  “I’ve just come from there, yes,” he replied. It wasn’t quite an answer to the question she’d asked but she didn’t seem to notice and appeared to be mollified by his deep, polite, and melodious voice.

  “If you wish to see her, sir, I should act as chaperone,” she noted, in her frail tones.

  “That will be acceptable, thank you.”

  “Pray, come in out of the fog, then. You can wait in the hallway.”

  Burton ran the soles of his shoes over the iron boot-scraper on the doorstep then stepped into the dingy hall, the walls of which were crowded with framed paintings and photographs, display plates and crucifixes. The landlady closed the door behind him and took a small silver finger-bell from her sleeve. In response to its tinkling ring, a sturdy young girl hurried out from the parlour. Flour powdered her hands, forearms, and nose. She gave a clumsy curtsey.

  “Mum?”

  “Run up to Sister Raghavendra, Polly, and tell her she has a visitor; a Mr.—?”

  “Captain Burton.” He always preferred to use his military rank; “Sir Richard” sounded a mite pretentious.

  “A Captain Burton. You may advise Sister Raghavendra that I will escort the gentleman up to her sitting room if she wishes to receive him.”

  “Yes, Mum!”

  The maid thumped up the stairs and out of sight.

  “An ungainly girl but she serves me well. My name is Mrs. Emily Wheeltapper, Captain. My late husband was Captain Anthony Wheeltapper of the 17th Lancers. He fell at Balaclava. I have been in mourning these seven years since. He was a fine man.”

  “My sympathy, ma’am.”

  “Will you take a cup of tea, Captain?”

  “Please don’t trouble yourself. My business will be brief.”

  “Is the poor girl in difficulty? She came home in tears this morning. Has something happened at the sanatorium?”

  “That’s what I’m here to find out, Mrs. Wheeltapper.”

  Polly’s heavy tread thundered down the stairs. “She says to come on up, Mum,” she reported.

  “Thank you, Polly. Now back to the kitchen with you. Those scones won’t cook themselves. Follow me, please, Captain Burton.”

  The old widow slowly ascended, followed patiently by her visitor.

  On the third landing, they were met by Sister Raghavendra. She was, Burton guessed, in her midtwenties. She was also extremely beautiful, with dark almond-shaped eyes and dusky skin. Her nose was small and straight; her lips full and sensual, with a squarish shape more often found in South Americans; and her black hair, though pinned up, was obviously very long and lustrous.

  His nostrils detected the scent of jasmine.

  She reminded Burton of a Persian girl he’d once bedded, and a thrill of desire rippled through him as her eyes met his.

  “You are Captain Burton?” she asked, in a soft, slightly accented voice. “You are here about Lieutenant Speke, I suppose? Come into my sitting room, please.”

  He followed her into a small and sparsely ornamented chamber and sat in the armchair to which she gestured. She and Mrs. Wheeltapper settled onto the sofa.

  He noticed a statuette of Ganesha on the mantelpiece; a nurse’s headdress had been thrown carelessly onto a table; a small bottle of laudanum on a dresser.

  Sister Raghavendra sat with her back held very straight and her hands folded gracefully on her lap. She was still in her work clothes: a floor-length, high-collared, and long-sleeved pale grey dress over which she wore a short white jacket.

  “With Mrs. Wheeltapper’s permission,” said Burton gently, “I would like to ask you about the events of last night, when John Speke was removed from the sanatorium.”

  The old widow patted her lodger’s hand. “Is that all right with you, my dear?”

  “Perfectly,” answered the nurse, with a trace of imperiousness in her voice. “I will answer any question as best I can, Captain Burton.”

  “I’m happy to hear that. Perhaps you could tell me what occurred?”

  “I’ll tell you as much as I know. I came on duty at midnight. My shift is from twelve until six. I was assigned to Lieutenant Speke, my duty being simply to sit with him and monitor his condition. Forgive me for being blunt, Captain, but he wasn’t expected to live for long; the left side of his face and head were extremely badly damaged. The presence of a nurse was not entirely necessary in a medical sense, for there was nothing that could be done to save him, but it is our practice never to leave a dying man alone in case he recovers himself in his final moments to make a statement or request or confession.”

  “I understand.”

  “I passed four hours reading to him and was then interrupted by a man who entered the room.”

  She paused and put a hand up to her throat, took a breath, and continued, “I cannot describe him. I cannot see him in my mind’s eye. I remember—I remember only his soft tread as he came in, then—I-I—”

  Droplets of sweat appeared on Sister Raghavendra’s forehead. She bit her lip and pulled at her collar.

  “Did I faint?” she asked. “But why should I have done so?”

  “What is your next clear memory?” asked Burton.

  “I was—was, um—I was inside the entrance by the reception desk, wheeling a trolley past it, and, somehow, I felt satisfied that Lieutenant Speke was in good hands.”

  “Whose?”

  “Well, I thought his family’s but—I-I don’t know!” She lowered her face into her hands.

  Mrs. Wheeltapper stroked her tenant’s arm and crooned wordlessly.

  Sir Richard Francis Burton had not only listened to the girl’s words; he’d also been absorbing her accent, and with the phenomenal skill that was his, had identified her—or at least her family—as native to the Mysore region of Southern India; specifically, to the Bangalore district.

  He now spoke to her in her own dialect: “You have fallen under a spell, young lady. I recognise the signs, as you, a nurse, would recognise the symptoms of an illness. The presence of a newly opened bottle of laudanum on your dresser suggests to me that you are suffering from a headache. This further leads me to believe that you’ve experienced a traumatic shock and the memory of it has been sealed within the depths of your mind. Believe me when I say that it will do you no good if it remains there, hidden away like a festering cancer. It must be sought out, exposed, and acknowledged; confronted, subdued, and defeated. Sister Raghavendra, I possess the power of magnetic influence. If you permit it—if you place yourself under my protection and send this worthy old woman away—I may be able to break through the spell to discover that which is concealed. My intentions concern only your well-being; you should fear neither me nor my skill as a mesmerist.”

  The nurse looked up and her exquisite eyes were wide with wonder and delight.

&n
bsp; “You speak my tongue!” she exclaimed, in her own language.

  “Yes, and I know Bangalore. Will you trust me, Sister?”

  She reached out her hands to him; he leaned forward and took them.

  “My name is Sadhvi,” she breathed. “Please help me to remember. I don’t want to lose my job without even knowing the reason why.”

  “Here,” interrupted Mrs. Wheeltapper, wheezily. “What’s all this? I’ll brook no hanky-panky in my premises! And what was all that gobbledygook? Not sweet nothings, I hope; not bold as brass in front of a poor old widow woman!”

  Burton smiled at her and released the nurse’s hands.

  “No, Mrs. Wheeltapper, nothing like that. It just so happens that I know the sister’s town of birth and speak her native language. She was moved to hear it again.”

  “It’s true,” put in the nurse. “You cannot imagine, Mrs. Wheeltapper, how it gladdens my heart to be so reminded of my childhood home!”

  The old lady threw up her hands.

  “Ooooh!” she cried, with more life in her voice than Burton had heard yet. “Ooooh! How lovely! How wonderful for you, my dear!”

  “It is! It is!” Sister Raghavendra nodded. “Ma’am, I feel positive that you can trust the good captain to behave with the utmost decorum. I would speak with him awhile, if you don’t mind, in my own tongue; of his travels in my homeland. It would be dreadfully boring for you. Why not continue with whatever you were doing? I smell cooking—were you performing miracles in the kitchen again?”

  The landlady raised a gnarled hand to her veil and tittered behind it.

  “Silly girl!” she chortled. “You know very well that Polly cooks to my directions and inevitably adds her own special ingredient: utter incompetence!”

  The three of them laughed.

  “Mrs. Wheeltapper,” said Burton, “a few months ago the monarch honoured me with a knighthood. I can give you my word that I would never tarnish that title with any act of impropriety.”

  Even as he spoke, Burton wondered whether he could trust himself to keep such a promise.

  “Good gracious!” the old widow cooed. “A knight! A ‘sir’ in my own home! Well I never did! I never did indeed!”

  She reached up and lifted her veil. The baggy, liver-spotted face beneath, as ancient as it was, had obviously been attractive in its day, and was made so again by the unrestrained smile that it directed at the famous explorer. Two teeth were missing, the rest were yellowed, but the pale blue eyes twinkled with good humour, and Burton couldn’t help but grin back.

  “Forgive me!” pleaded the widow. “I treated you like a common visitor when you are obviously a man of culture, as was my dear Tony, may he rest in peace. I shall give you both your privacy!”

  She stood.

  Burton got to his feet and escorted her to the door.

  “A gallant gentleman!” she sighed. “How lovely!”

  “It has been a delight to meet you, Mrs. Wheeltapper. I shall talk with Sister Raghavendra awhile, then depart—but may I call again some time? I know of the 17th Lancers and would be very much interested in hearing of your late husband’s service with them.”

  A tear trickled down the old woman’s cheek. “Captain Sir Burton, sir,” she said, “you are welcome to call on me whenever the inclination takes you!”

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  He closed the door after her and returned to Sadhvi Raghavendra, who, in truth, was the real reason he might consider a repeat visit to 3 Bayham Street.

  “What do you know of mesmerism?” he asked as he sat down.

  “I saw it practised many times when I was a child,” she replied.

  “Are you scared of it?”

  “No. I want to know what it is that I can’t remember. If that means placing me in a trance, so be it.”

  “Good girl. Wait a moment—let me pull this chair a little closer.”

  Burton shifted the armchair until he was sitting face to face with the nurse. He looked her in the eye and spoke in her language.

  “Allow yourself to relax. Keep your eyes on mine.”

  Two pairs of dark, fathomless eyes locked together.

  “You have long lashes,” said the girl.

  “As do you. Don’t speak now. Relax. Copy my breathing. Imagine your first breath goes into your right lung. Inhale slowly; exhale slowly. The next breath goes to the left lung. Slowly in. Slowly out. And the next into the middle of your chest. In. Out.”

  As her respiration adopted the Sufi rhythm he was teaching her, Sister Raghavendra became entirely motionless but for an almost undetectable rocking, which Burton could see was timed to her heartbeat.

  He murmured further instructions, guiding her into a cycle of four breaths, each directed to a different part of her body.

  Her mind, subdued by the complexity of the exercise, gradually gave itself over to him. He could see it in her luminous eyes, as her pupils expanded wider and wider.

  Suddenly, the black circles closed inward from the sides, forming perpendicular lines, and the deep brown irises blazed a bright pink. Something malevolent regarded him.

  Burton blinked in surprise but the illusion—if that’s what it was—was gone in an instant.

  Her eyes were brown. Her pupils were wide black circles. She was entranced.

  Recovering himself, he spoke to her: “I want you to return to last night; place yourself in Penfold Private Sanatorium, in Lieutenant Speke’s room. You’ve been reading to him but now you are interrupted. A man enters the room.”

  “Yes,” she replied softly. “I hear a slight creak as the door swings open. I look up from my book. There is a footstep and he is there.”

  “Describe him. In detail.”

  A shudder ran through her body.

  “Such a man! I’ve never seen the like! His frock coat is of crushed black velvet; his shirt, trousers, shoes, and hat are all black, too; and his pointed fingernails are painted black; but his skin and hair—straight hair, so long that it falls past his collar—they are whiter than snow! He’s an albino! There is no trace of colour on him except in the eyes, which are of a dreadful pink with vertical pupils like a cat’s.”

  Burton started. Those same eyes had looked out of the girl’s head just moments ago!

  “There is something wrong with his face,” she continued. “His upper and lower jaws are pushed a little too far forward, almost forming a muzzle, and his teeth—when he smiles—are all canines! He enters the room, looks at the lieutenant, looks at me, then tells me to fetch a trolley. I must obey. It’s as if I have no will of my own.”

  “So you leave the room?”

  “For a moment, and when I return there are three-three—”

  She stopped and whimpered.

  “Don’t worry,” soothed Burton, “I am here with you. You are perfectly safe. Tell me what you can see in the room.”

  “There are three men. I-I think they are men. Maybe something else. They are short and wear red cloaks with hoods and they are each sort of—sort of twisted; their bodies are too long and too narrow in the hip; their chests too deep and wide; their legs too short. Their faces, though—their faces are—”

  “Yes?”

  “Oh, save me! They are the faces of dogs!”

  Burton sat back in surprise. He reached into his jacket and drew the sketch by Doré from his pocket. He unfolded it and showed it to the girl.

  “Like this?”

  She recoiled away from him and began to tremble violently.

  “Yes! Please—please tell me—what are they?” Her voice rose in volume and pitch. “What are they?”

  He took her hands in his and stroked their backs with his thumbs. Her skin felt smooth, soft, and warm. The heady scent of jasmine filled his nostrils.

  “Shhh. Don’t be afraid. It’s over, Sadhvi. It is in the past.”

  “But they aren’t human!”

  “Perhaps not. Tell me what happens next.”

  “I walk back into Lieutenant Speke’
s room with the trolley, see the-the three things—then the albino jumps from behind me and restrains me, with a hand over my mouth. He is so strong! I can’t move! The dog-dog-men—they lift Lieutenant Speke from his bed, place him on the trolley, and wheel him out of the room.”

  “There are no other nurses? No one else sees them?”

  “No, I don’t think so—but you have made me realise something: the sanatorium, or at least this wing of it, seems very quiet; more so than it should be, even at such an early hour.”

  “So the dog creatures leave the room—and then?”

  “Then the man turns me, looks into my eyes, and tells me to forget; to remember only that Speke’s family took the lieutenant. He leaves the room and I follow him along the corridor toward reception. I feel strange. There are nurses standing motionless and, as he passes them, he says something to each in a low voice. We reach reception, and I see the trolley standing empty by the desk. The albino orders me to move over to it and I obey. He speaks to the nurse at the desk and she starts to blink and look around. Then he walks toward the main door and, as he passes me, he says, ‘Awake!”’

  She sighed and visibly relaxed. “He’s gone.”

  “And now you find yourself pushing the trolley and remembering nothing of what just happened?” put in Burton.

  “Yes.”

  “Very well. Close your eyes now. Concentrate on the rhythm of your breathing.”

  Sister Raghavendra’s hands fell from his and she leaned back on the sofa. Her head drooped.

  “Sadhvi,” he murmured, “I’m going to count down from ten. With each number, you will feel yourself awakening. When I reach zero, you will be fully conscious, alert, refreshed, and you will remember everything. You will not be afraid. Ten. Nine. Eight. Seven—”

  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!”