The Strange Affair Of Spring Heeled Jack Part 16

A moment's disorientation, then he recognised the sound: someone was hammering at the front door. He glanced at the pocket watch on his bedside table as he dragged himself out of the warm sheets. It was seven o'clock. He'd been asleep for less than two hours.

He threw his jubbah around himself, the long and loose outer garment he'd worn while on his pilgrimage to Mecca that he now used as a night robe, and headed down the stairs.

Mrs. Angell reached the front door before him and he could hear her indignant tones as he descended.

"Have you come to arrest him? No? Then your business can wait until a more civilised hour!" she was saying.

"I'm most dreadfully sorry, ma'am," came a male voice, "but it's a police emergency. Captain Burton's presence is required."

"Where?" demanded Burton as he reached the last flight of stairs and started down them.

"Ah, Captain!" exclaimed the visitor, a young constable, stepping into the hall.

"Sir!" objected Mrs. Angell.

"It's all right, Mother," said Burton. "Come in, Constable-?"

"Kapoor, sir."

"Come up to my study. Mrs. Angell, back to bed with you."

The old woman looked from one man to the other. "Should I make a pot of tea first?"

Burton glanced enquiringly at Kapoor but the constable shook his head and said, "There's no time, sir; but thank you, ma'am."

The landlady bobbed and returned to her bas.e.m.e.nt domain while the two men climbed the stairs and entered the study.

Burton made to light the fire but the policeman stopped him with a gesture.

"Would you dress as fast as possible, please, Captain Burton? Spring Heeled Jack has attacked again!"

MARVEL'S WOOD.

-etective Inspector Trounce would like you at the scene as quickly as possible, Captain," said Constable Kapoor. "I have a rotorchair waiting for you outside."

"Where did the attack occur?" asked Burton.

"Near Chislehurst. I'll wait here, sir."

Without further ado, Burton raced up to his bedroom, poured water from a jug into a basin, and splashed it onto his face, scrubbing away the last vestiges of soot, before hurriedly dressing. His body was aching after having maintained an old man's posture for so many hours, and his mind felt sluggish from lack of sleep, though he knew from past experience that it would clear soon enough. He had the ability to defer sleep when necessary, often going for days at a time without any before then taking to his bed for a prolonged bout of unconsciousness.

He joined Constable Kapoor on the first landing and they descended to the hall, where Burton put on his overcoat and top hat and picked up his cane. At the policeman's recommendation, he wrapped a scarf around his throat. They left the house.

The sun had risen and was sending lazy shafts of light into the pale yellow fog. Black flakes were suspended in the pall, neither falling nor swirling about.

Two rotorchairs waited at the side of the road. Burton was surprised he hadn't heard them land but then remembered his dream and the sound of hooves thudding up the hill.

"One was flown by me, the other by another constable who's gone back to the Yard," explained Kapoor. "Have you been in one before?"

"No."

"It's quite simple to operate, Captain," said the policeman, and, as they came to the nearest rotorchair, he quickly ran through the controls.

Burton inspected the contraption. It looked like a big studded leather armchair such as could be found in gentlemen's clubs and private libraries. It was affixed to a sledlike frame of polished wood and bra.s.s, the runners of which curled up gracefully at either end. In the forward part of this frame, from a control box situated just in front of a footboard, three levers, similar to those found in railway signal boxes but curved, angled back to the driver's position. The middle lever controlled alt.i.tude, while those to either side of it steered the vehicle to the left or right. The footboard, when pressed forward with the toes, increased the rotorchair's velocity and forward motion; when pressed backward with the heels, slowed the vehicle; and when pushed all the way back, caused it to hover.

Affixed to the back of the chair, a vaguely umbrella-like canopy protected the driver from the downdraught caused by the four short, flat, and wide wings which rotated at the top of a shaft rising from the engine; this situated behind the chair. This engine was a larger version of the ones used for velocipedes and operated with the same remarkable efficiency.

Kapoor handed Burton a pair of round leather-lined goggles.

"You'll need to wear these, Captain, and you'll have to fly hatless unless you want to lose your topper. There's a storage compartment under the seat. Put it there with your cane, then we'll get going."

Burton did as advised, then climbed into the chair and secured himself with the belt attached to it.

"I'll ascend first and wait for you above the fog," said the constable. He moved to the back of the vehicle and the explorer heard him fiddling with the engine, which coughed into life and started to quietly chug, making the seat vibrate.

Moments later, a second engine spluttered and roared, its pitch and volume increasing rapidly, to be joined seconds later by a rattling thrum, like the noise of a snare drum.

The fog rolled away, revealing a wide expanse of Montagu Place. A gentleman, suddenly exposed on the opposite pavement, clutched at the brim of his hat.

The racket faded upward and tendrils of vapour came snaking back toward Burton.

He allowed a minute to pa.s.s then took hold of the middle lever and gently pulled it while simultaneously pressing his toes down softly on the footboard. The wings above his head jerked, turned, began to rotate, then suddenly transformed into a circular blur.

The fog whipped away again.

The rotorchair sc.r.a.ped over the cobbles then slid into the air. The ground dropped away and vanished as the mist closed up beneath the vehicle. Strangely, there was very little sense of movement.

Entombed in the cloud, Burton felt as if he'd been transported to Limbo, until suddenly his rotorchair burst out of it and he was dazzled by the low morning sun. Grabbing at the left lever, he yanked it to turn the vehicle away from the blazing orb. The rotorchair gyrated crazily. He clutched at the right lever, struggled to stabilise the car, and eventually got it under control.

The blanket of fog stretched from horizon to horizon. Though dirty, it was made eye-wateringly bright by the sun.

Burton experimented with the controls until he felt comfortable with them then turned the rotorchair slowly until it faced Constable Kapoor's machine. A column of steam, like an umbilical cord, streamed from the policeman's vehicle to the cloud below.

For a moment they hovered, facing each other, then the policeman banked his machine and flew off in a southeasterly direction. Burton followed the leading vehicle's white plume. He took deep breaths of the wonderfully fresh air, feeling his tiredness dissipate as the oxygen cleaned out the night's contaminations.

The rotorchairs picked up speed and flew across the enshrouded city; over Soho, the Thames, and Waterloo Bridge, Elephant and Castle, Peckham, and on to Lewisham, where the thick pall below started to break up, revealing glimpses of houses, streets, and gardens.

Burton had never flown before and he was thoroughly enjoying the sensation. He thought of John Speke sitting in a box kite being towed by a giant swan over East Africa and felt a pang of jealousy-then intense regret. Bismillah! It was only three days ago that he'd learned John had shot himself!

Soon, woods and tracts of cultivated land started to separate the clumps of houses and the fog retreated, reduced to a white mist, which lay in heavier ribbons along the courses of rivers, ca.n.a.ls, and streams.

The rotorchair ahead of Burton started to lose alt.i.tude. He gently pushed the middle lever and felt his own machine sink.

They flew on for a mile, past the outskirts of Chislehurst, then Kapoor angled his machine slightly more eastward and descended, with Burton following. They landed in a field near cottages on the edge of a village, which Burton would later learn was named Mickleham. There were six rotorchairs already parked on the gra.s.s beside a mud-caked traction engine to which a plough was attached.

Even before the wings of Kapoor's rotorchair had stopped spinning, the young constable was out of it and sprinting across the gra.s.s to where a couple of policemen stood by a garden gate outside a ramshackle old dwelling. He spoke to them briefly then came running back, reaching Burton just as he stepped out of his machine.

"No!" he shouted above the noise of the engines. "We have to go up again!"

"Why-what's happening?"

"Spring Heeled Jack is still in the area! They've chased him northward. We'll have to circle, see if we can spot anything. We'll spread out and fly low, Captain, cover as much ground as we can. Look out for a group of villagers and policemen-but keep me in sight and head my way if you see me land!"

Burton jumped back into the rotorchair, buckled himself in, and powered up the wings. He took off and followed Kapoor. The vapour trails they'd made on their way to the field were still hanging in the air.

Burton bore to the west until the other machine was a mere speck in the sky off to his right, with an irregular white line extending out behind it. They flew back past Chislehurst, the king's agent peering at the landscape to the right, left, and ahead.

Five minutes later he saw figures gathered on a golf course. He steered his rotorchair toward it and, as he approached and descended, saw that it was a crowd of constables and townspeople. The latter were milling about, brandishing shovels and broom handles.

People scattered as he landed the machine, thudding into the gra.s.s rather too heavily.

A burly man came running over; it was Detective Inspector Trounce.

"Captain Burton!" he yelled. "It's gone into Marvel's Wood, there!"-he waved his cane at a wide expanse of forest on the eastern edge of the course"Fly over, see if you can drive it out!"

The king's agent nodded and took to the air again.

As his machine slid over the trees, he flew it as low as he dared, sending loose leaves flying in every direction as branches whipped about beneath the rotorchair's downdraught. Leaning over the side, Burton scanned the woods below, seeing flashes of the ground through the foliage. He pa.s.sed at a slow speed around the outer part of the wood then began to spiral inward.

Despite his heavy overcoat, he was feeling cold. The past few days had pushed his body too far; he'd been drunk, attacked, and beaten; had spent an entire night in the noxious atmosphere of the East End; and had slept a mere two hours. The quinine he'd taken might stave off a malarial attack but he was nevertheless concerned; he needed proper rest.

Something moved below but he'd flown past before he could see what it was. He dug his heels into the footboard, bringing the rotorchair to a stop, then turned it around to face the way he'd come. To avoid flying back into his machine's trail of steam, he reduced his alt.i.tude until the runners were brushing the tops of the trees, then inched forward while looking down through the agitated branches.

Burton was leaning over the right side when the rotorchair suddenly lurched heavily to the left, shaking horribly as the wings sliced into twigs and leaves. His toes instinctively pressed hard on the footboard and he yanked back the middle lever, sending the rotorchair soaring upward, spinning wildly on its axis. As he fought with the levers, he became aware, through the edge of his goggles, of a large shape clinging to the side of the machine, unbalancing it.

He turned his head and looked into the eyes of Spring Heeled Jack.

The creature's mouth was moving as if shouting something but, though its face was very close to Burton's, the words were obliterated by the roar of the engines and the drumming of the wings. It reached out and grabbed his wrist.

The rotorchair spiralled downward.

Burton struggled to free himself but everything was happening too fast. He'd barely registered the presence of Spring Heeled Jack before the rotorchair plunged into the woods, keeling over sideways, its wings snapping and shooting away, one arcing high into the air, the others clattering through the branches.

The vehicle twisted and tumbled, knocking its driver this way and that as it fell through the foliage, hit the ground back-end first, then toppled onto its side and came to rest.

Steam screamed through a rent in its boiler and Burton, shaken but conscious enough to fear an explosion, fumbled with the buckle straps, finally released them, and crawled out of and away from the machine.

He lay panting, facedown in the loam.

Rustling footsteps approached and, as Burton rolled over onto his back, a foot-or, rather, a stilt-was placed to either side of him.

Spring Heeled Jack, light dappling his face, stood astride the king's agent and gazed down at him. He squatted.

"Who are you?" the creature asked.

Blue flame formed a corona around its head; sparks spat from its chest. The eyes blazed with madness.

"You know d.a.m.ned well who I am," said Burton.

"I don't. I've never seen you before, though I must admit, I feel I should know you."

"Never seen me! You gave me this d.a.m.ned black eye!"

Even as he said it, though, Burton thought about Trounce's suggestion that there might be more than one of the stilted creatures. "Or maybe that was your brother?" he added.

The creature grinned. "I don't have a brother. I don't even have parents!"

It threw back its head and let loose a peal of insane laughter, then looked down and ran its eyes over Burton's face.

"Where have I seen you before?" it muttered. "Famous, are you?"

"Comparatively," answered Burton. He started using his feet and elbows to shift himself out from between Spring Heeled Jack's stilts, but the thing reached down and grasped the front of his coat.

"Stay still," it commanded. "Yes, I know you now. Sir Richard Francis Burton! One of the great Victorians!"

"What the h.e.l.l is a Victorian?"

Shouts sounded in the distance-the police and townspeople approaching -and, beyond them, the thrum of Constable Kapoor's rotorchair.

"Listen, Burton," hissed Jack. "I have no idea why you're here but you have to leave me alone to do what I have to do. I know it's not a good thing but I don't mean the girls any harm. If you or anyone else stops me, I can't get back and I won't be able to repair the damage. Everything will stay this way-and it's wrong! It's all wrong! This is not the way things are meant to be! Do you understand?"

Burton shook his head. "Not in the slightest. Let me up, d.a.m.n it!"

Jack hesitated then released his grip. Burton slid from between the stilts and scrambled to his feet, looking up at the strange apparition.

Spring Heeled Jack was a man, he could see that now, but his costume was bizarre and there was an unearthly air about him.

"So what exactly is it you need to do?" he asked the stilt-walker.

"Restore, Burton! Restore!"

"Restore what?"

"Myself. You. Everything! Do you honestly think the world should have talking orangutans in it? Isn't it obvious to you that something is desperately wrong?"

"Talking orang-?" began Burton.

"Captain Burton!" interrupted a distant shout. Detective Inspector Trounce.

The chopping of Kapoor's rotorchair was close now. Jack looked up through the canopy of leaves overhead.

"The mist has cleared and the sun is high enough. I should be able to recharge."

"Charge at what? You're speaking in riddles, man!" barked the king's agent.