The strange affair of Spring-heeled Jack

Mark Hodder

The strange affair of Spring-heeled Jack

A known mistake is bettor than an unknown truth.

THE AFTERMATH OF AFRICA

Everything Life places in your path is an opportunity.

No matter how difficult.

No matter how upsetting.

No matter how impenetrable.

No matter how you judge it.

An opportunity.

Sir Richard Francis Burton staggered back and collapsed into hischair. The note Arthur Findlay had passed to him fluttered to thefloor. The other men turned away, took their seats, examined theirfingernails, and fiddled with their shirt collars; anything toavoid looking at their stricken colleague.

From where she stood on the threshold of the "robing room,"hidden by its partially closed door, Isabel Arundell could see thather lover's normally dark and intense eyes were wide with shock,filled with a sudden vulnerability. His mouth moved spasmodically,as if he were struggling to chew and swallow somethingindigestible. She longed to rush to his side to comfort him and toask what tidings had wounded him; to snatch up that note and readit; to find out who had killed himself, but such a display would beunseemly in front of the small gathering, not to mentionembarrassing for Richard. He, among all men, stood on his own twofeet, no matter how dire the situation. Isabel alone was aware ofhis sensitivity; and she would never cause it to be exposed toothers.

Many people-mostly those who referred to him as "RuffianDick"considered Burton's brutal good looks to be a manifestation ofhis i

It was difficult to see past such a powerful facade.

The Committee had only just gathered at the table, but afterglancing at Burton's anguished expression, Sir Roderick Murchison,the president of the Royal Geographical Society, came to adecision.

"Let us take a moment," he muttered.

Burton stood and held up a hand in protest. "Pray, gentlemen,"he whispered hoarsely, "continue with your meeting. The scheduleddebate will, of course, have to be cancelled, but if you'll allowme half an hour, perhaps I can organise my notes and make a smallpresentation concerning the valley of the Indus, so as not todisappoint the crowd."

"That's very good of you, Sir Richard," said one of theCommittee members, Sir James Alexander. "But, really, this musthave come as a terrible blow. If you would rather-"

"Just grant me thirty minutes to prepare. They have, after all,paid for their tickets."

"Very well. Thank you."

Burton turned and walked unsteadily to the door, passed through,closed it behind him, and stood facing Isabel, swayingslightly.

At five eleven, he personally bemoaned the lost inch that wouldhave made him a six-footer, though, to others, the breadth of hisshoulders, depth of his chest, slim but muscular build, andoverwhelming charisma made him seem a giant, even compared withmuch taller men.

He had short black hair, which he wore swept backward. His skinwas swarthy and weather-beaten, giving his straight features ratheran Arabic cast, further accentuated by his prominent cheekbones,both disfigured by scars-a smallish one on the right, but a long,deep, and jagged one on the left, which tugged slightly at hisbottom eyelid. They were the entry and exit wounds caused by aSomali spear that had been thrust through his face during anill-fated expedition to Berbera, on the Horn of Africa.

To Isabel, those scars were the mark of an adventurous andfearless soul. Burton was in every respect her "ideal man." He wasa wild, passionate, and romantic figure, quite unlike the staid andemotionally cold men who moved in London's social circles. Herparents thought him unsuitable but Isabel knew there could be noother for her.

He stumbled forward into her arms.

"What ails you so, Dick?" she gasped, holding him by theshoulders. "What has happened?"

"John has shot himselfl"

"No!" she exclaimed. "He's dead?"

Burton stepped back and wiped a sleeve across his eyes. "Notyet. But he took a bullet to the head. Isabel, I have to work up apresentation. Can I rely on you to find out where he's been taken?I must see him. I have to make my peace with him before-"

"Of course, dear. Of course! I shall make enquiries at once.Must you speak, though? No one would fault you if you were towithdraw."

"I'll speak. We'll meet later, at the hotel."

"Very well."

She kissed his cheek and left him; walked a short way along theelegant marble-floored corridor and, with a glance back,disappeared through the door to the auditorium. As it swung openand closed, Burton heard the crowd beyond grumbling withimpatience. There were even some boos. They had waited long enough;they wanted blood; wanted to see him, Burton, shame and humiliatethe man he'd once considered a brother: John Harming Speke.

"I'll make an a

"Is it-is it my fault, Sir Roderick?" rasped Burton.

Murchison frowned. "Is it your fault that you possess exactingstandards while, according to the calculations John Speke presentedto the Society, the Nile runs uphill for ninety miles? Is it yourfault that you are an erudite and confident debater while Speke canbarely string two words together? Is it your fault thatmischief-makers manipulated him and turned him against you? No,Richard, it is not."

Burton considered this for a moment, then said, "You speak ofhim so and yet you supported him. You financed his secondexpedition and refused me mine."

"Because he was right. Despite his slapdash measurements and hispresumptions and guesswork, the Committee feels it likely that thelake he discovered is, indeed, the source of the Nile. The simpletruth of the matter, Richard, is that he found it while you, I'msorry to say, did not. I never much liked the man, may God havemercy on his soul, but fortune favoured him, and not you."

Murchison moved aside as the Committee members filed out of therobing room, heading for the presentation hall.

"I'm sorry, Richard. I have to go."

Murchison joined his fellows.

"Wait!" called Burton, pacing after him. "I should be theretoo."

"It's not necessary."

"It is."

"Very well. Come."

They entered the packed auditorium and stepped onto the stageamid sarcastic cheers from the crowd. Colonel William Sykes, whowas hosting the debate, was already at the podium, unhappilyattempting to quell the more disruptive members of the restlessthrong; namely, the many journalistsincluding the mysterious youngAmerican Henry Morton Stanley-who seemed intent on making theoccasion as newsworthy as possible. Doctor Livingstone sat behindSykes, looking furious. Clement Markham, also seated on the stage,was chewing his nails nervously. Burton slumped into the chairbeside him, drew a small notebook and a pencil from his pocket, andbegan to write.