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"He may be rather more than a spy," suggested Palmerston."Captain Burton, I want you to talk to Detective Inspector WilliamTrounce of Scotland Yard. In 1840, when he was a constable, he waspresent at the assassination. He claimed to have seen this jumpingJack thing at the scene, and, despite opposition from hissuperiors, still maintains that the creature is a fact, rather thanan illusion caused by panic or hysteria, as others have asserted.It nearly cost him his career. For a decade afterwards, he was thelaughing stock of the Yard and only rose to his current positionthrough dogged determination and hard work. You have youralbatross; Spring Heeled Jack is his."
Burton spread his arms in a shrug. "Talk to him to whatend?"
"As a start to your second assignment. I spoke of a job. Ourmonarch wants to commission you as-for want of a better word-an`agent.' It's a unique position; you will be required toinvestigate matters which, perhaps, lie outside of policejurisdiction, or which, due to their nature, require a rather moresingular approach than Scotland Yard can offer. You will answer toBuckingham Palace and to me and you will have the authority tocommand the police when necessary. We live in tumultuous times,Burton. The Technologists are pushing ethical boundaries and theLibertines are pushing moral boundaries. Both castes are toopowerful and both have extremist factions. The palace is concernedthat science is altering our culture too much and too fast andwithout proper periods of reflection and consultation. For the goodof the Empire, we require someone who can unveil secrets and makesnap judgements; someone fearless and independent; someone likeyou."
"I'm honoured, sir," responded Burton, and he meant it.
"It's not an order. If you don't want the commission, you canhave the consulate instead."
"I want the commission, Prime Minister."
"Good. I have an initial assignment for you, but, as I said, Iwant you to consider this Spring Heeled Jack affair as a second. Ifthere is indeed a spy within the government or at the palace,unmask him! As for the original mission: find out what these areand where they are coming from-"
The prime minister pulled a sheet of paper from his desk drawerand slid it toward Burton. On it there was a rough sketch, inpencil, of a squat, misshapen man with a snoutlike jaw, his faceresembling that of a vicious dog.
"You want me to find the artist?" asked Burton.
"No. I know who the artist is-a Frenchman named Paul GustaveDore. He's buried himself somewhere in the East End where he's beensurreptitiously sketching scenes of poverty-God knows why; you knowhow these artists are, with their absurd notions of the nobility ofthe poor and whatnot. No, I want you to find the man-wolves."
Burton looked up, puzzled. "Man-wolves? You think this issketched from life?"
"It is. The royal secretary made it known to Dore that themonarch was interested in his work. In response, the artist hasbeen posting some of his sketches to the palace. This was amongthem. Look on the back."
Burton turned the sketch over and saw words scrawled in anerratic hand: Your Majesty, there are loups-garous at large in theCauldron and the people here are greatly afraid. There have beendeaths and abductions every night, far beyond that which is usualfor this part of the city. The populace hate the police and willnot consult them. I have seen one of the loups-garous with nay owneyes. This sketch depicts the thing I saw. It tore out a man'sheart as I watched and made away with his boy.
– Dore.
"Good Lord!" exclaimed Burton.
"Personally," said Palmerston, "I think Dore has fallen in withthe opium crowd and this is nothing but a drug-fuelled delusion.Maybe you can find out. With your ability to disguise yourself andadopt accents, I thought maybe you could penetrate where the policefear to tread; find this Dore chap and speak to him."
With a rattle and a whistle of steam, a second canister poppedup into the contraption on the prime minister's desk. He took it,opened it, read the note, and offered it to Burton.
"Your salary."
Burton looked at the numbers scrawled on the paper.
For the second time that morning, his jaw went slack.
Last night's mist had condensed into a fog, a sickly sulphurousblanket which scratched at Burton's eyes as he waved down a hansomcab along Whitehall. It was one of the new vehicles, pulled by asteam-horse. These four-wheeled engines bore a passing resemblanceto the famous Stephenson's Rocket but were a fraction of the size,being about five feet long, three feet wide, and three feet tall,with a thin fu
Despite the height of the fu
Burton climbed in and gazed out of the window as the hansomchugged away from the curb. The ghostlike forms of London'sinhabitants scuttled through the pea-souper, fading in and out ofsight as if their very existence was questionable.
His hangover had vanished entirely. He felt strong and positive;he possessed a sense of purpose at last.
Palmerston's final words, though, still echoed in his ears:"This is not a job for a married man, you understand?"
Burton did understand.
Isabel would not.
Penfold Private Sanatorium, which was run by the Sisterhood ofNoble Benevolence, was located in St. John's Wood, off EdgwareRoad.
The hansom drew up near the hospital's entrance and Burtondisembarked, handing his fare up to the driver. He mounted thesteps and entered the building.
The nurse at the reception desk glanced up at him.
"Oh!" she exclaimed. "Your poor face! But I'm sorry, sir, wedon't treat minor wounds here! Can't you see your own doctor? Youprobably only need your cuts cleaned and some cream on that blackeye."
Burton gave a slight smile. "Actually, Sister, I'm here to visitLieutenant John Speke. Which room is he in?"
She looked surprised. "He's no longer here, sir. They took himlast night."
"Took him? Who took him? Where?"
"The-um-his-" She stalled; looked confused. "His family?"
"You're asking me?"
"No! No, sir. I mean to say-yes, his family took him, Ibelieve."
Burton frowned. "Come now! You believe? What's going on?"
"Are you related to Lieutenant Speke, sir?"
"My name is Richard Burton. Perhaps you've heard of me?"
"Oh, I see. Yes, sir, I have. It's that-the thing is-well, thelieutenant was removed from the sanatorium last night while SisterRaghavendra was on duty and she neglected to do the properpaperwork. We have no record of who came for him or where they tookhim."
"The man was on his death bed! How on earth could she allow hisremoval without due procedure?"
"She-she said she was taken ill and can't properly recallevents, sir."
"Is that so? At what time did this occur?"
"About four in the morning. There were very few staff on duty atthe time."
"And Speke was still alive?"
"Yes, sir. Though, in all honesty-and I'm sorry to say this-butit's unlikely that he survived being taken from our care."
"I'd like to see the nurse-Sister Raghavendra-if youplease."
"I'm afraid she's not here. She was suspended from duty and senthome. She was very upset."