I felt exhilarated just reading the story, but did not understand why. I supposed that it was the sheer fact of Jack’s existence, the very impossibility of there being a man such as he — impossible, I whispered, impossible. A man who could jump atop buildings now studied philosophy in the same class as I.
The London newspaper dubbed him “Spring Heeled Jack,” and the nickname made me laugh at its levity and simultaneous accuracy.
I heard footsteps, and quickly slammed the volume shut. I shoved it into its nest on the shelf, while grabbing for something else to read. By the time Dame Nightingale peered over my shoulder, I appeared to be quite absorbed in my reading and gave a little start when she said, “Ah, Pride and Prejudice—a fine work indeed, and offers much for a young lady such as yourself to learn.”
“Quite,” I agreed. I expected Dame Nightingale to point out how everyone in the book married, as if it somehow bore relevance to my life, but instead she sighed and rested her long, well-shaped hand on the crease of my white sleeve.
“You see, Alexandra,” she said in a tone of soulful intimacy, as if we were best friends sharing secrets, “it is good for a girl your age to understand that not all people are suitable for your friendship. There are rough beasts masquerading as gentlemen; I wish I could tell you that the reverse is also true. However, those who seem as beasts are bestial, and so are some of those who seem as gentlemen. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” I said. I did understand her words, although the reason behind her saying them escaped me — unless she meant to intimate that Jack Bartram (which was not his real name, as I had surmised) was a beast; but then again, I already knew as much.
“Very good,” Dame Nightingale said, and nodded at me as if dismissing a class. I reacted as if it were exactly that, and left the library, book still clutched in my hands, even though nothing could be further from my intentions than reading.
I found Jack in the hallway — an open corridor that ran along the front wall of the building, its wide windows offering a view of the Nevsky Prospect and the moody dark river. I stood for a bit, as I always did, captivated by the wide expanse of water. More than ever-present, the River Neva did not merely run through the city, the city arranged itself along it — every palace, every cathedral had a connection to it, or to one of the smaller rivers such as the Moyka and Fontanka.
Jack finished his conversation with Mr. Herbert and some other gentleman I had not previously met, and smiled at me, his hat in his hand, ready to depart. Always willing to walk me home or to the club or to the embankment, wherever I wanted to go, he was right there next to me, my gangly criminal shadow.
“Such a nice view,” I said to him.
He nodded. “I almost feel bad,” he said. “I mean, that we English have taken this club over. We really do not deserve that view.”
And there it was, that elusive quality in him I could never understand — on one hand, he was considerate of others to an enormous degree; yet, if newspapers and his own words could be believed, he had no trouble robbing people and scaring the daylights out of them. I avoided thinking of the darker tales, where the victims claimed Spring Heeled Jack beat them or committed some other violence. Perhaps I was foolish, but I was not afraid of him.
“Mr. Bartram,” I said as he escorted me across the bridge, back to Vasilyevsky Island, “I have a favor to ask of you.”
He looked down at me, quizzical. “What is it?”
“You have informed me of your… special capabilities,” I said. “You think that I would not be believed if I were to tell anyone. But it is still quite a risk, no matter whether I am believed or not. What if I were to tell Dame Nightingale?”
“You wouldn’t.”
“No, I would not.” I would not give the dreadful woman the time of day if it could be avoided. “But there are those who know of them. I have read about you.”
He smiled. “In the newspapers?”
“Indeed. It was very thoughtful of you to show me where they were.”
He laughed. “You seem to enjoy sneaking behind my back.”
I blushed a little. “I could not be sure if you wished me to discover more about you, so I had to finish my readings before I told you. And now you are laughing about it.”
He grew serious then. “Not at all,” he said. “Although you are right. I did want you to know about me. But to tell you straight out did not seem right.”
We stopped in the middle of the bridge. The wind was especially cutting there, and the black water churned below, occasionally silvering and growing choppy with the silent passing of submarines underneath its surface. I watched Jack observe their movement, and a quiet certainty grew within me. All this time I had agonized about ways of swaying him to my side, but he wanted nothing more. This is why he told me about the Crane Club. He could not help but tell me, yet he could not tell me all. Nor could he ask of me what he wished to ask.
“What is it that you want from me?” I asked.
He smiled, started saying something jocular, but then his eyes met mine and he stopped.
“You want me to free you,” I said. “Correct?” It was starting to feel like a parlor game, where a summoned spirit could answer only yes or no; all that was missing was a medium and table rapping.
He nodded, turning back to stare at the river. A submarine surfaced, and a freedman wrapped in an overcoat of sheepskin and shod in felt boots climbed out of the hatch awkwardly, and tinkered with something on the tail end of the contraption.
“These submersible craft are rather complicated,” Jack said. “Very interesting, really.”
“Of course you have plans of their inner workings,” I guessed. “You stole them, just as you stole the Chinese airship models.”
“And some other war machines,” he said. “When all of those documents travel to London, the British Empire will be impossible to oppose.”
“Especially if you have the Ottomans on your side,” I said. At that point it was a mere supposition, even though I had seen a Turk or two in the Northern Star, their red fezzes as visible in the crowd as blood on the snow.
“Yes,” Jack said. “I’m afraid there is nothing to be done about all that.”
“And you hate being a spy.”
“I was compelled. One cannot help but resent any sort of indentured servitude, be it slavery or something a little more genteel.”
“So if I were to offer you something else?”