"He is the president of the League of Chimney Sweeps."
"They have a league?"
"Out, Monsieur. I regret, though, that I know not where you should look for the boy."
"My young friend Quips might know."
"He is a sweep?"
"No, a newsboy."
"Ah, out out, he will know. These children, they-what is the expres- sion?-'stick together,' no? I have heard that a word given to one is passed to the next and the next and spreads across your Empire faster than a fire through a dry forest."
"It's true. Anything else, Monsieur Dore? You know nothing of where the loups-garous come from?"
"Mais non. I can tell you that they have been hunting here for two months and that their raids now come every night, but I can tell you no more. I must go. It is late and I am tired."
"Very well. Thank you for your time, Monsieur. Please be careful. I understand that art is your life, but I would not like to hear that you had died for it."
"You will not. I am nearly finished here. The sketches I have taken, Monsieur Burton-they will make me famous!"
"I'll keep an eye open for your work," replied Burton. "Tell me, how can I get out of the Cauldron?"
"Keep going along this road; that way-" He pointed, a vague motion in the darkness. "It is not far. You will come to the bridge."
"Thank you. Good-bye, Monsieur Dore. Be safe."
"Au revoir, Monsieur Burton."
It was past five in the morning by the time Sir Richard Francis Burton collapsed onto his bed and into a deep sleep.
After his meeting with the French artist, he'd made his way past the Tower of London, following the fog-dulled cacophony of the ever-awake London Docks until he reached London Bridge. He'd then walked northward away from the Thames. As the river receded behind him, the murk thinned somewhat and a greater number of working gas lamps enabled him to better get his bearings. He trudged all the way to Liverpool Street and there waved down a hansom of the old horse-pulled variety.
At home, under the conviction that his malaria was about to flare up again, he'd dosed himself with quinine before divesting himself of the disguise and washing the soot from his face. Then, gratefully, he slid between crisp, clean sheets and fell into a deep sleep.
He dreamed of Isabel.
It was a strange dream. He was standing on a low rocky hill overlooking Damascus and a black horse was pounding up the slope toward him, its hooves drumming noisily on the ground. As it came closer, he saw that it was ridden by Isabel, who was wrapped in Arabian clothing and rode not as a woman, sidesaddle, but as a man. She radiated strength and happiness.
The animal skidded to a halt and reared before coming to rest in front of him, its sweat-flecked sides heaving.
Isabel reached up and pulled aside her veil.
"Hurry, Dick-you'll be late!" she urged, in her deep contralto voice.
From behind him he heard a distant noise, a clacking. He wanted to turn to see what it was but she stopped him.
"No! There's no time! You have to come with me!"
The sound was drawing closer.
"Dick! Come on!"
Now he noticed that there was a second horse, tethered to Isabel's. She gestured at it, urging him to mount.
Clack! Clack! Clack! Clack!
What was that? He started to turn.
"No, Dick! No!"
Clack! Clack! Clack! Clack!
He twisted and looked up at the hill behind him. A freakish figure was bounding down it, approaching fast, taking huge leaps.
Clack! Clack! Clack! Clack!
The sound of its stilts hitting the rock.
Isabel screamed.
The thing gave an insane and triumphant yell, its red eyes blazing.
Burton awoke with a start and sat up.
Clack! Clack! Clack! Clack!
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 basement 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
Detective 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 brass, 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 altitude, 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.