In the absence of anything but the dimmest of lights-from three red blemishes floating over the nearby riverbank, perhaps the lights of a merchant vessel or barge-Burton could barely see the Frenchman. He had a vague impression of rags, a long beard, and wild hair.
"You look like an old vagrant."
"Mais out! I owe my survival to that fact! They think I possess nothing, so they leave me alone, and quietly and secretly I draw them. But you, Monsieur-why are you in the Cauldron? It is because of the loups-garous, no?"
"Yes. I've been commissioned to find out where they come from and what they are doing."
"Where they come from I do not know, but what they are doing? They are stealing the chimney sweeps."
"They're doing what?"
"Mais je to jure que c'est vrai! These loups-garous, they are most particular. They take children but not any children-just the boys who work as sweeps."
"Why the devil would werewolves kidnap chimney sweeps?"
"This question I cannot answer. You should see the Beetle."
"Who-or what-is the Beetle?"
"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.