"Mary Stevens's father."
"Yes." Trounce started pushing tobacco into the bowl of a stained meerschaum.
"Bartholomew married Elisabeth Pringle in 1821 and the following year Mary was born. As you know, she was attacked by Jack in '37, when she was fifteen years old. Five years later she married a man named Albert Fairweather and the whole family moved to Essex where they now live. The Fairweathers have four children, three boys and a girl. The daughter, Connie, is now seventeen.
"Our third chap is Carl Goodkind, who passed away five years ago. He left a widow, Emily, who still lives. They had one child, a daughter, Deborah, who, in 1838, was committed to Bedlam, having suddenly gone insane for no clear reason-at least, none that I could get Mrs. Goodkind to talk about. Deborah died in the asylum twelve years ago."
"Spring Heeled Jack again?" pondered Burton.
"You've seen the files, Captain. You know there are recorded cases of his victims losing their minds, so yes, I rather suspect that Deborah Goodkind was another such. And we shouldn't be surprised that the assault was never spoken of-even to other members of the Brigade-for you know the shame and embarrassment that attach to mental aberrations."
The king's agent nodded thoughtfully.
"The fourth man is Edwin Fraser, born 1780, died earlier this year at the grand old age of eighty-one. He married May Wells and they had a daughter, Lizzie Fraser, in 1823. Apparently she was a happy and intelligent child until the age of fourteen when, after a mental breakdown, she became morose and reclusive. Nevertheless, she found a husband in Desmond Steephill and gave birth to a daughter, Marian, in 1847. She would have turned fourteen in a couple of months."
"Would have?"
Trounce took a long draw on his pipe and blew a column of blue smoke into the air.
"Last month," he said, quietly, "Lizzie poisoned herself, her husband, and her daughter."
"By Gad!"
"According to the coroner's report, there were bruises on the young girl's arms, as if she'd been gripped tightly, and scratches on her chest. They were not made the same day as the poisoning."
Trounce looked directly at Burton, and through the tobacco smoke his blue eyes seemed to shine as if lit from within.
"I think," he said, "that Lizzie Fraser was the Lizzie that Spring Heeled Jack asked after when he caused the brougham to crash back in '37. Furthermore, I think he found and assaulted her, causing her subsequent mental breakdown. I also believe that, last month, he attacked her daughter, Marian, and that Lizzie, in an insane attempt to escape his attentions, poisoned herself and her family."
"Great heavens, man!" exclaimed Burton. "Are you suggesting that the fiend is specifically targeting the womenfolk of Battersea Brigade members?"
"Yes, Captain, I am. Listen to the rest, then tell me if I'm wrong! The fifth of our seven is fifty-nine-year-old Mr. Frederick Adams, who married Virginia Jones in 1821. You've met their daughter."
"I have?"
"Tilly Adams, born 1822, married Edward Tew in 1845, gave birth to Angela Tew in 1846."
"I'll be damned!"
"Exactly," agreed Trounce. "I did some poking about in Mrs. Tew's past. She was bedridden for reasons unknown for the greater part of 1839."
"So I was right about that strange look she gave me when we were leaving her cottage," mused Burton. "Sort of secretive and resentful."
"Yes. As you suggested, she was hiding something. I have no doubt that she knew her daughter's attacker," said Trounce, "because she herself had been one of his victims more than two decades ago. Can I trouble you for a refill?"
"Certainly," responded Burton, reaching for the bottle. He topped up the Yard man's glass.
"And number six?"
"Mr. David Alsop, now deceased. Married Jemma Bucklestone. Daughter: Jane Alsop. Attacked aged eighteen in 1838. Married Benton Pipkiss in 1843. Their daughter, Alicia Pipkiss, was born three years later. Like Connie Fairweather, she's in the age group that Spring Heeled Jack attacks but has not been assaulted."
"Yet," observed Burton.
"Yet," agreed Trounce. "Those are our two next possible targets. The seventh member of the Brigade we can count out. Mr. Arnold Lovitt married June Dibble and they had a daughter, Sarah. It wasn't reported at the time but Sarah admitted to me that she was sexually molested in 1839 and in describing her assailant, she gave a pretty good portrayal of our stilt-walker. A couple of years later, she married Donald Harkness and they had three children, including a girl, Lucy Harkness. Three weeks ago, Lucy fell into a coma from which she hasn't emerged. The family's doctor has labelled it an `hysterical fit caused by severe mental trauma.' A trauma which, I'll wager, was caused by you-know-who."
Burton grunted and said, "So in every case where a member of the Battersea Brigade had a daughter, that daughter was attacked by Spring Heeled Jack. And of the granddaughters, all have been attacked recently, it seems, accept Connie Fairweather and Alicia Pipkiss."
"Yes. Which begs the question: what the hell is he playing at?"
Burton stood and paced up and down. "You've posted constables at the girls' homes?"
"They are being watched every minute of the day," confirmed Trounce. "The Fairweather family won't be around for much longer, though-they're preparing to emigrate to Australia. That, at least, might put the girl out of harm's way."
"There seem to be two main elements to this mystery," Burton declared. "The man who assassinated Queen Victoria, and the female descendants of one particular group of regulars who drank at the pub where he worked. Perhaps we should count the late Marquess of Waterford as a third."
"There's another," said Trounce.
"There is? What?"
"You."
That night, he dreamed again of Isabel.
She was bent low over a blazing fire, and its orange light made her face diabolical.
In her hand, she held a bound notebook; one of his journals; a detailed chapter of his extraordinary life.
With her features contorted by a hellish fury, she threw the volume into the flames, and Burton felt a chunk of his existence melting away.
She picked up another volume, fed it to the fire, and hissed in satisfaction as another part of him was turned to ashes.
One by one, she burned his journals.
Sir Richard Francis Burton was consumed, reduced to an empty shell of deeds done, the man himself removed.
He cried out desperately: "Stop!"
Isabel raised her eyes, glared at him, and lifted a thick, heavy tome.
"No!" he shouted. "Please!" For this, he knew, was his magnum opus.
"Everything you are," she said, with an air of finality, "must be rewritten."
She dropped the book into the flames.
Burton jerked awake, a sheen of sweat upon his brow.
"The deuce take it!" he cursed, pushing back the blankets and wrapping himself in his jubbah. He stood, parted the curtains-it was still dark outside-then leaned over his water basin and splashed his face.
He left his bedroom and walked down the stairs to the study, opened the door, and entered.
The coal in the hearth was glowing softly. Above, on the mantelpiece, a candle glimmered.
It was six o'clock in the morning, too early for Mrs. Angell to have lit candles, besides which, she wouldn't have done it. She'd have stoked the fire, opened the curtains, and returned to the basement to await his awakening and request for coffee.
He closed the door behind him and stood listening. Then he calmly crossed to the fireplace and took a rapier down from a bracket on the chimney breast.