'Spit it out, man!' snapped Burton.
The detective cleared his throat and continued, speaking slowly and with apparent amazement: 'As Lucy lay in her sister's arms, Spring Heeled Jack walked quickly away. Lisa reported that he was talking to himself in a highpitched, crazy-sounding voice. Most of his words, she said, were unintelligible. There was, however, one phrase that came to her clearly.'
Trounce paused. He looked at the man opposite, who asked: 'What was it?'
'Apparently,' replied Trounce, 'he shouted, `This is your fault, Burton!''
Sir Richard Francis Burton felt icy fingers tickling his spine.
The two men looked at one another.
Shadows shifted across the walls and the sound of a mournful foghorn pushed at the windowpane.
'Coincidence, of course,' whispered Trounce.
'Obviously,' replied Burton, in an equally hushed tone. 'In 1838, I was seventeen years old and living with my parents and brother in Italy. I'd spent very little of my life in England and had certainly never encountered or even heard of Spring Heeled Jack.'
Another pause.
Trounce shook himself, opened the report, and looked down at it.
'Anyway, now we come to my own encounter,' he said, brusquely, 'which occurred on June 10, 1840; perhaps the most infamous date in English history.'
Burton nodded. 'The day of the assassination.'
THE ASSASSINATION
Assassination has never changed the history of the world.
Dennis the Dip slowed down Police Constable William Trounce by five minutes; five minutes in which the eighteen-year-old policeman could have become a national hero rather than the laughing stock of Scotland Yard.
Constable Trounce's beat incorporated Constitution Hill, and he always timed it so that he got there at six o'clock, just as Queen Victoria and her husband emerged from the 'Garden Gate' of Buckingham Palace in their open-topped carriage for their afternoon spin around Green Park. For the twenty-year-old queen, the daily ritual was a breath of fresh air-so far as the word 'fresh' could be applied to London's malodorous atmosphere-an hour's escape from the stifling formality of Buckingham Palace, with its dusty footmen and haughty butlers, servile advisers and fussing maids; while for the citizens who gathered along the route, it was a chance to cheer or boo her, depending on their opinion of her three-year reign.
Trounce was usually quick to warn those who jeered to 'move along.'
Today, though, as he proceeded along the Mall, Trounce spotted Dennis the Dip and decided to follow him. The notorious pickpocket was, as usual, dressed as a gentleman and looked entirely at ease among the well-heeled crowd that sauntered back and forth along the ceremonial avenue. It was a disguise. Had he opened his mouth to speak, the chopped and diced version of the English language that emerged would have immediately marked Dennis as a native of London's East End, otherwise known as 'the Cauldron.'
He scrubbed-up well, did Dennis, thought Trounce, as he slowed his pace and kept his eyes on the meandering crook.
The pickpocket was obviously looking for a mark and, when he found it, Trounce would swoop. It would be a nice feather in his cap if his very first arrest ended the career of this particular villain.
However, it soon became apparent that Dennis was rather indecisive today. He wandered from one side of the avenue to the other; trailed first one man then the next; stopped by a doorway and eyed passersby; and all the time his skillful fingers remained in plain view. They didn't plunge into a single pocket, not even his own.
After a while, Trounce grew bored, so he walked over to the petty crook and stood facing him.
'What ho, old son! What do you think you're up to, then?'
'Oh bleedin' 'eck, I ain't up to nuffink, am I!' whined Dennis. 'Jest givin' me Sunday best an airing, that's all.'
'It's Wednesday, Dennis.'
'No law agin' wearin' a Sunday suit on a Wednesday, is there?'
The crook's rodentlike eyes swivelled right and left as if seeking an escape route.
Trounce unhooked his truncheon from his belt and pushed its end into Dennis's chest.
'I'm watching you, laddie. Those fingers of yours will be slipping into where they're not welcome before too long, and, when they do, nay fingers will be closing over your shoulder, mark my words. We'll soon have you out of that suit and wearing the broad arrow. There are no pockets in prison uniforms, did you know that?'
'Yus. But you ain't got no cause to threaten me!'
'Haven't I, now? Haven't I? Well, see it stays that way, Dennis my lad. Now hop it! I don't want to see you in this neck of the woods again!'
With a vicious look at the young constable, the pickpocket spat onto the pavement and scurried away.
Constable Trounce grinned and resumed his beat.
At the end of the Mall he passed Buckingham Palace and turned right into Green Park. Rather than walk along Constitution Hill itself, he preferred to pace along on the grass, thus positioning himself behind any crowd that might gather along the queen's route. In his experience, the troublemakers usually hid at the back, where they could more easily take to their heels should anyone object to their catcalls.
Her Majesty's carriage, drawn by four horses-the front left ridden by a postilion-was already on the path a little way ahead. There were four outriders with her, two in front of the vehicle and two some yards behind it.
Trounce increased his pace to catch up, walking down a gentle slope that gave him an excellent view of the scene.
Despite the mild weather, the crowd was sparse today. There were no protests and few hurrahs.
He jumped at the sound of a gunshot.
What the hell?
Breaking into a run, he scanned the scene ahead and saw a man wearing a top hat, blue frock coat, and white breeches walking beside, and to the right of, the slow-moving carriage. He was throwing down a smoking flintlock and drawing, with his left hand, a second gun from his coat.
In an instant, horror sucked the heat from Trounce's body and time slowed to a crawl.
His legs pumped; his boots thudded into the grass; he heard himself shout, 'No!'
He saw heads turning toward the man.
His breath thundered in his ears.
The man's left arm came up.
The queen stood, raising her hands to the white lace around her throat.
Her husband reached for her.
A second man leaped forward and grabbed the gunman.
'No, Edward!' came a faint yell.
The scene seemed to freeze; the two men entwined; their faces, even from this distance, so similar, like brothers; each person in the crowd poised in midmotion, some stepping forward, some stepping back. The queen standing, wearing a cream-coloured dress and bonnet. Her consort leaning forward, in a top hat and red jacket. The outriders turning their horses.
Christ! thought Trounce. Christ, no! Please, no!
Suddenly a freakish creature flew past him.
What the hell? A-a stilt-walker?
Tall, loose-limbed, bouncing on what seemed to be spring-loaded stilts, it stopped just ahead of the
