'I suppose so, though I don't read anything significant into it. My suspicion is that the man's vanity-which, incidentally, knew no limits-made him choose that location. Perhaps he fancied himself as the marquess of an English estate, in addition to the Irish one. He lived in a rambling old halfderelict mansion, appropriately named `Darkening Towers,' on considerable acreage to the west of the village.'
'Wait a minute. If Waterford is just outside Hertford, it must be fairly close to Old Ford.'
'Well spotted. Darkening Towers is about three miles from the Alsop cottage.'
'Does Jane Alsop still live there?'
'Yes. She's Jane Pipkiss now. She lives in the cottage with her husband, Benton-they married in 1843-and their children, a daughter and a son.
'Anyway, between '37 and '40, Beresford continually clashed with the local constabulary for drunken brawling, vandalism, and a number of brutal pranks which he played on local women. The man seemed to have no respect for the law, did absolutely anything for a bet, and displayed a strong streak of sadism.'
'The Marquis de Sade holds an allure for certain types,' said Burton. 'You should meet my friend Swinburne.'
'Really?' replied Trounce flatly, with an eyebrow raised.
'Well, maybe not.'
'Anyway, after the death of Victoria, Beresford and his cronies started drinking in the Hog in the Pound, obviously attracted by its notoriety as `the assassin's pub.' As their numbers grew and their anarchistic philosophy took form, they became the Libertines.'
Burton frowned. 'But what's their connection with Jack?'
Trounce gazed at the burning log in the fireplace, as if the past could be glimpsed in the flames. 'By '43, the creature had become like the bogeyman of folklore. Whenever a sexual molestation occurred, the public was quick to cry `Spring Heeled Jack!' whether there was any evidence of his involvement or not, and there were a great number of pranks committed in his name by young bloods dressed in costume. As time passed, it became more difficult to separate the genuine incidents from those performed by copycats. Then, during '43, there was a new outbreak of sightings in the Battersea, Lambeth, and Camberwell triangle. They appear to have been genuine. I shan't go through them now, Captain, but you can borrow this report and read the details yourself.
'Henry Beresford seemed to be galvanised by the reappearance of the creature. He held Spring Heeled Jack up as some sort of Libertine god-called it a `trans-natural entity'-a being entirely free of restraint, with no conscience or self-doubt; a thing that did whatever it wanted, whenever it wanted.
'As the Mad Marquess's ranting increased, the Libertine group split into two; into what are now known as the `True Libertines,' who offer the more reasonable proposition that art, culture, and beauty are essential to the human spirit and who, nowadays, concern themselves mostly with railing against the detrimental influence of the Technologists' machinery; and into the far more extremist `Rakes,' led by Beresford, who seek to overthrow society's legal, moral, ethical, and behavioural boundaries. Confounded scoundrels, the lot of them!'
'It would seem,' pondered Burton, 'that if Spring Heeled Jack is a man, then the Mad Marquess is your obvious suspect.'
'He most certainly was,' agreed Trounce, 'but for certain difficulties. For one, physically and facially he in no way resembled the creature I saw. For another, he possessed rock-solid alibis for the times when Mary Stevens and Lucy Scales were attacked. And for a third, though the folklore of Spring Heeled Jack has grown these twenty years past, the creature itself has been absent until the attack on you last night, which, from your description, I have no doubt was committed by the apparition I saw back in June 1840.'
'Which presents a difficulty because?'
'Because Henry de La Poet Beresford, 3rd Marquess of Waterford, died two years ago. He fell from his horse and broke his neck.'
Burton's eyes lost focus as he reviewed all that Trounce had told him. The connections between Oxford, Beresford, and Spring Heeled Jack were circumstantial at best, coincidental at worst, yet possessed an undeniable allure; he sensed that an undiscovered truth lay concealed somewhere in the tangled web.
'There's something else,' said Trounce, quietly.
Burton looked at him.
'When Spring Heeled Jack leaped past me toward the queen's carriage,' said the detective inspector, 'there was an aura of blue fire around his head and sparks and electrical charges shooting from his body. His costume was burned in places, and, when he turned, his face was stricken with pain.
'After he vanished, I pursued the Mystery Hero across the park and was again confronted by the apparition, this time near the woods in the park's northwestern corner. The creature moves exceedingly fast, but I cannot for the life of me see how it got there without passing me. Also, the Spring Heeled Jack that jumped out of the trees was not aflame, had no burn marks upon its suit, and displayed no signs of pain. In other words, Captain, I am convinced that there are at least two Spring Heeled Jacks!'
'Phew!' breathed Burton. 'As if matters weren't complicated enough!' He stood. 'You've been of immense help, Detective Inspector. I'm indebted to you.'
Trounce got to his feet and held the report out to Burton, who took it.
'You can pay that debt by keeping me informed, Captain. My superiors will not allow me to actively investigate this case, which they regard as so much nonsense, so I'm counting on you to solve the mystery. Please remember, too, that when I'm off duty, I'm entirely at your disposal.'
They shook hands.
'Thank you, Inspector Trounce-'
'William.'
'William. I shall be sure to alert you to whatever progress I might make; I give you my word.'
As Burton turned to leave, Trounce said: 'One last thing, Captain.'
'Yes?'
'In the past, Spring Heeled Jack has always committed a number of assaults during a period of days before then vanishing for weeks, months, or years at a time.'
'So you think another attack is due?'
'Imminently.'
It was midafternoon by the time Burton stepped out of Scotland Yard to be engulfed by the silence of the 'London particular.'
The soot was still falling.
Like a blind man, he tapped along the pavement with his cane until he found the curb. His eyes started to water and a stinging sensation burned his nostrils.
'Monty!' he bellowed.
A towering shadow loomed to his right and he stepped back with his heart hammering in his chest, expecting the uncanny stilt-walker to emerge from the cloud, but no, the shape was too bulky.
'That you, guv'nor?'
'Yes! By heaven!'
'Aye. It's a thick 'un, ain't it? I can hardly see the end o' me nose!'
Montague Penniforth materialised at Burton's side.
'Bismillah!' uttered the king's agent. 'I didn't realise you were a giant!'
It was true: Penniforth was enormous, standing at least six foot five, and heavily muscled, too.
'Me muvver's to blame,' the cabbie confessed. 'She fed me too much porridge an' molasses!'
Burton noticed with astonishment that the man was still smoking his cherrywood.
'I'm glad you're here, Monty, but you should've gone home; you can't possibly drive in this!'
'Oh, don'tcha worry yourself about that; we'll just have to inch along a bit slow, like-but I'll get you to wherever you want to go, guv'nor, you can be sure o' that. Come on, the hansom's over here.'
Burton followed Penniforth along the curb until the cab hove into view. As he clambered into it, he said, 'Do you think you can find Montagu Place?'
'0' course! It's named after me, ain't it?'
Miraculously-because it seemed impossible-Montague Penniforth did find Montagu Place, though it took the rest of the afternoon. Burton gave him a very generous tip and, nurturing an idea that had occurred to him during the excruciatingly slow ride, he asked the cabbie to call on him the next day, or, if the fog precluded that, as soon
