Wednesday tried and failed to dawn. It wasn't until late morning that the fog allowed a smudge of daylight to filter through.
Sir Richard Francis Burton had spent the previous evening pondering the report Detective Inspector Trounce had loaned him. There was one aspect of it that he and the Yard man hadn't discussed: in every description given by witnesses-even those where the apparition was said to be a ghost or a devil-its age was estimated as 'early forties.' Yet twenty-four years had passed since the first manifestation. If Jack had been in his early forties when he pounced on Mary Stevens then he should be nigh on sixty-five by now. The face Burton had seen beneath the globular helmet had been lined with madness and pain but certainly not with age.
He was beginning to agree with Trounce that the Spring Heeled Jack phenomenon might involve more than one person-and perhaps more than one generation.
As was his habit, he slept lightly and restlessly, awoke early, and wrote for three hours before taking breakfast.
Throughout the rest of the morning, the gas lamps glowed in both his study and the library upstairs as he brought down stacks of books and searched through them for references to any mythical being that might resemble his assailant. While he was at it, he kept his eyes open for information concerning wolf-men, too.
In the latter case, there was a plethora of references to loups-garous-or werewolves. Tales had been told of half-man, half-wolf creatures all over the world and throughout history. The same could not be said for Spring Heeled Jack; Burton found but one mention of a stilt-walking spirit.
He was smoking a hookah while studying the reference when Algernon Swinburne called at one o'clock.
The poet stood on tiptoe and peered over a wall of books at Burton, who'd absent-mindedly muttered 'send him in' when Mrs. Angell announced his friend's arrival. It was plain that the great explorer was in one of his 'scholarly funks'-as Swinburne called them-and was blind to all but the book in his hand.
'Boo!' said the poet.
'Moko Jumbi,' announced Burton.
'Eh?'
The explorer looked up. 'Oh, hello, Algy. There's nothing. No reference I can find that at all resembles Spring Heeled Jack with the exception of the Caribbean's `Moko Jumbi,' which is represented in carnivals by stilt-walking dancers. The origin is definitely African. Moko is a god of the Congo region; the word means `diviner.' As for jumbi,' I believe it roughly equates with the Arabian `djinni' and probably has its origin in the Congolese word `zumbi.' So: 'Diviner Spirit.' Interesting.'
'Is it?' said Swinburne. 'Why are you researching Spring Heeled Jack? Are you joining the Rakes? And why do you have a black eye?'
'The one gave me the other.'
'What? What? Are you telling me that Spring Heeled Jack whacked you in the eye?' exclaimed Swinburne, moving around the books to sit in the armchair facing Burton's. His elbow caught a stack and sent volumes cascading to the floor.
Burton sighed. `Do you consider `whacked' to be a suitable word for an up-and-coming poet?'
'Shut up and answer the question!'
'If I shut up I can hardly-'
'Richard!' screeched Swinburne, bouncing in his seat.
Burton laughed. It looked like it hurt him; his upper lip curled, revealing over-long canines, and his eyes seemed to wince, as if seldom-used muscles had come into play. Three deep-chested barks, then the face fell back to its normal savage aspect and the penetrating eyes levelled at Swinburne's own pale green orbs.
'It's true, Algy. I was attacked by Spring Heeled Jack after leaving you at the Cannibal Club,' he said, putting his book aside. He proceeded to describe the incident.
'Great heavens, but that's wonderful!' enthused Swinburne when he'd finished. 'Fancy being punched in the head by a myth! I don't believe you, of course. Have you eaten?'
'I can assure you that I'm telling the truth and it felt far from wonderful. No, I haven't.'
'Come on then-let's go for tiffin at the Black Toad.'
Burton put the hookah aside and stood. 'Very well, but go easy on the ale. Last time we lunched there, I had to carry you out over my shoulder.'
'Funny.' The little poet chuckled. 'I don't remember that at all!'
As he leaped up, his foot clipped another pile of books and sent it crashing down.
A couple of minutes later, the two men, with overcoats buttoned up to their necks, top hats at a jaunty angle on their heads, and canes swinging in their hands, strolled out of 14 Montagu Place and headed east toward Baker Street.
The fog had turned from a deep hellish red to a pustulant pale yellow. People, animals, and vehicles moved cautiously through it. Sound was muted. Even the sudden report of a nearby velocipede's boiler exploding, and the rider's yells as his calves were scalded, sounded strangely muffled.
'Algy,' said Burton, 'you've knocked around with a Rake or two. Why their enthusiasm for Spring Heeled Jack? What exactly is their philosophy?'
'They're extremists,' declared the poet. 'Anarchists. Nihilists. Very naughty boys. They claim that all moral codes and social conventions are entirely artificial and that by following them a man is willingly allowing his authentic identity to be suppressed.'
They crossed Gloucester Place and entered Dorset Street, Swinburne hurrying along with his characteristically springy step and nervous movements. As they passed the corner, the sweet odour of roasting chestnuts caressed their nostrils; one of the rare pleasurable scents the streets of London could offer. Burton tipped his hat at the vendor.
'Afternoon, Mr. Grub. How's business?'
'Rotten! No one can see me in this blinkin' pea-souper. Can I do you a bag?'
'Sorry, old son. I'm on my way for a nosh-up at the pub!'
'Ah well. Enjoy, Cap'n!'
It was one of Burton's great talents, this ability to communicate with anyone, whatever their social standing. Some of his acquaintances sneered at it; they considered it indecorous to converse with the hoi polloi, but their opinions did little to influence him.
'The difference between a True Libertine and a Rake,' said Swinburne as they moved on, 'is that the one is concerned with how and what an individual should contribute to society, while the other is concerned only with how society shapes the individual.'
'You make the Libertines sound rather virtuous. That's not their reputation.'
'No, no! Don't misunderstand me! Both branches of the movement are thoroughly disreputable by the fabled Mrs. Grundy's puritanical standards. Our mystical mother of propriety stamps her little foot at the merest whiff of scandal; and the Libertines stink of it, not least because sexuality is a focal point for their cause. They identify it as the area where the Empire's hypocrisy is most apparent; and they are wickedly unrestrained in their support of eroticism, pornography, pederasty, de Sade, and all manner of vices.'
A gentleman walking past at this moment muttered, 'I say!' as he caught some of the poet's words. Swinburne chuckled and raised his voice so that other passersby might hear.
'The True Libertine points to the thousands of prostitutes on London's streets and says: `Look! Sex for sale! This is what these woman-and men! have resorted to in order to survive in this so-called civilisation! Where are your much-vaunted morals now, Society? Where is your restraint; your puritan ethic? And these prostitutes have customers! Men whose sexual tastes cannot be satisfied within your rules of so-called decency! You, Society, generate the very thing you denigrate
Burton glanced around as heads turned and disapproving glares were cast at his companion. Swinburne continued regardless, sermonising with more than a little relish.
'The Rake, meanwhile, celebrates the sexual act as the one place where men and women are literally and metaphorically stripped naked and reduced to their purest nature-I mean `pure' in the sense of unaffected; the one occasion when we are most liable to shed the artificial skin of Society and gain a sense of our own fundamental identity.'
The two men turned right into Baker Street.
