His own boneshaker rattled on, kept upright by its gyroscope. However, without his fingers holding the velocity valve open, it immediately slowed and started to fall to the rear.
Burton drew his pistol. He had three shots left. He looked back.
The wolf-men were streaming around the riderless velocipede. Burton raised his gun, took aim, breathed gently, and squeezed the trigger.
The bullet hit the penny-farthing's furnace. With a startlingly loud detonation, it exploded, blasting red-hot metal into the loups-garous charging along beside it. As the twisted vehicle somersaulted into the air, one of the beasts burst into flames, then a second, and a third. One by one, they erupted and fell writhing to the ground, burning fiercely.
The carnage fell away behind the three men. However, four loups-garous remained in pursuit, snapping at the small back wheels of the vehicles.
'Confound it! My pistol has jammed!' shouted Burton.
Trounce passed his Colt over his shoulder to Swinburne.
'Here you are, lad. I'll steer, you shoot!'
'Terrific!' The poet grinned happily.
He took aim, started firing, and missed with his first three shots.
'By Jove!' announced Trounce. It takes a rare talent to avoid hitting the blighters at this range!'
Swinburne's fourth bullet found its mark and, with a blinding flash, one of the werewolves spontaneously combusted, setting fire to the beasts on either side of it. They fell back, screaming in agony as they died.
Swinburne cheered. The penny-farthing jolted. He dropped the pistol.
'Curse it! Sorry, Trounce, old man! I hope that didn't have any sentimental value!'
'Only insofar as it could save us from being eaten alive, you blockhead!' replied the police detective.
Burton slowed his vehicle slightly and guided it into the path of the last remaining werewolf. With the creature snapping at his legs, he reached down to the vehicle's cane holder and withdrew his recently acquired stick. Its silver top was shaped like a panther's head. It was Oliphant's sword cane, which the king's agent had laid claim to after their fight at Battersea Power Station.
Holding it between his teeth, he drew the blade, leaned over, and with cool precision pushed its point through the wolf-man's right eye and into its brain. The loup-garou crumpled onto the road.
Burton shuddered. In his peripheral vision he could see the cane sticking out from each side of his mouth. It brought back uncomfortable memories of Berbera.
He slipped the sword back into it and returned it to the velocipede's holder.
'Waterford is just ahead, then Old Ford. Which is the village after that?' he asked Trounce.
'Pipers End, I think. Why?'
'I'll tell you when we get there! We have to rouse its innkeeper and get ourselves a room. It's almost dawn, Trounce-we haven't much time to plan our campaign!'
'Campaign?'
'Yes. This very night we're going to face off with our enemies and snatch Spring Heeled Jack from right under their noses!'
Once again, Sir Richard Francis Burton found himself in a drinking establishment: the Cat in the Custard, Pipers End. This time, though, alcohol played no part in the proceedings. Even Swinburne showed no interest in it during the day that followed.
Soon after their arrival, the three men enjoyed strong tea in silence while awaiting a breakfast of scrambled eggs and bacon. Once this was cooked, served, and consumed, they retired to a private sitting room where Burton gave an account of his experience in Darkening Towers.
Having heard the tale of Spring Heeled Jack, Detective Inspector Trounce sat back and ran his thick fingers through his short bristly hair.
'It sounds like utter madness but I'll be damned if I don't believe it!' he exclaimed. 'It explains everything! And you know, now that you've told me, I can see that the `Mystery Hero' who struggled with Victoria's assassin had the same face as Spring Heeled Jack. I simply didn't notice it because I was distracted by the bizarreness of Jack's costume! Anyway, I'll get a message to Spearing at the Yard as soon as the post office opens. We'll have Old Ford swarming with men in no time at all.'
'Hold your horses!' objected Burton. 'We know the Rakes and Technologists are gathering in and around the village. If we send your men in too soon, we may capture a few-but with what can we charge them? As for Beresford and Darwin and their cohorts, they won't come anywhere near until Spring Heeled Jack arrives. Surely it's best if we amass our forces here then advance on the village when the time traveller shows up and our opponents try to capture him?'
'You mean get the lot of 'em in one fell swoop? I'm not sure I'll have enough men for that, Burton.'
'Don't worry. Algy here is leaving in a moment to recruit reinforcements.'
'I am?' queried Swinburne.
'Yes. Listen-this is what I want you to do-'
After issuing his instructions to the poet, he turned back to Trounce.
'May I ask a favour of you, old chap?'
'Of course!' came the ready reply.
'I promised Detective Inspector Honesty that he'd be in at the final reckoning.'
'That little popinjay? I'm not a great enthusiast, Captain Burton. He's never believed in Spring Heeled Jack.'
'All the more reason to let him see the time traveller with his own eyes. Prove to him that you were right all along!'
'Yes.' Trounce smiled. 'I must admit, I'd take a deal of satisfaction in that. Very well, I'll have him bring the men here. What about the girl, Alicia Pipkiss? Shall we remove her from danger?'
'That won't be easy with the Rakes watching the cottage,' mused Burton, 'but I think it might be arranged. And what of Connie Fairweather, is she still guarded?'
'No need. The family sailed for Australia yesterday.'
'Did they, by heavens! Perhaps she's the one, then! Algy, you'd better be off, you have a lot to organise. As for us, Trounce, let's get across to the post office and hammer on the door. We can't waste time waiting for it to open!'
At eight thirty that morning, in a house on the outskirts of Hammersmith, Detective Inspector Thomas Honesty placed his homburg upon his head and checked himself in the hall mirror. His moustache was perfectly even, its extravagant curls symmetrical. He brushed lint from his shoulder and reached for his cane.
'Oh, Tom!' came his wife's voice from the lounge. 'Tom! There's one of those awful birds at the window!'
Honesty's carefully trimmed eyebrows rose. A messenger parakeet had never called at his house before, though plenty had tapped at his office window.
He stepped to the lounge door and passed through. The small room was an astonishing clutter of knickknacks and ornaments. His wife, a slim, pretty woman, pointed at the window.
'Look!'
'Leave the room, Vera,' he advised.
'But I want to listen! I've never heard one!'
'Bad language. Not suitable. Off you go!'
'Tom, I insist on staying! A little bad language won't offend me! I tell you what-I'll listen with my hands over my ears!'
Honesty looked at his wife, blinked, shrugged, and grunted: 'Very well. Warned you.'
He slid the window up.
'Message from Detective Inspector nobble-thwacker Trounce and Sir Richard Francis bottom-squeezer Burton,' cackled the parakeet gleefully.
Mrs. Vera Honesty gave a yelp and fled from the room.
'Gather as many cretinous constables as you possibly can,' continued the bird, 'and get them to the filthy- cesspit village of Letty Green at the soonest possible moment. They must be in civilian garb and should all be armed with pistols and flying goggles. Avoid the verminous village of Old Ford at all cost, you mucus-bubbler. From Letty
