Текст книги "The strange affair of Spring-heeled Jack"

Автор книги: Mark Hodder

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 22 (всего у книги 26 страниц)

A minute later he discovered that he was wrong on both counts. She had a pulse but no birthmark.

It was June 20, 1840. Ten days had passed since the brutal assassination of Her Majesty Queen Victoria.

"Tallyho, Edward! Bon voyage!" said Henry de La Poet Beresford in the grounds of Darkening Towers. He watched Oxford blink out of existence in midair, then turned and walked toward the veranda doors. Before reaching them, he heard a thud behind him.

He looked back and saw the time traveller lying in a heap on the lawn.

"That was fast!" he cried, running over to his friend. "Are you all right?"

Oxford turned over and looked up at him. Beresford stepped back in shock. The man from the future seemed to have aged twenty years.

"What the devil happened, Edward? You look terrible!"

"None of them!" rasped the stilt-man. "No birthmarks! I've spent God knows how many hours exposed to your stinking damned past and all for nothing!"

Beresford dropped to his haunches, unbuckled Oxford's boots, and pulled them off.

"Come on," he said. "Let's get you inside."

Two hours later, despite the removal of his malfunctioning suit, a hearty meal, and a glass of brandy, Oxford had fallen into a virtually catatonic state. His eyes, the whites visible all the way around the irises, stared fixedly at the wall. The muscles to either side of his jaw clenched spasmodically. He had told Beresford very little, just that none of the Battersea Brigade girls bore the crescent-shaped mark.

The marquess was, nevertheless, as sure as he could be that one of them would, in the not too distant future, become mother to a girl with such a mark.

Now the search must switch to that descendant.

THE BATTLE OF OLD FOLD AND ITS AFTERMATH

All NO is false, all NO is true:

Truth is the shattered mirror strown

In myriad bits; while each believes

His little bit the whole to own.

– Sir Richard Francis Burton

CORD BYRON

It took him nearly three months to recover his wits," said Henry de la Poet Beresford. "Though `recover' may be too optimistic a word, for I assure you that, by this point, the time traveller was quite demented."

Supporting himself on his knuckles, he lurched around the banqueting table as he continued his tale; and every word he uttered, in that thick, guttural voice of his, was heard by Sir Richard Francis Burton, who lay hidden overhead.

"We arranged to meet again on September 28, 1843. He did his vanishing trick, and, over the course of the next three years, I monitored the Battersea girls, their marriages, and their subsequent children. By this time, of course, my reputation was such as to make it impossible to get close to the families, and I was unable to establish which of the daughters bore the Oxford birthmark.

"I reported this to Oxford three years after he'd departed, and he flew into such a fit of temper that, had he dropped dead from apoplexy, I would not have been surprised. For an entire night, he ranted and raged. Then he demanded that I keep track of the children, and informed me that he'd not be back until eighteen years had passed; that is to say, not until September 28 of this year, when the Battersea children would be of age; old enough for him to sire an ancestor by!"

"Yesterday was the twenty-eighth!" exclaimed Nurse Nightingale.

"Yes," confirmed Beresford. "His decision was a blow to me, for by now I was plotting to get rid of the insane fool and claim his suit for my own. I tried to persuade him to visit sooner-damn it, I almost begged!-but he steadfastly refused, maintaining that it would be a pointless waste of his suit's dwindling resources.

"As he left this very room through those veranda doors, I ran to the morning room, took a pistol from the cabinet there, and ran back, intending to shoot him dead in the grounds. I was too late; he was gone.

"Over the ensuing years, I never lost sight of the Battersea families, but I'll admit that after the Libertines split and the newly formed Rake faction grew in influence and demanded more of my attention, the whole Oxford affair became more and more dreamlike. Had I really played host to a man from the future? Might it have been a drunken hallucination?

"Eighteen years is a long time; memory plays tricks; doubt casts the past in a different light. Frankly, I never expected to see Edward Oxford again, and, after a while, I didn't much care. He became nothing more than a symbol to me, an example of `trans-natural' man, free from the shackles of law and morals and propriety. He was Spring Heeled Jack! A myth! A bogeyman! A fantasy!

"Then disaster struck. Two years ago, in March of 1859, I broke my neck in a riding accident. I wasn't expected to live. News of this reached you, Isambard, and you sent Miss Nightingale to my assistance. She removed me from the hospital where I lay and took me to her medical laboratories, where, with consummate skill, she managed to preserve my brain by grafting it into the body of one of her experimental animals. The result, you see before you. Ma'am, I have said it before and I'll say it again: I am forever in your debt."

Nurse Nightingale acknowledged his words with a nod.

"The accident," continued the ape, "revived my interest in Edward Oxford, for, obviously, I would much prefer life as a man than life as an ape, and with his time suit, I-or someone else-could travel back to prevent the fall that put me in this position.

"You all know what happened next: I made it known to Isambard that, with his help, I could secure a time-travel device. In the past, I had explained to him certain future technologies-such as geothermal and electrical power, rotor-winged flight, and engine-pulled vehicles-and he had been able to build machines based on these small insights, which Edward Oxford had given me. Isambard therefore had no reason to doubt me and communicated the possibility of time travel to you; you began your experimental programmes in the knowledge that the device will allow you to see the results; and here we are today-all reliant on that bizarre suit to achieve our aims!"

"And yesterday?" asked Laurence Oliphant. "Did he show up?"

"Yes. He did not, of course, expect to find me in this condition, but I would be lying if I told you he was shocked. The man is so far gone that everything seems an illusion to him now. Discovering that his friend the marquess had become Mr. Belljar the primate was no stranger to him than the fact that men in this day and age smoke pipes and cigars and are never seen outside without a hat upon their head! He didn't tarry. I handed him the list of girls and he departed."

"To find the one with the birthmark and rape her," interrupted Florence Nightingale, with distaste.

"Yes," grunted Beresford. "It's a crazy scheme, I'll admit, though it was I who thought of it. There are six girls. Sarah Shoemaker, daughter of Jennifer Shepherd, is sixteen years old. Unfortunately, her whole family emigrated to South Africa and I've not been able to trace her. The others though are all still in or near London. They are Marian Steephill, aged thirteen, daughter of Lizzie Fraser; Angela Tew, aged fifteen, daughter of Tilly Adams; Lucy Harkness, eighteen, daughter of Sarah Lovitt; Connie Fairweather, seventeen, daughter of Mary Stevens; and Alicia Pipkiss, fifteen, daughter of Jane Alsop.

"The seventh of the original Battersea girls-by which I mean the mothers-Deborah Goodkind, went insane after Oxford examined her back in 1838. She died childless in Bedlam some years ago."

"A paradox," observed Darwin, in his weirdly harmonic voice. "For if she, in his history, had mothered his ancestor, then in approaching her he made himself doubly extinct!"

Oliphant gave a sibilant laugh: "This time-travel business seems excessively complicated!"

"More so than you imagine, my friend," croaked Beresford, "for when I gave him the list yesterday, I already possessed evidence that he's been acting upon it! Marian Steephill, Lucy Harkness, and Angela Tew had already been checked for the birthmark!"

"A further paradox," commented Darwin. "We are most intrigued!"

"My Lord Marquess," said Nightingale, "why did you not simply arrange to capture him here yesterday? You had eighteen years to organise it!"

"A good point, ma'am. As I have said, my belief in him was wavering; I was not convinced that I could trust my own memories, for the whole affair seemed utterly fantastic. Furthermore, the man who left me in 1843 was sick in mind and body, and his suit was failing. I had no guarantee that he would show up at the appointed time and since considerable resources will be required in order to capture him, I felt it best to wait until his presence was assured."

"Which is when?"

"Tomorrow evening. One of the girls, Alicia Pipkiss, lives in the family home; the very same cottage where Oxford assaulted Jane Alsop back in 1838. It's on the outskirts of the village of Old Ford, not far from here. I told Oxford that she and her family are due to return there tomorrow evening after some years spent living overseas. This is a total fiction on my part-the girl is in the cottage now and has never travelled. I also told him that, for Miss Pipkiss, this is a fleeting visit to her family, for she will be moving to London the following day, though I don't know exactly where. Thus he has only one opportunity to get at her: after dark on September 30!"

"Excellent!" exclaimed Darwin. "My forces are at your disposal, Beresford!"

"As are mine!" chimed Isambard Kingdom Brunel.

"Thank you, gentlemen," responded the orangutan. "There is, however, a problem. As Oliphant can testify, for some reason that at present eludes me, the explorer and linguist Sir Richard Francis Burton has been taking an interest in the Battersea Brigade and, together with Detective Inspector Trounce, seems to be rather close to discovering the truth.

"Trounce has posted policemen in the vicinity of the Alsop cottage, so when Oxford appears and we strike, we must expect opposition."

Oliphant clenched his fists and hissed, "If Burton turns up, leave him to me. I insist upon it!"

The ape nodded. "One final thing. Isambard and I made a pact that, in return for the information I have given you tonight, I will be presented with a time suit if you manage to replicate the device. Failing that, if you can only repair Oxford's suit, then I will have access to it. Agreed?"

"Yes," came the answers.

The marquess bared his teeth, then stood and stretched his long shaggy arms.

"Then let us organise our resources," he rasped. "I already have Libertines keeping watch on the cottage. Many more will arrive tomorrow. If a single one of them spots Oxford, he will alert me immediately. We will also need as many Technologists and wolf-men as you can muster!"

Sir Richard Francis Burton, lying flat on the gallery above the banqueting table, had heard enough. It was time to get out of Darkening Towers while he still could.

Gingerly, he eased himself backward until he crossed the threshold of the door at the top of the stairs; then, crouching low and treading softly, he descended and entered the cloakroom.

He rubbed dust from the front of his jacket and turned toward the door.

"Hello, Dick," said a soft voice.

John Harming Speke stepped out from the shadows.

THE GATHERING FORCES

Lieutenant Barton now said, "Don't step back, or they will think we are retiring." Chagrined by this rebuke at ray management in fighting, and imagining by the remark I was expected to defend the camp, I stepped boldly to the front, and fired at close gaar– ters into the first man before we.

– John Hanning Speke

,

By heavens! What have they done to you!" gasped Burton, for though Swinburne had told him about Speke's surgery, seeing for himself the brass mechanism that had replaced the upper-left side of his former friend's head and face was quite another thing.

"Saved me," replied Speke, quietly.

"Saved you? No, John. They've manipulated you! From the very start, they've manipulated you, made you their puppet! When you sailed from Zanzibar after our expedition, you fell in with Laurence Oliphant aboard ship, didn't you? It wasn't by chance! He was there specifically to cast a spell over you! He's a master mesmerist, John! It was he who turned you against me, he who polarised our associates at the Royal Geographical Society, and he who caused you to turn a gun upon yourself. That wound was purposely inflicted! They wanted to replace half your damned brain!"

"Why?"

"I don't know-but one way or the other, I'm going to find out!"

"If you live."

"Will your betrayal run that deep? We were friends. We went through hell together. I nursed you through illnesses and injuries and you did the same for me. Are you really going to throw all that away? Think, man! Think about the way things were; the way things can be again. Help me to fight these people, John!"

Suddenly Speke's face, which thus far had been entirely emotionless, was filled with perplexity, sorrow, and yearning.

"Dick," he gasped. "I shouldn't-I can't-I didn't-didn't-"

He reached up to the key that projected from the machinery above his left ear and started to wind it.

"I have to-to-to decide," he stuttered.

"Don't do that!" hissed Burton, but Speke continued to twist the key which, when he removed his hand, began to turn, emitting a low ticking. Through the round glass panel above his eye, a mass of tiny cogs could be glimpsed. They started to revolve.

It appeared to Burton as if reality suddenly took on a sharper edge. The spinning wheels in Speke's head seemed to reel in divergent destinies until they touched right here, now, in this room, making of it a crossroads. One route led from India, Arabia, and Africa to Fernando Po, Brazil, and Damascus; the other stretched from the seeds Edward Oxford had accidentally planted in the past to an unknown future in which he, Burton, as the king's agent, would have to deal with the resultant crazy, unbalanced world.

He sensed his doppelganger standing ready; they would plunge down the same road together, as one.

He backed away toward the door.

Speke turned his head to follow the movement. His human right eye was unfocused, but the rings around the glass lens of the left eye moved slightly, some clockwise, some in the opposite direction.

The key stopped revolving.

Speke made a decision.

Burton made a decision.

The king's agent dived through the door and fled down the hallway.

Speke threw is head back and bellowed: "Oliphant! Burton is here!"

As Burton raced past the junction with the short corridor leading to the ballroom, the glass doors at the end opened and the albino stepped through. Burton kept running and was swallowed by the darkness. Behind him he heard the panther-man shout: "Brunel! Get to the ship and loose the wolves!"

Guided by nothing more than memory, stumbling over debris and banging into walls, Burton retraced his steps in the direction of the room with the open window.

From not far behind him came a mocking voice: "I can see in the dark, Sir Richard!"

Down one pitch black passageway and into another, Burton veered right, then left, then right again.

"I'm coming!" sang his pursuer.

Burton yanked his pistol from his jacket, stopped, twisted, raised it, and fired. The flash illuminated long walls with peeling paper and, at their far end, a white figure dressed in black, its pink eyes wide. The darkness snapped back and with it came a loud feline scream.

Got you, you bastard! thought Burton.

He ran on.

A light glimmered ahead.

He raised the pistol again.

"This way, Richard!" screeched a high-pitched voice.

Swinburne!

"Damnation! I told you to get back to Trounce!"

The little poet held up a guttering Lucifer and grinned.

"I half obeyed your order! Come on, in here!"

He quickly led Burton into a room and across to an open window. As they climbed out into the grounds, a shout reached them from inside the mansion: "You'll pay your debts, Burton!"

"Run as fast as you can!" snapped the famous explorer to his friend. "They're releasing loups-garous!"

"I've had enough of them!" piped Swinburne and sped away.

The king's agent followed, surprised by the smaller man's turn of speed.

A howl rose from the far side of Darkening Towers. It was joined by a second, a third, a fourth, and more.

"Faster, Algy," Burton panted.

They tore across the uneven ground, past the knotted trees and pools of squirming mist, toward the distant wall.

Burton glanced back and saw the albino standing by the window, his right arm cradled in his left. A pack of wolf-men were flooding around the right-hand corner of the building, running on all fours.

The two men raced on, their thigh muscles burning, their breath coming in short, rapid gasps.

A few moments later they reached the wall and Burton thrust the poet up onto it.

"Trounce, start the blasted engines!" screamed Swinburne.

Burton turned. The loups-garous were almost upon him. He fired two shots and one went down. The others swerved and leaped upon it, their jaws crunching into its bones, ripping the flesh. They'd obviously been half starved to increase their ferocity, and the slight pause gave Burton the opportunity to haul himself onto the wall, lower Swinburne down to the other side, and follow. They ran across the road that bordered Beresford's estate and into a clump of trees. Engines were chugging.

"Hold on!" came Detective Inspector Trounce's voice from the shadows. "One more!"

"Hurry, man!" cried Burton.

The last of the three penny-farthings spluttered into life. The men mounted them, steered out onto the road, and accelerated away in a cloud of steam.

Behind them, a snarling loup-garou hurtled over the wall, followed immediately by the rest of the pack.

"Bloody hell!" cried Trounce, looking back. "Open your valves! They're fast! What the heck are they?"

"Hungry!" shrilled Swinburne.

The penny-farthings clattered over the uneven surface of the road, rattling the teeth of the three riders. Yelping and growling, with spittle trailing from their distended jaws, the ravening animal-men loped along behind, gradually gaining on the machines.

Burton, Trounce, and Swinburne swept past the corner of the Darkening Towers estate and careened onto the Waterford road. Trees flashed by, stretches of fencing, hedgerows, and beyond them rolling fields, pale in the light of the thin crescent moon.

White steam boiled from the vehicles and trailed behind them all the way back to the thicket where Trounce had waited. Beneath the slowly rolling vapour, the loups-garous sprinted after their prey. They were close now. They could smell human flesh.

"Blast these machines!" Burton muttered. "They're not fast enough!"

His jaws snapped together as the big front wheel jerked over a pothole.

"Trounce!" he yelled. "Steer in next to Algy!"

The Yard man obeyed, though controlling the contraption proved difficult as it bounced over a particularly rough patch of road.

A long, drawn-out howl sounded from just behind.

"Algy!" called Burton. "Step off your velocipede onto Trounce's!"

"What?" cried his two friends.

"Just do it, man!"

Swinburne, entirely fearless, stood in his stirrups, swung a leg over the saddle so that he was balanced on one side of the main wheel, tried to keep the wildly vibrating handlebars steady with a single hand, and reached across with the other to grasp Detective Inspector Trounce's shoulder. Then, in one quick motion, he leaned over, put his foot on one of the mounting bars of Trounce's machine, and stepped across.

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 Green, the men must proceed in groups of no more than three morons at a time to the Cat in the Custard at Pipers End. It is of crucial importance that all the nose-picking men have visited this public house before sundown. Honesty, you skunk-tickler, this is a matter of national sodding importance and you can't overestimate the number of constables required. We need a bloody army. I will take full responsibility. Get to the Cat yourself, dirt-slurper, as soon as possible. Bring with you the strumpet Sister Raghavendra of 3 Bayham Street, near Mornington Crescent. Speed is of the essence. Message ends."

"Well, I'll be blowed!" exclaimed Honesty. It was one of the longest and strangest messages he'd ever heard issue from the beak of a parakeet.

"Tosspot," squawked the bird.

"Reply," snapped the Yard man. "Message begins. Doing as you say. This better be good. Message ends. Go."

With a colourful flutter the parakeet flew from the windowsill and disappeared into the sky. Faintly, its voice floated back: "Buttock-licker!"

Slightly over an hour and a half later, five rotorchairs landed in a field to the west of Letty Green. Detective Inspector Honesty climbed out of the first, removed his goggles, and straightened his clothing. He retrieved his homburg and cane from beneath the seat, then paced over to one of the other chairs and helped its driver out.

"That was utterly wonderful!" Sister Raghavendra laughed. "Though a little tricky to begin with!"

"You did well! First woman to fly!" replied Honesty.

"Really? No, surely not! Me, the first woman to fly?"

"Perhaps, my dear. Perhaps."

Honesty turned to the three men who awaited his orders.

"Remain here, Constable Krishnamurthy," he said to one. "Instruct new arrivals."

"Yes, sir."

Then to the other two men: "Venables, Ashworth-come!"

He led the girl and the two policemen to a stile in the hedgerow that surrounded the field and climbed over it into the lane beyond. As they proceeded toward nearby Pipers End, three specks appeared in the sky behind them: more rotorchairs arriving from London.

They traipsed on until, forty minutes later, they arrived at the Cat in the Custard and were shown up to the private sitting room.

"Hello, old fellow!" said Burton, shaking Honesty's hand. "I want you to listen to what Trounce has to tell you. It will sound incredible but, believe me, every word is true. We must act fast and we're relying on you."

Honesty nodded curtly and sat in the chair to which Trounce gestured.

Burton guided Sister Raghavendra out of the room and down into the empty parlour.

"Sadhvi," he said, placing his hands on her upper arms. "You said you would like to help. You can. But I may be placing you in harm's way."

"No matter," she replied eagerly. "Tell me what I must do."

Later that morning, a flower seller, wearing a red cloak with a hood, entered Old Ford village and started calling from door to door. It was late in the season and her basket contained only magnolias, hydrangeas, geraniums, a makeup kit, and a pistol.