The Strange Affair of Spring Heeled Jack Read online

  “This is an exhilarating romp through a witty combination of nineteenth-century English fact and fiction. Mark Hodder definitely knows his stuff and has given us steam opera at its finest. In this first novel, he shows himself to be as clever and inventive a writer as those who enliven his pages. We follow English explorer and eroticist (and king’s agent) Sir Richard Francis Burton, poet and Sadean Algernon Charles Swinburne, and a cast including Florence Nightingale, Charles Darwin, Francis Calton, and Isambard Kingdom Brunel (rather different to those known to our Victorian ancestors), as well as the mysterious albino, Laurence Oliphant, in an adventure involving the very nature of time itself in a London filled with steam-horses and velocipedes where werewolves prowl the streets and Spring Heeled Jack, star of the Penny Dreadfuls, might provide the key to an ever-deepening mystery. A great, increasingly complex, plot, some fine characters, and invention that never flags! It gets better and better, offering clues to some of Victorian London’s strangest mysteries. This is the best debut novel I have read in ages.”

  —Michael Moorcock

  an imprint of Prometheus Books

  Amherst, NY

  Published 2010 by Pyr®, an imprint of Prometheus Books

  The Strange Affair of Spring Heeled Jack. Copyright © 2010 by Mark Hodder. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, digital, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, or conveyed via the Internet or a Web site without prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Cover illustration copyright © Jon Sullivan.

  Inquiries should be addressed to

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  14 13 12 11 10 5 4 3 2 1

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Hodder, Mark, 1962—

  The strange affair of Spring Heeled Jack / by Mark Hodder.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 978-1-61614-240-7 (pbk.)

  1. Burton, Richard Francis, Sir, 1821-1890-Fiction. 2. Swinburne, Algernon Charles, 1837-1909-Fiction. 3. Spring heeled Jack (Legendary character)-Fiction. 4. Criminal investigation-England-London-Fiction. 5. Victoria, Queen of Great Britain, 1819-1909-Assassination attempts-Fiction. 6. Great Britain-Social conditions-19th century-Fiction. I. Title. PR6108.O28S77 2010 823’.92-dc22 2010020632 Printed in the United States of America

  Dedicated to my father

  MICHAEL JOHN HODDER

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ithout the faith and enthusiasm of Emma Barnes and Lou Anders, this novel might never have been published. Without the encouragement and unfailing positivity of George Mann, it might never have been written. Without the influence and genius of Mike Moorcock, it might never have been conceived. My heartfelt thanks to all.

  I’d also like to express my gratitude to Saladin Ahmed, who helped with the Arabic, and to Stephane Rouvillois, who helped with the French.

  A Rage to Live by Mary S. Lovell was at my side throughout this project. There are a great many biographies of Sir Richard Francis Burton, but this, in my opinion, is by far the best.

  To Yolanda Lerma: thank you for being so patient, so supportive, and for feeding me!

  Finally, the “famous names” who feature herein are national heroes who loom large in the British consciousness. In this novel I have, with my tongue in my cheek, mercilessly trampled on their reputations and turned them into something they most definitely were not. I did so secure in the knowledge that my tampering will damage their stature not one little bit.

  IN WHICH AN AGENT

  IS APPOINTED AND

  MYSTERIES ARE INVESTIGATED

  A known mistake is better than an unknown truth.

  —ARABIC PROVERB

  THE AFTERMATH OF AFRICA

  Everything Life places in your path is an opportunity.

  No matter how difficult.

  No matter how upsetting.

  No matter how impenetrable.

  No matter how you judge it.

  An opportunity.

  —LIBERTINE PROPAGANDA

  y God! He’s killed himself!.”

  Sir Richard Francis Burton staggered back and collapsed into his chair. The note Arthur Findlay had passed to him fluttered to the floor. The other men turned away, took their seats, examined their fingernails, and fiddled with their shirt collars; anything to avoid looking at their stricken colleague.

  From where she stood on the threshold of the “robing room,” hidden by its partially closed door, Isabel Arundell could see that her lover’s normally dark and intense eyes were wide with shock, filled with a sudden vulnerability. His mouth moved spasmodically, as if he were struggling to chew and swallow something indigestible. She longed to rush to his side to comfort him and to ask what tidings had wounded him; to snatch up that note and read it; to find out who had killed himself, but such a display would be unseemly in front of the small gathering, not to mention embarrassing for Richard. He, among all men, stood on his own two feet, no matter how dire the situation. Isabel alone was aware of his sensitivity; and she would never cause it to be exposed to others.

  Many people—mostly those who referred to him as “Ruffian Dick”considered Burton’s brutal good looks to be a manifestation of his inner nature. They could never imagine that he doubted himself; though if they were to see him now, so shaken, perhaps it might strike them that he wasn’t quite the devil he appeared, despite the fierce moustache and forked beard.

  It was difficult to see past such a powerful facade.

  The Committee had only just gathered at the table, but after glancing at Burton’s anguished expression, Sir Roderick Murchison, the president of the Royal Geographical Society, came to a decision.

  “Let us take a moment,” he muttered.

  Burton stood and held up a hand in protest. “Pray, gentlemen,” he whispered hoarsely, “continue with your meeting. The scheduled debate will, of course, have to be cancelled, but if you’ll allow me half an hour, perhaps I can organise my notes and make a small presentation concerning the valley of the Indus, so as not to disappoint the crowd.”

  “That’s very good of you, Sir Richard,” said one of the Committee members, Sir James Alexander. “But, really, this must have come as a terrible blow. If you would rather—”

  “Just grant me thirty minutes to prepare. They have, after all, paid for their tickets.”

  “Very well. Thank you.”

  Burton turned and walked unsteadily to the door, passed through, closed it behind him, and stood facing Isabel, swaying slightly.

  At five eleven, he personally bemoaned the lost inch that would have made him a six-footer, though, to others, the breadth of his shoulders, depth of his chest, slim but muscular build, and overwhelming charisma made him seem a giant, even compared with much taller men.

  He had short black hair, which he wore swept backward. His skin was swarthy and weather-beaten, giving his straight features rather an Arabic cast, further accentuated by his prominent cheekbones, both disfigured by scars—a smallish one on the right, but a long, deep, and jagged one on the left, which tugged slightly at his bottom eyelid. They were the entry and exit wounds caused by a Somali spear that had been thrust through his face during an ill-fated expedition to Berbera, on the Horn of Africa.

  To Isabel, those scars were the mark of an adventurous and fearless soul. Burton was in every respect her “ideal man.” He was a wild, passionate, and romantic figure, qu
ite unlike the staid and emotionally cold men who moved in London’s social circles. Her parents thought him unsuitable but Isabel knew there could be no other for her.

  He stumbled forward into her arms.

  “What ails you so, Dick?” she gasped, holding him by the shoulders. “What has happened?”

  “John has shot himself!”

  “No!” she exclaimed. “He’s dead?”

  Burton stepped back and wiped a sleeve across his eyes. “Not yet. But he took a bullet to the head. Isabel, I have to work up a presentation. Can I rely on you to find out where he’s been taken? I must see him. I have to make my peace with him before—”

  “Of course, dear. Of course! I shall make enquiries at once. Must you speak, though? No one would fault you if you were to withdraw.”

  “I’ll speak. We’ll meet later, at the hotel.”

  “Very well.”

  She kissed his cheek and left him; walked a short way along the elegant marble-floored corridor and, with a glance back, disappeared through the door to the auditorium. As it swung open and closed, Burton heard the crowd beyond grumbling with impatience. There were even some boos. They had waited long enough; they wanted blood; wanted to see him, Burton, shame and humiliate the man he’d once considered a brother: John Hanning Speke.

  “I’ll make an announcement,” muttered a voice behind him. He turned to find that Murchison had left the Committee and was standing at his shoulder. Beads of sweat glistened on the president’s bald head. His narrow face was haggard and pale.

  “Is it—is it my fault, Sir Roderick?” rasped Burton.

  Murchison frowned. “Is it your fault that you possess exacting standards while, according to the calculations John Speke presented to the Society, the Nile runs uphill for ninety miles? Is it your fault that you are an erudite and confident debater while Speke can barely string two words together? Is it your fault that mischief-makers manipulated him and turned him against you? No, Richard, it is not.”

  Burton considered this for a moment, then said, “You speak of him so and yet you supported him. You financed his second expedition and refused me mine.”

  “Because he was right. Despite his slapdash measurements and his presumptions and guesswork, the Committee feels it likely that the lake he discovered is, indeed, the source of the Nile. The simple truth of the matter, Richard, is that he found it while you, I’m sorry to say, did not. I never much liked the man, may God have mercy on his soul, but fortune favoured him, and not you.”

  Murchison moved aside as the Committee members filed out of the robing room, heading for the presentation hall.

  “I’m sorry, Richard. I have to go.”

  Murchison joined his fellows.

  “Wait!” called Burton, pacing after him. “I should be there too.”

  “It’s not necessary.”

  “It is.”

  “Very well. Come.”

  They entered the packed auditorium and stepped onto the stage amid sarcastic cheers from the crowd. Colonel William Sykes, who was hosting the debate, was already at the podium, unhappily attempting to quell the more disruptive members of the restless throng; namely, the many journalists including the mysterious young American Henry Morton Stanley—who seemed intent on making the occasion as newsworthy as possible. Doctor Livingstone sat behind Sykes, looking furious. Clement Markham, also seated on the stage, was chewing his nails nervously. Burton slumped into the chair beside him, drew a small notebook and a pencil from his pocket, and began to write.

  Sir James Alexander, Arthur Findlay, and the other geographers took their seats on the stage.

  The crowd hooted and jeered.

  “About time! Did you get lost?” someone shouted waggishly. A roar of approval greeted the gibe.

  Murchison muttered something into the colonel’s ear. Sykes nodded and retreated to join the others.

  The president stepped forward, tapped his knuckles against the podium, and looked stonily at the expectant faces. The audience quieted until, aside from occasional coughs, it became silent.

  Sir Roderick Murchison spoke: “Proceedings have been delayed and for that I have to apologise—but when I explain to you the cause, you will pardon me. We have been in our Committee so profoundly affected by a dreadful calamity that has—”

  He paused; cleared his throat; gathered himself.

  “—that has befallen Lieutenant Speke. A calamity by which, it pains me to report, he must surely lose his life.”

  Shouts of dismay and consternation erupted.

  Murchison held out his hands and called, “Please! Please!”

  Slowly, the noise subsided.

  “We do not at present have a great deal of information,” he continued, “but for a letter from Lieutenant Speke’s brother, which was delivered by a runner a short while ago. It tells that yesterday afternoon the lieutenant joined a hunting party on the Fuller Estate near Neston Park. At four o’clock, while he was negotiating a wall, his gun went off and severely wounded him about the head.”

  “Did he shoot himself, sir?” cried a voice from the back of the hall.

  “Purposefully, you mean? There is nothing to suggest such a thing!”

  “Captain Burton!” yelled another. “Did you pull the trigger?”

  “How dare you, sir!” thundered Murchison. “That is entirely unwarranted! I will not have it!”

  A barrage of questions flew from the audience, a great many of them directed at Burton.

  The famous explorer tore a page from his notebook, handed it to Clement Markham, and, leaning close, muttered into his ear. Markham glanced at the paper, stood, stepped to Murchison’s side, and said something in a low voice.

  Murchison gave a nod.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” he announced, “you came to the Bath Assembly Rooms to hear a debate between Captain Sir Richard Burton and Lieutenant John Speke on the matter of the source of the Nile. I, of course, understand you wish to hear from Sir Richard concerning this terrible accident that has befallen his colleague, but, as you might suppose, he has been greatly affected and feels unable to speak at this present time. He has, however, written a short statement which will now be read by Mr. Clement Markham.”

  Murchison moved away from the podium and Markham took his place.

  In a quiet and steady tone, he read from Burton’s note: “The man I once called brother today lies gravely wounded. The differences of opinion that are known to have lain between us since his return from Africa make it more incumbent on me to publicly express my sincere feeling of admiration for his character and enterprise, and my deep sense of shock that this fate has befallen him. Whatever faith you may adhere to, I beg of you to pray for him.”

  Markham returned to his chair.

  There was not a sound in the auditorium.

  “There will be a thirty-minute recess,” declared Murchison, “then Sir Richard will present a paper concerning the valley of the Indus. In the meantime, may I respectfully request your continued patience whilst we rearrange this afternoon’s schedule? Thank you.”

  He led the small group of explorers and geographers out of the auditorium and, after brief and subdued words with Burton, they headed back to the robing room.

  Sir Richard Francis Burton, his mind paralysed, his heart brimming, walked in the opposite direction until he came to one of the reading rooms. Mercifully, it was unoccupied. He entered, closed the door, and leaned against it.

  He wept.

  “I’m sorry. I can’t continue.”

  It was the faintest of whispers.

  He’d spoken for twenty minutes, hardly knowing what he was saying, reading mechanically from his journals, his voice faint and quavering. His words had slowed then trailed off altogether.

  When he looked up, he saw hundreds of pairs of eyes locked on to him; and in them there was pity.

  He drew in a deep breath.

  “I’m sorry,” he said more loudly. “There will be no debate today.”

  He turned
away from the crowd and, closing his ears to the shouted questions and polite applause, left the stage, pushed past Findlay and Livingstone, and practically ran to the lobby. He asked the cloakroom attendant for his overcoat, top hat, and cane, and, upon receiving them, hurried out through the main doors and descended the steps to the street.

  It was just past midday. Dark clouds drifted across the sky; the recent spell of fine weather was dissipating, the temperature falling.

  He waved down a hansom.

  “Where to, sir?” asked the driver.

  “The Royal Hotel.”

  “Right you are. Jump aboard.”

  Burton clambered into the cabin and sat on the wooden seat. There were cigar butts all over the floor. He felt numb and registered nothing of his surroundings as the vehicle began to rumble over the cobbles.

  He tried to summon up visions of Speke; the Speke of the past, when the young lieutenant had been a valued companion rather than a bitter enemy. His memory refused to cooperate and instead took him back to the event that lay at the root of their feud: the attack in Berbera, six years ago.

  Berbera, the easternmost tip of Africa, April 19, 1855. Thunderstorms had been flickering on the horizon for the past few days. The air was heavy and damp.

  Lieutenant Burton’s party had set up camp on a rocky ridge, about three-quarters of a mile outside the town, near to the beach. Lieutenant Stroyan’s tent was twelve yards off to the right of the “Rowtie” that Burton shared with Lieutenant Herne. Lieutenant Speke’s was a similar distance to the left, separated from the others by the expedition’s supplies and equipment, which had been secured beneath a tarpaulin.

  Not far away, fifty-six camels, five horses, and two mules were tethered. In addition to the four Englishmen, there were thirty-eight other men—abbans, guards, servants, and camel-drivers, all armed.