Burton paused.
"When I was on the pilgrimage," he continued quietly, "there was much talk of evil djan-"
"Djan?" interposed Palmerston.
"Sorry. It's the plural of `djinni,' the evil spirits that supposedly haunt the deserts. I consider myself a reasonably intelligent man, so, of course, I discounted the talk as mere superstition. However, if you were to tell me that last night I came face to face with one such, I might believe you."
"Perhaps you did," countered Palmerston. He glanced down as the instrument on his desk trembled and emitted a puff of steam. "Have you ever heard of Spring Heeled Jack?"
Burton looked surprised. "That never occurred to me!"
Spring Heeled Jack was a bogeyman, a mythical spook used by mothers to scare naughty children into submission: "Behave! Or Spring Heeled Jack will come for you!"
"So a spy dressed as a character from folklore?" Burton reflected. "But why? And why attack me? What interest has he in Lord Russell's suggestion that you make me a consul?"
"He may be rather more than a spy," suggested Palmerston. "Captain Burton, I want you to talk to Detective Inspector William Trounce of Scotland Yard. In 1840, when he was a constable, he was present at the assassination. He claimed to have seen this jumping Jack thing at the scene, and, despite opposition from his superiors, still maintains that the creature is a fact, rather than an illusion caused by panic or hysteria, as others have asserted. It nearly cost him his career. For a decade afterwards, he was the laughing stock of the Yard and only rose to his current position through dogged determination and hard work. You have your albatross; Spring Heeled Jack is his."
Burton spread his arms in a shrug. "Talk to him to what end?"
"As a start to your second assignment. I spoke of a job. Our monarch wants to commission you as-for want of a better word-an `agent.' It's a unique position; you will be required to investigate matters which, perhaps, lie outside of police jurisdiction, or which, due to their nature, require a rather more singular approach than Scotland Yard can offer. You will answer to Buckingham Palace and to me and you will have the authority to command the police when necessary. We live in tumultuous times, Burton. The Technologists are pushing ethical boundaries and the Libertines are pushing moral boundaries. Both castes are too powerful and both have extremist factions. The palace is concerned that science is altering our culture too much and too fast and without proper periods of reflection and consultation. For the good of the Empire, we require someone who can unveil secrets and make snap judgements; someone fearless and independent; someone like you."
"I'm honoured, sir," responded Burton, and he meant it.
"It's not an order. If you don't want the commission, you can have the consulate instead."
"I want the commission, Prime Minister."
"Good. I have an initial assignment for you, but, as I said, I want you to consider this Spring Heeled Jack affair as a second. If there is indeed a spy within the government or at the palace, unmask him! As for the original mission: find out what these are and where they are coming from-"
The prime minister pulled a sheet of paper from his desk drawer and slid it toward Burton. On it there was a rough sketch, in pencil, of a squat, misshapen man with a snoutlike jaw, his face resembling that of a vicious dog.
"You want me to find the artist?" asked Burton.
"No. I know who the artist is-a Frenchman named Paul Gustave Dore. He's buried himself somewhere in the East End where he's been surreptitiously sketching scenes of poverty-God knows why; you know how these artists are, with their absurd notions of the nobility of the poor and whatnot. No, I want you to find the man-wolves."
Burton looked up, puzzled. "Man-wolves? You think this is sketched from life?"
"It is. The royal secretary made it known to Dore that the monarch was interested in his work. In response, the artist has been posting some of his sketches to the palace. This was among them. Look on the back."
Burton turned the sketch over and saw words scrawled in an erratic hand: Your Majesty, there are loups-garous at large in the Cauldron and the people here are greatly afraid. There have been deaths and abductions every night, far beyond that which is usual for this part of the city. The populace hate the police and will not consult them. I have seen one of the loups-garous with nay own eyes. This sketch depicts the thing I saw. It tore out a man's heart as I watched and made away with his boy.
– Dore.
"Good Lord!" exclaimed Burton.
"Personally," said Palmerston, "I think Dore has fallen in with the opium crowd and this is nothing but a drug-fuelled delusion. Maybe you can find out. With your ability to disguise yourself and adopt accents, I thought maybe you could penetrate where the police fear to tread; find this Dore chap and speak to him."
With a rattle and a whistle of steam, a second canister popped up into the contraption on the prime minister's desk. He took it, opened it, read the note, and offered it to Burton.
"Your salary."
Burton looked at the numbers scrawled on the paper.
For the second time that morning, his jaw went slack.
Last night's mist had condensed into a fog, a sickly sulphurous blanket which scratched at Burton's eyes as he waved down a hansom cab along Whitehall. It was one of the new vehicles, pulled by a steam-horse. These four-wheeled engines bore a passing resemblance to the famous Stephenson's Rocket but were a fraction of the size, being about five feet long, three feet wide, and three feet tall, with a thin funnel soaring a full ten feet straight upward. From each end of the front axle two thin, curved steering rods arced up and back to the driver, who sat on his "box" on the top of the cab, which was harnessed behind the engine. Levers on the handgrips controlled the speed and the brakes.
Despite the height of the funnel, smoke still had a tendency to drift into the driver's face, so he wore goggles and a leather cap for protection.
Burton climbed in and gazed out of the window as the hansom chugged away from the curb. The ghostlike forms of London's inhabitants scuttled through the pea-souper, fading in and out of sight as if their very existence was questionable.
His hangover had vanished entirely. He felt strong and positive; he possessed a sense of purpose at last.
Palmerston's final words, though, still echoed in his ears: "This is not a job for a married man, you understand?"
Burton did understand.
Isabel would not.
Penfold Private Sanatorium, which was run by the Sisterhood of Noble Benevolence, was located in St. John's Wood, off Edgware Road.
The hansom drew up near the hospital's entrance and Burton disembarked, handing his fare up to the driver. He mounted the steps and entered the building.
The nurse at the reception desk glanced up at him.