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Book: Burton & Swinburne 1 - The Strange Affair Of Spring Heeled Jack by Mark Hodder
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Authors: Mark Hodder
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small door swung open and a canister popped out into the prime minister's hand. He twisted the lid from it and pulled a pale blue sheet of paper from within. He read the note and nodded, then looked up at Burton and announced: “You are approved!”
“How nice,” said Burton. “By whom? For what?”
“Why, by Buckingham Palace! Our monarch is offering you a job!”
For once, Burton was at a loss for words. His jaw hung loosely.
Palmerston's face stretched sideways around the mouth in what might have been an attempted grin. It was not a pretty sight.
“That's why I called you here, Burton. The palace has taken an interest in you. It has been mooted that, with your rather unusual range of skills and-shall we say forceful?-personality, you can do the Empire a unique service; something no other man can offer. That's why this position has been created, specifically for you.”
Still Burton said nothing. His mind was racing, grappling with this entirely unexpected development-and also with the notion that someone at Buckingham Palace might somehow be listening in on this conversation.
“I must confess,” continued Palmerston, “that you presented me with a quandary. I knew I had to do something with you but I had no idea what. Your talent for making enemies concerned me; I suspected that whatever post I gave you, you'd quickly become a liability. It was suggested, by one of my colleagues, that I should bury you in some remote consulate. Fernando Po was top of the list-do you know it?”
A nod. The only response Burton could manage.
Marry the bitch. Settle down. Become consul in Fernando Po, Brazil, Damascus, and wherever the fuck else they send you.
The words blazed through his mind.
“Who knows?” he jerked intently.
"Pardon?
“Who knows about this interview, the job, the consulate?”
“About the job, just myself and the palace.” Palmerston tapped the copper and glass apparatus. “We have communicated privately on the matter. About you being here? The palace, myself, my private secretary, the guards on the door, the butler, any of the household staff who might have seen you come in. About the consulate? The palace, myself, and Lord Russell, who suggested you for the position. Why?”
Burton knew what Lord John Russell, the foreign secretary, looked like. He was an elderly, bald-headed, broad-faced man who in no way resembled the apparition of last night.
“I think,” said Burton slowly, “there's the distinct possibility that either the government or the royal household has a spy in its midst.”
Palmerston became very still. His Adam's apple rose and fell.
“Explain,” he said softly.
Rapidly, without embellishment, Burton recounted the attack of the previous evening. Palmerston listened attentively and, for all the movement he made, he might have become the waxwork he so closely resembled.
When Burton had finished, the prime minister asked him to describe the apparition in greater detail.
The reply came: “He was tall and emaciated with limbs long, thin, but wiry and strong. His head was encased in a large black, shiny, globular helmet around which a blue flame burned. From within the headgear red eyes, insane, glared at me. The face was skull-like: the cheeks sunken, the nose a blade, the mouth a slit. He wore a white skintight costume that resembled fish scales in texture. A lengthy black cloak with a white lining hung from his shoulders and a flat, circular lamplike affair was affixed to his chest, shining with a reddish light and emitting sparks. His hands were bony and talonlike. The feet and calves were encased by tight boots from which a springlike mechanism projected, attached to two-foot-high stilts.”
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
“How nice,” said Burton. “By whom? For what?”
“Why, by Buckingham Palace! Our monarch is offering you a job!”
For once, Burton was at a loss for words. His jaw hung loosely.
Palmerston's face stretched sideways around the mouth in what might have been an attempted grin. It was not a pretty sight.
“That's why I called you here, Burton. The palace has taken an interest in you. It has been mooted that, with your rather unusual range of skills and-shall we say forceful?-personality, you can do the Empire a unique service; something no other man can offer. That's why this position has been created, specifically for you.”
Still Burton said nothing. His mind was racing, grappling with this entirely unexpected development-and also with the notion that someone at Buckingham Palace might somehow be listening in on this conversation.
“I must confess,” continued Palmerston, “that you presented me with a quandary. I knew I had to do something with you but I had no idea what. Your talent for making enemies concerned me; I suspected that whatever post I gave you, you'd quickly become a liability. It was suggested, by one of my colleagues, that I should bury you in some remote consulate. Fernando Po was top of the list-do you know it?”
A nod. The only response Burton could manage.
Marry the bitch. Settle down. Become consul in Fernando Po, Brazil, Damascus, and wherever the fuck else they send you.
The words blazed through his mind.
“Who knows?” he jerked intently.
"Pardon?
“Who knows about this interview, the job, the consulate?”
“About the job, just myself and the palace.” Palmerston tapped the copper and glass apparatus. “We have communicated privately on the matter. About you being here? The palace, myself, my private secretary, the guards on the door, the butler, any of the household staff who might have seen you come in. About the consulate? The palace, myself, and Lord Russell, who suggested you for the position. Why?”
Burton knew what Lord John Russell, the foreign secretary, looked like. He was an elderly, bald-headed, broad-faced man who in no way resembled the apparition of last night.
“I think,” said Burton slowly, “there's the distinct possibility that either the government or the royal household has a spy in its midst.”
Palmerston became very still. His Adam's apple rose and fell.
“Explain,” he said softly.
Rapidly, without embellishment, Burton recounted the attack of the previous evening. Palmerston listened attentively and, for all the movement he made, he might have become the waxwork he so closely resembled.
When Burton had finished, the prime minister asked him to describe the apparition in greater detail.
The reply came: “He was tall and emaciated with limbs long, thin, but wiry and strong. His head was encased in a large black, shiny, globular helmet around which a blue flame burned. From within the headgear red eyes, insane, glared at me. The face was skull-like: the cheeks sunken, the nose a blade, the mouth a slit. He wore a white skintight costume that resembled fish scales in texture. A lengthy black cloak with a white lining hung from his shoulders and a flat, circular lamplike affair was affixed to his chest, shining with a reddish light and emitting sparks. His hands were bony and talonlike. The feet and calves were encased by tight boots from which a springlike mechanism projected, attached to two-foot-high stilts.”
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
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