Burton & Swinburne 1 - The Strange Affair Of Spring Heeled Jack by Mark Hodder Page A

was clad in a black helmet around which blue fire raged. The creature screamed and a tongue of flame leaped from its head to Lucy's face, blinding her and sending her staggering backward. She dropped to the ground and was stricken with violent fits which continued for many hours after the encounter. Lisa held Lucy, called for help and-My God!”
    Trounce's eyes widened and he stared at Burton, his mouth working.
    “What is it?” asked the explorer, puzzled.
    “I-I'd forgotten!”
    “Forgotten what?”
    “My God!” repeated Trounce, in a whisper.
    “Spit it out, man!” snapped Burton.
    The detective cleared his throat and continued, speaking slowly and with apparent amazement: “As Lucy lay in her sister's arms, Spring Heeled Jack walked quickly away. Lisa reported that he was talking to himself in a highpitched, crazy-sounding voice. Most of his words, she said, were unintelligible. There was, however, one phrase that came to her clearly.”
    Trounce paused. He looked at the man opposite, who asked: “What was it?”
    “Apparently,” replied Trounce, “he shouted, `This is your fault, Burton!”'
    Sir Richard Francis Burton felt icy fingers tickling his spine.
    The two men looked at one another.
    Shadows shifted across the walls and the sound of a mournful foghorn pushed at the windowpane.
    “Coincidence, of course,” whispered Trounce.
    “Obviously,” replied Burton, in an equally hushed tone. “In 1838, I was seventeen years old and living with my parents and brother in Italy. I'd spent very little of my life in England and had certainly never encountered or even heard of Spring Heeled Jack.”
    Another pause.
    Trounce shook himself, opened the report, and looked down at it.
    “Anyway, now we come to my own encounter,” he said, brusquely, “which occurred on June 10, 1840; perhaps the most infamous date in English history.”
    Burton nodded. “The day of the assassination.”
     

THE ASSASSINATION
    Assassination has never changed the history of the world.
    -BENGAMIN DisRA ui
    Dennis the Dip slowed down Police Constable William Trounce by five minutes; five minutes in which the eighteen-year-old policeman could have become a national hero rather than the laughing stock of Scotland Yard.
    Constable Trounce's beat incorporated Constitution Hill, and he always timed it so that he got there at six o'clock, just as Queen Victoria and her husband emerged from the “Garden Gate” of Buckingham Palace in their open-topped carriage for their afternoon spin around Green Park. For the twenty-year-old queen, the daily ritual was a breath of fresh air-so far as the word “fresh” could be applied to London's malodorous atmosphere-an hour's escape from the stifling formality of Buckingham Palace, with its dusty footmen and haughty butlers, servile advisers and fussing maids; while for the citizens who gathered along the route, it was a chance to cheer or boo her, depending on their opinion of her three-year reign.
    Trounce was usually quick to warn those who jeered to “move along.”
    Today, though, as he proceeded along the Mall, Trounce spotted Dennis the Dip and decided to follow him. The notorious pickpocket was, as usual, dressed as a gentleman and looked entirely at ease among the well-heeled crowd that sauntered back and forth along the ceremonial avenue. It was a disguise. Had he opened his mouth to speak, the chopped and diced version of the English language that emerged would have immediately marked Dennis as a native of London's East End, otherwise known as “the Cauldron.”
    He scrubbed-up well, did Dennis, thought Trounce, as he slowed his pace and kept his eyes on the meandering crook.
    The pickpocket was obviously looking for a mark and, when he found it, Trounce would swoop. It would be a nice feather in his cap if his very first arrest ended the career of this particular villain.
    However, it soon became apparent that Dennis was rather indecisive today. He wandered from one side of the