Varney versus Spring-heel Jack 13: June 1888

Thirteen: June 1888.

It was, as always, as he descended the stairs into the cellar, that Bekinscot marvelled at the planning and foresight of his friend. William had always been a man of some resource, but it was only when he outbid at auction for this house, paying well over the odds to the dismay of his agent but the joy of the vendor, that the true nature of that foresight became apparent. At that time, Haining was still in Eaton Square. A capacious house, with a good wine cellar that he had turned into a working laboratory, it was in an area that made it too busy, too easy for prying eyes. Bad enough when he had first brought Elizabeth home. Worse when he had been forced to keep her contained. But then, as his experiments increased and her condition had worsened, so it became all the more difficult to keep secret that which he did not wish revealed.

These houses were isolated by their location, even though they lay in the heart of London. They were close to the river, too: easy, then, for barges carrying supplies and raw materials necessary to the experiments to ferry back and forth from the docks unnoticed. Easy, too, to build a sub-basement beneath the cellars, digging out chunks of London clay that had not previously been disturbed by sewers or tunnels of the type that now littered the subterranean world of the City. The works could proceed virtually unnoticed in this semi-isolated spot.

An apprehensive shiver ran through Bekinscot as Haining triggered the hidden lock on the door to the sub-basement. A section of wall that was hidden behind a rack of the poorest – and therefore the least likely to ever be disturbed, even by chance – wine swung open on finely oiled hinges. They descended a wide stone staircase, lit by gas lamps that flickered in the draught of the ventilation system. The air was dry, and yet somehow seemed to carry with it a trace of the dank and dark. Bekinscot was inclined to put this down to his imagination, fired by the knowledge of what occurred in this crypt.

The walked through the chambers that Haining had designed, each connected for ease of movement, both of human and equipment, yet each carefully delineated to allow no contamination of one experiment by another.

The engineering workshops were ranged on one side of the sub-basement, stretching beneath the unwitting feet of his neighbour. Each contained benches, lathes, small furnaces and machine-tooled equipment designed for the express purpose of precision engineering. This represented one aspect of William Haining’s quest.

The chambers that ranged beneath the feet of his other neighbour held a darker aspect. The benches here were littered with the debris and result – carefully labelled – of countless experiments. The subjects of those experiments, and those poor souls about to become subjected, were in cages that lined the walls. Dogs, cats, rabbits, monkeys – many types of mammal called these cages home. Those that had not been subjected to testing were in cages of open metalwork. Those that had – and which were separated assiduously from their fellows – were in cages of iron bar, fronted by plate glass with mesh running through it. Unlike their fellows, who showed curiosity and friendliness to the passing men, they seemed to be in a torpor, slunk back into the shadows.

Bekinscot, curious, approached a straggly mongrel that was little more than a shadow surrounding eyes in the gloom. As he peered in, the creature flung itself forward with a viciousness that made him start back. Howling and slavering, it crashed its skull against the plate glass and iron, unheeding of the blood that streamed from its own gashed skull, driven only by its lust to tear at his throat. It kept throwing itself, as though is own brute force and passion could rend the fabric of its cage.

Bekinscot was mesmerised by the preternatural savagery, and started for a second time as he felt Haining touch him lightly on the arm.

‘Perhaps it is as well that you have seen Rover Seven,’ he said with a grim smile. ‘You may not be quite so shocked.’ The smile flickered as he saw Bekinscot’s puzzlement. ‘It is one of the reasons I know he has returned…’

Varney versus Spring-heel Jack 12: Nov 1885.

Twelve: November 1885.

A hammer. Heavy of shaft, with an iron head that looked as though it could stove in the thickest of skulls. My God, I could only hope. Thanking the deity for the slovenly habits of the smithy, I reached down and picked up the blunt instrument. In the shadows of the yard, it was almost black as pitch, and I had to effect stealth by using touch. I was glad to feel that the hammer was not constrained by other discarded items: to try and free it would have risked alerting the fiend.

For fiend he was, most certainly: whatever foul practise he was effecting on my Elizabeth, she was responding to the hideous sounds with cries of her own that were small, and no longer of fear. I had heard such noises from her: submission and pleasure.

The hammer was heavy to lift with one hand, but I had little choice. In order to balance myself, I had to use my injured arm. This was painful enough, but when combined with the immense effort of hefting the thick shaft, I felt as though I might pass out from the strain.

But no: it was the thought of saving Lillibet from this fate that drove me on. As I straightened, I was able to grasp the hammer with both hands. Balance gave me strength, and I turned towards the dark corner where the fiend went about his vile business. In the shadows, I could make out the shape of him as he knelt over her. His hunched back. His skull. In the black, his almost bald dome gleamed a dull white. Like bone. Like the bone I would soon break.

I had no time for subtlety or stealth. Not now. My anger drove me on. Hefting such a weight, in my debilitated condition, and across a cobbled yard on the dark? There was little chance that I could maintain enough silence to deceive him. I had to hope that he was too absorbed in his task to notice me until it was too late. Speed was all I had.

How I managed to half-run, half-shuffle across that yard when my leg burned with every step and my arm screamed agony, I cannot tell. If that had not alerted him, then my cry of anger, agony and desperation as I swung the hammer must surely have given me away. Indeed, he stopped going about his business and half-turned to me as the hammer was in full arc. I could see the faint gleam of amusement in his eye as it caught mine. This in a fraction of a second before the swinging of the hammer took the iron head across our eye-line.

He grunted heavily as the iron hit home. The force of the blow skittered him sideways across the stable yard, away from Elizabeth. I swear I could see his skull cave in as he flew. The hammer’s weight and arc took it out of my feeble grasp. I heard it hit the cobbles and slide across them, its momentum taking it out towards the street.

I barely had time to steady myself and look towards Elizabeth – not quite able to take in what I could see – before I heard him at may back. A strange, unworldly clicking sound, like china fragments being swept up then pieced together. I turned, and he was on his feet, flexing his shoulders and neck. I could hear his bones grind horribly. It was unbelievable, yet undeniable: where I had seen his skull break like an eggshell, now it was whole again. A thin trickle of sluggish blood down his forehead was the only indicator of any injury.

He put a curious finger to the trickle, then licked it experimentally.

‘You odious little prick,’ he said softly. ‘That hurt.’

Varney versus Spring-heel Jack 11: June 1888

Eleven: June 1888.

Sir Francis Varney decamped from his coach, dismissing Slane with a curled lip and a brief inclination of the head. The servant knew his duty: he would take the carriage back to the warehouse that they called home, there to await his master’s return. He urged the horses into motion, taking the carriage to the end of the narrow street before disappearing around a corner.

Varney nodded to himself. Good. Time to hunt.

It was a constant burden to him that the beginning of an evening left him weakened, needing to conserve energy before his first feed of the night. Early on, he had found out that not to err on the side of caution would be dangerous. An attempt to make his way from his ancestral mansion to the village that served both as a source of food and a source of wenching had left his weaker than expected. The girl had fought back well: she had spirit, he had to give her that. A swift and crippling kick had left him temporarily winded, and gained her vital yards in her flight. The alarm raised, it had taken all his guile to avoid the farmhands, who toiled for him by day, from rending him limb from limb by night.

His revenge had been total: the girl had succumbed the next night, the villagers had been taxed to within an ace of starvation. But that night flight, and the demeaning need to feed on cattle before making his way back home, had stayed with him.

Now, with Slane to assist him, any such error could be avoided.

Drawing his cloak about him, feeling the chill of hunger despite the warmth of the late evening, he strode forth into the thoroughfare of Piccadilly.

Around him, people went about their business with little inclination of the base evil that passed them by. He relished this thought: sometimes he wondered if the idea of such a thing had not drawn him to that woman at the first. To them, he must have seemed little more than an elderly man, lonely and wandering aimlessly. They had purpose. Young men, escorting their ladies, intent on dining then perhaps the theatre or music hall. Men of an indeterminate age, a stern or faraway look on their faces, intent on gaining their club; thereby to escape the clutches of femininity. Young men on the prowl, lust written on their countenance, eyeing the young women as they passed. And those young women: some of them openly on the prowl in their own right, the lust for money rather than the lust for flesh being their motivation. Whether they be common whores or in search of a marriage. Most of them not noticing as he passed.

In his pocket he had money. That was sometimes the bait. But oft-times he had no need of it. The thrill was in selecting the victim and in following her until he had the chance to use his guile. Even better if she was in the presence of some young buck who fancied himself: a good fight assuaged another of his desires. To satisfy himself on the woman and then dispatch her man was a night’s work well done.

But that would come later. First he needed an easy victim, to give him strength.

That was when he saw her. On the street corner. The look of angelic innocence was almost laughably overdone. She was an easy mark. Now to make her think that it was the reverse. He walked towards her, unconsciously stooping slightly to make him look frail. As she turned and caught sight of him, she flashed him a beatific smile.

He was shrewd enough to see that it did not reach as far as her eyes.

Varney versus Spring-heel Jack 10: Nov 1885

Ten: November 1885.

As I look back on that late autumn night, I still have no idea what saved me. If I had some inkling, then perhaps that would have made my subsequent journey a trifle easier. Perhaps, too, it may have helped my precious Lillibet.

The creature told me that I was about to die. There was nothing of him, and although it is some time since I played rugby and boxed whilst at college, still I pride myself on keeping a degree of fitness. Indeed, it is necessary. No man at a boardroom table, I: as an inventor of the machines and processes that power my businesses, I put in time at the workbench with equipment that is heavy duty in all senses of the word. Muscle had not turned to the flab of indolence.

And yet this slight old man, who seemed at first appearance to be decrepit, was now holding me aloft. At full stretch of his arm, I was on my tiptoe, scrabbling to keep some purchase on the cobbled yard so that my neck should not wrench from the strain of my weight. Bad enough that his claw-like fingers dug into the flesh and artery. I could feel my breath come hard, and coloured lights sparkled around a tunnel of darkness that closed ever tighter about that which I could still see. His face, covered in gore that I could only, with a fearful wrenching of the bowels, believe to have come from my beloved, was white, even in that gloom. His eyes – almost like black diamonds in the white firmament of that face – glittered with malevolence.

But I knew his name. In his arrogance he had told me. That small spark of knowledge spurred me to fight against the encroaching dark. I let my eyes close. Risking that I would not be able to open them again, and let myself go limp.

‘Curse you. How dare you choose when you should perish.’

It had worked. In a fit of pique, he tossed me away from him. I felt my throat tear under his taloned fingers, and the pain compelled me to cry out. Yet I was able to resist, knowing that if I did not it would destroy whatever slim chance I had given myself. I had no plan, but at least I was – quite literally – out of his grasp at this moment.

Even though I was still allowing myself to fall limp, I felt the crash to the cobbles with a sickening jarring that went through my whole body. My knee and arm felt like swords of fire had been driven through them.

Opening my eyes, I could see that the fiend had turned back to the dark area where he must have secreted my Elizabeth. For the moment, his foul appetites had led him to forget – or perhaps just dismiss – my presence.

As silently as I was able, I dragged myself to my feet, casting around for a weapon whilst trying to ignore the obscene sucking sounds that were coming from the hunched figure in the darkness. He may look like an old man, but already I was aware that he was more than at first appeared. It would be some time before I could truly come to terms with the evil that he embodied: for now, survival and the possible saving of my love were all that mattered.

It would have to be a weapon of some weight to make any kind of impact. But what, amongst the horse dung, discarded bridles, and straw of the stable yard could have the requisite temper?

It was then that I noticed the anvil. Too heavy for me to lift with an arm that was all but useless by my side. I doubted, too, that my knee could take the weight. But no matter: the blacksmith using the anvil had been, fortunately, lax in clearing up after himself.

Varney versus Spring-heel Jack 9: June 1888

Nine: June 1888.

‘We have arrived, then, at a point where we cannot agree,’ Bekinscot said slowly, rolling the whiskey glass around in his hand. He pondered for a moment, then said softly: ‘You know that I have backed you all the way, William. I underst – no, I appreciate your situation. Indeed, I admire the way in which you have dealt with a situation that is so nightmarish, so beyond rational thought, that many others would have crumbled under the strain. But on this, I feel you are making a grave misjudgement.’

Sir William Haining, engineer and industrialist, stood in the far corner of the room, looking out of the heavily curtained window at the quiet of the square. When he spoke, it was almost in a whisper.

‘George, you have been a valued friend to me. And I know that what happened to Elizabeth must have hurt you, too. Hurt in ways that you probably would not wish to disclose to anyone.’ He turned to Bekinscot. ‘She may only be a niece as far as most people are concerned, but to an unmarried man with no daughters, perhaps just as precious?’ A ghost of smile flickered across his features. A scant moment and then it was gone. His face, once tanned and full, was drawn and gaunt. Pale, even in the dim light of the gas lamp that flickered shadows across the heavy flock walls.

Bekinscot assented.

‘Then you must realise that such trifles are as nothing to me, now,’ Haining said, moving across to his friend and grasping him by the arm. ‘The Lord knows that I would not insult the Queen, nor dismiss lightly the honour that she and her government wish to bestow on me. The irony that they wish to do this because of things that are just a by-product of my quest is not lost to me… nor you, I think. But I cannot. Not now.’

‘Why, in heaven’s name?’ Bekinscot exploded. ‘Why endanger everything, risk exposure from the prying, offended eyes of trade and press for the sake of a few brief appearances in the public eye?’

Even as he spoke, he was aware that Haining’s grip strengthened on his arm, and that a manic gleam came to his eye.

‘Because, George… Because I am ready. It is done.’

Bekinscot’s eyes widened. ‘It works?’

Sir William Haining nodded his assent. ‘I’ve tested it. On a small scale and as privately as one can, admittedly, but enough to know that the flaws have been eradicated. I’m ready. That’s why I cannot be diverted.’

‘But surely a week or two cannot make that much difference?’ Bekinscot asked. Even so, he was unable to keep the excitement from his own voice.

Haining turned away and strode to the window. He gazed out into a distance that stretched far beyond the square before him.

‘No. It has to be now. He’s back.’

‘In London?’

Haining nodded almost imperceptibly. ‘I can feel the bastard. I’ve spent so long on his trail that I feel like I almost know him. The final pieces are falling into place, George, and it’s time for me to act.’

‘Elizabeth? Can she?’ Bekinscot did not know quite how to voice the thoughts that shaped terribly in his mind.

‘Yes. She knows, too. Her behaviour has… changed, I think. There’s not other way that I can phrase it. It confirms the serpents that run up and down my own spine. He’s here, no doubt about that.’

For a moment, both men were lost in their own thoughts. Then Bekinscot asked: ‘May I see her? Just for a moment?’

Haining turned to his old friend, and the only man he could truly trust. His smile was grim, did not reach his eyes.

‘You can, George. But I warn you. It is not… easy. To see her like this.’

Bekinscot downed the remains of his whiskey. ‘I’m ready. I must.’

‘Good man.’ Haining clapped him on the shoulder as he passed on his way to the door. ‘Perhaps it is only a matter of time, now…’

Varney versus Spring-heel Jack 8: June 1888

Eight: June 1888.

The coach rattled through the streets, blinds drawn across the windows to shield the man within from the prying eyes of the world. Slane sat atop the box, yelling and driving the horses harder as they galloped, foam-flecked jaws attesting to their effort and speed. The light evenings of summer were an accursed nuisance to him, leaving him less and less time to go and hunt. He preferred winter. Long hours of darkness. And the cold was a friend: the layer of clothes with which mortal people swathed themselves to ward off the chill of evening made it easier for him to disguise himself, to blend in with the throng. In summer, his appearance counted against him.

The feeling of speed meant power to him. It made him feel good, primed him for another evening on the prowl. Thinking back to when this first began, he could recall – if only dimly now – how another kind of prowl had spurred him on. Leaning back against the fading plush of the carriage seat, he could see that the lust was the same. It was merely that object of said lust had changed. There was little to choose between them: it was the pursuit that mattered, not that which may be obtained at the culmination of the chase.

When he had been alone for the first and only time with that Gypsy woman, he had not realised how much she would change his life. Was life even the right word to describe the existence he had led since that encounter? Perhaps not: no matter, the blinding flash of light that shot through him, the bolt of pure energy that had jolted every fibre of his being, the thirst that had awakened in him and become an irrefutable craving… all this had been her doing.

And he was, for the most part, grateful. It had given him a sense of omnipotence that had made him a God. He relished this.

The downside lay in having to maintain the practicalities of humanity. No need for food and drink, perhaps, but still he needed secure tenure for his shell during the hours of daylight. To just disappear would have ensured the loss of his properties, his fortune. That would be necessary to fund the life eternal. And so a timely trip abroad was followed by a faked marriage, and by an equally faked heir. His bankers cared not, in truth, as long as they could balance the books, cross t’s and dot i’s in their paperwork. All that remained was to keep contact at arm’s length. Forged signatures and Slane’s presence at their chambers ensured that all ran smoothly. And so the material could be maintained for the benefit of the dark spirits.

In all, it had been a more than adequate arrangement. Some movement had been necessary when those who dabbled in the belief that they could stop him had come too close. Hence the warehouse basement, beneath a company owned in the name of his fictitious grandson. These people were mortal, and were soon dust. He would prevail.

His thoughts were interrupted as the coach came to a sudden halt. He sat forward in his seat, listening intently to the laboured breathing of the horses; the sounds of people going about their business in the distance. He would guess that they were in a side street not too far from a busy thoroughfare. Close enough to hunt quickly. Far enough to avoid prying eyes.

The roof trap opened, revealing the shadowed face of Slane, almost black against the darkening twilight sky. Dark enough that it would not disturb him.

‘Master, it is dark, and we have arrived.’

Varney versus Spring-heel Jack: 7. Nov. 1885

Seven: November 1885.

He wanted to heave as the smell cloyed his throat. He wiped the sticky mess on his overcoat, counted to ten to stay the rising gorge. Elizabeth was somewhere in that dark corner, along with whatever had made her scream. The constant braying of the frightened horses and the pounding of their efforts to escape made it hard for him to think. It was so damned noisy: why didn’t that bring anyone else? Someone with light? God, he didn’t want to be alone.

Of course, he realised that the street beyond carried too much noise of its own. He must face this, whatever it may be: his mind raced with images of rats, wild dogs, drunken men with knives deflowering –

Her voice broke the reverie. It was not a scream. A whimper. A sound with a familiar edge to it: part fright and pain, part the way she sounded when he made love to her. God’s teeth, what was happening to her in that darkness?

No longer paralysed by his own fear, he moved forward, scuttling, moving in a crouch with his hands still outstretched. He ignored the blood, horse dung, and rivers of urine that came from beneath the doors of the stables. Moving towards that patch of absolute dark that spread like an obsidian blanket over the far corner.

As he approached, he could see shapes begin to form in the black. A hunched, distorted tangle of limbs and torso. And the sound: heavy, gently gasping breath from Elizabeth; a snorting, snuffling, sucking sound from the creature that was positioned over her.

He thought about calling out. No. Surprise was his only real weapon. He was no fighter. Rising from his crouch as he made ground, he hurled himself at the creature that hovered over her. The impact knocked them both sideways, rolling in the dirt of the cobbled yard. His elbow twisted under his ribs as he fell, knocking the breath from him. Before he had a chance to regain his wind, the man – for it was most assuredly a man – lifted him from the ground and with a guttural roar hurled him away. Jarring pain like fire coursed through his left leg as his knee took the full weight of impact.

Tears of frustration and pain prickled at his eyes. As quickly as he could – which was pitifully slow – he hauled himself to his feet. His ribs ached with every breath. His knee throbbed. He stumbled towards the hunched figure.

‘Leave her,’ he cried. It was supposed to be a yell, but came out more of a hoarse whisper. But it was enough to make the hunched figure look up from its task: a sight that would be forever etched in his mind.

The man looked ineffably aged. A bald pate, skin wrinkled and pale, even in this feeble light. Sallow, sunken cheeks. Eyes that were almost entirely dark, with no whites, like those of an animal. Its lips were bared in a half-smile, half-snarl. His lower jaw was smeared with viscera.

‘What have –‘ He stumbled forward, unable to finish the sentence, thinking only of Elizabeth. The slight, feral man rose to his feet with a sigh, and they closed on each other.

‘Poltroon. You should have left well alone,’ the slight man sighed. ‘I do so hate to be interrupted.’

As William lunged clumsily, the slight man side-stepped, whirled him effortlessly by the arm, and grasped his throat in a hand that was more like a claw. To William’s amazement and terror – there was no other word for the emotion that now gripped him – he was lifted clean from the ground.

‘Now think on this before you die, cur: no-one shall interfere with Sir Francis Varney when he goes about his business…’

Varney versus Spring-heel Jack: 6. June 1888

Six: June 1888.

Purdey-James hunched over his glass, perched on the edge of the chair. He talked in an undertone, unwilling for his words to reach any ears other than those of Bekinscot.

‘You know he has turned down the Queen? A Baronet, the chance to found a dynasty.’ Purdey-James shook his head. ‘What any of us would give for that…’

‘Some of us are born to it, my dear old friend, and it is not what you might think,’ Bekinscot countered in warm tones.

Purdey-James raised an eyebrow, looking his companion in the eye. ‘That, my equally dear friend, is rather easy to say when you know nothing else.’

Bekinscot acquiesced. ‘A fair and just point, I suppose. But I fail to see why William’s lack of desire…’ He tailed off. ‘He isn’t married, after all. And I doubt very much if that lingers on the horizon.’

Purdey-James shook his head. ‘Terrible business. Just disappearing like that… her poor parents. And, indeed, poor William. I wonder whatever happened to her? I understand there was a search, but nothing –‘

Bekinscot broke in: ‘It was very painful for all concerned. There was no note, but investigations proved that there was a man – some soldier, I believe. It was all very Jane Austen, all very humiliating for William. And for the parents, of course,’ he added in a tone that suggested further pursuit of this line would be, at best, distasteful.

‘I did not mean –‘ Purdey-James floundered. ‘Of course, you were involved in the search… I did not wish to dwell on it. I suppose that was when William began to become more reclusive. I hardly ever see him, except perhaps at some occasion where our bankers have mutually beneficial business for us. No, my point is that an honour such as he has been offered is not one that is tendered lightly. To dismiss it out of hand is not only insulting to our Sovereign, but also bespeaks of a mid that has become closed to anything outside its own obsessions.’

‘You think he is obsessive?’ Bekinscot poured them another brandy. ‘About what, for God’s sakes?’

‘Why, about his business, of course. Or to be more accurate, his capacity for invention. It consumes above all else, or at least, that is how it seems. You –‘ he reached out and touched Bekinscot’s arm – ‘you are his friend. More so than I. Can you not speak to him, try to make him see that at least this honour should not be ignored?’

Bekinscot sighed. ‘Would that I could, Archie. True, I call him friend. But I, too, have seen him less and less over the last three years. Even my calling unexpectedly has been snubbed. I fear, for all your good intent, that you have wasted your passion on me.’

Purdey-James sat back in his chair, sadly shaking his head. ‘I had hoped… but if he has even turned his back on you…’

Later, when he left the Club, Bekinscot reflected on his ability to lie with such ease. About so many things. It pained him to do this to Purdey-James, a good man and well-intentioned as he was. But there were some things that were better left alone. It had not been the pleasant evening he had hoped for: but perhaps it served a purpose.

He was soon at a terrace of large and imposing town houses behind Lincoln Inn Fields. Taking the steps to the front door with an ease that was deceptive in one so corpulent, he rapped sharply at the door. A brief exchange with the footman, and he was in the drawing room pouring himself a brandy when he heard the door open behind him.

‘Ah, William, excuse the liberty,’ he said by way of apology. ‘I know we were due to dine tomorrow night, but there’s something we need to – ah – head off at the pass, as those delightful colonials have it.’

Varney versus Spring-heel Jack: 5. June 1888

Five: June 1888.

‘Slane! Slane, you foul dog – where are you?’

Without a word, the servant slipped into the room, carrying a silver tray, upon which sat a perfectly prepared roast dinner: meat, three boiled vegetables, and roasted potatoes. He knew better than to utter the merest word.

‘About time, you scum,’ his master muttered, his foul temper little improved by the sight of the food. He was always irritable when he had just risen, and before he had a chance to sate his hunger. He gazed upon the fine china plate, laden with steaming vittals, as it was placed before him. It did little to improve his mood. With a gesture, he indicated that Slane should pour wine for him. This, the servant did, standing back as his master picked up the glass, sniffed appreciatively, and then put the glass to his lips.

It was always the same: the promise of nectar turned to the foulest bilge water, stinging his lips like acid. Mouth closed to avoid further agony, always testing and hoping for the day when it would change.

Not, alas, tonight. With a bellow of rage he tossed the glass over his shoulder. For such a seemingly small gesture, the glass travelled distance and speed until it shattered against the wall at his rear. It betrayed a strength that many would have found surprising in a frame so slight. Red wine spread out in a spray as the glass travelled, spilling on the rush covered floor and staining the wall as it hit with a dull, damp splash. The glass hit within less than a second, shattering into shards and fragments that pattered gently across the rushes.

Slane stood silent and unmoving. The price of the prize given him was, in his mind, worth the cost. His master was entitled to frustrations: he felt them himself, often enough.

Picking at the food with a fork, turning it over and sniffing it appreciatively, the slight man seemed a little more at ease. The vegetables were covered with thick, pungently aromatic gravy: his speared a roast potato and lifted it to his nose, taking a lingering, loving intake of its smell. He grunted, placing the vegetable back on the plate before turning over the meat. It was rare, almost raw. He stabbed savagely at a slice ad lifted it to his mouth, a smile of little humour splitting his face as he sucked at the bloody flesh, taking from it all the juice that he was able. Then, with a moue of distaste and disdain he spat the pulped and dry flesh back onto the plate.

‘Take it away,’ he hissed, slumping back as Slane took the plate and tray, exiting from the room as silently as he had entered.

As he heard the door click softly behind him, the slight man looked around. The table before him was oak, polished to a sheen that reflected light from the silver candelabra that lit the room. The glassware was the finest crystal. The cutlery finely wrought silver. The rug on which the table and chair stood, although now faded and becoming threadbare, showed evidenced of being woven by the most skilled fingers of the Far East.

Yet beyond this, the room was desolate. A cellar with mould on the walls, streaked with  runnels of water that dripped in the distorted angles. A coffin, a layer of earth covering the bottom. Rushes to cover the dirt and flags that made up the floor.

‘Bugger. Has it really come to this?’ he said quietly. Once there had been lands, a large mansion set in rolling hills, and more women than he could care to count. Money, too. That all seemed unimportant, now: what he would give, sometimes, just to ingest that potato; to drink the wine.

He was about to call for Slane when he realised that the man was at his elbow. A bitter smile jerked at the corners of his mouth.

‘As always, Slane, as always,’ he murmured. ‘It’s time to forage abroad.’

‘Yes, Sir Francis,’ Slane answered in a dry husk of a voice.

Varney versus Spring-heel Jack 4: Nov 1885

Four: November 1885.

From the moment that he entered the yard, a kind of despair washed over him. He knew that this night could only end in pain and misery, and that he would be powerless to stop it. For the briefest of seconds, he felt terror rise like bitter bile in his throat, urging him to turn and run.

Then her cry. Not agony; not yet. Like the horses, it was a cry of fear. A deep, plangent fear that came from the depth of the soul. A sound that was primal.

It was all he needed to bring him to his senses. The air became sharp, the cold tingled on his skin in a way that it had not mere seconds before. Was this what love meant?

His first thought was to plunge into the darkness. To search for her blindly. Then the rational side of his nature – that which had lifted him so far in so short a time – took over.

The stable area of the yard was black as pitch. Even as he stood, breathing hard and waiting for the next cry with a kind of dread, his eyes adjusted to a level of dark that was greater even that that in the street beyond. Tenements on either side blocked out any moonlight that may filter through the fog. At the far end of the yard, the dark shapes of the buildings gave way to a lighter, greyer patch of exposed sky. Not enough: the yard was enveloped, and even as his night vision improved, he could still make out little other than basic shapes.

There were rustlings and movements in the blackness. He could locate them by sound, but not by sight. The sound of hooves, restless in the enclosed stabling. Rats? A scurrying of some kind. Breathing. The heavy snort of the horses, and two others. One sounded like a kind of panting: rapid, shallow, almost gulping down the air. The other rasped, like saw teeth on old oak. These two were together, cloistered to one side of the stabling.

He almost cried her name, staying himself only just in time. He knew that he must be outlined against the entrance to the yard by the slightly better light. No need to betray anything else. Swiftly, he slunk into shadow, moving along under the stable doors as quickly as he dared. Whoever – whatever – had Elizabeth was alone. Even the rats did not want to know: they scuttled over the toes of his boots as they made haste to exit the yard. The horses butted against the stable doors as they, too, sought escape. The rotten wood and rusting hinges strained, one door moving as to hit him on the shoulder, almost pitching him over.

He fell forwards, hands splayed before him to save himself. His palms landed in something wet and warm. Sticky to the touch. As he steadied himself on his haunches, he raised one hand to his nose. The sweet smell was unmistakable.

Fresh blood.