Varney Versus Springheel Jack 30: June 1888.

Thirty: June 1888.

Bekinscot flinched, tried to jerk his head back as the metallic face came towards him, a hideous leer across its fixed and ferocious features. Steam poured from the nostrils, and the eyes glared red and unforgiving.

‘Is this really necessary?’ he asked, his voice reduced to a dull, dry husk by the shock. His head was so far back that he felt as though he may topple over, and it was only a judiciously placed movement of the heel that maintained his balance.

‘Sorry, old man, that was a bit dramatic of me.’  A metal covered hand grasped his arm and helped him to regain equilibrium. Despite being curiously muffled and also distorted by the mask before him, the mild tones of William Haining seemed all the more incongruous issuing from the fearsome visage.

‘Well, I suppose I can forgive that,’ Bekinscot uttered grudgingly, shaking himself a little to try and re-establish his dignity.

‘Nonetheless,’ Haining continued, removing the mask so that his face was now uncovered once more, and his voice returned to normal, ‘it does prove a point. The speed with which I was able to cross the room, the ease with which I assisted you – d’you know, old chap, I hardly used any of my own musculature in all of that? Anyway,’ he continued, moving away in a strange, graceful and yet spider-like motion so that he could collect a cap and hat from a wall cupboard, ‘my intention was to give you just a mild and very minor taste of the manner in which this contraption enhances my own abilities. It is, if you like, an extension of myself.’

‘The face, though,’ Bekinscot mused, moving over to his friend in order to assist him with the cape, ‘why does it need to be so –‘

‘Scary?’ Haining chuckled. ‘Yes, I suppose it is. Hidden by the downturned brim of my hat, and glanced in the dimness of gaslight, it would seem that I was just some ugly gentleman, no doubt frequenting the areas I suspect I will be going for the purposes of procurement. Just another ugly bugger in search of a whore. However, if seen at closer quarters, when in the throes of some quasi-military action, then it may just strike fear into the hearts of my enemies, as much as protect me with its iron grip. Hence the steam, which is channelled into the nosepiece from some of this piping here,’ he exposited, fingering some of the delicate filigree of metalwork about his head. ‘Makes the face a little warm, but then I suppose that will be useful in itself, in the colder watches of the night,’ he added with a grin.

‘I’m sorry I just cannot quite grasp it,’ Bekinscot said, head on one side as he examined Haining, now with the cape and hat in place. The iron man had the mask in his hands, and paused, looking quizzically at his friend. Bekinscot continued: ‘I mean to say, when you’re talking about dealing with an inhuman fiend such as the vampire, how the hell can a mask which frightens an old fool like me be of any use?’

Haining laughed, and clapped his friend upon the shoulder.

‘My dear old chap, it couldn’t frighten Sir Francis, though it may blunt the bastard’s fangs for a while. No, you must understand that in my researches I have uncovered the fact that there are many who work for him, either directly or indirectly. Some are of the night, like he is. Others are not. There are human agents of the dark lord, my old friend,’ he said, his voice suddenly becoming more sombre. ‘What they could possibly hope to gain, and where it could lead them… but then power is a heady scent, as we see every time we set foot in any of our clubs. So why not that as a motive?’

‘Come to that, do you need to understand any more than that they need to be eradicated?’

Haining smiled before his face was lost to the iron mask.

‘Precisely, old chum. But now, I think, the time for explanations is past. The night draws on…’

Varney versus Spring-heel Jack 29: March 1887.

Twenty-Nine: March 1887.

Archie Purdey-James paused mid-stride as he ascended the stone steps leading into his club. The Strand moved on around him, yet his failed to notice its passing. Instead, he was preoccupied with what the last two months had brought him. In truth, very little: yet was that not the most intriguing part of the whole puzzle?

He shook his head and sniffed hard, bringing himself back to reality. He had a role to assume, and distraction from idle speculation would not help with his task. He took the last few steps at a brisk pace, watched with some bemusement by the old man who was permanently seated in a wing-backed chair by the full-length window. This gentleman being a fixture who observed everything, found the Purdey-James he knew inside the club, and this sprightly gentleman, a strange contradiction. If he had been able to see the lobby o the club clearly from his position, he would have found the way in which Archie seemed to slow down and stoop slightly upon entering all the more confounding.

Purdey-James was immediately approached by a porter: it was customary for the staff to serve from the moment a member appeared, but even this was a little too quick for Purdey-James’ tastes. For a moment he verged on telling the man where to go; quick reflection, however, on the need to stay in character saw him dither before ordering a Scotch and soda and the Thunderer. While the servant scurried away to fulfil the order, Archie searched the lower rooms of the club. The lounge, the library, and the dining rooms, waving away with imperious impatience the approaches of other liveried club servants. For all the world, he appeared to be an irascible rich industrialist, on the cusp of middle-age, irritated because he could not find a place to settle at his favourite club. A spoilt, pampered, and self-made man whose self-obsession in business now came out as petulant selfishness in the confines of his club.

That was exactly as he wished it to appear. In truth, he was in search of one particular club member, and while he carried out this search he wished to be undisturbed, and his true purpose kept hidden. He had been a member of this club for three years, and had joined mostly for reasons that his fellow members would have recognised. That was his exterior life, as he viewed it. The interior was the secret life, known only to a few. And Featherstonehaugh had viewed his joining the club with favour.

‘Contacts, my dear old Archie, are invaluable in our line, as they are in any other. Perhaps more so…’

As he moved from room to room in search of his prey, he went over the few facts that he had gleaned in the last couple of months. His quarry, Haining, had made some trips abroad that had not been strictly in the line of business. There had been a couple of occasions when the local consulate had stepped in to avoid scandal. Not of the usual kind, though: Haining seemed to have some very arcane interests. In-between times, when he had been in this country, he had almost literally gone to ground. Little was seen of him, and those few occasions when his head did appear above the parapet had been seemingly random and bizarre. Why the search for a country estate? Likewise, the search for a new house in London, and one with such specific requirements?

A successful businessman was allowed his follies and foibles, but not when he had a scientific brain that could be invaluable in the hands of enemy powers. What kind of enemy was another matter: some of the things Purdey-James had discovered seemed to hint at matters that went beyond mere Patriotism and Empire.

Ah! The man he had been looking for: Purdey-James mentally composed himself in character as he spied the fat man seated by the fireside.

Time to contrive acquaintance. For the Queen, of course.