Medi-Evil 3 (11 page)

 
“No, this other business is nonsense of the first order,” Colonel Thorpe concluded.
“Scarcely worth worrying one’s head about.”

 
“One theory is that it’s some scientist chap who’s maybe gone and built himself a jumping apparatus,” the young man offered.

 
“That’s as maybe. It can hardly be of concern to men like us.”

 
“I’m not sure I entirely agree, sir.”

 
Colonel Thorpe raised an eyebrow.

 
“You see,” the young man added, with apparent complete sincerity, “I know who, or perhaps I should say ‘what’ Spring-Heeled Jack actually is. And I believe it poses a genuine danger to the population of this city.”

 
The colonel regarded him dubiously, then unfolded his paper and looked again at the item in question. He ran quickly through the absurd-sounding events of the last few days: the outlandish claims made by yet more hysterical witnesses that this ‘Spring-Heeled Jack’ character had leapt over houses in order to escape; that shots had been fired at him, not even wounding him let alone killing him.

 
As the colonel read on, his young visitor added: “This thing is able to cover vast distances in a single bound. But not through the aid of a mechanical device, through the astonishing power of its own highly-developed hindquarters.”

 
The colonel glanced up. Though now in late middle-age, he was still a solid wedge of a man, immensely broad at the shoulder. He was bushy-haired and had a huge pair of white mutton-chop whiskers. His gaze was that of the jungle beast: long, cold and penetrating. “Are you playing some kind of game with me, sir?” he wondered.

 
Young
Brabinger
looked shocked.
“Not at all.
In fact, I came to you specifically, Colonel Thorpe, because I have nothing but respect for you. Your hunting trips are the stuff of legend. They say there isn’t a predator that you yourself haven’t successfully predated on.”

 
“And how can that be of interest to you?”

 
“In short, sir, I aim to capture this creature.
If not tonight, tomorrow night.
But in order to do it, I’ll need help.
Expert help.”

 
The colonel put the newspaper down. “This creature, as you call it, is a figment of some drunken fool’s imagination.”

 
“But it’s left a trail of very real crimes.”

 
“Which were no doubt perpetrated by a range of very real villains, who are all now mighty pleased to find their misdeeds blamed on a fantasy being from the realms of children’s
storybooks.
”

 
“Might I draw your attention, sir, to the fact that in 1837 the Duke of Wellington himself
organised
patrols in order to try and apprehend this fiend?”

 
Colonel Thorpe re-stuffed his pipe and touched a match to it. He gave several puffs before responding. “And might I draw your attention to the fact that that was forty-four years ago. This fiend, as you call him, if he lived at all – and if he did, I’m guessing he was some kind of demented acrobat – will now have difficulty jumping over a shoebox, let alone a house.”

 
“Colonel Thorpe …”

 
“Captain
Brabinger
!” The colonel had clearly heard enough. “I can categorically assure you that
a creature like
this,” and he struck the newspaper with his forefinger, “does not exist in a city like London.”

 
“Even if I categorically assure you otherwise?” the young man persisted. And if, unlike you, I base my assertion on the evidence of my own eyes rather than a bull-headed conviction that just because I haven’t seen it, it cannot be?”

 
At first Colonel Thorpe looked as though he was about to explode – the damn insolence of the fellow. But he was aware that several other members were now watching, and as he was as much a fixture in
The Union Jack Club
as its deep, leather chairs and ancient oak fittings, it wouldn’t do for him to be seen getting into an argument here with someone young enough to be his grandson. Besides, the Uxbridge
Brabingers
were not just highly-placed among the landed elite, they were connected in town as well; they had friends in high places, whom Henry
Brabinger
, this young pup’s father, wouldn’t hesitate to call on if some issue arose that might cause him embarrassment.

 
So the colonel replied in more measured fashion. “I think it’s rather possible, my young friend, that you got too much sun while you were out in Natal. Either that or you have a wild and vivid imagination unbecoming to the role of a professional soldier. Consider the savages you slew while you were serving your country. They were real, were they not? So real that they’d undoubtedly have killed you had you given them the
chance.
Ponder that, and ponder it well. Our kind is a strange animal, young
Brabinger
. By necessity for life, we must only ever deal in hard truths.
Never in childish whimsy.”

 
“In which case,” the young man said, standing, “the hard truth of this situation is that I shall be the one credited with bringing this reign of terror to an end. Not you.” And with that he turned and walked from the room.

 
The colonel peered after him, but not so much with rage as with fascination. The young rogue had seemed very sure of himself. Was it possible he really did have some secret knowledge about this bizarre affair? This could always be the work of some of the club’s junior members, the colonel considered, trying to make sport of him. But he doubted they’d be so foolish.

 
A moment passed before Colonel Thorpe sent a waiter for his hat, coat and gloves.

*

Death came over the arid hillside like a colossal swarm of ants.

 
There was no question that this was indeed death. No question at all. Charles Randolph
Brabinger
of the 24th Regiment hadn’t
realised
it until now, though as a regular soldier who’d served on the Cape frontier for several years, he most certainly should have done. The veteran corps of the Zulu
impi
was without doubt the most fearsome fighting force in the whole of Africa. Their plumed and leopard-skinned warriors advanced at speed yet in rigid,
organised
phalanxes. They weren’t running as such, but marching in perfect quick-time. The sun glinted on their waxed ebony hides and the needle tips of their
assegais
as they drew steadily closer – two hundred paces, one hundred and fifty,
one
hundred – all the time pounding their war-shields with thunderous volume.

 
Native superstition told how, before combat, the Zulu troops would take secret drugs which increased their strength and stamina, and massively boosted their fearlessness. Charles could believe it. In the raging midmorning heat, the thinly spread lines of red-coated soldiers on the lower ground before him were exhausted merely from taking up position, their heavy tunics thick with sweat, their white helmets and fretting now yellowed by the endlessly blowing dust.
And how few of them there looked to be in comparison to the awesome foe closing in.
Even had their numbers not been halved by their commanding officer’s rash decision that very morning to ride away to the
Mzinyathi
hills and flush out a peripheral enemy force that existed only in his imagination, the oncoming fight would have been staggeringly one-sided, ten to one at least.

 
Now, on the open ground below the north side of the unfortified camp, hurried orders were barked. Breaches snapped closed as Martini-Henry rifles were raised to shoulders. There was a frantic neighing of officers’ horses, their terror growing rapidly as the approaching roar of the Zulus became deafening. Charles drew the pistol from his side-holster and slotted six bullets into its chambers. His palms were greasy with sweat. It trickled down his back, while the bristles on the nape of his sunburned neck were stiffening like wire. Yet even in the midst of that terrible anguish, he thought of Annabelle. He took the locket he’d brought from home and flipped it open on the water-
colour
impression of his fiancée. She looked coy and girlish, innocent as a flower and so lovely.

 
Annabelle, whose own family had been cursed by tragedies born in this darkest of
continents
. Annabelle, whose long ordeal he’d in some weird and indirect way hoped to even the score for by his actions here.

 
Annabelle, who he now would never see again.

 
“Belgravia Crescent, sir,”
came
the cabbie’s Cockney voice.

 
Charles opened his eyes and saw that they’d arrived outside number nine. It was a bitter February night and an icy fog hung in the narrow cul-de-sac. The tall, stately townhouse, though separated from him only by a strip of front garden and a flight of marble steps, was barely visible in the gloom. The gas-lamps suspended to either side of its classical Greek porch were dull orbs which gave off a wavering glow.

 
Charles paid the cabbie, dashed up the steps and knocked loudly on the front door. He waited impatiently, tapping his cane on his boot. Light but unhurried feet arrived on the other side. Slowly, as though with difficulty, the heavy oak door was opened, and Annabelle stood there.

 
“Charles!” she cried, her eyes widening, her pretty pink mouth forming a perfect O.

 
Charles didn’t waste time admiring her bustled evening-gown or the perfect loop-coils in which her chestnut hair was styled. He barged straight past her, unbuttoning his overcoat. “Are you performing
all
the household duties these days, Annabelle?”

 
“Charles, good heavens!” she exclaimed, still startled, though perhaps a tad less delighted than he’d normally have expected.

 
She made a move to embrace him, but he firmly extricated himself from her arms. He stared around the walnut-
panelled
hall, then up the stairs to the first floor. Both were deserted. “Where
are the staff
?” he asked.
“As if I didn’t know.”

 
“What’s the matter?” she said. “I don’t understand … what do you mean?”

 
He rounded on her. “Don’t treat me like a child, Miss. You think I didn’t read the newspapers while I was in the hospital at Durban? They might have been a few weeks out of date, but the stories didn’t change.”

 
“Charles!” Annabelle shook her head, perplexed and hurt. “You didn’t even cable to tell me you were coming. In fact, you haven’t had home leave for nearly three years, and for part of that time, almost six months in fact, I thought you’d been killed at
Isandlwana
. And yet the first words you speak to me when you see me again are harsh ones.”

 
“Let’s not play games, Annabelle.” Charles threw his hat and coat onto a stand. “They’re out hunting it, aren’t they? Nigel and Joseph, I mean.”

 
She said nothing, but her silence spoke volumes.

 
“You lied to me, Annabelle,” he said sternly. “Three years ago, you assured me this hellish business was over. You told me he was dead.”

 
“He
is
dead,” she said quietly.

 
“Indeed?” Charles’s tone was scathing. “I think not.” He turned and raced up the great stairway, taking it two treads at a time.

 
“Charles!” Annabelle grabbed her skirts and hurried in pursuit. “What are you doing? How dare you come into our home like this?”

 
On the first floor, Charles grabbed
a flaring candelabra
and proceeded down the left-hand corridor to a dark, closet-like doorway. On the other side of that there was another stair. This one was dank, built from bare timber, and it
spiralled
steeply upwards. Charles hastened up it, and at the top, as he’d suspected, found the iron door to the first attic room standing ajar.

 
Inside, it was a sordid den.

 
Naked flagstones provided the floor, cold bricks the encircling walls. Overhead, the rafters in the sloped recess of the roof were black with age and decay, and hung with creepers of dirty cobweb. The room’s most repellent aspect, however, was its suffocating stench: it reeked like an animal house at the zoo, a matter made worse by the rancid straw and husks of gnawed and now rotted vegetables that strewed every foot of it.