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

sir.”
    “Is that so? At what time did this occur?”
    “About four in the morning. There were very few staff on duty at the time.”
    “And Speke was still alive?”
    “Yes, sir. Though, in all honesty-and I'm sorry to say this-but it's unlikely that he survived being taken from our care.”
    “I'd like to see the nurse-Sister Raghavendra-if you please.”
    “I'm afraid she's not here. She was suspended from duty and sent home. She was very upset.”
    “Where does she live?”
    “Oh, I can't tell you that, Mr. Burton. It's against policy.”
    “To hell with your policies, Sister! They obviously count for nothing!”
    The nurse's eyes widened in shock. “Sir!”
    Burton pulled his wallet from his pocket and took out a folded document. He showed it to the nurse.
    “Look at this signature, young lady. Do you recognise it?”
    “No. Yes. It's-my goodness!-it's the same as the one on pound notes!”
    “Now read this paragraph here,” he instructed, indicating a short block of text with his finger.
    She did so, pursed her lips, and nodded.
    “Very well, sir. It seems I have no choice. Sister Raghavendra lives here-” She scribbled an address onto a sheet of paper and handed it to him.
    “Thank you,” he said, and turned to leave, satisfied with the effectiveness of the document Palmerston had issued to him that morning.
    “Sir Richard!” she called after him.
    He looked back.
    She smiled. “Rub castor oil around your eye. It will reduce the bruising.”
    He winked at her.
    Outside, Burton found the hansom still standing at the curb. He hailed the driver: “Hi, cabbie, still here?”
    “Oh aye, sir. Thought it best to wait for the fares to come to me, 'stead o' drivin' through this stinker lookin' for 'em!”
    “Can you take me to 3 Bayham Street, near Mornington Crescent?”
    “Wiv me eyes closed, sir-which in this 'ere mess o' fog is just as well. 'Op in!”
    Burton settled on the seat and closed the door. He rubbed his itchy eyes as the steam-horse growled and the cabin lurched into motion. His skin felt grimy, thinly coated with soot and other pollutants. He wondered whether Limehouse had been evacuated. During the previous fog-two weeks agotoxic gasses had settled into the Thames basin and a great mob of sailors, criminals, drug addicts, and illegal immigrants-mainly Lascars, Dacoits, Chinamen, Africans, and Irish refugees-had swept into Whitechapel, where they'd rioted for three days. When the fog cleared, and they returned to their hovels and opium dens, it was found that they'd piled hundreds of corpsesasphyxiation victims-along Commercial Road. With the risk of a cholera epidemic and a boom in the already unmanageable rat population, the government had called in the army to clear and burn the bodies. Ever since, the newspapers had been calling for an all-out assault on Limehouse, demanding that it be cleared and razed to the ground. This, thought Burton, was unlikely to happen. The opium trade needed Limehouse and, he suspected, there were powerful forces in the Empire that needed the opium trade.
    It took far longer to reach Mornington Crescent than it should have; the cabbie took two wrong turns and, when he finally delivered his passenger to Bayham Street, he seemed beside himself with embarrassment.
    “Never done that 'afore, I swears to you, guv'nor!” he moaned. “As sure as me name's Montague Penniforth, I knows every nook and cranny of this ere city! But this `particular' has befuddled me senses! I can 'ardly think straight, let alone guide this smokin' horse in the right direction!”
    Burton knew what the man meant; some ingredient in the fog was causing him to feel slightly dizzy too, which, after a hard night's drinking, was the last thing he needed.
    “Don't worry yourself about it, Mr. Penniforth,” he said. “Here's a couple of bob extra. Why don't you pack up for the morning? Go spend some time with your missus!”
    “Cor blimey!” Penniforth coughed. “You must be jokin'!