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

Daisy would have me guts for garters if I turned up on the doorstep 'afore midnight. She can't stand the sight o' me!”
    Burton laughed. “Wait here, then, if you don't mind. I shan't be long and I promise you another shilling!”
    “Me lucky day!” The cabbie grinned. “I'll 'ave a draw on me pipe while I wait; get some decent fumes into me lungs!”
    Burton left Montague Penniforth cleaning out the bowl of a filthy old cherrywood and crossed the pavement to peer at the house numbers. Number 3 was a four-storey terrace. A dim glow emanated from the fanlight window above the front door. He yanked at the bellpull and heard a distant jangle.
    After a minute, the portal was opened by an elderly woman in mourning dress, her face concealed behind a weeping veil of black crepe.
    “Yes?” she whispered. There was an edge of suspicion to her voice, for though her visitor was obviously a gentleman, his face was cut, bruised, and barbarous in aspect.
    “My apologies, ma'am,” said Burton, courteously. “Do you have a Sister Raghavendra here?”
    “Yes, sir. On the third floor. Are you from the sanatorium?”
    “I've just come from there, yes,” he replied. It wasn't quite an answer to the question she'd asked but she didn't seem to notice and appeared to be mollified by his deep, polite, and melodious voice.
    “If you wish to see her, sir, I should act as chaperone,” she noted, in her frail tones.
    “That will be acceptable, thank you.”
    “Pray, come in out of the fog, then. You can wait in the hallway.”
    Burton ran the soles of his shoes over the iron boot-scraper on the doorstep then stepped into the dingy hall, the walls of which were crowded with framed paintings and photographs, display plates and crucifixes. The landlady closed the door behind him and took a small silver finger-bell from her sleeve. In response to its tinkling ring, a sturdy young girl hurried out from the parlour. Flour powdered her hands, forearms, and nose. She gave a clumsy curtsey.
    “Mum?”
    “Run up to Sister Raghavendra, Polly, and tell her she has a visitor; a Mr.-?”
    “Captain Burton.” He always preferred to use his military rank; “Sir Richard” sounded a mite pretentious.
    “A Captain Burton. You may advise Sister Raghavendra that I will escort the gentleman up to her sitting room if she wishes to receive him.”
    “Yes, Mum!”
    The maid thumped up the stairs and out of sight.
    “An ungainly girl but she serves me well. My name is Mrs. Emily Wheeltapper, Captain. My late husband was Captain Anthony Wheeltapper of the 17th Lancers. He fell at Balaclava. I have been in mourning these seven years since. He was a fine man.”
    “My sympathy, ma'am.”
    “Will you take a cup of tea, Captain?”
    “Please don't trouble yourself. My business will be brief.”
    “Is the poor girl in difficulty? She came home in tears this morning. Has something happened at the sanatorium?”
    “That's what I'm here to find out, Mrs. Wheeltapper.”
    Polly's heavy tread thundered down the stairs. “She says to come on up, Mum,” she reported.
    “Thank you, Polly. Now back to the kitchen with you. Those scones won't cook themselves. Follow me, please, Captain Burton.”
    The old widow slowly ascended, followed patiently by her visitor.
    On the third landing, they were met by Sister Raghavendra. She was, Burton guessed, in her midtwenties. She was also extremely beautiful, with dark almond-shaped eyes and dusky skin. Her nose was small and straight; her lips full and sensual, with a squarish shape more often found in South Americans; and her black hair, though pinned up, was obviously very long and lustrous.
    His nostrils detected the scent of jasmine.
    She reminded Burton of a Persian girl he'd once bedded, and a thrill of desire rippled through him as her eyes met his.
    “You are Captain Burton?” she asked, in a soft, slightly accented voice. “You are here about Lieutenant Speke, I suppose? Come into my sitting room,