The Strange Affair of Spring Heeled Jack - By Mark Hodder Page 0,21

as if their very existence was questionable.

His hangover had vanished entirely. He felt strong and positive; he possessed a sense of purpose at last.

Palmerston's final words, though, still echoed in his ears: "This is not a job for a married man, you understand?"

Burton did understand.

Isabel would not.

Penfold Private Sanatorium, which was run by the Sisterhood of Noble Benevolence, was located in St. John's Wood, off Edgware Road.

The hansom drew up near the hospital's entrance and Burton disembarked, handing his fare up to the driver. He mounted the steps and entered the building.

The nurse at the reception desk glanced up at him.

"Oh!" she exclaimed. "Your poor face! But I'm sorry, sir, we don't treat minor wounds here! Can't you see your own doctor? You probably only need your cuts cleaned and some cream on that black eye."

Burton gave a slight smile. "Actually, Sister, I'm here to visit Lieutenant John Speke. Which room is he in?"

She looked surprised. "He's no longer here, sir. They took him last night."

"Took him? Who took him? Where?"

"The-um-his-" She stalled; looked confused. "His family?"

"You're asking me?"

"No! No, sir. I mean to say-yes, his family took him, I believe."

Burton frowned. "Come now! You believe? What's going on?"

"Are you related to Lieutenant Speke, sir?"

"My name is Richard Burton. Perhaps you've heard of me?"

"Oh, I see. Yes, sir, I have. It's that-the thing is-well, the lieutenant was removed from the sanatorium last night while Sister Raghavendra was on duty and she neglected to do the proper paperwork. We have no record of who came for him or where they took him."

"The man was on his death bed! How on earth could she allow his removal without due procedure?"

"She-she said she was taken ill and can't properly recall events, 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