AN APPARITION IN LEICESTER SQUARE

—The Strange Affair of Spring Heeled Jack

"You re a drooling, bulge-eyed drug addict!

The accusation, which Algernon Charles Swinburne screeched in his characteristically high-pitched and excitable tones, caused the entire saloon bar to fall momentarily silent.

Sir Richard Francis Burton glowered at his diminutive friend. "A little less volume, if you please."

"You're hooked! An addle head! What next for you, hey? The gutters, perhaps? Bedlam lunatic asylum? A Limehouse opium den?"

"Limehouse doesn't exist. It burned to the ground last year, as you well know."

"Pah! And I'll say it again! Pah! In fact, once more for good measure! Pah to you, sir!"

Burton sighed, raised his glass, and took a gulp of ale.

Around them, the Black Toad's other customers—a slovenly crowd of thieves, dollymops, and chancers—returned their attention to their beers, gins, whiskies, and absinthes.

Burton and Swinburne had occupied a table in a dark corner of the disreputable drinking den, there to wet their whistles for a couple of hours prior to a gathering of the Cannibal Club, during which their whistles would no doubt become thoroughly sodden, as they usually did when the pair joined with their friends ostensibly to discuss issues of anthropological and atheistic interest but, more often than not, to instead carouse a night away.

Of these Cannibals, there was no more dedicated a roisterer than Swinburne. His tiny, slope-shouldered body—with its oversized head made all the bigger by the mop of long carroty-red hair curling almost horizontally from it—could hold astonishing quantities of alcohol. The excess of electric vitality that coursed through the young poet's system, making him constantly twitch and jerk, endowing him with such a skittish nature that many thought him either possessed or crazed, appeared to burn off the effects of his overindulgences at a prodigious rate, so that one moment he might be a slurring, staggering mess, and the next so perfectly clear-eyed and compos mentis that he could, on the spot, compose a sonnet of astonishing beauty and technical grace.

Swinburne was an eccentric, a drunkard, and an absolute genius.

He was also, at this particular moment, thoroughly peeved.

He slapped a hand down onto the table and squealed, "Three months! For three whole months you've been off with the fairies. Have you achieved anything in that time? No! Have you worked on your books? No! Have you planned any new expeditions? No! And look at you. Your eyes are hollow. Your cheeks are sunken. You've become a shadow of the man I met last year. It has to stop. No more Saltzmann's, Richard! No more!"

Burton drew his lips back tightly over his teeth, a snarling expression that exposed his long canines and made him appear so barbaric that most men would have fled from him at once. Not so Swinburne, who was by now accustomed to the famous explorer's savage countenance and fully cognisant that Burton often took advantage of it to intimidate when challenged.

"It's not the bloody Saltzmann's Tincture," Burton countered. "The stuff is perfectly harmless."

"Sadhvi Raghavendra doesn't share your opinion. She says it contains cocaine."

"She theorises that it does. She doesn't know it. I think otherwise."

"Based on what?"

"Based on the fact that I'm thoroughly familiar with the effects of cocaine and Saltzmann's doesn't share them."

"That doesn't mean it's not addictive."

"I repeat: it's not the Saltzmann's, Algy."

Swinburne curled the fingers of his right hand into a fist and considered it, as if deciding whether to swing it into his friend's nose. He clicked his tongue, picked up his glass, and swallowed the contents in a single gulp. "Then explain your bedraggled mien."

Burton looked down at the stained tabletop. His mouth moved, trying to frame words that wouldn't come. His eyes flicked evasively from side to side.

Swinburne watched him. Softly, he said, "Isabel?"

Dumbly, Burton nodded. He rubbed a hand across his forehead, wiping away perspiration that wasn't there. "I can't eat, Algy. I can't sleep. I feel like one of Babbage's clockwork men, going through the motions, hardly alive. I was never meant to exist without her."

"I sympathise, Richard. Really, I do. But you'll not escape your loss by obliterating your senses. Put the Saltzmann's aside. Get out and confront the world. Allow it to distract you."

"I'm here, aren't I?"

"Ha!" Swinburne said. "I'm thankful that you are, too, though getting thoroughly sozzled isn't quite what I meant." He grinned mischievously. "Though one must start somewhere, what!" He slapped the table again and yelled, "Pot boy! Another couple of ales over here, lad!"

The beer was duly served, and the poet made a solemn toast:

And grief shall endure not forever, I know.
As things that are not shall these things be;
We shall live through seasons of sun and of snow,
And none be grievous as this to me.
We shall hear, as one in a trance that hears,
The sound of time, the rhyme of the years;
Wrecked hope and passionate pain will grow
As tender things of a spring-tide sea.

The moment of crisis passed. Burton knew his friend wouldn't challenge him again. In some matters—just some—Swinburne knew where to draw the line. Instead, the poet would put his advice into practice by providing diversions, entertainments, and intellectual stimulation. No doubt, after they'd got sloshed with the Cannibals, he'd suggest a visit to Verbena Lodge, his favourite brothel. At that point, Burton would go home. He didn't share the poet's taste for the lash, as distracting as it might be.

They drank and, around them, men and women flirted coarsely and squabbled loudly and cackled obscenely and shouted incoherently. The air was thick with tobacco smoke and heavy with the vinegary odour of cheap wine, souring beer, and unwashed bodies. A startling contrast, then, that amid this unrefined pandemonium, Swinburne talked of his affinity with the Pre-Raphaelite artists and his hopes for the forthcoming publication of his poem, Rosamond; of his summer holidays at his grandfather's house, Capheaton Hall, in Northumberland; and of his love for that wild and romantic northern county.

Despite his odd sense of detachment, Burton couldn't help but be fascinated. Swinburne's ability to hold an audience was astonishing. When performing—and Burton had no doubt that his friend was purposely putting on a performance for him—the tempo and cadence of his voice was spellbinding, his choice of words ingenious, and his gestures extravagantly expressive.

Automatically, Burton found himself responding. He described his childhood, during which he'd been dragged around...