Later in the evening, the pair found themselves in one of London’s many premier tea houses, the kind diplomats would use to host foreign dignitaries. Tea had only arrived on the British Isles two centuries prior and had since taken Britannia by storm. Everyone, from pauper to prince, relished the piping hot beverage hailing all the way from China, and soon it came to represent the quintessence of British culture. Ever-present at their greatest victories as well as most embarrassing defeats. Some even went as far as to say that to defeat an Englishman, all one must do is dump his tea in the sea. To Mr Daim, tea was just another drink in a long list of drinks consumed by humankind, from the mead of the ancients to the sherbet of the shahanshahs.
“Would you like something to eat, Mr Daim?” asked Captain Robertson as he scanned the menu. He hadn’t eaten anything since those Lorne sausages he had for breakfast. Of course, they were now splattered all over that damned alleyway.
“No, thank you,” replied Mr Daim whilst jotting down some squiggles into a brown leather notebook. At least, that’s what it looked like to Captain Robertson. To Mr Daim, it was Farsi.
“So, where do we go from here?”
“You may order what you please. I do not find myself currently in need of sustenance.”
“You know that’s not what I meant.”
Mr Daim let out a long-drawn-out sigh, the kind an irritated father would when tired of their infant’s endless stream of inquiries, before closing his notebook to give Captain Robertson his full attention. He knew the veteran needed answers. The man had just witnessed something defying the boundaries of his limited knowledge, like the Mayans confronted with fire-breathing Spaniards riding atop strange four-legged beasts.
This wasn’t the first time Mr Daim found himself with a gobsmacked companion. It always happened the same way. In the heat of the moment, Mr Daim would brashly call upon one of his abilities – usually to get them out of a situation brought about by said companion – leaving them confounded and in want of answers. Alas, there was no sure-fire way to give them answers without shattering their very perceptions of the material world. Up until now, Mr Daim had been putting off the inevitable. And so, this time around, he opted for simplicity, deciding he’d answer Captain Robertson’s questions as straightforwardly as possible without confusing him any further.
“What is it you wish to know?”
Realising he could finally get some answers out of the mysterious Mr Daim, Captain Robertson put down the menu, crossing his arms, “so, according to you, genies are real?”
“Yes.”
“And Spring-Heeled Jack is one such genie?”
“Yes.”
“So, where is his lamp?”
Mr Daim burst out laughing, breaking the quiet, relaxed atmosphere of the tea house, drawing the attention of their fellow diners. One such diner in a black bowler cap, complete with a golden monocle and bristly mutton chops representing the pinnacle of English sensibilities, loudly coughed and ruffled his newspaper to indicate his disapproval. Captain Robertson was beginning to feel like a fool.
“Oh wow. That’s a new one indeed,” Mr Daim wheezed with laughter before collecting himself together, “not all jinn live in lamps, my friend. That went out of fashion centuries ago.”
“I see that now. So how are we going to stop him? We barely got anything from the crime scene before that bastard Henderson showed up.”
“Relax. You needn’t worry, for I have everything I need right here,” Mr Daim pulled out a glass vial from his coat pocket, the same coat Captain Robertson had lent him.
“It’s empty.”
“To your eyes, maybe. But I assure you this contains some of Jack’s residual aura, which I can use to track him down.”
“‘Residual aura’?” scrutinised Captain Robertson, “let me guess, another talent whose extent I won’t be able to fully grasp?”
“Yes.”
“I take it you’re some kind of genie hunter then?”
“Yes, you could say that.”
“And you’ve done this sort of thing before?
“Many a time.”
“What is Spring-Heeled Jack doing in London?”
“My guess is as good as yours.”
“How many other genies are there?
“Millions.”
“Then explain why I’ve never met one before?”
“The chances are, you probably have. Perhaps you just weren’t open to the possibility that they could be a jinni.”
“Are all genies evil?”
“Are all humans evil?”
“You just answered my question with another question.”
“And the answer to both is the same.”
Captain Robertson remained in quiet contemplation after that. Satisfied he’d successfully sated his companion’s curiosity without confusing him any further, Mr Daim went back to writing in his notebook. Unfortunately, Captain Robertson was even more confused than before, a multitude of questions bouncing around in his head.
Are genies really real? Can Mr Daim really track down Spring-Heeled Jack using his residual aura? Why did genie lamps go out of fashion? How did Mr Daim even get his hands on Spring-Heeled Jack’s aura? Have I really met a genie before? What did Mr Daim do to Henderson? WHO IN THE HELL IS MR DAIM?
The realisation began to dawn on Captain Robertson: he didn’t know a thing about the man sitting across from him. But that didn’t matter. His orders were to guard Mr Daim, not wrap his head around the madness the world seemed to have devolved into. The more he could focus on his job, on what was right in front of him, the less his head would ache. Speaking of which, it was really time he had something to eat.
Captain Robertson called over the waiter and ordered the day’s special. The men spent the rest of the evening in silence before hailing a cabriolet to take them back to the hotel where they’d been staying. After seeing Mr Daim safely back to his room, Captain Robertson retired for the night.
Captain Robertson was ascending the staircase, trying to force the day’s events out of his head, when he was suddenly met with an uneasy feeling. Something was off. His door was ajar. Adrenaline kicked in as Captain Robertson carefully unclipped the holster strapped to his chest and slowly pulled out his revolver. Staying extra vigilant, he steadily ascended the final steps. A loud creak reverberated from beneath his feet.
Curse these rickety floorboards!
Pressing flat against the wall, he crept down the hallway, finger twitching by the trigger. Upon reaching his room door, he took a deep breath like a diver about to collide with water and, little by little, pushed the door open on its squeaky hinges. With one last burst of courage, Captain Robertson swiftly slipped into the room, pistol raised, to find a figure by the window dressed in black as thick as the midnight sky.
To be continued…
This is part of a larger series called Midnights in London