It had only been a week since the events at the wine-bottling, but despite his better senses, duty forced Captain Robertson to stare into the crimson eyes of trepidation yet again. For the past week, he had been in covert conversation with the Duke of Argyll about the upcoming meeting with Spring-Heeled Jack, unbeknownst to his companion, Mr Daim.
Part of him felt guilty about going behind his charge’s back. Still, the truth was any loyalty Captain Robertson felt towards Mr Daim was overshadowed by his loyalty towards queen and country. After all, Mr Daim was but a means to an end. If everything went to plan in the coming hour, Captain Robertson could finally put all this madness about ghuls and jinn behind him. He even considered requesting a leave of absence to visit his parents in Scotland before he inevitably shipped off to another far-flung colony.
For Mr Daim, the past week was spent in seclusion, contemplating the possible implications of Spring-Heeled Jack’s assertion of innocence. He had assumed this would be yet another routine hunt, but then again, there was nothing routine about it.
For starters, he had been approached by Europeans. It’s not that Mr Daim didn’t like Europeans; it’s just they were usually blind to the possibility of the unseen, opting to explain away the existence of jinn with flawful human rationality. So, when the letter arrived from the Duke requesting his services, Mr Daim was caught by surprise, his untamed curiosity driving him to comply with the Duke’s wishes.
The second red flag was the insistence of a bodyguard. Mr Daim was used to working alone, and governments would usually give him free rein to go about his work unhindered. The Ottomans were so hands-off to the point Mr Daim felt as though he had impunity. The British, meanwhile, were crippled by bureaucracy.
Whenever he requested more information on Spring-Heeled Jack, it was classified. Whenever he wished to leave the hotel alone, it was unsafe. Even when he finally got down to work, there was always the threat of Commissioner Henderson’s interference. The British were indeed a well-oiled machine. They ran an enterprise of such proportions; even the jinn were put to shame. But at the same time, one always felt they were being watched.
Then there was his conversation with Spring-Heeled Jack himself. Experience had taught Mr Daim ghul’s weren’t usually so hospitable. The average ghul would attack you and rip you to pieces the first chance they got. The fact Spring-Heeled Jack was willing to converse instead gave credence to the possibility he was telling the truth. Guilty people don’t talk; they run.
Then again, there was always the chance Spring-Heeled Jack was just a particularly cunning ghul. If so, what game was he playing? Something larger was afoot, and Mr Daim was going to get to the bottom of it.
“Of all places to meet, why here?”
Captain Robertson gesticulated towards the large glasshouse bathed in the faint glow of the crescent moon.
“I’m guessing he must be a plant enthusiast,” hypothesised Mr Daim.
The pair found themselves standing amongst the foliage of Kew Gardens. The building standing before them was made of clear crystal glass roofs pitched by wrought-iron ribs, the penetrating moonlight halted by the thick vegetation lying within. Just as the Koh-i-Noor was the centrepiece of Her Majesty’s crown jewels, the building standing before them was the centrepiece of Her Majesty’s botanical gardens: the Temperate House.
“How can you be so sure he’s going to show up?” asked Captain Robertson.
“The word of a jinni, ghul or not, far outweighs that of a human,” answered Mr Daim.
This wasn’t true. Jinn were just as cutthroat as humans; he just didn’t want to be made a fool of. Mr Daim was gambling the entire investigation on the word of a ghul. A ghul who was either extremely cunning or extremely honest. He prayed it was the latter.
“If he said he will show, he will show,” insisted Mr Daim, more so for himself than his companion.
A few moments later, Captain Robertson consulted his pocket watch.
“It’s midnight.”
“Very well. Let us see what Jack has to say for himself. And, please, try not to shoot him this time.”
“I’ll try.”
Mr Daim took the lead. Captain Robertson followed.
The Temperate House was packed with flora retrieved from around the furthest extremities of the globe, which together transpired to create its humid atmosphere. There were enough exotic specimens in the greenhouse to rival the grandeur of Babylon’s Hanging Gardens, from the brightest azaleas to the rarest lilium, all towered over by the jubaea tree, primed to burst through the ceiling. Mr Daim was impressed.
Captain Robertson, on the other hand, couldn’t care less. To him, the greenhouse was just a greenhouse. Albeit a rather large greenhouse – most certainly the largest he’d ever seen – but a greenhouse nonetheless. The flora it exhibited were not rare specimens to be goggled at but potential hiding spots from which a ravenous ghul could pounce on you with the ferocity of a panther. Captain Robertson kept his wits about him.
After a few minutes of aimlessly wandering about in the darkness, Captain Robertson snarkily punctured the jittery silence of the night, “it seems as though the word of Spring-Heeled Jack isn’t worth much after all.”
“YOU WOULD DO WELL NOT TO DISHONOUR ME,” bellowed a guttural rasp reverberating throughout the Temperate House.
Captain Robertson froze to the spot, an unsettling chill running down his spine as he remembered what it was like to be petrified. On the contrary, Mr Daim was unphased, exhibiting the epitome of politeness.
“Jack, it’s good to see you! I’m glad you could join us. How have you been?”
Mr Daim was staring into the rafters. Captain Robertson tracked his eyeline to find Spring-Heeled Jack, donning his mangled tailcoat and contorted top hat, leaning against the balcony of an iron walkway in the moonlight’s bluish tinge. Just like before, his attire failed to obscure the fear-inducing countenance of his crimson fire eyes, resulting in a hauntingly peculiar appearance, a mockery of the Victorian ideal.
“I see you brought the human,” averred Spring-Heeled Jack.
“He insisted he come,” explained Mr Daim, “he owes you an apology after what happened last week and wished to express his regret in person.”
“Is that so…”
Within the flutter of an eyelid, Spring-Heeled Jack dived off the walkway, gliding across the ground before coming to a halt, looming his slender frame over the terrified Captain Robertson with the agility of a formless shadow. Captain Robertson could feel the monster’s putrid breath against his forehead as he eyed the menacing claws, his fingers grasping for the clasp of his revolver’s holster.
“I’m waiting, Beni Adam. I believe there’s something you wish to say,” sneered Spring-Heeled Jack, licking his chapped lips.
“S-s-sorry.” Captain Robertson gulped down the urge to scream, “I’m sorry for shooting you. Please don’t eat me.”
Spring-Heeled Jack let out a grisly guffaw, “Oh, aren’t these humans just delightful? For the record, young one, I would never eat you.”
Captain Robertson breathed a sigh of long-overdue relief.
“I’m not particularly fond of the taste of Scotsmen.”
The Scotsman was confused as to whether he should be relieved or offended after that last remark.
“Okay, great. Now that we got that out of the way, shall we get down to business and discuss what we came to discuss?” offered Mr Daim, attempting to steer the conversation away from Spring-Heeled Jack’s discriminatory diet.
“We shall,” accepted Spring-Heeled Jack as he leaned against the wrinkled trunk of the jubaea tree.
“Very well. Why don’t you begin by telling us how you came to live in Albion?”
“I have always lived in Albion. This island has been my home for millennia, long before the arrival of the Beni Adam.”
“If your claim is true, then explain why we’ve never heard your name until now?” interjected Captain Robertson, immediately regretting his pronouncement.
Mr Daim shot his companion a glare that said: stop agitating Spring-Heeled Jack and let me handle this.
Spring-Heeled Jack, on the other hand, wasn’t agitated but simply amused by Captain Robertson’s boldness. Especially considering it was only a moment ago, he was terrified beyond measure.
“Oh, but what you fail to realise young one, is that I have been given many names throughout the ages. It wasn’t all too long ago that the people of Albion revered me as a great wizard by the name of Merlin. Of course, this was many centuries before I came to be affected by my current affliction.”
Spring-Heeled Jack, formally known as Merlin, stared into the abyss of darkness in abject woe as though he suddenly remembered a life snatched away from him.
“I wasn’t always a ghul, Mr Daim. I was once a jinni, just like you. But then I was betrayed.”
“Betrayed by whom?” inquired Mr Daim.
“The Company.”
To be continued…
This is part of a larger series called Midnights in London