Grandfather eyed him suspiciously. ‘Hmm...’ He turned his attention to a buff-coloured folder on his desk, which he opened slowly, almost tentatively, as if he half expected something profoundly unpleasant to jump out of it into his lap. ‘A dreadful business, this.’
Blackwood assumed he was referring to the death of the Ambassador rather than his taste in beverages. ‘Indeed, sir.’
‘The press has got the jump on us, which is never a good thing.’
‘It’s difficult to imagine otherwise, in view of the seriousness of the event. Someone attending the function obviously notified them at the first opportunity. Do we know yet how Ambassador R’ondd died?’
Grandfather rested an index finger on the contents of the folder. ‘I have here the report on the preliminary post-mortem, which was conducted by Dr Felix Cutter, a forensic pathologist attached to the Foreign Office. It does not make for comfortable reading.’
‘How so?’
At that moment, there was a discreet knock at the door, and Miss Ripley entered bearing a silver tea tray. The two men lapsed into silence while she set the tray down on Grandfather’s desk and retreated.
‘Thank you, Miss Ripley.’
‘You’re most welcome, sir.’
When the door had closed once again, Grandfather handed the top sheet of paper to Blackwood. ‘Read this.’
While Grandfather turned his attention to the tea things, Blackwood read the report, his eyes skimming along the lines quickly, taking everything in. ‘Good grief,’ he said quietly when he had finished. ‘I’m no expert on Martian physiology, but this doesn’t look like a natural death, even for our singular cousins across the Æther.’
‘Quite so,’ replied Grandfather, placing a cup before Blackwood.
‘These things that were discovered in the Ambassador’s oesophageal tract...’
‘Tracts,’ Grandfather corrected. ‘All four of them.’
‘The pathologist likens them to larvae of some kind.’
‘Of a kind not seen on Earth... or Mars.’
Blackwood glanced at his superior. ‘But they must have come from Mars. The Martians are incapable of breathing our atmosphere: it’s too rich for them. Their Embassy is hermetically sealed and contains its own atmosphere with the correct proportion and density of gases; in addition, they always carry their own breathing apparatus whilst abroad on Earth. There’s simply no conceivable way in which such organisms could have been introduced into Ambassador R’ondd’s apparatus.’
‘Isn’t there? At any rate, that’s what you’ll have to find out, Blackwood,’ said Grandfather, his face clouded with a pensive frown. ‘As I said, this is a dreadful business, and it could very quickly become even worse. No Martian has ever died in such suspicious circumstances whilst on Earth – and no human on Mars. We must move quickly to ascertain exactly what has happened.’
‘What do the Martians say? Do you think they might perceive this as an act of aggression on the part of Humanity?’
‘They haven’t commented, as yet. The Martians are essentially a peace-loving people, as you know.’ Grandfather took a contemplative sip of tea, and continued, ‘Nevertheless, their technology is somewhat in advance of ours. If they perceived us as aggressors, I think it’s reasonable to say that we wouldn’t do very well.’
Blackwood sighed. ‘Indeed not.’
‘Her Majesty is at present preparing an official letter of condolence for the Martian government, which will be carried aboard the next interplanetary cylinder to Mars – as will the Ambassador’s body.’
‘When is the cylinder scheduled to depart?’
‘In five days’ time. Her Majesty would be most gratified if she were able to assure them in her letter that no human being was to blame for their Ambassador’s untimely death ... and it would be even better if she were able to offer a true and accurate explanation of exactly what happened at the banquet, and why.’
Blackwood was silent for several moments. Then he said decisively, ‘I think it will serve us best to go on the assumption that the Ambassador was the victim of foul play.’
‘Intuition?’
‘Quite.’
‘Then our instincts are in accordance, Blackwood. Begin your investigation immediately; use whatever resources you see fit, and do please bring me an answer before that cylinder leaves for Mars in five days’ time!’
The cottage stood near the village of Old Ford, to the east of London, and visitors or even passers-by were few and far between, especially in the evening. It was a quarter to nine, and the Alsop family were gathered around the fire in their sitting room. Outside, the air hung cold and still upon the land, like a breath held in expectation. There were the beginnings of a light frost on the curtained windows, and the crystal stillness of the night pressed in upon the little house sitting alone beneath the stars.
Mr James Alsop was sitting in his armchair, reading to his family from a book of Longfellow’s poems, while his wife, Elizabeth, sewed, and their three daughters, Mary, Jane and Sarah listened attentively. The fire crackled in the hearth, and the clock on the mantelpiece measured the passage of the quiet evening with a barely audible tick... tick.
The evening might have proceeded thus for the next hour or two; it might have concluded with Mr Alsop closing the book and discussing the poetry with his family in a relaxed and amiable way, before they retired to their beds. It might have been merely one more pleasant evening in the uneventful lives of an ordinary family... had not the bell at the garden gate rung.
Mr Alsop stopped reading and glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. ‘Who can that be at this hour?’ he wondered, sighing in mild irritation.
The bell rang again, louder this time, and for longer.
Mrs Alsop looked up from her sewing and said, ‘Jane, be a good girl and see who is there.’
‘Of course, Mother.’
Jane Alsop, eighteen years old, slim and pretty with long auburn hair and a quick smile, stood up and walked to the sitting room door. Her mother watched her go, her own smile of affection briefly turning her lips. Jane was a bright, friendly girl, whose gracefulness was not studied, as with so many her age, but natural and effortless; Mrs Alsop had little doubt that she would one day make a fine wife for some as yet-unknown young man.
Jane hurried along the short corridor leading to the tiny hallway and opened the front door, shivering suddenly as the cold night air enveloped her. The small garden glittered faintly with its light dusting of frost, and beyond the low wall surrounding the cottage, the night was silent, the land and sky asleep.
Peering into the darkness, Jane saw a figure standing at the gate leading to Bearbinder Lane. She couldn’t quite make out the details of his appearance, for her eyes had not yet grown accustomed to the night, but he appeared to be quite tall, and he wore a cloak... and something on his head which Jane took to be a helmet.
She stepped out towards the figure. ‘Who are you?’ she called. ‘What is the matter?’
The figure answered immediately in a loud, urgent voice, ‘I am a policeman. For God’s sake, bring me a light, for we have caught Spring-Heeled Jack here in the lane!’
Jane gasped and took an involuntary step backwards. Spring-Heeled Jack... a vicious criminal according to some, a ghost or demon according to others, he had been terrorising London for nearly a year. No one had been able to apprehend him, for he was, so they said, possessed of supernatural strength and was able to leap over buildings, but many had been frightened half to death by his horrific appearance and the cruel and motiveless assaults to which he had subjected them.
Without a word, Jane hurried back into the house and fetched a candle, which she carried to the garden gate and the man who was still standing there, waiting silently. Without a word, he took the candle from her...
But then, instead of hurrying away to secure his quarry, he threw off his cloak and held the candle to his chest, so that its flame illuminated his face.
Jane screamed at the apparition that was thus revealed to her; she screamed at the eyes burning like red-hot coals in a grimacing, tight-skinned, mask-like face; at the strange metal helmet she had at first taken to be that of a policeman; at the tight-fitting white suit that shimmered like oilskin in the fitful candlelight; at the device that resembled a lamp that was strapped to his chest...
Jane barely had time to register these details – barely had time to realise that this was no policeman but Spring-Heeled Jack himself – before the apparition lunged at her. He opened his lipless mouth and vomited a seething ball of blue fire into her face. Jane screamed again as he grabbed her by the back of her neck and thrust her head under one of his arms, holding her there in an iron-fast grip while, with his other hand, he began to tear at her dress. In the chaos of her terror, Jane realised that her attacker did not have hands, but long, razor-sharp metal talons. She felt them biting into the skin on her back and arms, felt the warm blood begin to dampen her clothing.
She screamed again, louder and more desperately and, with an immense effort given yet greater force by her instinct for self-preservation, managed to wrench herself free of the horror. Without a backward glance, she dashed headlong up the garden path towards the house, and safety.
But the monster would not be denied his prey. He leaped over the gate and caught Jane just as she reached the front door, tearing at her neck and arms with his claws and ripping clumps of hair from her head.
‘Oh God!’
Jane screamed.
‘Oh please, God help me!’
At that moment, the front door of the cottage was flung wide open to reveal James Alsop. ‘Great God in Heaven!’ he cried and threw himself without a moment’s hesitation upon the apparition which held his daughter in its loathsome embrace. Jane’s older sister, Sarah, also appeared in the doorway and gasped when she saw the nightmarish spectacle; as their father struggled with the monster, Sarah grabbed hold of Jane’s wildly flailing arms and pulled with all her might in a desperate effort to drag her away from the creature.
For some moments the violent and macabre dance continued, until Jane felt that she would lose consciousness through fear and loss of blood and be carried away into the night towards some unimaginable fate, in spite of the efforts of her father and sister.
Presently, though, James Alsop, driven to unsuspected heights of physical strength by his outrage and instinctive desire to protect his daughters from this eldritch maniac, managed to place a well-judged kick at the attacker’s legs, momentarily knocking him off balance. For an instant, his vicelike grip on Jane loosened, and it was long enough for Alsop to wrench her free.
‘Back, Sarah!’ he cried. ‘Back into the house!’
His eldest daughter obeyed immediately, allowing Alsop to retreat behind her. Hauling the weeping Jane across the threshold, he took hold of the door with his free hand and slammed it hard, just as the apparition regained its balance and lunged towards them once more.
‘Oh, good Lord, whatever has
happened?
’ cried Elizabeth Alsop, who had emerged from the sitting room into the corridor leading to the entrance hall. Beside her stood Mary, who was holding onto her mother, her face a pale mask of uncomprehending terror as she regarded the ghastly tableau with wide, unblinking eyes.
Alsop was about to answer, but was interrupted by a thunderous banging upon the front door. ‘Great God,’ he shouted desperately, ‘that fiend will not be denied!’
His wife’s hand flew to her mouth, and tears of consternation welled up in her eyes. ‘James, what is happening?’
Shouting above the infernal banging, Alsop replied, ‘We are being attacked, Elizabeth! Take Mary and Sarah, and go upstairs immediately!’
The three women rushed along the corridor and up the stairs, while Alsop gathered Jane in his arms and followed them. At the foot of the stairs, he glanced down at her bloodied face and the unruly mass of her beautiful auburn hair, now damp and matted with more of her blood. She appeared to have fainted, for which Alsop was grateful. Whatever happened next, he reflected, she would be unaware of it.
With a final glance over his shoulder at the front door, which was shaking in its frame under the ceaseless onslaught of the fiend outside, James Alsop carried his unconscious daughter up the stairs to his and his wife’s bedroom, where the others had already gathered.
Laying Jane upon the bed, Alsop went to the window that overlooked the front garden. Beyond the low stone wall, Bearbinder Lane lay in darkness. Away in the distance, he could see the scattered lights of Old Ford. The banging below continued, and Alsop realised that it was only a matter of time before the creature managed to break the door down.
‘James,’ said Elizabeth, ‘what are we going to do?’ She was kneeling beside the prone form of her injured daughter. ‘We must get Jane to a doctor without delay!’ Mary and Sarah were kneeling next to her, and the three women gazed up at him, their eyes full of pleas that he do something – anything – to save them from the nightmare that was still hurling itself against the door downstairs.
James Alsop realised that there was only one option open to him. He turned from his family, flung open the window and, leaning out, began to scream for help at the top of his lungs in the direction of Old Ford.