Spring-heeled Jack and the President's Ring

Chapter 12 ~ Magnetron Digs Deeper

"Boileau vehemently protested the homely repast until I informed him that the 'fish and chips' were french-fried…"

Anders took flight, crashing through a tall, wide pane of glass.  Coburn hastily seized a volume from a shelf of extraordinarily rare books and took up a tenacious pursuit.  I dashed out to the Luftigel to collect some equipment, and joined the chase immediately thereafter.  Boileau and the remaining Hogalum members left the Grants blinking in disbelief, quickly overtaking me by carriage and taking me aboard.  Coburn had left a trail of pages torn from Boileau's priceless book, and we followed it as Boileau wept and muttered unprintable obscenities.  The trail ended at a ferry landing and we therefore deduced that Anders had crossed back to England.

Immersed in his Spring-heeled Jack persona, Anders was quite stealthy and agile, and presumably quite difficult to track.  I anticipated hopefully that Coburn could keep abreast of his elusive quarry, but as night fell again, our search was impeded by an impenetrable mist which settled over London, rendering my Illuminocular Magnescope useless.  Valkusian, Cerebelli, Satyros, and I were barely able to see one another in the soupy black murk.  Boileau toddled behind, maintaining a thoroughly inane chatter about the English and their food, culture, and women—all of which he found comically repellent.

During the dreadfully slow ferry ride to Dover, the missing puzzle piece presented itself to me in a sparkling burst.  General Southwick had a relative in London—Eldridge Compost—a crafty malcontent who was also the leader of the League of Miscreants—an organization of which Southwick was also a member.  Yes, if Anders had begun his ordeal in Virginia with General Southwick and ended up in London, only one individual could logically bridge that voluminous chasm, and that individual was Eldridge Compost.

As our course of inquiry was bearing no fruit, I elected to pay Mr. Compost a visit in hopes of acquiring fresh information.  To my absolute horror, Boileau volunteered to accompany me.  We wished Valkusian, Cerebelli, and Satyros good luck and took our leave in a hired carriage.  Shortly after we set out, Boileau began to complain incessantly that he was hungry.  We stopped at a café and dined on deep-fried battered whitefish and potatoes.  Boileau vehemently protested the homely repast until I informed him that the "fish and chips" were french-fried, whereupon his juvenile contravention evaporated suddenly.  We ate in silence and then resumed our expedition.

Compost's South London townhouse also served as the official headquarters of the sinister League of Miscreants, but when we arrived we found it to be unoccupied.  I employed my Bolt-Worm automatic lock picker to gain entrance to the gloomy interior and stepped into that dark den of unspeakable villainy.  Boileau was disconcerted by my misdemeanor but followed me inside, resuming his breathless, nonsensical blather.

"Why do we not have such a thing in France, I wonder?"

"The Bolt-Worm is not yet patented," I replied, whispering.

"No, no, no.  French-fried fish and potatoes.  Quite delectable!"

Compost's home was black as pitch and quite drafty.  I had unwisely left my Magnescope with the other Hogalums, and my small lantern was completely inadequate to the task.  It nearly blew out on several occasions but we continued our investigation, eventually coming to a short doorway leading downward to the Stygian depths of Compost's cellar.  I did not expect Boileau to continue, but he put his hand on my shoulder and followed me step by squeaking step.  I detected the noisome scuttling of rats and other vermin shunning the meager light of my lantern.

When I reached the final tread, I raised the lantern and beheld a most unsettling spectacle.  Dozens, no, scores of rough-hewn African ceremonial masks grimaced ominously at us from the damp stone walls.  Perhaps hundreds more unfinished masks gaped luridly from atop piles of their roughhewn fellows.

At the top of the stairs, the door creaked shut behind us.