A thrill of unexpected excitement suddenly coursed through Burton’s veins. He left Gooch, went to a window, and looked out at the Strand. The street lamps glowed unsteadily, glimmering through falling snow. Pedestrians crowded the pavements. Traffic pumped steam and smoke into the air.

A new expedition! A new journey into the unknown!

After so many extraordinary events, Burton felt almost immune to further surprises and, indeed, over the course of the following three weeks, though he was six times pounced on by Spring Heeled Jacks, he dealt with them in an almost perfunctory manner, by now aware that they succumbed easily to a bullet or a blow to the head. He sustained no further injuries. However, at the end of that period, the theory he’d formed to explain the creatures and the events associated with them was somewhat shaken by an occurrence that didn’t fit into the picture.

It happened on a wet Thursday morning just a few yards from his house.

He’d breakfasted, gone to the mews at the rear of number 14, fired up the furnace in his steam sphere, and set off for Battersea Power Station.

Steering out of the alley that opened onto Montagu Place, he directed the vehicle toward the junction with Gloucester Place, drove past his front door, and pushed his toes down on the accelerator plate.

A bubble appeared in the air less than twenty feet ahead. It popped, and a woman fell into the road. She screamed. Bits of polished wood and a severed arm hit the ground around her.

Burton slammed his heels down, braking hard. It was too late. The sphere thudded into the woman, she was dragged under its drive band, and Burton was jolted as it bumped over her.

He threw himself out and ran to the back of the vehicle.

Nearby, on his corner, Mr. Grub yelled, “Bloody hell!”

The woman lay broken and bleeding. Her appearance was thoroughly bizarre; she possessed a preternaturally tall and attenuated body, a very narrow face, huge black eyes with no whites around the pupils, and a lipless mouth. She was colourfully attired, as if for a carnival.

She blinked at Burton and in a faint voice said, “Oh! It’s you again! Where are we?”

A bubble formed around her. The king’s agent stepped back.

The woman vanished with a loud bang, taking a bowl-shaped lump of macadam with her.

Grub ran over. “Blimey! Where’d she go?”

Burton said, “Back to wherever she came from, I suppose.”

“And left a bloomin’ great pothole behind her.”

“I’ll report it,” Burton said. He sighed. “We live in strange times, Mr. Grub.”

“Aye,” Grub muttered, “I blame Disraeli. He’s a bit of a dandy, ain’t he? I reckons this world would make a lot more sense if an ordinary ol’ geezer like me was in charge.”

“You should run for parliament.”

Grub shook his head sadly. “Nah. It’s not me place to do so.”

Six weeks later, Burton took lunch with Thomas Bendyshe in the Athenaeum. Despite being a palatial and tall-ceilinged chamber, the club’s eatery had always been known by the rather more humble appellation of ‘the Coffee Room.’

Bendyshe, as usual, was at full volume. Oblivious to the morsel of lamb chop lodged between his front teeth, he bellowed, “So you’ll be off tomorrow then, old boy?”

“Keep your voice down,” Burton urged. “For pity’s sake, Tom, why must you always hoot like a confounded foghorn? And yes, the Orpheus is ready at last.”

“My word!” his companion trumpeted. “What a rapid job they’ve made of it, hey? Bloomin’ miracle workers!”

It was true, the Department of Guided Science, and especially Charles Babbage and Daniel Gooch, had worked at a phenomenal rate to prepare the vessel for its forthcoming voyage. Battersea Power Station had never been so crowded or so active. Its engineers, physicists, logicians, theoretical mathematicians, designers, inventors, chemists and metallurgists had worked night and day without pause. Even the venerable Michael Faraday had been called out of retirement to contribute his expertise to the project.

Bendyshe used his fork to stab the last potato on his plate, transferred it to his mouth and before he’d swallowed it, said, “I’ve not seen you since that extraordinary meeting at the Venetia. Lord, what a couple of months. How many times have you been assaulted by the jumping Jacks?”

“Eleven,” Burton replied. “And look at this.”

He took a quick gulp of wine then reached into his jacket and pulled out a folded letter, which he handed across the table.

Bendyshe put down his cutlery, took it, opened it, read it, and hollered, “From old George Herne on Zanzibar!”

“Shhh!” Burton hissed. “It is. He reports that the stilt men have been causing mayhem even there, and word has reached him from Kazeh that they’ve been seen in that far-flung town, too. The Africans consider them invading demons.”

“They might be right,” Bendyshe observed. He took a couple of minutes to scan through the missive. “So everywhere you’ve been, there the freakish creatures are. A veritable infestation. Poor old Bartolini has been forced to close his restaurant. You aren’t his favourite customer, not by a long shot. I reckon he’d kick you in the seat of the pants if he dared.”

Burton offered a regretful grimace. “I’ve been banished from the Royal Geographical Society, as well. Four times, the Spring Heeled Jacks have crashed into its lobby demanding to see me. I have a permanent police guard outside my home. Ten battles have been fought in Montagu Place. Though perhaps ‘battle’ is too strong a word.”

“Eh? Why so?”

“They don’t put up much of a fight. Grub, the vendor who plies his trade on the corner, saved me last week by clouting one of them over the head with his coal shovel.”

“Ha! Good man!” Bendyshe frowned, applied a fingernail to his teeth, dug out the strand of meat, looked at it, put it back into his mouth, and said, “I read those crazy tales left by Abdu El Yezdi. So you really think these stilt-walkers are some aspect of Edward Oxford?”

“Yes, though they don’t appear to realise it.”

“Peculiar, hey?”

“It is.”

A waiter stopped at their table and refilled their glasses. Burton turned down the offer of another bottle. When the man had gone, he said, “Are you comfortable with your new role, Tom? The Cannibal Club will soon become a very different prospect. There’ll be no more horseplay.”

“Apart from the hunt for a suitable spouse, hey?”

“Well, yes, I suppose.”

“I’m ready, willing and able. Incidentally, your brother intends to combine my anthropological knowledge with his own financial nous in order to play the markets.”

Burton rubbed the scar on his chin with his forefinger. “Anthropological stockbroking?”

“If I can accurately forecast the ebb and flow of human affairs, and the minister, based on those predictions, invests wisely, then we should be able to establish assets enough to fund the Cannibal Club for many generations to come.”

“On what will you base your prognostications?”

“I shall consult with the Department of Guided Science to learn what varieties of machinery they think will develop in future years and how it might be employed by industry and society. I’ll work with old Monkey Milnes to examine up-and-coming politicians, their philosophies and inclinations, and where they might take our world. I’ll learn from the patterns of history, and will scrutinise current trends and project them forward. And I’ll confer with the Empire’s most talented mediums.”

“A major project, Tom.”

“I relish it. I hope that my—” He stopped and gaped as, somewhere behind Burton, a loud pop sounded, followed immediately by a crash and cries of alarm.

The king’s agent jumped out of his seat and whirled, yanking a Beaumont-Adams revolver from his waistband.