RONAN COGHLAN: The Awesome Secret of Spring-Heeled Jack

I enclose Page 1 of The Awesome Secret of Spring-Heeled Jack to cheer you up in your swine-flu.

Regards,

Ronan.

“I say, Redders, old bean!”

Sir Jonathan Downes, Bt, leaned forward in his chair, beaming from behind his monocle in the tolerant way he always adopted for the dealing with the less endowed.

“Uh!” answered Nicholas Redfern in the monosyllabic fashion so widespread in his native north of England.

“Have you read about this blighter Spring-Heeled Jack in the jolly old newspaper?”

“Um!” replied Redfern.

In listening to Redfern, paying attention to his intonation was always vital. “Um!” could mean yes, no or even perhaps, depending on the way it was said.

“He goes around blowing gaseous vapours into the faces of parlourmaids and other lowly folk,” informed Downes, thoughtfully stroking his handlebar moustache. “I think, Redders, we must investigate this.”

He rang for the butler.

“Inglis, we shall need the carriage at half past four. We are going to London,” he told that worthy. “I am afraid, sir, that the horses are totally clapped out,” the butler replied.