Текст книги "Expedition to the Mountains of the Moon"

Автор книги: Mark Hodder

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“Should old acquaintance be forgot,

and never brought to mind?

Should old acquaintance be forgot,

and old lang syne?”

The guests happily launched into the chorus:

“For auld lang syne, my dear,

for auld lang syne,

we'll take a cup of kindness yet,

for auld lang syne!”

“And surely you'll buy your pint cup,” the young singer trilled. “And surely I'll buy mine-”

“Oh God!” someone yelled.

“And we'll take a cup o' kindness yet, for auld lang syne.”

“Oh, sweet Jesus!” came the agonised voice.

Burton peered around the room as the crowd launched into the chorus again.

“For auld lang syne, my dear,

for auld lang syne,

we'll take a cup of-”

The song tailed off and the music stopped as someone screamed: “Please, Mary mother of God, save me!”

The explorer unhooked his arms from his neighbours, pushed people aside, and hurried toward a commotion near the fireplace. Men were kneeling beside a prone figure. It was Bendyshe. His skull mask had been removed and his face was contorted into a ghastly expression, eyes wide and glassy, mouth stretched into a hideous rictus grin. His whole body was convulsing with such ferocity that it required four men to hold him down. He writhed and jerked, his backbone arching, his heels drumming on the floor.

Detective Inspector Honesty-a slight, wiry man with a flamboyantly wide moustache that curled upward at the ends, who normally sported lacquered-flat hair, parted in the middle, and displayed a fussy dress sense, but who was currently outfitted as one of the Three Musketeers-appeared at Burton's side and muttered, “Fit. Overdoing it. Excessive indulgence.”

“No,” Burton said. “This is something else.” He pushed forward until he reached Monckton Milnes's side and hissed, “Get the crowd out of here.”

The host of the party looked at him and said, “Gad, what am I thinking? Of course.”

Monckton Milnes turned and, in a loud voice, announced: “Ladies and gentlemen, unfortunately one of our fellows has been taken ill. Would you mind moving into the other rooms, please? We should give the poor chap space to breathe.”

With utterances of sympathy, people started to wander away.

A hand gripped Burton by the elbow. It belonged to Doctor James Hunt.

“Come here,” he whispered, and dragged the king's agent over to the window, away from everyone else.

“What is it, Jim? Is Bendyshe going to be all right?”

“No. Quite the opposite.” Hunt caught his lower lip between his teeth. There was a sheen of sweat on his brow. “I'd recognise the symptoms anywhere,” he hissed. “Bloody strychnine. The poor devil's been poisoned!”

Burton momentarily fought for balance as his knees buckled. “What?”

“Poisoned. Purposely. A man doesn't get strychnine in his system by accident.”

“Can you save him?”

“Not a chance. He'll be dead within the hour.”

“No! Please, Jim, work with Nurse Nightingale and Sister Raghavendra. Do whatever you can for him.”

Hunt gave Burton's arm a squeeze and returned to the dying man. The king's agent saw Trounce standing by the doorway and moved over to him.

“Get out of that ridiculous costume. There's trouble.”

“What's happened?”

“Murder, Trounce. Someone has poisoned Tom Bendyshe.”

“Great heavens! I-um-I'll round up the troops at once. Damn this bloody padding! Help me out of it, would you?”

Some minutes later, Trounce, Sir Richard Mayne, and Detective Inspector Honesty ushered the guests and staff upstairs, while Commander Krishnamurthy and Constable Bhatti guarded Fryston's front and back doors to ensure no one slipped out.

Bendyshe was now frothing at the mouth and thrashing even more wildly.

Charles Bradlaugh, sitting on his friend's legs and being bucked about as they spasmed beneath him, looked at Burton as the explorer squatted beside the dying man. “I can't believe it,” he croaked, his eyes filling with tears. “Hunt says it's poison. Who would do this to poor Tom? He never hurt a soul!”

“I don't know, Charles. What was he up to before he was taken ill?”

“Singing along with the rest of us. He was rather sloshed-he's been stealing Algy's drinks all night.”

Burton turned to James Hunt. “Could strychnine have been in one of the glasses?”

“Yes.” The doctor nodded. “It's an incredibly bitter poison but if he was blotto enough he might have swallowed it without noticing the taste.”

“He was half-cut, to be sure,” Bradlaugh put in.

Burton reached past Nurse Nightingale, who was mopping Bendyshe's brow, and placed a hand on the man's chest. He could feel the muscles jumping beneath his palm.

“Tom,” he whispered.

He cleared his throat, stood, and gestured for Hunt to follow him. The two men left the music room and went into the smoking room, crossing to the table near the bay window.

“The poison was probably in one of these glasses,” Burton said, indicating the various empty vessels.

“If so, it won't be difficult to find out which one,” the doctor answered. He picked up a glass, sniffed it, muttered, “Brandy,” then dipped his index finger into the dregs at the bottom. He touched the finger to his tongue. “Not that one.”

“You won't poison yourself?”

“Strychnine is occasionally used in small amounts as medical treatment. The merest dab won't harm me.”

Hunt tested another glass, then a third and fourth. The fifth made him screw up his face.

“Bitter. The port would have gone some way to disguising it, but the taste is strong, nevertheless.”

“The drink is port?”

“Yes.”

Burton went through the other glasses one by one. As their shapes suggested, they had all contained either brandy or wine.

“Damnation,” he muttered. “Get back to Tom. I'll talk to you later.”

He strode off and made his way to the entrance hall where he found Richard Monckton Milnes, Algernon Swinburne, and Chief Commissioner Mayne in quiet conversation at the bottom of the staircase.

Mayne's expression was grim. “Are you certain it's attempted murder?” he said as Burton joined them.

“Not attempted. Successful. There's no antidote.”

“But why kill Tom?” Swinburne asked, miserably.

“It was a mistake,” Burton answered. “He wasn't the intended victim. I was.”

CHAPTER 2

Underworld and the Orpheus

GOVERNMENT NOTICE

IT IS ILLEGAL TO INTERFERE WITH STREET CRABS!

Those who seek to block a Street Crab's path, entangle its legs, extinguish its furnace, divert it into harm's way with a purposely laid trail of litter, or in any other manner prevent it from fulfilling its function, will be fined a minimum of 25.

STREET CRABS KEEP YOUR STREETS CLEAN!

“You?”

Richard Monckton Milnes, Algernon Swinburne, and Sir Richard Mayne had all spoken at once.

Burton nodded. “The poison was in a glass of port. It was pushed into my hand by one of the waiters. Tom drank it by mistake.” He addressed Monckton Milnes. “Would you order your waiting staff and household manager into the parlour, please? We'll question them there.”

This was duly done, and it was quickly made apparent by Mr. Applebaum, the manager, that a man was missing.

“Two of the waiters are permanent here at Fryston,” he told Burton. “The other four we hired from an agency, just for this party. These are the temporaries-” he indicated three of the men, “-and their colleague, sir, is the one that's made off.”

“Where is the agency?” Burton asked.

“In Thorpe Willoughby, a village about four miles east of here. Howell's by name. It has offices over the high street bakery.”

Burton turned to one of the hired hands, a small man whose fingers moved nervously. “What's your name?”

“Colin Parkes, sir.”

“And the missing man?”

“Peter Pimlico, but he ain't one of us. It was meant to be Gordon Bailey workin' tonight, but he was taken poorly, like, with a bad tummy, so he sent this Pimlico fellow, what is a friend of his, along in his stead. Leastways, that's how Pimlico explained it.”

“Do you know where he lives?”

“Pimlico? He said in Leeds, sir. He came with us in a carriage from Thorpe Willoughby. He's been renting a room there for the past few days. There are only two hostels and one inn in the village, so I reckon he's in one of them.”

“What does he look like?”

“Blond. Big side whiskers. Blue eyes. A bit soft around the middle. I should say he eats more'n he serves.”

“Thank you, Mr. Parkes.”

Sir Richard Mayne sent the staff back upstairs and said, “I'm going to order my men to search the house.”

Forty minutes later, the police commissioner reported back to Burton. “Commander Krishnamurthy found the missing man's fancy-dress costume dumped in a back room near the kitchen. The window was open. Doubtless that was his means of escape. I'll send Bhatti to the local railway station.”

“Pointless,” Burton said curtly. “There's no service at this time of night.”

“Then where do you think he-?”

The commissioner was interrupted by Swinburne and Hunt, who joined them, their faces drawn.

“Tom Bendyshe is dead,” the doctor said tonelessly. “Mercifully quick for strychnine. His heart gave out.”

Burton turned back to Mayne. “I'd like to borrow Detective Inspector Trounce. I have my basset hound here-he's an excellent tracking dog. We'll give him a sniff of that Medico Della Pesteoutfit and see where he leads us.”

“Very well.”

Burton-after quickly changing into rather more suitable evening attire-found Fidget happily gnawing on a bone in the kitchen downstairs.

“Sorry, old thing,” he said, lifting the dog's lead from a hook behind the door. “You're going to have to save that for later.”

Fidget growled and complained as the explorer removed the bone and clipped the leash onto his collar. He whined and dragged at the tether until Burton got him out of the kitchen, then settled down and padded along beside his master, up the stairs and out of the back door.

A cold breeze was blowing outside. Burton's breath clouded and streamed away. Stars shone in a clear night sky and a three-quarters moon cast its silver light over Fryston's grounds.

Swinburne-now in his normal day clothes but with the laurel wreath still entwined in his hair-and Trounce were waiting by an open window. The Scotland Yard man was squatting on his haunches, holding a lantern over the ground. “Footprints in the flower bed,” he said as the king's agent joined them.

Swinburne stepped back. Fidget had an unfortunate fondness for his ankles and had nipped at them throughout the train journey from London to Yorkshire. The poet held out a bundle of clothing and said, “Here's the waiter's costume, Richard.”

Burton took the clothes and applied them to Fidget's nose.

“Seek, boy!” he urged. “Seek!”

The basset hound lowered his head to the ground and began to snuffle about, zigzagging back and forth. He quickly caught the trail and dragged Burton away from the window and across the lawn. Swinburne and Trounce followed. The frozen grass crunched beneath their feet.

“Pimlico must be almost two hours ahead of us by now,” Trounce panted as he hurried along.

“We're heading east,” Burton noted. “I suspect he's gone back to Thorpe Willoughby. If he had a vehicle waiting there, he'll have made off and we'll lose the trail, but if he intends to travel back to Leeds by railway, he has no choice but to wait until the morning, and we'll nab him.”

Fidget pulled them to the edge of the estate, along the bordering wall, and over a stile. They proceeded down a country lane edged by hedgerows until they reached a junction. The basset hound veered right onto a bettertravelled road, and, as they followed, the men saw a sign that read: Thorpe Willoughby 3? Miles.

“Confound it!” Swinburne muttered as they pushed on. “Tom was one of my best friends, even if he was a giant pain in the rear end. Why did this Pimlico chap try to kill you, Richard? I don't recall his name. He's not someone we've had dealings with, is he?”

“What? You?” Trounce exclaimed, not having been privy to the revelation earlier.

“I was meant to be the victim,” Burton confirmed, “but I've no idea why. As far as I know, Pimlico has no connection with any of our past cases. His motivation remains a mystery.”

The road led them to the brow of a hill and down the other side. They saw the outlying houses of the village some little distance ahead, lying beyond patchwork fields and dark clumps of forest. From the centre of the settlement, an irregular line of steam curved up into the night air, slowly dissipating in the breeze. It was instantly recognisable as the trail of a rotorchair.

“Hell's bells!” Trounce growled. “It looks like our bird has flown!”

Fidget, making little yip-yipnoises as he followed the scent, led them into the village.

The exertion kept the men warm despite the low temperature, and by the time they reached the houses, Trounce was puffing and had to wipe at his brow with a handkerchief.

They passed cottages and small terraced houses, kept going straight past the inn, and eventually arrived outside a square and rather dilapidated-looking residence. The ribbon of steam was slowly drifting away above it. A notice in one of the lower windows read: Robin Hood's Rest. Bed amp; Breakfast. No Foreigners.Fidget stopped at its front door and pawed at it, whining with frustration.

Trounce reached out, grasped the knocker, and hammered.

They waited.

He hammered again.

A muffled voice came from within: “Keep yer bleedin' hair on!”

The portal opened and a fat man in an off-grey dressing gown blinked at them.

“What the bloomin' ‘eck are you wantin’ at this time o' night?” he demanded, his jowls wobbling indignantly.

“Police,” Trounce snapped. “Do you have a Peter Pimlico here?”

“More bloody visitors? I told him, none after ten o'clock, them's the rules o' the house, and what ‘appens? I get nothin’ but bleedin' visitors! You ain't foreigners, too, are yer?”

“We're English. Answer the question, man! Is Pimlico here?”

“Yus. He's in his room. I suppose you'll be wantin' to go up? You're police, you say? In trouble, is he?”

“It's distinctly possible,” Trounce answered, pushing his way past the man and into the narrow hallway beyond. “Which room?”

“Up the stairs an' first on yer left.”

Trounce started for the stairs but stopped when Burton asked the landlord, “You say there was a previous visitor for Mr. Pimlico? A foreigner?”

“Yus. A fat bloke with a big walrus moustache.”

“Nationality?”

“How the bleedin' 'eck should I know? They're all the same to me!”

“And when was he here?”

“'Bout ‘alf an hour ago. Woke me up landing his bloody contraption right outside, then thumped on the door. Pimlico came down the stairs like a bloomin’ avalanche to answer it, they both stamped up to his room, then a little bit later the foreigner came clod-hopping back down an' slammed the door behind him afore setting the windows a-rattling again with his blasted flying machine. I tell yer, it's been like trying to sleep in the middle of a bleedin' earthquake, and you ain't helpin'. Am I to get any kip at all tonight?”

“We'll not disturb you for long, Mr.-?”

“Emery. Norman Emery.”

“Mr. Emery. Remain here, please.”

Burton tied Fidget's leash to the bottom of the banister, muttered: “Stay, boy,” then, with Swinburne, followed Trounce up the stairs. The policeman knocked on the first door on the left. It swung open slightly under his knuckles. He looked at Burton and raised his eyebrows.

“Mr. Pimlico?” he called.

There was no reply.

The Yard man pushed the door open and peered into the room. He let out a grunt and turned to Swinburne. “Get Emery up here, would you?”

The poet, noting a grim aspect to the detective's face, obeyed without question.

“Look at this,” Trounce said as he entered the room.

Burton stepped in after him and saw a man stretched out on the floor. His face was a blotchy purple, his tongue was sticking out between his teeth, and his eyes were bulging and glazed.

“Strangled to death,” Trounce observed. “By Jove, look at the state of his neck! Whoever did this must be strong as an ox!”

“And a practised hand,” Burton added, bending over the corpse. “See the bruising? Our murderer knew exactly where to place his fingers and thumbs to kill in the quickest and most efficient manner. Hmm, look at these perforations in the skin. It's almost as if the killer possessed claws instead of fingernails!”

Trounce began to search through the dead man's pockets.

Swinburne reappeared with the landlord, who, upon looking through the doorway and seeing the body, cried out, “Cripes! And he ain't even paid his rent!”

“Is this Peter Pimlico?” Burton asked.

“Yus.”

Trounce uttered an exclamation and held up a small phial.

Burton took it, opened it, sniffed it, then tipped it until a drop of liquid spilled onto his finger. He put it to his tongue and screwed up his nose.

“Strychnine. No doubt about it.”

“It was in his pocket,” Trounce said. He addressed the landlord: “Does the village have a constable?”

“Yes, sir,” Emery replied. “Timothy Flanagan. He lives at number twelve.”

“Go and get him.”

“He'll be asleep.”

“Of course he'll be asleep! Bang on his door! Throw stones at his window! I don't care what you do-just wake him up and get him here, on the double!”

Emery nodded and disappeared down the stairs.

The detective turned back to the corpse, running his eyes over it, taking in every detail. He suddenly uttered an exclamation and bent close to Pimlico's swollen face.

“What is it?” Burton asked.

Trounce didn't answer. Instead, he pushed his fingers between the dead man's lips, groped to one side of the tongue, and pulled something out.

It was a small withered leaf, a dry brown colour with spitefully thorny edges, and it was attached to a tendril that, though Trounce gently tugged at it, refused to come out of Pimlico's mouth.

“Captain,” he said. “Would you prise the jaw open, please?”

Burton squatted, placed his hands around the lower half of the corpse's face, and pulled the mouth wide while Trounce pushed his fingers deeper inside.

“What in the blazes…?” the Yard man hissed as he drew out a second leaf and the vine to which it was attached tightened. “Look at this!”

He leaned back so Burton could peer into the mouth. The king's agent emitted a gasp of surprise, for the little plant was growing straight out of Pimlico's upper palate.

“I've never seen anything like it!” Trounce said. “How can it be possible?”

Burton shrugged distractedly and started to examine the dead man's head in minute detail. He quickly discovered other oddities. There were tiny green shoots in the hair, growing from the scalp, and a tangle of withered white roots issuing from the flesh behind both ears.

“I don't know what to make of it,” he said, rising to his feet, “but whatever this plant growing out of him is, it's as dead as Pimlico. What else did he have in his pockets?”

Trounce went through the items. “Keys, a few shillings, a box of lucifers, a pipe and pouch of shag tobacco, a pencil, and a 'bus ticket.”

“From where?”

“Leeds. Let's search the room.”

Swinburne looked on from the landing as the two men went over the chamber inch by inch. They discovered a small suitcase under the bed but it contained only clothes. No other possessions were found.

“Nothing to tell us who the foreigner might be,” Trounce ruminated. “And no clue as to where Pimlico lived in Leeds.”

“There's this,” Burton said. He held out the tobacco pouch-the brand was Ogden's Flake-with the flap open. On the inside, an address was printed in blue ink: Tattleworth Tobacconist, 26 Meanwood Road, Leeds.

“If this is his local supplier, perhaps the proprietor will know him.”

“Humph!” Trounce grunted. “Well, that's something, anyway. Let's wait for the constable, then we'll leg it back to Fryston. There are plenty of rotorchairs there-I'll commandeer one. It'll be close on dawn by the time I get to Leeds. No sleep for me tonight!”

“Nor for me,” Burton said. “I'm coming with you.”

“And so am I,” Swinburne added.

Some minutes later, footsteps sounded on the stairs and a young policeman appeared, looking somewhat dishevelled and unshaven. Mr. Emery lurked behind him.

“There hasn't really been murder done, has there?” the constable blurted. He saw Pimlico's body. “Blimey! In Thorpe Willoughby! And who are you gentlemen, if you'll pardon my asking?”

“I'm Detective Inspector Trounce of Scotland Yard. This is His Majesty's agent, Sir Richard Francis Burton, and his assistant, Mr. Algernon Swinburne. To whom do you report, lad?”

“To Commissioner Sheridan in Leeds.”

Trounce spoke rapidly: “Very well. I want you to wake up your local postmaster and get a message to the commissioner. Inform him that this chap-his name was Peter Pimlico-was strangled to death by an as yet unidentified foreigner. Then get the county coroner to call first at Fryston, then here to take care of business. I'll report to Commissioner Sheridan myself, later this morning.”

“Yes, sir. Fryston, sir? Why so?”

“Because this scoundrel-” Trounce gave Pimlico's corpse a disdainful glance, “-poisoned to death a guest there.”

Constable Flanagan gaped, swallowed, then saluted.

“What about me?” Emery grumbled. “Can I get back to me bleedin' bed?”

Trounce snorted. “If you think you can sleep with a corpse in the house, by all means. First, though, tell me-when did Pimlico start renting this room?”

“Five days ago.”

“Did he receive any visitors before tonight?”

“Nope.”

“What did he do while he was here?”

“Got drunk in the local boozer, mostly.”

“Did he cause you any trouble?”

“Not so much as he's bleedin' well caused since he kicked the bucket! He just thumped up an' down the stairs when he was comin' an' goin', that's all.”

“Were there any letters delivered for him?”

“Nope.”

“Do you know anything about him?”

“Nope, 'cept he said he was here to get work with Howell's agency.”

“Nothing else?”

“Nothin'.”

A few minutes later, Trounce, Burton, Swinburne, and Fidget were retracing their steps to Monckton Milnes's place. Glancing back at Thorpe Willoughby, Swinburne noted that the trail of steam had almost vanished.

“Which direction to Leeds?” he asked.

“West,” Trounce answered.

“Our strangler flew south. I wonder why he killed Pimlico?”

“Perhaps to stop him talking,” Burton said. “I'm certain I've never encountered him before, so I doubt he had any personal motive for doing away with me. I rather think he was hired to do it by our mysterious foreigner. He probably expected to be paid and assisted in escaping from the area tonight. Instead, he was killed.”

“Ruthless,” Swinburne muttered, “although I can't say he didn't deserve his fate, the bounder! But what of the strange growth?”

“That,” Burton said, “is a much bigger mystery. It seems unlikely that it was in his mouth earlier this evening, while he was playing waiter at Fryston. Such a rapidly growing monstrosity smells to me of the Eugenicists and the botanist Richard Spruce.”

They reached Fryston and found that a great many of the guests had already departed, despite the hour.

“I've sealed off the music room,” Monckton Milnes reported. “Poor Bendyshe will have to stay there until someone comes for him.”

“The coroner is on his way,” Burton reported. “May I ask a couple of favours of you?”

“Of course, anything I can do.”

“We need to borrow three rotorchairs. We have to fly to Leeds immediately.”

“Take mine, Jim Hunt's, and Charlie Bradlaugh's. They're on the front lawn. I'll walk you to them.”

“Thank you. I presume Mrs. Angell has gone to bed?”

“Yes. I gave her one of my best guest rooms.”

“Would you ask Captain Lawless to accompany her and Fidget to the airfield in the morning? Trounce, Algy, and I will have to fly there directly from Leeds. We'll see to it that the rotorchairs are delivered back to you later in the day.”

“I'll take her myself, Richard. I want to see you off.”

Monckton Milnes escorted his friends out of the house and to a group of flying machines parked in the grounds. As they walked, he pulled Burton back a little from Swinburne and Trounce and whispered, “Has this any connection with your mission to Africa?”

Burton shrugged. “I don't know. It's certainly possible, maybe even probable.”

They reached the rotorchairs and Monckton Milnes watched as the three men placed their hats in the storage boxes, put goggles over their eyes, and buckled themselves into the big leather seats.

“See you later, chaps,” he said. “And best of luck!”

They started their engines, which belched out clouds of steam. Above their heads, blade-like wings unfolded from vertical shafts and began to spin, rotating faster and faster until they became invisible to the eye.

Burton gave his friend a wave, then pulled back on a lever. The runners of his machine lifted from the grass and it rose rapidly on a cone of vapour. Swinburne and Trounce followed, and the three rotorchairs arced away and vanished into the night sky, leaving silvery white trails behind them.

An orange glow lit the eastern sky as three flying machines descended onto the cobbles of Black Brewery Road. Two of them touched the ground gently; the third hit it with a thump and skewed sideways for five feet amid a shower of sparks before coming to rest.

“Ridiculous bloody contraptions!” Trounce cursed. He turned off the engine, waited for the wings to fold, then disembarked and joined Burton and Swinburne.

It was their third landing in Leeds. The first had been to ask a constable on his night beat for directions. The second had been outside the Tattleworth Tobacconist on Meanwood Road.

Mr. Tattleworth, swearing volubly at his rude awakening, had eventually confirmed that he knew Peter Pimlico.

“A bloody thief,” he'd said. “What you might call a denizen of the underworld. But a regular customer. Lives a couple o' streets away. Number seventeen Black Brewery Road.”

They could have walked, but, preferring to keep their vehicles in sight, they took off and almost immediately landed again.

“It's this one,” Swinburne said, pointing at a terrace. “Let's see how many profanities our next customer can spit at us!” He reached for the door knocker and banged it with gusto.

After a couple of minutes and a second attack on the door, a gruff and muffled voice came from behind it.

“Oo's thah?”

“Police,” Trounce barked.

“Prove 'tis!”

“I have credentials,” Trounce said impatiently. “Open up and I'll show you.”

“Ah durn't believe thee. 'Tis a trick. Thou b'ain't no trapper. A tallyman, more like!”

Swinburne squealed. “Ha-ha! Tallyman Trounce!”

“Oo were thah?” came the voice.

“Algernon Swinburne!” Swinburne called. “The poet!”

There was a moment of silence, then the voice said, “Ah durn't need owt pottery fro' thee! Be off an' durn't come bah!”

“Sir!” Trounce bellowed. “Open the blasted door this very moment or I'll kick the damned thing in!”

The rattle of a chain sounded and a key turned in the lock. The door opened a crack and a rheumy eye peered out.

“Wah durst thou want? Ah aren't dressed. Am havin' us mornin' pipe.”

“Does Peter Pimlico live here?” Trounce demanded.

“Aye. In t' flat upstairs. Ee durn't be in. Not fur'n week.”

“I know. He's dead.”

“Huh?”

“He was murdered earlier tonight.”

“Good. Ee were a dirty oik an nowt else. So?”

“So we're here to search his rooms. Let us in.”

The eye took in Trounce from his bowler hat to his police-issue boots, then flicked to Burton and examined his swarthy and scarred face and broad shoulders, then down to Swinburne, who stood with laurel leaves tangled in his long bright-red hair, which was sticking out wildly after the flight from Fryston.

“A poet wit' trappers?”

“Police pottery,” Swinburne said. “Ceramics Squad. Stand aside, please!”

Trounce put his shoulder to the door and pushed, sending the man behind it reeling backward. “What's your name?” he demanded, stepping into the house.

The man, who would have been tall were it not for his rickets-twisted legs, stood shivering in his striped nightshirt. He was wearing a nightcap over his straggly brown hair and bed socks on his large feet. There was a hole in the left one and his big toe was poking out. A smoking corncob pipe was clutched in his gnarled hand.

“Ah be Matthew Keller. Thou can't barge int' us 'ouse like this!”

“Yes, I can. It's your premises? You're the owner?”

“Aye. Get thee out o' it!”

“Not yet. So you rent the upstairs to Pimlico, is that right?”

“Uh-huh, an' ah be glad t' be rid o' 'im, t' good-fer-nowt bastard.”

“Trouble, was he?”

“Aye! Alweez drunk n' thievin'.”

“Any visits from foreign gentlemen?”

“T'week past. Fat, ee were.”

“Name?”

“Durn't knah.”

“Nationality?”

“Durn't knah.”

“Walrus moustache?”

“Aye. Now then, ah 'ave t' get dressed fr' work.”

“You'll do nothing without my leave. We're going up to Pimlico's rooms.”

“They be locked.”

“Do you have a master key?”

“Aye.”

“So get it!”

Keller sighed impatiently.

“Jump to it, man!” Trounce exploded.

The householder flinched, then moved to the rear of the small hallway, opened a door beneath the staircase, and took a key from a hook. He returned and passed it to the detective.

Trounce started up the stairs and Swinburne followed. As he passed Burton, who stepped up after him, the king's agent noticed that his assistant's grin had quickly faded.

By nature, Swinburne's emotions were as fiery and wild as his hair, always changing rapidly, never consistent, and often entirely inappropriate. The poet was subject to a physiological condition that caused him to feel pain as pleasure, and, it seemed to Burton, this might be the origin of his quirky, unpredictable character. Emotional hurt, such as that caused by Bendyshe's demise, became internalised and concealed behind wayward behaviour, which, unfortunately, frequently involved the consumption of copious amounts of alcohol. Swinburne's inability to judge what might harm him made him one of the bravest men Burton had ever met, but also one of the most dangerously self-destructive.

“Follow us, Mr. Keller,” Trounce called. “I want to keep my eye on you.”

Keller protested, “Us an't gon' t' do nowt,” but mounted the stairs behind his unwelcome visitors and struggled up, groaning at the effort. “Legs,” he complained. “Bad all us life.”

Pimlico's flat consisted of a bed-sitting room and a kitchen. It stank of rancid lard and bacon and hadn't been cleaned in a long time. Threadbare clothes were scattered over the floor. A porcelain washbasin, containing dirty water and with a thick line of grime around its inner edge, stood on a dressing table in front of a cracked mirror. There was a cutthroat razor and a soiled bar of soap beside it. The sagging bed was unmade, a chair was piled with betting slips from the local dog track, and issues of the Leeds Enquirerwere stacked beneath the window.