Expedition to the Mountains of the Moon

  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 Peste outfit 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 3½ 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-yip noises 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 & 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 r
oom, 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.