Mark Hodder - Expedition to the Mountains of the Moon

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.”