by Mark Hodder
They sat in silence for a few minutes, then Burton muttered, “I feel like a bloody pawn in a game of chess.”
Monckton Milnes roused himself from the reverie he'd fallen into. “I have every faith in you, Richard,” he said. “Go to Africa. Do whatever you must. You'll find an answer, of that I'm certain.”
Burton sighed and gave a slight jerk of his head. He became conscious of the buzz of conversation and merriment that filled Fryston. He looked down at himself, then at his friend, and suddenly chuckled. “Bismillah! King Shahryar of A Thousand Nights and a Night discussing fantastic notions with Harlequin! What a confounded joke!”
Monckton Milnes smiled. “Go back to the party. Relax. Enjoy yourself. I'll join you in a few minutes. I want to sit here a little longer.”
Burton rose and crossed to the door. He looked back and said, “If Palmerston learns that we had this conversation, I'll be thrown into the Tower.”
“Bedlam, more like,” Monckton Milnes murmured.
“No. The government keeps secret rooms, including prison cells, beneath the Tower of London.”
His friend held up his hands as if to ward off the king's agent. “Have mercy! No more, I beg of you!” he cried. “My capacity for revelations is all used up!”
Burton unlocked the door and left the room. He made his way back across the entrance hall, through the parlour, and into the smoking room.
“I say, Captain,” Humpty Dumpty called as he entered. “Where's that wonderful housekeeper of yours?”
Burton turned to the rotund fairy-tale figure. “Is that you in there, Trounce?”
“Yes, and I feel an absolute ass, but it was Mrs. Trounce's idea and I thought it wise not to kick up a fuss, seeing as I'm abandoning her for the next few months. It's blasted awkward, I can tell you. I'm having dashed difficulty in steering food and wine lipwards, so to speak.”
“I shouldn't complain. It looks like you could stand to lose a pound or two.”
“That's quite enough of that, if you don't mind! You know full well that my current circumference is all padding!”
“If you say so. Who has the esteemed Mrs. Trounce come as?”
“Old Mother Hubbard, which, admittedly, didn't require much by way of dressing up. She's eager for a gossip with Mrs. Angell but what with all these fancy getups she can't locate the dear lady. So where is she and who, or what, has she come as?”
“She's a rather too matronly Queen Boadicea, and is off doing your wife's job, I think.”
“What do you mean?”
“She's gone to give a dog a bone.”
“Eh?”
“She's down in the kitchen procuring a morsel for Fidget, though I suspect she's actually seeking refuge from all these lords and ladies. She feels a little out of place, but I insisted upon her attendance. She deserves a taste of the high life after all I've put her through recently.”
“You brought your confounded basset hound as well?”
“She made him a part of her costume-harnessed him to a toy war chariot and had him trotting along beside her. He was most indignant about it.”
A loud high-pitched howl rose above the general hubbub.
“Would you excuse me?” Burton said. “It sounds like Algy needs to be reined in.”
He moved back toward the bay window. As he reached the group gathered there, a waiter pushed a glass of port into his hand. Absently, Burton placed it on the table, his attention on Swinburne, who was hopping up and down, waving his arms like a madman.
“I'm not in the slightest bit tipsy!” the poet was protesting vociferously. “What an utter disaster! I've become immune to alcohol!”
“Through overfamiliarity, perhaps?” Cornewall Lewis offered.
“Nonsense! We meet frequently, I'll admit, but we're naught but nodding acquaintances!”
Doctor James Hunt, a Cannibal Club member, joined the group just in time to hear this. He roared with laughter and declared: “Hah! I rather think there's a great deal more intimacy than that, Algy! You and alcohol are practically wedded!”
“Tosh and piffle!” Swinburne objected. “Claptrap, balderdash, cobblers, and bunkum!”
Someone spoke quietly at Burton's side: “I should have you arrested.”
The explorer turned and found himself facing Sir Richard Mayne, the lean-faced chief commissioner of Scotland Yard.
“Something to do with me whisking four of your men off to Africa?” he asked, with a raised eyebrow.
“Yes,” Mayne answered, glancing disapprovingly at Swinburne's histrionics. “Trounce and Honesty are among my best detectives, Krishnamurthy commands my Flying Squad, and Constable Bhatti is in line for promotion. I can hardly afford to have them all gallivanting around the Dark Continent for a year. I can only conclude that you're in league with London's criminal underclasses. Am I right, Sir Richard? Are you getting my men out of the way prior to some villainous coup? Perhaps plotting to have them consumed by lions and tigers so you can break into the Tower of London and steal the Crown jewels?”
Burton smiled. “Funny, I was just talking about the Tower. But no, and there are no tigers in Africa, sir. Did Lord Palmerston explain the situation?”
“He delivered to me some vague waffle about it being a matter of national security.”
“It is.”
“And he ordered me in no uncertain terms to provide you with whatever you want. I shall do so, of course.”
“Thank you. I ask only that the men receive extended leave and that their families are looked after.”
“Have no worries on that account.” The commissioner took a sip of his wine. He sighed. “Keep them safe, won't you?”
“I'll do my best.”
They shook hands. Mayne wandered away. Burton reached for his drink and was surprised to find that his glass had mysteriously emptied itself. He pursed his lips and looked at his assistant, who was still stamping his feet and protesting his sobriety. He concluded that Swinburne was either in the midst of one of his infamous drinking sprees or he was the victim of mischief. Then he noticed the Grim Reaper hovering behind the little poet and, though he quickly recognised Thomas Bendyshe-which explained everything, for the anthropologist and atheist was Swinburne's most dedicated tormenter-he nevertheless felt a momentary chill needling at his spine.
“Richard!” Swinburne screeched. “You've seen me in my cups more than most. Do I seem inebriated to you?”
“Of all people, Algy, you are the one in whom it's hardest to tell the difference,” Burton answered.
The poet gave a shriek of despair. He yelled for a waiter.
Time passed, the party continued, and the king's agent moved from group to group, chatting with some, debating with others, joking with a few.
At a quarter-past eleven, Monckton Milnes reappeared, with makeup restored, and herded his guests into the music room, where Florence Nightingale surprised Burton by demonstrating an unexpected proficiency on the piano as she accompanied Sister Raghavendra, whose singing voice proved equally impressive. They entertained the gathering until close on midnight, at which point everyone fell silent and listened to the chimes of the grandfather clock. As the final note clanged, they hooked their arms, Nightingale started playing, and the Sister sang:
“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 ch
orus 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 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.