Expedition to the Mountains of the Moon bas-3

by Mark Hodder

  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 Enquirer were stacked beneath the window.

  Swinburne and Keller hung back while Burton and Trounce went over the rooms.

  “Notebook!” the Scotland Yard man exclaimed, lifting a small bound volume from the bed. He flicked through it, page by page. “Nothing but odds on dogs. He was a gambler, this Pimlico fellow.”

  “Ee were a loser,” Keller said. “Lost every bleedin' penny ee earned. Nearly alweez late wit' rent.”

  “How was he employed?” Burton asked.

  “At t' Pride-Manushi factory, packagin' velocipede parts what they send to salesrooms o'er in Coventry. But ee was laid off a fortnight since, after ee got nabbed fr' thievin'.”

  Burton's eyebrows arched. “What happened?”

  “Ee climbed through t' window at Cat n' Fiddle, skanked a couple o' bottles o' whisky, an' jumped straight out int' arms o' trappers. Spent a night in clink.”

  Trounce frowned. “Just one night? After breaking into a public house?”

  “Aye.”

  “Where was he held?”

  “Farrow Lane Police Station.”

  Some minutes later, the detective inspector called to Burton, who was searching the kitchen: “Captain, your opinion, please.”

  Trounce pointed down at the bare floorboards near the window. Burton stepped over, looked, and saw a small glob of something blackish and fibrous. He squatted, took a pencil from his pocket, scraped its end in the dried-up substance, then raised it to his nose.

  He winced in disgust. “Stinks of tooth decay-and something else. Mr. Keller, did Pimlico use chewing tobacco?”

  “Nah. Ee smurked Ogden's Flake, same as what ah does.”

  Burton stood and addressed Trounce. “I've made a study of tobacco odours. I'm certain this is Kautabak, a Prussian brand. Not widely available in England.”

  “And you think it was left by the foreigner? Our murderer is Germanic?”

  “I suspect exactly that, yes.”

  They spent another twenty minutes searching but found nothing of any further use.

  “Well then,” Trounce said, “we'll take our leave of you, Mr. Keller.”

  “Aye, an' ah'll not be sad t' see thee go,” the householder muttered.

  As they descended the stairs, he added, “Ee were expectin' t' come int' brass, ee were.”

  Trounce stopped. “What?”

  “Pimlico. Ee were expectin' brass-were goin' t' pay me what ee owed in rent, or so ee said.”

  “Money? From where?”

  “Durn't knah.”

  Outside the house, the Yard man looked up at the sky, which was now a pale overcast grey.

  “As from today I'm officially on extended leave,” he said, “but I'll be damned if I'll leave this alone.” He turned to Burton and Swinburne. “Next stop, Farrow Lane. I want to know why Pimlico was released.”

  They climbed back into their vehicles and took to the air. Once again, they had to search for a constable to give them directions. Fifteen minutes later, they landed outside the police station and Burton and Swinburne waited in their vehicles while Trounce entered to make his enquiries. He was gone for twenty minutes, during which time the poet discussed his latest project, Atalanta in Calydon, with his friend.

  “I'm moved to heighten the atheist sentiment by way of a tribute to old Bendyshe,” he said. “He was determined to drive the last nails into the coffin that Darwin built for God.”

  “Tom would have appreciated that,” Burton responded. “For all his larking around, he never had anything but praise for you, Algy, and he adored your poetry. He was one of your most dedicated advocates.”

  An uncharacteristic hardness came to the poet's eyes. “Do you remember me once telling you about how, in my youth, I wanted to be a cavalry officer?”

  “Yes. Your father wouldn't allow it, so you climbed Culver Cliff on the Isle of Wight to prove to yourself that you possess courage.”

  “That's right, Richard. And at one point, I hung from that rock face by my fingertips, and I wasn't afraid. Since that occasion, I have never once shirked a challenge, no matter how dangerous. I don't baulk at the idea of warfare; of engaging with the enemy; of fighting for a principle. As a poet, my roots are deeply embedded in conflict.”

  “What's your point, Algy?”

  “My poi
nt is this: as of now, I'm on a mission of vengeance.”

  The Royal Naval Air Service Station was situated some twenty miles east of Fryston. It had originally been established for the building of dirigibles, an endeavour the Technologists had abandoned after a sequence of disastrous crashes and explosions. Those failures had led to the development of rotating-wing flight mechanics, and a breathtaking example of that particular form of engineering ingenuity currently dominated the largest of the station's landing fields.

  HMA Orpheus was the most colossal rotorship Sir Richard Francis Burton had ever seen. Side-on, she appeared long and flat, two decks high, with a humped cargo hold slightly to the rear of centre, a conning tower at the front, and a glass-enclosed observation deck occupying her pointed prow. Eight flight pylons extended from either side of her-a total of sixteen, which made her the most powerful rotorship ever constructed.

  Most of the crew and passengers were already aboard, ready for the short trip to London. Burton, Swinburne-sans laurel wreath-Captain Lawless, and Detective Inspector Trounce stood at the base of the boarding ramp, bidding farewell to Monckton Milnes and Sir Richard Mayne. The latter, nervous of flying, had opted to ride the atmospheric railway to the capital later in the week.

  “So the fat Prussian bailed Pimlico out,” Trounce told the police commissioner. “He gave his name as Otto Steinruck, and an Essex address.”

  Swinburne added, “Probably false.”

  “No,” Trounce said. “The address had to be verified before his bail could be accepted. It exists and it's registered in his name.”

  “You're off duty now, Detective Inspector,” Mayne said, “but if you want to pursue this in an official capacity during what little time you have left before your departure, then you have my permission.”

  “I would, and thank you, sir.”

  Mayne nodded, then looked up at the ship. “What a monster!” he exclaimed.

  “The first of a new breed,” Lawless told him. “Mr. Brunel surpassed himself with this one!”

  “And she'll take you all the way along the Nile?”

  “Unfortunately, no.”

  Burton said, “Mechanical devices refuse to function in the Lake Regions, Chief Commissioner. Some sort of emanation prevents it. Henry Morton Stanley's rotorchairs were found there, and their engines were as dead as a doornail. We fear that if the Orpheus flew too close she'd drop like a stone, and since we have no clear idea of where the zone begins, we have little choice but to go in on foot.”

  “Besides which,” Lawless added, “this ship sacrifices economy for speed, so she'll need to stop for fuel, which can't be done in Central Africa.”

  “So what's your route?” Monckton Milnes asked.

  “Our first leg is London to Cairo,” Lawless replied, “the second Cairo to Aden, then we'll fly to our final stop, Zanzibar, where the collier ship Blackburn awaits us with a hold full of coal. The expedition will disembark, we'll refuel, offload the vehicles and supplies on the mainland, and head home.”

  Burton added, “A hundred and fifty Wanyamwezi porters have been hired in Zanzibar and are already making their way inland with supplies purchased on the island. They'll deliver the goods to a village in the Dut'humi Hills and will await our arrival. When we get there, they'll be paid and fresh porters from the nearby Mgota tribes will be hired. We'll then push on and, hopefully, will reach Kazeh before we have to abandon the vehicles. From there, we'll hike north to the Lake Regions and the Mountains of the Moon.”

  Lawless said, “Well, chaps, we'll never achieve any of that if we don't get under way, so I'd better check that my ship is flight ready. We'll be off in ten minutes. I'll leave you to say your goodbyes.” He gave a nod to Mayne and Monckton Milnes, touched a finger to the peak of his cap, and walked up the ramp and into the Orpheus.

  Sir Richard Mayne drew Trounce aside and engaged him in a quiet conversation.

  Monckton Milnes grasped Swinburne's hand and gave it a hearty shake. “Good luck, young 'un,” he said. “You stay safe, do you hear me?”

  “Perfectly well, old horse,” Swinburne replied. “Don't you fret about me. I'll be fine. I'm too slight a morsel for a lion or crocodile to bother with, and I plan to keep myself soaked in gin to fend off the mosquitoes.”

  “Good lad! I look forward to some inspired poetry upon your return.”

  Swinburne caught Mayne's eye, gave him a salute, and boarded the ship.

  “Are you sure he's up to it, Richard?” Monckton Milnes asked Burton. “As much as I admire him, he's the very last person I'd expect to be trekking through Africa.”

  Burton gave a wry smile. “You know as well as I do that he's far from the delicate flower he appears. He's a tough little blighter and I need his insight into the Naga business. Anyway, he'd never forgive me if I left him behind.”

  “And you? What of your health? Last time you tried for the Nile you were blinded and crippled for months on end.”

  “True, but mostly because John Speke was pouring huge doses of Saltzmann's Tincture into me. But that aside, we have Sister Raghavendra with us. That should make a considerable difference to our well-being.”

  Monckton Milnes nodded thoughtfully. “The Sisterhood of Noble Benevolence is a confoundedly strange organisation. I've never understood how they move around the East End without coming to harm. You know there's a rumour they possess some sort of supernatural grace that protects them?”

  “I've heard as much, yes. It may be that their ability to heal and soothe is, indeed, supernatural. Perhaps it's another effect of the resonance from the Naga diamonds. Whatever the explanation, I'm sure she'll prove a most valuable member of the expedition.” Burton looked up at the grey sky. “Africa again,” he muttered. “Maybe this time-”

  “You aren't obliged to put yourself through it, Richard,” Monckton Milnes interrupted. “Palmerston can find other pawns for his chess game.”

  “For certain. But it's not just the diamond business. I want the Nile. Every day, I ask myself, ‘Why?’ and the only echo is, ‘Damned fool! The devil drives!’ That bloody continent has been shaping my life for nigh on a decade and I feel, instinctively, that it hasn't finished with me yet.”

  “Then go,” said Monckton Milnes. “But Richard-”

  “Yes?”

  “Come back.”

  “I'll do my level best. Listen, old chap, on the subject of Palmerston, there's something you might do for me while I'm away.”

  “Anything.”

  “I'd like you to keep an eye on him. Follow, especially, his foreign policies with regard to Prussia, the other Germanic states, and Africa. You are one of the most politically astute men I know, and you have a plethora of friends in high places. Use them. When I return, I'll need you to give me an idea of which way the wind is blowing where our international relations are concerned.”

  “You think he's up to something?”

  “Always.”

  Monckton Milnes promised to do everything he could.

  They shook hands and bade each other farewell.

  Detective Inspector Trounce returned and joined Burton on the gangplank.

  With a final wave to their colleagues, the two men entered the rotorship.

  The great swathe of the world's territory that Britain had once controlled was still referred to, in its final days, as the Empire, even though there'd been no British monarch since the death of Albert in 1900. “The King's African Rifles” was a misnomer for the same reason. Traditions die hard for the British, especially in the Army.

  Two thousand of the KAR, led by sixty-two English officers, had set up camp at Ponde, a village about six miles to the south of Dar es Salaam and four miles behind the trenches that stretched around the city from the coast in the northwest to the coast in the southeast. Ponde's original beehive huts were buried somewhere deep in a sea of khaki tents, and their Uzaramo inhabitants-there were fewer than a hundred and fifty of them-had been recruited against their will as servants and porters. Mostly, they dea
lt with the ignominy by staying as drunk as possible, by running away when they could, or, in a few cases, by committing suicide.

  Perhaps the only, if not happy, then at least satisfied villager was the man who brewed pombe-African beer-who'd set up a shack beneath a thicket of mangrove trees from which to sell the warm but surprisingly pleasant beverage. The shady area had been furnished with tables and chairs, and thus was born a mosquito-infested tavern of sorts. No Askaris permitted! Officers and civilians only!

  It was eleven in the morning, and the individual who now thought of himself as Sir Richard Francis Burton was sitting at one of the tables. It was an oppressively humid day and the temperature was rising. The sky was a tear-inducing white. The air was thick with flies.

  He'd refused pombe-it was far too early-and had been provided with a mug of tea instead, which sat steaming in front of him. His left forearm was bandaged. Beneath the dressing there was a deep laceration, held together by seven stitches. His face, now more fully bearded, was cut and bruised. A deep gash, scabbed and puckered, split his right eyebrow.

  He dropped four cubes of sugar into his drink and stirred it, gazing fixedly at the swirling liquid.

  His hands were shaking.

  “There you are!” came a high-pitched exclamation. “Drink up. We have to get going.”

  He raised his eyes and found Bertie Wells standing beside him. The war correspondent, who looked much shorter and stouter in broad daylight, was leaning on crutches and his right calf was encased in a splint.

  “Hello, old thing,” Burton said. “Take the weight off. How is it?”

  Wells remained standing. “As broken as it was yesterday and the day before. Do you know, I snapped the same bally leg when I was seven years old? You were still alive back then.”

  “I'm still alive now. Get going to where?”

  “Up onto the ridge so we can watch the bombing. The ships should be here within the hour.”

  “Can you manage it? The walk?”

  Wells flicked a mosquito from his neck. “I'm becoming a proficient hobbler. Would you do me a favour, Sir Richard? Next time I pontificate about the unlikelihood of a direct hit, will you strike me violently about the head and drag me clear of the area?”