by Al Ewing
"Well, she's dead, sir," the Sergeant said, an anxious look on his face as he tried to fathom what type of game the Inspector was playing.
"I can see that, smart arse. In fact, I can safely say that I have never seen anyone in the rudest of rude health look like that. Have you?"
"No, sir."
"So, what killed her?"
"Well," Sergeant Sheldon hesitated again, not sure whether this was some kind of test Inspector Allardyce was putting him through. "Her body appears to be riddled with mould... Fungus, sir."
"But that couldn't have killed her, surely? The rot must have set in after she died. How long did your witnesses say she'd been missing for?"
"She was last seen last night."
"Looking like this?" Allardyce exclaimed. They both looked down at the corpse of the ageing prostitute slumped in the alleyway.
"That's when she was last seen alive, sir, at around 9 o'clock outside the Dog and Duck."
"You mean she wasn't in this state at nine last night?"
"No, sir."
"Your witnesses - drunk were they?"
"No, inspector. At least twelve people saw her at that time. She was leaving the pub with a vagrant called Samson. Lives down by Southwark Bridge."
"Then he's our man. He's the one who..." Allardyce tailed off, unable to find the words.
The Inspector wasn't happy. He had been called to the scene of the crime - if crime it were - by the local beat-bobby Sergeant Sheldon, who was flummoxed as to exactly what had happened to the gin-sodden old tart, and even whether a crime had been committed at all. And now Allardyce found himself here, in the stinking slums of Southwark, with, if he were honest, no better idea of what was going on than the grizzled copper. Surely the old tramp had something to do with it, but then what could the vagrant have done to the old whore for her body to have become host to some kind of virulent fungal infection? The exposed skin of her arms, legs and face was covered with the grey-green swellings of puffball mushrooms, their own epidermal layer like shrivelled human skin. The curious growths crowded in on each other, one fungus sprouting on top of another, bursting from the cleavage of the woman's tarty blouse. Others had ruptured through the mesh of her stockings. The area had been cordoned off with tape as a precaution, a young constable standing by, just in case.
"Who did what, Inspector?"
Hearing the voice - dripping with disdain and with an air of aloof amusement - Allardyce stiffened.
"Oh, it's you," he said, turning, trying to affect his own air of aloof disinterest. "You're back from your jaunt around the South Seas then?"
"If you could call it that," Ulysses Quicksilver replied, giving the shorter man in the beige trench coat an appraising look with his sparkling brown eyes from behind the foppish flop of his fringe. "Yes."
"What brings you sniffing round Southwark? Looking for some lady action are you? The charming dandy routine getting a bit tired, is it?"
"Oh you know, I just happened to be in the area. Any witnesses to the death?" the dandy asked, brashly ducking under the police line - ignoring the young constable's blurted command that he stop - with no sign of respect for the authority of the Metropolitan Police.
"Are you trying to tell me how to do my job again, Quicksilver?"
"You have asked for witnesses haven't you?" Without waiting for an answer Ulysses Quicksilver turned to the steadily encroaching crowd and addressed the downtrodden and dispossessed of Southwark. "Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. Did any of you happen to be present when this poor lady here died? Did any of you see anything?"
There were nervous mutterings from among the crowd. It wasn't common practice in these parts to trust the police, let alone offer them assistance. But that said, with a nervous cough to attract attention, a thickset man emerged from the gathered stickybeaks, wringing a cloth cap in his large hands.
"Ah, yes, sir. Don't be nervous, old chap. Come forward and have your say."
"Well it was me that called Shelly here," the man said, nodding at Sergeant Sheldon. "And there was a whole load of us what saw it."
"Saw what, my good man?" Ulysses asked, flashing his most ingratiating smile.
"What happened to Nancy, the poor old soak." The man didn't take his eyes from the cap twisted into a tight knot in his hands.
"Would you care to elaborate?"
Allardyce looked on aghast. The slimy bastard could charm the knickers off a nun.
"It was this morning. She was lying here, empty bottle hugged to her breast. Thought she was asleep. No one was surprised to find her bedded down in an alleyway. It wasn't unusual. Anyways, then she comes to - head thick as London smog - and then she starts coughing. Terrible hacking cough it was. I thought she'd caught pneumonia. Then she was on her feet. Comes stumbling into the street, gasping like she's choking, eyes mad. It was just like she was being throttled, only she wasn't. And then, before anyone could help her, she collapses and those things start popping up all over her body."
"You mean the puffballs?" Quicksilver asked, seeking clarity.
"If you say so, sir. I wouldn't know," the man confessed.
Allardyce looked again at the dead woman's face. One eye had been forced shut by the oppressive pressure of several bulbous eruptions whilst the other was protruding unpleasantly - almost accusingly - from her head, the white of the eye and iris discoloured by the verdigris pigment of the fungi.
"After that, no one would go near her. She was good as dead, already. But then I said someone should do something, should tell someone. So I dropped in on Shelly at the station."
"What a fine upstanding citizen you are," Quicksilver said, without a hint of sarcasm in his voice. The man stopped crushing his cap in his huge hands, and looked directly at Ulysses, a proud smile of self-congratulation appearing on his face. "And you were right not to go near her."
"What did happen to her?"
"We don't know yet. But that's why I'm here. Don't worry we'll have this sorted out in no time. Trust me."
The smartly-dressed dandy looked entirely out of place, in his emerald green crushed velvet jacket, paisley-patterned waistcoat and plum moleskin trousers. He was also wearing his trademark cravat, held in place with a diamond pin, and held his bloodstone-tipped cane, almost casually, in one hand. He turned to Sergeant Sheldon, the earnest young constable now at his superior's shoulder like some eager puppy. "Sergeant, we need to seal off this whole area - the alleyway, the pub, the street - and put the body into quarantine. We're going to need to send in clean-up crews to decontaminate the area."
"We?"
Quicksilver turned to the Inspector for the first time since the eyewitness had spoken.
"Whose crime scene is this?" Allardyce challenged, reddening.
"I'm sorry, Inspector. Please, carry on."
"Right... well..." Allardyce looked at Sheldon, the bobby, at Quicksilver and then back at the Sergeant. "Do what he said."
Sergeant Sheldon paused, shooting Quicksilver an uncertain look. It was only when the dandy had nodded his consent that the policeman made a move to obey.
"And only let automata-Peelers handle the body or move it," Ulysses instructed, but in the tone of one doing no more than making a helpful suggestion. The sergeant shot him another anxious look. "Just in case."
Sergeant Sheldon and the bobby moved the gathered crowd of curious onlookers back. "Come on, ladies and gentlemen, there's nothing to see here. You know what curiosity did to the cat."
"Not her, Sergeant, if you don't mind," Quicksilver said, picking out one old woman from the throng of peering faces. "She's with me. Penny," he said, now addressing one onlooker in particular - an ugly, wart-nosed and toothless septuagenarian - "your assistance, if you would be so kind."
"Right you are, guv'nor."
"Cause of death appears to be extreme fungal infection and subsequent cellular degradation of the host body. You know what needs to happen now. I want you to ensure that no one goes near the cadaver. God only knows what could happ
en if those fruiting bodies spore."
"You're putting this slattern in charge of my operation?" Allardyce exclaimed, his voice rising in pitch with his growing disbelief.
"It's all right, Inspector, Penny here's used to dealing with this sort of thing."
"I've cleared up all sorts of messes, guv'nor."
"You?"
"You'd better show him your ID," Quicksilver said, nudging the wizened old crone. She pulled out a worn carpet bag from under her shawl, opened it and extracted a crumpled card. She held it out for Allardyce to see.
"Not another one," he said wearily. "She's one of your lot?"
"Agent Penny Dreadful, at your service, sah!" the old woman said, struggling to stand to attention.
"Penny Dreadful?"
"It's a codename, sah."
"A codename. I don't bloody believe you lot. All this cloak and dagger crap. What's the point? What's your real name?"
"I could tell you, but then I'd have to kill you, guv'nor."
"And she could too," Quicksilver said, unable to stop himself from grinning.
"Just think of me as the fixer, sah, and we'll say no more about it."
"Anyway, to work." Quicksilver knelt down beside the body.
"I thought you said only automatons should go near the body from now on," Allardyce pointed out, keeping a good distance from the corpse himself but doing nothing to stop the dandy.
"Do you know what species these mushrooms are, Inspector?"
"Well... I was going to wait for the lab boys -"
"I thought not, and neither do I. So I'm going to take my own small sample. I need an expert to tell me what we're dealing with here. Don't worry, I'll be careful."
"Do I look like I care?" Allardyce sneered.
The dandy agent of the throne withdrew gloves, a scalpel and an evidence bag from the capacious pockets of his jacket and very delicately cut one of the puffballs from where it had taken root within the dead woman's flesh, manoeuvring it into the bag with the scalpel blade. He then cut another sample before sealing both specimens and the contaminated blade inside the bag.
"That should just about do it," Quicksilver said, straightening. He turned to Allardyce. "I'll get out of your hair now."
"If only you would."
"Not that there's that much of it to get into," Quicksilver threw back. "Things to do, people to see. You know how it is? Besides, I missed breakfast this morning and for some reason my stomach's hankering after one of Mrs Prufrock's mushroom omelettes. I'll be seeing you, Inspector, I'm sure," he said, turning away and giving Allardyce a jaunty wave.
"Not if I see you first," the policeman muttered under his breath.
III - People Who Live In Glasshouses
The Mark IV Rolls Royce Silver Phantom rolled to a halt outside the entrance to the Royal Botanical Gardens. Ulysses Quicksilver looked out of his window at the twisting wrought-iron leaves and the glittering glass structures of the grand greenhouses beyond. The leaves of the many trees dotting the park were on the turn now, copper and gold spreading among the green of summer. "You have the sample?" Quicksilver asked his manservant sitting in the driver's seat.
"Yes, sir."
"Drop that one off with Dr Methuselah. Tell him I'll pay his usual fee."
"Yes, sir. And then shall I return for you? Or should I wait for you to call?"
"We'll see, shall we Nimrod? It's such a pleasant day, and the sky is such a warming shade of yellow today, that I might make the most of this Indian summer and enjoy a stroll along the river. I can always take the Overground from Kew. I'll let you know."
"Very well, sir. You think you'll find the answer you're looking for here?"
"Where else would one come with a question about plants other than to the botanist boffins at Kew Gardens?"
Ulysses exited the Silver Phantom and, engine purring, the sleek automobile pulled away from the kerbside. Passing through the vine-leaf wrought gates he approached the visitor turnstiles. Flashing the contents of a leather cardholder he was admitted immediately and, on asking for the Director, was directed towards the newly constructed Amaranth House. The construction work on the latest of Kew's majestic glasshouses was complete, as was much of the internal planting. All that remained now was for the last coat of gleaming all-weather emulsion to be applied by the team of gardeners and automata that had been set that task, and for Director Hargreaves and his cadre of loyal horticulturalists to finalise the arrangement of the specimens exhibited within.
Since the chaos and near-anarchy of the Queen's 160th jubilee celebrations, a matter of only a few months ago, all appeared to be well within the realm of Magna Britannia once again. The greatest world-spanning empire the world had ever known still held firm, thanks in no small part to Ulysses Quicksilver himself. With the apparent wiping out of the Darwinian Dawn, official functions were continuing again. The latest was to be the opening of the new Amaranth House, which would contain some of the world's rarest and most specialised plant specimens. The press was full of it: in two days' time, a whole host of the great and the good were due to attend, including the new Prime Minister. Ulysses' own invitation had been waiting for him when he returned from the first and last voyage of the sub-liner Neptune. Queen Victoria herself would not be attending on this occasion and, considering what had happened the last time he had taken up such an invitation, Ulysses was thinking of giving the event a miss as well.
Passing a battered tanker that, from the pungent reek coming from it, contained an enormous quantity of weedkiller, Ulysses crossed the threshold of the grand glazed double doors and entered Amaranth House. He found Professor Hargreaves, the current Director of the Royal Botanical Gardens inside, directing his staff in their positioning of a potentially deadly - and hence currently bound - Patagonian Mantrap. He was a beanpole-thin man in later middle age, his thinning grey hair parted in the middle and slicked down with a generous amount of hair lacquer. His twirled grey moustache had been equalled carefully tended and he observed the world through blue-tinted spectacles. It was humid inside the glasshouse and, having removed his jacket and rolled up his sleeves, the Director was really getting stuck into the work himself. Picking his way past wheelbarrows of compost and busily painting automata-drudges, Ulysses approached the team of horticulturalists seeing to the repositioning of the large spine-mawed plant.
"And make sure its trapper tendrils have been pruned right back before the opening. We don't want the new PM becoming a tasty morsel for Audrey here, do we? This is one auspicious event we don't want going with a bang," he was saying as Ulysses approached.
"Do you name all your plants, Director?"
Professor Hargreaves turned at Ulysses' interruption and glowered at him in annoyance. "What? No, of course not. Only the larger specimens. The gardeners simply bastardised the Latin name of this one and, well, it seems to have stuck. She does appear to have something of a personality, as do all the semi-sentient carnivorous specimens."
"It seems to me that you're making rather a fuss of what is, as I understand it, in South America considered to be a pernicious weed."
"This isn't simply some common or garden triffid or vervoid, I'll have you know. The Patagonian Mantrap is on the verge of extinction, thanks to Man's total disregard for the green heart of this planet. There are only two that I know of in the entire country. The work we do here at Kew is vital to the ongoing survival of these rare and most beautiful -"
"And deadly," Ulysses threw in.
"- plants in existence." Hargreaves went on without breaking his stride. "Anyway, who do you think you are butting in here like this? Who admitted you?"
In response, Ulysses dextrously took out his leather cardholder, flipped it open and, just as deftly, put it away again.
"Oh," Hargreaves said in surprise, despite himself, "you. I've read about your exploits in The Times. Rather a lot of fuss over some attention-seeking derring-do, if you ask me."
"Yes, that would be me. Ulysses Quicksilver at your service."
"Mr Quicksilver, I am sure you can appreciate that I am a very busy man. There is still so much to do in preparation for the opening and so little time to achieve it all in."
"I appreciate that, Professor," Ulysses said, a fixed smile on his face, "but you must understand that I would not trouble you if it were not a matter of the utmost importance. This won't take long."
"Very well then, what can I do for you?"
"I have need of your expert knowledge." Ulysses delved into a jacket pocket and took out a plastic evidence bag containing one of the two puffball fungi he had taken from the dead prostitute. "Can you tell me what species of fungus this is?"
Professor Hargreaves took the bag from Ulysses and examined it intently for a few moments, turning it over in his hands, pulling at the plastic to examine the pockmarked skin of the specimen more closely. After a few moments consideration, he handed it back to Ulysses.
"Where did you get this?" he asked sharply.
"Have you ever seen anything like it before?" Ulysses asked the Professor.
"No, I have to confess that I haven't."
"Would any of your staff be able to help?"
"No," Professor Hargreaves answered far too quickly. "If I can't help you, they most certainly won't be able to. My knowledge of plants is unsurpassed."
"Would you like to keep the sample for a closer examination?"
"No, Mr Quicksilver, I would not. As I have told you already, I am particularly busy at present and do not have time to follow wild goose chases. If you won't tell me what's so special about this specimen then I'm afraid I can't help you any further. It must be some kind of aberration, a mutation, that's all I can tell you."
"Thank you, you've been most helpful." Ulysses turned to leave but then paused, taking in the wonders of the new glasshouse around him. "I hope the opening goes well."
Professor Hargreaves watched the dandy leave, an unflinching scowl knotting his features. Sure that the nosey intruder had gone, he left his men filling in the soil around the writhing Audrey's snaking roots and hurried off to another part of the glasshouse.