“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.”
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.
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.