“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.”
They reached Fryston and found that a great many of the guests had already departed, despite the hour.
“I've sealed off the music room,” Monckton Milnes reported. “Poor Bendyshe will have to stay there until someone comes for him.”
“The coroner is on his way,” Burton reported. “May I ask a couple of favours of you?”
“Of course, anything I can do.”
“We need to borrow three rotorchairs. We have to fly to Leeds immediately.”
“Take mine, Jim Hunt's, and Charlie Bradlaugh's. They're on the front lawn. I'll walk you to them.”
“Thank you. I presume Mrs. Angell has gone to bed?”
“Yes. I gave her one of my best guest rooms.”
“Would you ask Captain Lawless to accompany her and Fidget to the airfield in the morning? Trounce, Algy, and I will have to fly there directly from Leeds. We'll see to it that the rotorchairs are delivered back to you later in the day.”
“I'll take her myself, Richard. I want to see you off.”
Monckton Milnes escorted his friends out of the house and to a group of flying machines parked in the grounds. As they walked, he pulled Burton back a little from Swinburne and Trounce and whispered, “Has this any connection with your mission to Africa?”
Burton shrugged. “I don't know. It's certainly possible, maybe even probable.”
They reached the rotorchairs and Monckton Milnes watched as the three men placed their hats in the storage boxes, put goggles over their eyes, and buckled themselves into the big leather seats.
“See you later, chaps,” he said. “And best of luck!”
They started their engines, which belched out clouds of steam. Above their heads, blade-like wings unfolded from vertical shafts and began to spin, rotating faster and faster until they became invisible to the eye.
Burton gave his friend a wave, then pulled back on a lever. The runners of his machine lifted from the grass and it rose rapidly on a cone of vapour. Swinburne and Trounce followed, and the three rotorchairs arced away and vanished into the night sky, leaving silvery white trails behind them.
An orange glow lit the eastern sky as three flying machines descended onto the cobbles of Black Brewery Road. Two of them touched the ground gently; the third hit it with a thump and skewed sideways for five feet amid a shower of sparks before coming to rest.
“Ridiculous bloody contraptions!” Trounce cursed. He turned off the engine, waited for the wings to fold, then disembarked and joined Burton and Swinburne.
It was their third landing in Leeds. The first had been to ask a constable on his night beat for directions. The second had been outside the Tattleworth Tobacconist on Meanwood Road.
Mr. Tattleworth, swearing volubly at his rude awakening, had eventually confirmed that he knew Peter Pimlico.
“A bloody thief,” he'd said. “What you might call a denizen of the underworld. But a regular customer. Lives a couple o' streets away. Number seventeen Black Brewery Road.”
They could have walked, but, preferring to keep their vehicles in sight, they took off and almost immediately landed again.
“It's this one,” Swinburne said, pointing at a terrace. “Let's see how many profanities our next customer can spit at us!” He reached for the door knocker and banged it with gusto.
After a couple of minutes and a second attack on the door, a gruff and muffled voice came from behind it.
“Oo's thah?”
“Police,” Trounce barked.
“Prove 'tis!”
“I have credentials,” Trounce said impatiently. “Open up and I'll show you.”
“Ah durn't believe thee. 'Tis a trick. Thou b'ain't no trapper. A tallyman, more like!”
Swinburne squealed. “Ha-ha! Tallyman Trounce!”
“Oo were thah?” came the voice.
“Algernon Swinburne!” Swinburne called. “The poet!”
There was a moment of silence, then the voice said, “Ah durn't need owt pottery fro' thee! Be off an' durn't come bah!”
“Sir!” Trounce bellowed. “Open the blasted door this very moment or I'll kick the damned thing in!”
The rattle of a chain sounded and a key turned in the lock. The door opened a crack and a rheumy eye peered out.
“Wah durst thou want? Ah aren't dressed. Am havin' us mornin' pipe.”
“Does Peter Pimlico live here?” Trounce demanded.
“Aye. In t' flat upstairs. Ee durn't be in. Not fur'n week.”
“I know. He's dead.”
“Huh?”
“He was murdered earlier tonight.”
“Good. Ee were a dirty oik an nowt else. So?”
“So we're here to search his rooms. Let us in.”
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?”