“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?”
“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 Enquirerwere 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.