His head was extraordinary. An enormous bush of dark hair and a very generous beard framed his broad face. His upper lip was clean-shaven, his mouth was wide, and he wore small thick-lensed spectacles behind which tiny bloodshot eyes glittered. The overall effect was that of a wild man of the woods peeking out from dense undergrowth.
He jerked an abrupt nod of greeting to each of them in turn, then said, in an aggressive tone: “Good day, sirs. I present-”
He paused for dramatic effect.
“-Sir Roger Tichborne!”
A shadow darkened the doorway behind him. Kenealy moved aside.
A great mass of coarse cloth and swollen flesh filled the portal from side to side, top to bottom, and slowly squeezed through, before straightening and expanding to its full height and breadth, which was simply enormous.
The Tichborne Claimant was around six and a half feet tall, prodigiously fat, and absolutely hideous.
A towering, blubbery mass, he stood on short legs as thick as tree trunks, which were encased in rough brown canvas trousers. His colossal belly pushed over the top of them, straining his waistcoat to such an extent that the material around the buttons had ripped and frayed.
His right arm was long and corpulent, stretching the stitching of his black jacket, and it ended in a bloated, plump-fingered and hairy hand. The left arm, by contrast, seemed withered below the elbow. It was shorter, and the hand was that of a more refined man, smooth-skinned and with long, slender fingers.
The enormous round head that squatted necklessly on the wide shoulders was, thought Burton, like something straight out of a nightmare. The face, which certainly resembled that of Roger Tichborne, if the portrait in the dining room was anything to go by, appeared to have been roughly stitched onto the front of the skull by means of a thick cartilaginous thread. Its edges were pulled tautly over the flesh beneath, causing the features to distort somewhat, slitting the eyes, flaring the nostrils, and pulling the lips horribly tight over big, greenish, tombstone teeth.
From behind this grotesque mask, dark, blank, cretinous eyes slowly surveyed the room.
The head was hairless, the scalp a nasty spotted and blemished yellow, and around the skull, encircling it entirely like a crown, were seven irregular lumps, each cut through by a line of stitches.
There came a sudden crash as Bogle dropped a glass.
The butler clutched at his temples, grimaced, then, his eyes filling with tears, he said: “My, sir! But how much stouter you are!”
The creature grunted and attempted a smile, pulling its lips back over its decayed teeth and bleeding gums. A line of pinkish drool oozed from its bottom lip.
“Yaaas,” it drawled in a slow, rumbling voice. “I-not-the boy-I was when I leave Tichborne!”
The statement was made hesitatingly, and dully, as if it came from someone mentally impaired.
“Then you recognise my client?” Kenealy demanded of Bogle.
“Oh, yes, sir! That's my master! That's Sir Roger Tichborne!”
“By thunder! What nonsense!” Hawkins objected. “That-that person -may possess a passing likeness in the face but he is blatantly not-not-”
He stopped suddenly and gasped, staggering backward.
“My head!” he groaned.
Colonel Lushington emitted a strangled laugh and dropped to his knees. Doctor Jankyn hurried forward and took the colonel by the shoulders.
“Are you unwell?” he asked.
“Yes. No. No. I think-I think I have a-I'm dizzy. It's just a migraine.”
“Steady!” the doctor said, pulling the military man to his feet. “Why, you can barely stand!”
Lushington straightened, swayed, pushed the physician away, and cleared his throat.
“My-my apologies, gentlemen. I feel-a bit-a bit… If Sir Roger will permit it, I shall-retire to my room to-to lie down for an hour or so.”
“Good idea!” Kenealy said.
“You go,” the Claimant grunted, lumbering into the centre of the room. “You go-lie down now. Feel better. Yes.”
To the other men's amazement, Colonel Lushington, who'd gone from calling the creature “the Claimant” to “Sir Roger” in less than a minute, stumbled from the room.
“What the deuce-?” Trounce muttered.
Doctor Jankyn announced: “He'll be all right after he rests awhile, what!” He turned to the Claimant and extended his hand. “Welcome home, Sir Roger! Welcome home! What a marvellous day this is! I never thought to see you again!”
The Claimant's meaty right hand enveloped the doctor's and shook it.
“So much for reserving judgement!” Swinburne whispered to Burton. “Although he might be right. Maybe this isn't an imposter at all!”
Burton gazed at his assistant in astonishment.
Hawkins shook his head, as if to clear it. He turned to Jankyn.
“You don't mean to suggest that you also recognise this-this-?”
“Why, of course I do!” Jankyn cried. “This is young Sir Roger!”
“It is-good to see you-Mr-Mr-?” the creature rumbled.
“Doctor Jankyn!” the physician supplied.
“Yes,” came the reply. “I remember you.”
Hawkins threw up his hands in exasperation and looked across at Burton, who shrugged noncommittally.
“And who might you gentlemen be, may I ask?” Kenealy enquired, in his brusque, belligerent manner.
“I am Henry Hawkins, acting on behalf of the relatives,” the lawyer snapped, bristling.
“Ah ha! Then advise them to not oppose my client, sir! He has come to take possession of what's rightfully his and I mean to see that he gets it!”
“I think it best we save discussions of that nature for the courtroom, sir,” Hawkins responded coldly. “For now, I'll restrict myself to that which courtesy demands and introduce Sir Richard Francis Burton, Mr. Algernon Swinburne, and Detective Inspector William Trounce of Scotland Yard.”
“And, pray, why are they here?”
Trounce stepped forward and, in his most officious tone, said, “I am here, sir, to investigate the murder of Sir Alfred Tichborne, and I advise you not to interfere with my duties.”
“I have no intention of interfering. Murder, is it? When did this occur? And how?”
Trounce shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Last night. He fell from a window under mysterious circumstances.”
“My-brother?” the Claimant uttered.
“That is correct, Sir Roger,” said Kenealy, turning to the monstrous figure. “May I be the first to offer my condolences?”
“Yes,” the Claimant grunted, meaninglessly.
Kenealy looked back at Trounce. “Why murder? Why not an accident or suicide?”
“The matter is under investigation. I'll not be drawn on it until I have gathered and examined the evidence.”
“Very well. And you, Sir Richard-is there a reason for your presence?”
Burton glowered at the lawyer and said, slowly and clearly, “I don't think I like your tone, sir.”
“Then I apologise,” Kenealy said, sounding not one whit apologetic. “I remind you, however, that I'm acting on behalf of Sir Roger Tichborne, in whose house you currently stand.”
Henry Hawkins interrupted: “That remains to be seen, Kenealy. And for your information, Sir Richard and Mr. Swinburne are here as guests of Colonel Lushington and at the behest of the Doughty and Arundell families, who have a stake in this property and whose identities are beyond question.”
“Do you mean to imply that my client's identity is in question?” Kenealy growled.
“I absolutely do,” Hawkins answered. “And I intend to have him prosecuted. It is blatantly obvious that this individual is an imposter!”
Doctor Jankyn stepped forward, shaking his head. “No, Mr. Hawkins,” he said. “You're wrong. This is Sir Roger. I couldn't mistake him. I knew him for the first two decades of his life.”
Hawkins rounded on the physician. “I don't know what you're playing at, sir, but if I find that you're a willing participant in this conspiracy, I'll see you behind bars!”