"Ah-ha! You intend a spot of clue-hunting, like Edgar Allan Poe's detective, Auguste Dupin?"
"Yes, something like that."
While crossing Waterloo Bridge, their conveyance broke down and they had to hail a second vehicle. This-a horse-drawn "growler"-took them the rest of the way across the river, past the railway station, onward down London Road and New Kent Road, and into the tangled streets of Elephant and Castle.
They stopped and disembarked on the corner of William De Montmorency Close. Burton paid the fare and shut Swinburne up when the poet started to complain.
"Never mind whether it's a shilling or not," he said. "Look over there! Something's up!"
Swinburne followed his friend's gaze and saw, farther along the road, a crowd of people gathered around a redbrick terraced house.
"Is that our place?"
"I fear so."
They approached the throng and glimpsed police helmets among the hats, bonnets, and caps. Burton pushed through and tapped one of the uniformed men on the shoulder.
"What's the story, Constable?" he asked.
The man turned and gave him a doubtful look. Burton was dressed and spoke like a gentleman but had the appearance of a battered pugilist.
"And who might you be, sir?" he asked, haughtily.
"Sir Richard Burton. Here's my authorisation."
A voice in the crowd exclaimed: "Blimey! They've sent a `Sir.' Now we're gettin' somewhere! You'll collar the bugger what done away with the nipper, won't you, yet lordship? We want to see the devil crapped, we does!"
The crowd cheered.
"Crapped?" whispered Swinburne.
"Hanged," translated Burton.
"I'm not sure about this, sir," said the constable, hesitantly.
"Who's your superior?" demanded Burton. "Take it and show it to him."
The policeman looked again at the paper Burton had handed to him. He nodded. "Just a tick, sir." He left them and entered the house.
"Murdered!" said the man in the crowd. "And not even ten years old."
"A little angel, 'e was," came a woman's voice.
"Aye, wouldn't say boo to a goose," agreed another.
"Fancy killin' a nipper!"
"It ain't English!"
"It's one o' them bleedin' foreigners what done it, I'll lay money on it!"
The constable appeared in the doorway and indicated that Burton should enter the premises. The king's agent, with Swinburne in his wake, pushed through the onlookers and stepped into the house.
"Upstairs, sir," said the policeman, handing back the document.
They ascended. There were three bedrooms. A dead child lay in one.
A man stepped forward with outstretched hand. He was small and slightly built but with a wiry strength about him. His brown moustache was flamboyantly wide, waxed, and curled upward at the ends. His lacquered hair was parted in the middle. He possessed grey eyes, with a monocle clenched in the right.
"Thomas Manfred Honesty," he said. "Detective Inspector."
"A reassuring surname for a policeman," observed Swinburne.
Burton shook the man's hand. So this was Trounce's erstwhile tormentor!
"I'm Captain Burton, acting on behalf of His Majesty. This is Algernon Swinburne. He's assisting me."
Honesty looked askance at Swinburne, who fluttered his eyelashes.
"Ahem! Yes, well, the boy," the detective spluttered, waving his hand toward the prone figure. "William Tupper. Orphan. Age uncertain. Ten years? Chimney sweep. Damn shame. Pitiful really."
Burton stepped over to the corpse and crouched beside it. The boy was tiny, even for his age. His thin neck was covered in blood; its source, a small hole at the base of the chin.
"Stiletto," offered Honesty. "In. Up. Pierced the brain."
"No," countered Burton. "A swordstick, such as gentlemen carry. A stiletto blade typically has a triangular, round, square, or diamond cross section without sharpened edges, whereas the rapier style of blade, which is most often used in swordsticks, is either diamond shaped in cross section, with or without fluting, or a flattened hexagonal; in either case, with sharpened edges. Look closely at this wound, Inspector-you can see it was made by a hexagonal blade which cut as well as pierced as it entered."
Honesty dropped to his knees and leaned close to the boy, adjusting his monocle and peering at the grisly hole above the larynx, his nose just inches from the wound. He whistled.
"Agreed. Rapier. But swordstick? Why?"
"In this day and age, can a man walk down the street in possession of a sword without being accosted by the police? No. It had to be disguised."
"Point taken. Sorry. Pun unintended. And this?"
He indicated the boy's forehead. There was a small bruise between the eyes, with a pinprick in its centre.
"I don't know," answered Burton, "but it looks like the mark left by a syringe."
"Syringe? An injection?"
"Or an extraction."
The Yard man stood and scratched his chin. "Syringe first? Swordstick second?"
"No, Detective Inspector, the syringe mark is a few days old. Look at the yellowing of the bruise."
"Hmm. Unconnected then. Though odd. Very odd. And the motive?"
"I was on my way here to question the boy. I think he was killed to stop him talking. Right now, I'm afraid I can't tell you any more than that, but I'm working in harness with your colleague, Detective Inspector Trounce, and will report to him. The two of you can then confer over this dastardly affair."
Honesty sniffed. "Pouncer Trounce. Good man. Has imagination. Too much. You can't tell me more?"
"I have more facts to gather before I can piece together the full story and present a report."
"I want to be involved. Don't like this. Children murdered. It's wrong!"
"When the occasion arises, I'll be sure to let you get a shot at those responsible, Detective Inspector Honesty."
"Good. Better come downstairs. Another fact for you."
"Downstairs?"
"The kitchen," said Honesty. "Mr. and Mrs. Payne. Householders. Let the room. How could the boy afford it?"
"The League of Chimney Sweeps paid his rent," explained Burton. "It's an admirable organisation."
He and Swinburne followed the Yard man down the stairs. The poet looked around eagerly, soaking in the atmosphere of the murder scene, the raw emotion of it.
They trooped through the hall and into the small, narrow kitchen, which smelled of boiled cabbage and animal fat.
"A moment, Constable Krishnamurthy," said Honesty to a policeman.
"Yes, sir," came the response, and the uniformed man stepped out of the room, revealing, behind him, the figures of Mr. and Mrs. Payne.
They were frozen in midmovement: the old woman standing, pouring tea, which had overflowed the cup and saucer, pooled across the kitchen table, and dribbled to the floor; the man in midstep, his right hand holding a sandwich raised to his mouth. They were both looking toward a door that opened onto a small backyard.
Burton examined them for a moment, staring into their motionless eyes.
"Transfixed by psychic magnetism," he said.
"I see," responded Detective Inspector Honesty. "Mental domination."
"Yes. I'll bring them out of it."
For the next few minutes, the Yard man looked on in bafflement as Burton chanted and waved his hands about in front of the immobilised couple. Slowly, blinking in confusion, they regained their wits and were led into the parlour, where they sank into chairs. They remembered a knock at their back door, a man with white skin, white hair, and pink eyes-and nothing else.
When Honesty revealed to them the fate of their young lodger, the woman became hysterical, the man spat expletives into the room, and Burton and Swinburne left.