El Sombra

by Al Ewing

  "It's Doctor, actually," the woman said, interrupting.

  "Really?"

  "Yes, I possess a doctorate in botany. I'll have you know that I am very well qualified."

  "I'm sure you are. Very well endowed," Ulysses added, smiling despite himself. "Academically speaking, of course."

  Cheeks reddening and nostrils flaring in annoyance, the woman persisted in her explanation regardless. "I have returned, only this morning, from my latest expedition to Java, collecting and cataloguing new and rare plant species. But when I arrived there was no reply to my rings. So I came around the back, found the conservatory open and..." Tears subsumed Petunia's words as her overwrought emotions overcame her at last.

  After the accusations, the recriminations, the confessions, the explanations, the sudden emotional empathy and the change from cold indifference to sympathetic understanding, Ulysses found himself sitting on the step to the conservatory, with one arm around the girl, the floodgates of emotion having failed before the tidal wave of grief that finally overwhelmed her.

  "Now - and I know this is hard - but I have a question for you. How can you be certain that your uncle's death wasn't an accident?" Ulysses made sure that he kept his eyes fixed on the young woman as he asked the question, and that he most definitely did not look towards the broken pane of glass.

  "A world-renowned botanist, who worked with plants all his life, eaten by his own Patagonian Mantrap - a plant that, I might add, he raised from a cutting? Do give me some credit, Mr Quicksilver. He had tended that plant for the last fourteen years without coming to harm. Don't try and tell me that this was an accident. And if you didn't break that pane of glass to get in, who did?"

  "Very good, Petunia - I can call you Petunia, can't I? - very good," Ulysses said, a winning smile on his lips. "I have to say, I am impressed. And, as a result, I want to help you."

  "You do? But we've only just met."

  "And yet I have already taken your plight to heart. I want to find the one responsible for your uncle's death just as much as you do. And, finding myself a little short of leads, it strikes me that you could be my best bet when it comes to unravelling the knots of this mystery. There may be something you know, the import of which you are, as yet, unaware. Failing that, I could do with someone of your background and expert knowledge on my side."

  "What can I do?" Petunia asked, a look of earnest intent in her wide brown eyes.

  "Come with me," Ulysses said, dramatically seizing her hand in his. "Come with me to Southwark."

  VI - A Gruesome Discovery

  The party stood at the edge of the Thames - the dandy, his manservant, the police sergeant and the grieving niece. Ulysses Quicksilver watched the swirling current of the churning brown water, listening as the water lapped at the tarry mud of the shoreline, considering the case in hand.

  "You're certain this was the spot?" Ulysses quizzed Sergeant Sheldon for a second time.

  "Like I said, sir, this was where Old Samson found the body."

  Ulysses had hoped that if he could visit the place where the first body had been washed up for himself, he might uncover something that had so far been missed. But there had been no such obvious revelation. With a sigh, he turned from the river.

  "Nimrod, any thoughts, old chap?" he asked.

  "Well, sir, I was just considering how the body must have been carried here from much further upstream."

  "How much further?"

  "A body could be carried from as far away as Hammersmith or Chiswick. Perhaps even Brentford and beyond."

  "Is that right?"

  The high-pitched yapping of a dog abruptly interrupted their discussion.

  Ulysses led the party towards the barking and into the shadow of Southwark Bridge. There before them was a ramshackle hut cobbled together from rusted corrugated iron plate, and reclaimed pier supports. A terrier, its fur coloured brown and filthy white, stood before a sackcloth-draped entrance, Ulysses unsure whether the dog was warning them away from its territory or trying to attract their attention.

  "Hello, fella," Ulysses said, crouching down and scratching the dog behind the ears. The terrier gave its own unintelligible greeting, tail wagging. "What are you doing down here all by yourself? What is it you're protecting so very well?"

  Stepping past the dog, moving aside the sackcloth curtain, Ulysses entered the shack. The smell was the first thing that hit him - the stink of fungal decay and something much worse. Then his eyesight adjusted to the gloom.

  Ulysses staggered from the shack, face pale, trying hard not to gag. "Sergeant Sheldon," he managed, "who did you say found the first body?"

  "Old Samson the beachcomber," the police officer replied.

  "And he was one of Nancy's regulars?"

  "I believe so, sir."

  "And he's not been seen since Nancy's death."

  "No."

  "Well we've found him now, Sergeant."

  His curiosity piqued, Sheldon bustled past Ulysses and into the tumbledown hut, the terrier growling at him as he did so. "God save us!" he gasped as he too caught sight of the mouldering, fungus-eaten corpse. "Just like the first one. Like Nancy."

  "I think it's time we followed this trail of corpses back upriver to find its source," Ulysses stated with cold finality.

  The pensive silence that followed his words was broken by a yapping bark that was sounding more and more like a canine cough.

  Petunia looked at Ulysses, her own face paling. "What's wrong with the dog?"

  Later that same day, at the station, Sergeant Sheldon was completing the unfortunately necessary incident report relating to the discovery of Old Samson, a lukewarm mug of tea on the desk in front of him. The vagabond's body was now resting in the morgue alongside the other fungus-riddled corpse, having been brought back by the robo-Peelers still on secondment from Scotland Yard. But for the time being Sergeant Sheldon was alone with his paperwork.

  The first inkling he had that anything was wrong was when smoke began to seep under his door. He was on his feet in seconds, the report and his tea forgotten, yanking the office door open to make his escape and raise the alarm. As he stumbled down the passageway to the front of the station house, covering his mouth with a handkerchief against the choking smoke, he could see shapes through the frosted glass of the main door, even as the flames licked higher, cracking the glass.

  Blinking back tears brought on by smoke and heat, he could make out a... What was it...? An engine, yes, a fire engine, already there, the heat-distorted silhouettes of firemen dousing the burning police station with the hoses held in their heavy gloved hands. And yet, it seemed to Sergeant Sheldon that as the firemen swept their hoses back and forth across the front of the burning building, the higher the flames rose and the quicker the fire took hold.

  Wracking coughs seized his body and he fell to his knees. He reached out and grasped the handle of the door with one hand, immediately and instinctively pulling it back as the hot metal took the skin from his fingers.

  The smoke was overcoming him, he knew it. But, even as his vision blurred, he couldn't help wondering why the liquid pumping out of the firemen's hoses looked like fire.

  VII - Three 'Men' In A Boat

  The steam launch chugged onwards casting a bow-wave of ripples in its wake, as it steamed its way upriver, towards the setting sun. The purple orange cloudscape of the evening sky stained the tireless Thames, the water this far from the centre of the capital noticeably less discoloured and polluted. The sun appeared to be dropping closer and closer towards the tree-dotted distance with every mile the party travelled.

  Ulysses Quicksilver sat at the bow of the boat, his steely gaze focused on the horizon, while Nimrod sat at the back, keeping the launch on course. Petunia's sharp eyes scoured the banks for the one vital clue that might tell them they had found the source of the dread devouring fungus.

  Dusk was drawing on, bringing moonrise in its wake. The trio had set out on their endeavour late in the day, partly thanks to N
imrod having to make a stop at the residence of Dr Methuselah to collect a package which he had then dutifully delivered to Ulysses before they boarded the hired launch at Putney.

  It was becoming increasingly difficult for Petunia to make out anything very much within the shadows of the riverbank. If she didn't find what Ulysses had asked her to look out for soon, their journey might prove to have been a hopeless venture. And then there it was, a flash of scarlet beneath the drooping boughs of a willow at the water's edge.

  "Ulysses!" she called. "We must be near."

  "You're sure?" he queried, not taking his eyes off the darkening horizon.

  "Absolutely. It couldn't be anything else."

  "So the first fungally finished fellow ended up in the river somewhere around here?" Only now did Ulysses turn to face Petunia.

  "It's only circumstantial evidence I know, but it's as good as we're going to get. Considering our situation it's got to be as good a place to start as any."

  "But where is here?" Ulysses mused.

  "To our right, sir, is Syon House," Nimrod spoke up from the back of the boat.

  "Of course. Spent an absolutely awful evening there once at a masked ball."

  "Which means that to our left are -"

  "The Royal Botanical Gardens at Kew."

  "Precisely, sir."

  "Then take us into the bank, please Nimrod."

  Cutting the engine, the ever-capable Nimrod steered the launch in towards the bank, the hull of the vessel bumping against the muddy slope.

  The three of them alighted in the dusky darkness, Nimrod pausing only to make sure the boat was secured. Cautious as a cat burglar Ulysses approached the perimeter fence of the ornamental gardens, visible beyond the railings as shadowy shapes against the velvet blue of burgeoning night, cane in hand. His footsteps crushed the fiery red flowers growing there amongst the lush grass, the same species Ulysses had found caught in the first victim's hair.

  "So, here we are again," Ulysses said.

  "It would appear so," Nimrod agreed, joining Ulysses at his side. Neither of them looked like they were really dressed for a night's reconnaissance.

  "I knew there was something fishy about Professor Hargreaves."

  "You've been here recently?" Petunia asked.

  "Yes, and I knew then there was something funny about the Director's attitude, although at the time I naively put it down to the stress of the opening..." Ulysses' words trailed off as the veracity of what he was saying sank in. "Of course!" he hissed. "Whatever he's got planned, it all hinges around the opening of the Amaranth House tomorrow."

  "So what do we do now?" Petunia asked. "Contact the police?"

  "We haven't got time for that. Besides we don't want the likes of Inspector Allardyce generally cluttering up the place and getting in our way," Ulysses stated firmly, then flashed Petunia a grin, the sparkle of thrill-seeking excitement in his eyes. "I rather suspect we have to act quickly and decisively before things get out of hand. Nimrod," he addressed his manservant, "please help Dr Chase over the fence and then stay close. We don't know what we might find in there." He glanced at the dark silhouettes of the glasshouses again.

  "Very good, sir," Nimrod assented, "but before you proceed any further, you do have Dr Methuselah's package about your person, don't you?"

  "Indeed, Nimrod. Secreted away safely." He patted the breast pocket of his jacket.

  "What is it that was so important we had to make a detour at what is, according to you, such a crucial time?" Petunia challenged.

  "It's just a precaution."

  "Against what?"

  "A lethal, fungal pandemic outbreak," Ulysses said with a dangerous, shark-like grin. "As you have so rightly pointed out, there is no time to delay. The game is surely afoot."

  Having clambered over the fence and entered the botanical gardens in such a clandestine way, the trio skulked their way along the night-shrouded pathways. But as they neared the Amaranth House, Ulysses' prescient sense began to flare.

  A shadowy figure detached itself from the darkness before them. Ulysses' nostrils were instantly assailed by the earthy odour of rotting compost. Then the figure spoke.

  "Why, good evening, Mr Quicksilver," it said, the voice strangely familiar, and took another step closer. Wan moonlight fell across the stranger's face.

  "Director Hargreaves," Quicksilver said, making a vain attempt at ignorant foppish bravado. He could see other man-shapes emerging from the looming shadow of the Amaranth House now, a mob of gardeners and visitors, or so it seemed. "Fancy meeting you here. Are you out for a pleasant evening's stroll as well?"

  The Director said nothing.

  His sixth sense screaming, Ulysses heard the whoosh of displaced air behind him too late as a heavy object connected with the back of his head. Muscles relaxed, his body folded up, and he crumpled onto the carefully manicured lawn.

  VIII - The Mandrake Mandate

  Darkness enveloped him, a cloying blackness redolent with peaty decay. Ulysses struggled to consciousness and blearily opened his eyes. This did little to dissipate the murk but slowly his eyes began to adjust to the green gloom. Blinking away his concussed stupor, every movement of his eyelids causing the obvious lump on the back of his head to throb horribly, Ulysses struggled to make sense of his surroundings.

  He was underground, of that he was sure, and it seemed that the only light came from some photo-luminescent plant source. Growths of a curious algae covered what Ulysses could now see were riveted iron beams and pillars, supporting some structure or other above.

  Stretched out on his back, he was staring up at a ceiling. Cautiously he moved his hands and feet - they were not restrained - and felt the edges of the table, or whatever it was he was lying on. Slowly he turned his head to his left. Lying on a wooden worktable next to him was an unconscious Petunia; eyes closed, breathing deeply. Beyond her the gloom thickened again, a mass of inseparable shadows. Ulysses turned his head to the right, half expecting to see Nimrod laid out like Petunia but there was nothing but the dark shapes of freestanding shelves, the kind one might expect to find in a greenhouse.

  It was quiet in this place, but not silent. An unsettling sound, a fizzing-crackling noise, filled the gloom: it was as if he could actually hear things growing in the darkness. And then the skull-splitting pain distracted him again, deadening the information being relayed by his other senses. Despite the throbbing ache at the base of his skull, Ulysses sat up and leant towards the comatose young woman. "Petunia," he hissed, "can you hear me?"

  The girl stirred in her sleep, making a semi-conscious moan, but her eyes remained shut.

  "Petunia," Ulysses tried again, daringly loud, his voice carrying in the stillness. "You have to wake up." He put out an arm to shake her. Behind the headache, Ulysses became aware again of the desperate itch of precognition at the back of his skull. As if he hadn't worked it out for himself already, they were in danger.

  A sooty bulb hummed into life. Smudged yellow light bathed the chamber. Ulysses winced under the sudden illumination.

  "Let her sleep," came a voice. "It will be much less painful for her that way."

  "What? Who is that?" Ulysses challenged, shielding his eyes against the light with one hand. "Show yourself!"

  There were figures moving close by, not ten feet away. He squinted, trying to make out features, discern differences, but there was something frustratingly indistinct about many of the lumpen forms. Then he saw someone he did recognise.

  "Director Hargreaves. I might have known."

  The Director said nothing but continued purposefully towards Ulysses, a curiously benign, almost drugged, expression on his face. Hargreaves looked like he had been interrupted about his business, missing his jacket and with his shirtsleeves rolled up. He was holding something in his left hand. Its tip glittered under the glare of the artificial light and Ulysses recognised it immediately: it was his bloodstone cane.

  "Oh, you disappoint me, Mr Quicksilver," came the voice from th
e shadows again. It was not the Director who had spoken.

  "Whom am I speaking to? Show yourself!"

  At Ulysses behest, another man stepped into the wan pools of light cast by the naked bulbs. He was of medium height, medium build, with greasy black hair swept back from a widow's peak.

  "Do I know you?" Ulysses asked disparagingly.

  "Apparently not. But I know you," the man replied, almost taunting him. "Everyone knows Ulysses Quicksilver - dandy, rogue, sometime agent of the throne. You're notorious, something of a celebrity in the wake of your adventures at the jubilee celebrations. A man of some standing, it would seem. An ideal subject, in fact."

  "Subject? What are you talking about?" Ulysses swung his legs off the table.

  "For replacement."

  "Replacement?" Ulysses repeated. If only he could keep his apparent captor talking then he might yet be able to get them out of this predicament.

  "Yes, Mr Quicksilver. Replication and replacement."

  "Assistant Director Mandrake. Who did you have to do away with to earn that title?"

  Ulysses couldn't help glancing round in surprise, hearing Petunia's voice behind him. He had thought her still unconscious.

  "I remember you," the man said, his smug expression vanishing in a moment. "Yes, Petunia Chase."

  "Jolly good, so everybody knows everybody now. Introductions over, would you kindly explain what is going on?" Helping Petunia down from the wooden table Ulysses whispered, "I rather feel it's time to leave."

  With a sudden, deft movement he spun on his heel and lunged for the Director. Seizing hold of the bloodstone tip of the cane, he twisted and pulled. The rapier blade sheathed within slipped free with a razor ring.

  "If you had fun and games in mind, then you should have restrained us."

  "Why? What's the point?" the Assistant Director said, unimpressed. "Where are you going to go?"