From the Case Journals of Sir Richard Francis Burton: THE STRANGE AFFAIR OF THE CROSS-CHANNEL GRASSHOPPER
Burton & Swinburne in THE STRANGE AFFAIR OF THE CROSS-CHANNEL GRASSHOPPER is currently being recounted on Twitter. Every 30 tweets or so, I shall post the story so far (with amendments if necessary) here.
Chapter 1: The Dead Engineer
Detective Inspector Trounce is investigating a curious murder. A businessman was found dead in his study, horribly blue and swollen. Poison! But how was it administered?
The man, Cuthbert Prentiss, had locked himself inside the room. He took no drink and no food in with him. His landlady is minded that her master had been acting oddly this past week. That he locked himself in his study seems to support this. As Trounce observed: "It appears that Prentiss knew himself to be in danger. Why? And from whom?"
I shall have to visit the morgue.
The squealing from outside signals that Swinburne has arrived. He always argues with cab drivers. He's loathe to pay more than a shilling.
"Algy," I tell him. "Will you never learn that the cost of a cab journey is calculated by the distance travelled?"
"Nonsense!" he shrieks.
We take a brandy to steel ourselves for the ordeal ahead. I must confess that morgues never fail to unnerve me. Algy has no such reluctance. He simply enjoys brandy. He empties his glass in an instant and looks over my shoulder while I write in my journal.
"Your assiduous scribbling is admirable, but, Richard, must you note everything?" he asks.
"I fear so," I grumble. "It is a mania of mine. Besides, these notes may prove useful."
"Then order the blessed entries!" he exclaims. "Number them, at least!"
It's a good point. I have the habit of writing on anything at hand. If I number everything, then I can at least arrange my notes properly when I glue the scraps into my journal. Why did I not think of that before?
I don my overcoat and top hat, retrieve my cane, and with a farewell to Mrs Angell, Swinburne and I step out into a London pea-souper. The weather is appalling. Fortunately, it is never so bad that the city's cabbies cease to ply their trade. We wave down a steam hansom.
"To Chelsea Morgue, driver!" I cry.
"Are yer sick o' life, guv'nor?" he quips. "These blessed peculiars gives everyone the gripes!"
The cabby pulls a lever and the steam-horse gives a shudder and a cough and a growl. The hansom lurches into the road. We are on our way!
According to Trounce, Cuthbert Prentiss was one of a group of five engineers who've been working on a new type of insect-based vehicle. The Eugenicists are growing grasshoppers to an absolutely phenomenal size. The Engineers kill the insects and scrape out each carapace. They fit into the empty shell a powerful clockwork mechanism and a number of specially designed passenger seats. The vehicle is wound up. The driver pulls a lever. The spring mechanism is released with tremendous force and the grasshopper leaps more than two miles into the air. Once at its optimum altitude, its wings open and it begins a long descent. Its initial jump and consequent landing are extremely abrupt. Passengers, though, are cocooned inside specially designed seats that cushion them against the shocks. The intention is that the grasshopper contraptions will provide an inexpensive, and fast, ferry service across the English Channel.
It is a typically odd Technologist scheme and does little to assuage my conviction that the caste is filled with deranged lunatics.
Swinburne finds the whole idea hilarious. "My hat!" he screeches. "What do they call the blessed things? Channel Hoppers?"
"As a matter of fact," I reply, "yes, just that."
His squeals of amusement cause the cabby to stop and ask if we're quite all right.
We continue our journey. It is three o'clock. The sun cannot penetrate the fog. Gas lights struggle against the oppressive gloom. A dark snow is falling; ash and soot mixed with ice. They call it the "blacks." When the fog is this dense, one must wear a scarf over the mouth else suffocate.
The hansom jerks to a halt. Its engine barks and lets loose a tremendous hiss.
"Right you are, guv'nor!" the driver calls. "The morgue!"
We disembark and Swinburne fishes a shilling from his waistcoat pocket. I hurriedly push him aside and pay the driver myself. I have no desire to complete every cab ride with my assistant's customary histrionics, so I always nip him in the bud before he ignites. The cabby points at a darker patch of fog. "That's the mortuary there, guv'nor."
"Would you wait for us?" I ask.
"Certainly, sir," he replies.
Algy and I enter the building and are shown by a clerk to the Cold Room. Detective Inspector Trounce is there, with another man. "Hallo, chaps! This is Doctor Straightfellow."
The mortician is anything but straight. His body is horribly twisted by rickets. His knees are bent inwards at an almost 90 degree angle, meaning he has to walk with his thighs spread out awkwardly. His back is curved, too. By God, we claim to be civilised! That our children are so undernourished their bodies warp like this! Civilisation is a fiction!
Straightfellow greets us and indicates a shrouded form on a slab. "Your cadaver, gents."
"You've examined the corpse, doctor?" I ask.
"I have," he answers. "Poisoned, without a doubt. Look!"
He pulls aside the shroud. The body of Cuthbert Prentiss is revealed. The engineer is blue, mottled and swollen. I recognise the state immediately. "Cobra venom," I declare.
"What?" Trounce cries. "How?"
"Not via the snake itself," says Straightfellow. He grips the corpse's right hand and forces open the stiff fingers. "Look at this."
I take out my jeweller's magnifier and peer at the palm. In its middle, there is a single round puncture wound. "Intriguing! Did you find the cause of this, Trounce?"
The Scotland Yard man shakes his head. "No. And we searched the study from top to bottom."
The investigation is continued on Twitter @StrangeAffairs
