The Ulysses Quicksilver Short Story Collection (Pax Britannia) Read online

  Fruiting Bodies first published 2007 in the novel El Sombra

  Vanishing Point first published 2008 in the novel Leviathan Rising

  White Rabbit first published 2010 in the novel Blood Royal

  Copyright © Abaddon BooksTM 2007, 2008, 2010 and 2011

  www.abaddonbooks.com

  [email protected]

  This ebook published in 2011 by Abaddon BooksTM, Rebellion Intellectual Property Limited, Riverside House, Osney Mead, Oxford, OX2 0ES, UK.

  ISBN (.epub): 978-1-84997-256-7

  ISBN (.mobi): 978-1-84997-255-0

  The right of the author to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owners.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Abaddon Books and Pax Britannia Present

  The Ulysses Quicksilver Short Story Collection

  Fruiting Bodies ~ Vanishing Point ~ White Rabbit

  by Jonathan Green

  FRUITING BODIES

  SEPTEMBER 1997

  I

  Have His Carcass

  The Thames. Thick and sluggish as treacle. The foul waters of the ancient waterway oozed between the detritus-strewn mud banks bordering the river at Southwark. The river that had spawned the sprawling metropolis was now being smothered by its obese offspring. Londinium Maximum drained the eternal Thames of all it had and then regurgitated it again, a diseased open sewer, polluted by rapacious industry and the waste of the teeming millions that called the urban sprawl home.

  Scummy waves lapped at the tarry shoreline, regimented lines of flotsam and jetsam - flood-borne sticks, unidentifiable twists of rust-red metal and all manner of broken Bakelite or ceramic waste - showed where the still tidal river had marked its own rise and fall. Its own unique aroma of oil and excrement rose from its sludgy surface, carried along with whatever detritus had found its way into the surging effluent current of Old Father Thames. One gaseous wave could provoke involuntary vomiting in one not used to the noxious odour. However, the vagabond now combing the mired beach, searching for any forgotten finds, was not troubled at all by the stench.

  His battered hobnail boots caked with mud, a filthy woollen hat pulled over the untamed mess of his hair - his wiry, grey beard just as bad - he puffed on a clay pipe clenched between tobacco-yellowed teeth. With his right hand he held a rough hemp sack over one shoulder and in the other he gripped a pole for support when traversing the sucking mud.

  Old Samson might smell as bad as Old Father Thames, and be inured to the Stink - as it was called - but how his ratting terrier Jip ever managed to sniff out one scent amidst that miasmic stench, God alone knew.

  The old man paused in his scouring of the mud flats, lent back, legs braced, unbending his crooked back, and took in a great lungful of London air. It was laced with the tarry smell of the pollutant smog that shrouded the city from the early autumn sun. That same sun still warmed the land, drawing the stinking smog from the streets until it hung over the capital, a gargantuan squashed mushroom cloud. To Samson, the river's unique smell was as familiar and as reassuring, in its own way, as the stale baccy aroma of the Dog and Duck, as welcoming as the rosewater and sweat scent of a two shilling whore.

  The beachcomber gazed at the jaundiced haze streaking the lightening sky, and absorbed the sounds of the city, the rattle and clatter of the Overground, the blaring horns of the traffic filling the thoroughfares of Southwark and the steam horn voices of the tugboats on the river.

  A broad, near-toothless smile spread across his crab apple face and for a moment he closed his wrinkled eyes, enjoying the warmth of the September sun on his weather-beaten skin. All was right with the world. This was the best time of day to be out, combing the shoreline for anything that had been disposed of by the city that might be of value to someone still, and so furnish Samson with another bottle of gin or perhaps even a tumble with Nancy. If he were really lucky perhaps their union might take place in a bed this time, upstairs at the Dog and Duck, rather than up against the wall behind the chandler's. Thoughts of Nancy filled his head, sweet as sugarplums.

  Jip's urgent barking roused his master from his reverie. Focusing on the yapping, Samson saw the dog worrying at something down by the water's edge. At first it looked like a bundle of black cloth, exposed by the retreating tide. Putting his weight on his stick, Samson pulled his mud-caked boots out of the sucking mire.

  "Give over there, Jip. What's got you bothered as a Whitechapel street-walker?"

  The terrier was growling, tugging at the cloth gripped in his teeth. It wasn't just a piece of cloth though; something was bound up within it, something that shifted with the push and pull of the waves.

  "What is it, you daft bugger?"

  Samson was practically standing over the terrier now as it wrestled with the bundle. Under the relentless worrying of the dog something flopped loose. Samson saw the sodden cloth of a sleeve and the pallid, waterlogged flesh of what was left of a hand, after the eels and other murk dwellers had had a go at it.

  It was unmistakeably a body - a man, partially smothered by the other detritus that had been washed up with him, face down in the stinking shallows. Lank tresses of black hair moved in the sudsy surf, moving as if blown by a gentle breeze.

  "God's teeth!" the beachcomber swore, the colour draining from his cheeks. He prodded at the corpse with his stick. "Get away from there, Jip!" he suddenly snapped, giving the dog a kick. Whimpering, the terrier released its hold.

  Dropping the sack and bracing himself with the pole again, Samson leant down. With one strong hand he grabbed the collar of the dead man's suit and heaved. As the surge of the river lifted the corpse, Samson turned it over.

  "Bloody hell!" he gasped, seeing the dead man's bloated features. "Poor bugger," he breathed, turned away and threw up.

  II

  Inspector Allardyce Investigates

  "Not another one," Inspector Maurice Allardyce said with a sigh, giving the body a cursory visual examination. "So, what do you make of it Sheldon?"

  "Well, she's dead, sir," the Sergeant said, an anxious look on his face as he tried to fathom what type of game the Inspector was playing.

  "I can see that, smart arse. In fact, I can safely say that I have never seen anyone in the rudest of rude health look like that. Have you?"

  "No, sir."

  "So, what killed her?"

  "Well," Sergeant Sheldon hesitated again, not sure whether this was some kind of test Inspector Allardyce was putting him through. "Her body appears to be riddled with mould... Fungus, sir."

  "But that couldn't have killed her, surely? The rot must have set in after she died. How long did your witnesses say she'd been missing for?"

  "She was last seen last night."

  "Looking like this?" Allardyce exclaimed. They both looked down at the corpse of the ageing prostitute slumped in the alleyway.

  "That's when she was last seen alive, sir, at around 9 o'clock outside the Dog and Duck."

  "You mean she wasn't in this state at nine last night?"

  "No, sir."

  "Your witnesses - drunk were they?"

  "No, inspector. At least twelve people saw her at that time. She was leaving the pub with a vagrant called Samson. Lives down by Southwark Bridge."

 
; "Then he's our man. He's the one who..." Allardyce tailed off, unable to find the words.

  The Inspector wasn't happy. He had been called to the scene of the crime - if crime it were - by the local beat-bobby Sergeant Sheldon, who was flummoxed as to exactly what had happened to the gin-sodden old tart, and even whether a crime had been committed at all. And now Allardyce found himself here, in the stinking slums of Southwark, with, if he were honest, no better idea of what was going on than the grizzled copper. Surely the old tramp had something to do with it, but then what could the vagrant have done to the old whore for her body to have become host to some kind of virulent fungal infection? The exposed skin of her arms, legs and face was covered with the grey-green swellings of puffball mushrooms, their own epidermal layer like shrivelled human skin. The curious growths crowded in on each other, one fungus sprouting on top of another, bursting from the cleavage of the woman's tarty blouse. Others had ruptured through the mesh of her stockings. The area had been cordoned off with tape as a precaution, a young constable standing by, just in case.

  "Who did what, Inspector?"

  Hearing the voice - dripping with disdain and with an air of aloof amusement - Allardyce stiffened.

  "Oh, it's you," he said, turning, trying to affect his own air of aloof disinterest. "You're back from your jaunt around the South Seas then?"

  "If you could call it that," Ulysses Quicksilver replied, giving the shorter man in the beige trench coat an appraising look with his sparkling brown eyes from behind the foppish flop of his fringe. "Yes."

  "What brings you sniffing round Southwark? Looking for some lady action are you? The charming dandy routine getting a bit tired, is it?"

  "Oh you know, I just happened to be in the area. Any witnesses to the death?" the dandy asked, brashly ducking under the police line - ignoring the young constable's blurted command that he stop - with no sign of respect for the authority of the Metropolitan Police.

  "Are you trying to tell me how to do my job again, Quicksilver?"

  "You have asked for witnesses haven't you?" Without waiting for an answer Ulysses Quicksilver turned to the steadily encroaching crowd and addressed the downtrodden and dispossessed of Southwark. "Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. Did any of you happen to be present when this poor lady here died? Did any of you see anything?"

  There were nervous mutterings from among the crowd. It wasn't common practice in these parts to trust the police, let alone offer them assistance. But that said, with a nervous cough to attract attention, a thickset man emerged from the gathered stickybeaks, wringing a cloth cap in his large hands.

  "Ah, yes, sir. Don't be nervous, old chap. Come forward and have your say."

  "Well it was me that called Shelly here," the man said, nodding at Sergeant Sheldon. "And there was a whole load of us what saw it."

  "Saw what, my good man?" Ulysses asked, flashing his most ingratiating smile.

  "What happened to Nancy, the poor old soak." The man didn't take his eyes from the cap twisted into a tight knot in his hands.

  "Would you care to elaborate?"

  Allardyce looked on aghast. The slimy bastard could charm the knickers off a nun.

  "It was this morning. She was lying here, empty bottle hugged to her breast. Thought she was asleep. No one was surprised to find her bedded down in an alleyway. It wasn't unusual. Anyways, then she comes to - head thick as London smog - and then she starts coughing. Terrible hacking cough it was. I thought she'd caught pneumonia. Then she was on her feet. Comes stumbling into the street, gasping like she's choking, eyes mad. It was just like she was being throttled, only she wasn't. And then, before anyone could help her, she collapses and those things start popping up all over her body."

  "You mean the puffballs?" Quicksilver asked, seeking clarity.

  "If you say so, sir. I wouldn't know," the man confessed.

  Allardyce looked again at the dead woman's face. One eye had been forced shut by the oppressive pressure of several bulbous eruptions whilst the other was protruding unpleasantly - almost accusingly - from her head, the white of the eye and iris discoloured by the verdigris pigment of the fungi.

  "After that, no one would go near her. She was good as dead, already. But then I said someone should do something, should tell someone. So I dropped in on Shelly at the station."

  "What a fine upstanding citizen you are," Quicksilver said, without a hint of sarcasm in his voice. The man stopped crushing his cap in his huge hands, and looked directly at Ulysses, a proud smile of self-congratulation appearing on his face. "And you were right not to go near her."

  "What did happen to her?"

  "We don't know yet. But that's why I'm here. Don't worry we'll have this sorted out in no time. Trust me."

  The smartly-dressed dandy looked entirely out of place, in his emerald green crushed velvet jacket, paisley-patterned waistcoat and plum moleskin trousers. He was also wearing his trademark cravat, held in place with a diamond pin, and held his bloodstone-tipped cane, almost casually, in one hand. He turned to Sergeant Sheldon, the earnest young constable now at his superior's shoulder like some eager puppy. "Sergeant, we need to seal off this whole area - the alleyway, the pub, the street - and put the body into quarantine. We're going to need to send in clean-up crews to decontaminate the area."

  "We?"

  Quicksilver turned to the Inspector for the first time since the eyewitness had spoken.

  "Whose crime scene is this?" Allardyce challenged, reddening.

  "I'm sorry, Inspector. Please, carry on."

  "Right... well..." Allardyce looked at Sheldon, the bobby, at Quicksilver and then back at the Sergeant. "Do what he said."

  Sergeant Sheldon paused, shooting Quicksilver an uncertain look. It was only when the dandy had nodded his consent that the policeman made a move to obey.

  "And only let automata-Peelers handle the body or move it," Ulysses instructed, but in the tone of one doing no more than making a helpful suggestion. The sergeant shot him another anxious look. "Just in case."

  Sergeant Sheldon and the bobby moved the gathered crowd of curious onlookers back. "Come on, ladies and gentlemen, there's nothing to see here. You know what curiosity did to the cat."

  "Not her, Sergeant, if you don't mind," Quicksilver said, picking out one old woman from the throng of peering faces. "She's with me. Penny," he said, now addressing one onlooker in particular - an ugly, wart-nosed and toothless septuagenarian - "your assistance, if you would be so kind."

  "Right you are, guv'nor."

  "Cause of death appears to be extreme fungal infection and subsequent cellular degradation of the host body. You know what needs to happen now. I want you to ensure that no one goes near the cadaver. God only knows what could happen if those fruiting bodies spore."

  "You're putting this slattern in charge of my operation?" Allardyce exclaimed, his voice rising in pitch with his growing disbelief.

  "It's all right, Inspector, Penny here's used to dealing with this sort of thing."

  "I've cleared up all sorts of messes, guv'nor."

  "You?"

  "You'd better show him your ID," Quicksilver said, nudging the wizened old crone. She pulled out a worn carpet bag from under her shawl, opened it and extracted a crumpled card. She held it out for Allardyce to see.

  "Not another one," he said wearily. "She's one of your lot?"

  "Agent Penny Dreadful, at your service, sah!" the old woman said, struggling to stand to attention.

  "Penny Dreadful?"

  "It's a codename, sah."

  "A codename. I don't bloody believe you lot. All this cloak and dagger crap. What's the point? What's your real name?"

  "I could tell you, but then I'd have to kill you, guv'nor."

  "And she could too," Quicksilver said, unable to stop himself from grinning.

  "Just think of me as the fixer, sah, and we'll say no more about it."

  "Anyway, to work." Quicksilver knelt down beside the body.

  "I thought you sa
id only automatons should go near the body from now on," Allardyce pointed out, keeping a good distance from the corpse himself but doing nothing to stop the dandy.

  "Do you know what species these mushrooms are, Inspector?"

  "Well... I was going to wait for the lab boys -"

  "I thought not, and neither do I. So I'm going to take my own small sample. I need an expert to tell me what we're dealing with here. Don't worry, I'll be careful."

  "Do I look like I care?" Allardyce sneered.

  The dandy agent of the throne withdrew gloves, a scalpel and an evidence bag from the capacious pockets of his jacket and very delicately cut one of the puffballs from where it had taken root within the dead woman's flesh, manoeuvring it into the bag with the scalpel blade. He then cut another sample before sealing both specimens and the contaminated blade inside the bag.

  "That should just about do it," Quicksilver said, straightening. He turned to Allardyce. "I'll get out of your hair now."

  "If only you would."

  "Not that there's that much of it to get into," Quicksilver threw back. "Things to do, people to see. You know how it is? Besides, I missed breakfast this morning and for some reason my stomach's hankering after one of Mrs Prufrock's mushroom omelettes. I'll be seeing you, Inspector, I'm sure," he said, turning away and giving Allardyce a jaunty wave.

  "Not if I see you first," the policeman muttered under his breath.

  III

  People Who Live In Glasshouses

  The Mark IV Rolls Royce Silver Phantom rolled to a halt outside the entrance to the Royal Botanical Gardens. Ulysses Quicksilver looked out of his window at the twisting wrought-iron leaves and the glittering glass structures of the grand greenhouses beyond. The leaves of the many trees dotting the park were on the turn now, copper and gold spreading among the green of summer. "You have the sample?" Quicksilver asked his manservant sitting in the driver's seat.