A dead man in Tangier

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"Pig-sticking. You know.’

" Pig-sticking? Seymour didn’t.

‘As in India,’ said the man from the Foreign Office helpfully.

What was India to do with Monsieur Bossu’s death? Or pigs, for that matter?

‘Really?’ he said cautiously.

‘Yes. Apparently there’s a Tent Club. The only one outside India, they say.’

Still harping on about India. But the Superintendent, across in Whitechapel, had definitely said Africa. And what was all this about tents? If camping was going to be part of the investigation, Seymour was already losing enthusiasm.

‘Is that so?’ he said guardedly.

‘Yes. There’s an old boy who set it up, a local sheikh. Well, not just local. He’s been Minister for War. He sets up the Tent and lays on the hospitality. And then they all come with their horses.’

‘Really?’

‘And spears.’

Spears! Jesus, what was this?

‘And go for the pigs,’ said the man from the Foreign Office happily. ‘Not quite pigs, of course. Not in our sense. Boars, wild boars. And there’s quite a difference, I can tell you! These will turn and come at you. With their tusks. They’ve got long, sharp tusks. And they really know about using them. Rip the horse’s stomach open in a flash!’

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