by M. J. Trow
‘Well, where is it?’
‘Not ’ere now, boss. Gone away. We find ’im,’ and he sprang to his feet. Lestrade caught the dark, sinewy arm.
‘Will it come back, the tammanwool?’
‘Oh, yes, boss. Tonight, late. ’E come back ’ere.’
‘Then we’ll wait.’ Lestrade was emphatic. ‘You go home now, Uku. Don’t tell anyone about our hunt this morning. Do you understand? Anyone.’ It couldn’t have sounded very authoritative, even though Lestrade was recovering his composure. A wreck of a man sprawled in the undergrowth hardly inspired confidence. But the abo had gone.
LESTRADE HAD GONE ALONE. Ordinarily, he would have taken constables with him. Sergeant Winch would have been at his elbow. But the whole thing was too bizarre. Too untried. He was aware always of Nimrod Frost – ‘People haven’t forgotten the Ripper. Or the Struwwelpeter murders.’ Lestrade was McNaghten’s best man and somehow his whole career was on the line, hunting dingoes in the outback of Cornwall.
So he was alone. The moon wasn’t there to help him tonight. Or at least, the clouds were hiding it, scudding, conspirator-like across the sky. Lestrade didn’t like dogs. Big ones, little ones, it didn’t matter. And here he was, crouching in the thickets below Mawnan Church, waiting to catch one. True to the speed of the Cornwall Constabulary, the Chief Constable had not yet responded to the urgent appeal for firearms sent by Lestrade. Fortunately, the inspector had been able to borrow a 12-bore from Farmer Pemberton and it was crooked in his arm now. Lestrade was never very happy with a gun this size. He had seen the result of too many careless loadings and he even carried the scars of a rogue shot on his own shoulder. He fumbled with the cartridges. One. Two. Click up the barrels. Now to wait.
Behind him reared the blackness of the Mawnan earthwork, silent as the graves that lay beyond it. William Lamb was to be buried the next day. If Lestrade was lucky tonight, his killer might be buried before him. The owls were flying, hooting as they swooped over field and forest. Lestrade had seen one at dusk, an eerie white in a ghostly silence, winging its way over the heather in search of prey.
Policemen – those who become detective inspectors anyway – have a sixth sense. Not that Lestrade felt at one with Nature. Yet it was something which made him turn, gun levelled. There had been no noise, no warning. Above him on the earthwork, an animal he had never seen before, and never would again. In the split second before he fired, he saw its teeth gleaming, its tongue hanging out, its eyes small and piggy in the fox-like head. His fingers squeezed on both triggers and the roar lit up the bushes. He fell backwards, unprepared for the recoil and rolled through the trees before struggling upright. Had he hit it? Was it coming for him? Could he outrun it? After this morning, out of the question. Could it climb trees? Could he? But the panic within him subsided. There was no movement, no sound. He fumbled in the leaves for the gun and reloaded. He must have killed it. Both barrels, at almost point-blank range. He must have killed it.
He hadn’t.
There was nothing on the crest of the earthwork but leaves and grass. Damn. Lestrade whirled round, now in this direction, now that. Nothing. For a long time, nothing. Then a crack. A twig snapping? Over there, down in the trees. The inspector crawled forward, his fingers sweating now on the trigger. Please don’t let me blow my foot off, he thought. The awful smell came to him again, and for the first time, a snuffling whine, then a snarl. There was a hiss above his head, then another. He crouched lower, trying to focus his sights on something ahead. But it was so dark. He couldn’t see anything.
‘Tammanwool, boss.’ A voice sounded behind him. It was the abo, grinning as ever. Even Lestrade’s twin barrels pointing at him didn’t seem to lessen the grin. Lestrade momentarily flopped back, his heart descending from his mouth. He’d nearly shot the man.
‘Dis way, boss,’ the abo was calling from beyond the earthwork. On the far side of the parapet lay the body of an animal. It was about five feet long, with the head of a wolf and a cunning, cruel mouth. Its fur was tawny, with broad, dark stripes across its back and less obvious ones on its tail. Two barbed arrows lay embedded in its flanks. The stench was strong.
The abo retrieved his arrows and slung the animal over his shoulders.
‘We’ll walk back.’ Lestrade was insistent.
PERCIVAL ASHBURTON was not pleased to be brought from his bed at that hour. In fact, he was about to summon pen and paper to dash off an angry letter to Lestrade’s superiors when the abo dropped the dead animal at his feet.
‘Yours?’ asked Lestrade.
‘What the bloody hell do you mean?’
‘Your abo calls it a tammanwool. What do you call it?’
‘Is this some sort of joke, copper?’
The colloquialism when ascribed to an officer of Lestrade’s rank sounded a little odd, but perhaps it was an Australian commonplace, the inspector mused.
‘I’ll tell you what I call it, Mr Ashburton. I call it murder,’ he said.
‘Murder?’ Ashburton kicked the animal off his slippered feet and strode for a brandy. ‘You’ll forgive me if, under the circumstances, I don’t offer you one?’
‘You brought this . . . thing . . . back with you, didn’t you? A souvenir of the Antipodes. But it got out, didn’t it? What I don’t understand is how your abo here didn’t know about it.’
‘Well, he’ll be looking for another job come the morning,’ Ashburton snapped, and roared something at the little brown man, who scuttled out of the room.
‘What did you say to him?’ asked Lestrade.
Ashburton slammed the stopper onto his decanter. ‘If you must know, I threatened to point a bone at him.’
Lestrade looked bemused.
‘The abos are a superstitious people, Lestrade. Backward. He believes bones can kill.’
‘And I believe these things can too,’ said Lestrade, crouching to peel back the animal’s lips to reveal a row of razor teeth. ‘All right when it was a few sheep, wasn’t it? Some stray dogs, no problem with that. But a man. When Shepherd Lamb died, that was different. That was why you were offhand when we met. It wasn’t just your outback taciturness. You were afraid.’
‘I’ve faced mad abos, dingoes, drought, swollen rivers and plagues of everything from boils to rabbits. There’s nothing I’m afraid of.’
‘Except imprisonment for life.’
‘What?’ Ashburton’s knuckles whitened round the glass.
‘Unless you trained that thing to kill Lamb . . .’
‘That’s not possible.’ Ashburton’s assertion was too quick.
‘. . . in which case, you’d get the drop. As it is, you are an accessory to the fact of murder.’ Lestrade circled his man, watching him closely, but painfully aware of the corpse, grotesque and evil-smelling at his feet. ‘Take Pentonville,’ he went on. ‘Five hundred and twenty cells. Each one is seven feet square. You will wear a brown cloth mask. No one will recognise you. You will recognise no one. Once a day, you will walk in a circle with a hundred or so others of your kind, the sweepings of society.’ Lestrade was becoming lyrical. ‘You will eat ten ounces of bread and three-quarters of a pint of cocoa for breakfast. For dinner you will have half a pint of soup, five ounces of bread and one pound of potatoes . . .’
‘For God’s sake!’ Ashburton broke in.
‘You will be a number, working on a treadmill all day, every day, climbing eight thousand six hundred and forty feet into nothing. And you know the worst thing, Mr Ashburton,’ he leaned close to his ear, ‘me ol’ cobber, you’ll never see the sky again.’
Lestrade walked to the door. ‘Now, let’s see if your brother can identify this,’ pointing to the corpse.
‘All right,’ Ashburton sat heavily down in the nearest chair. ‘All right, Lestrade.’ He sat with his head in his hand for a moment, then looked at the animal. ‘It’s a thylacine, better known as a Tasmanian wolf or Tasmanian tiger. As my brother would tell you, it’s actually neither. It’s a marsupial, Lestrade. Do you know what
that is?’
Lestrade did not.
‘A pouched animal, like the kangaroo. It carries its young in a pouch on its belly. This one is a female, a species, I can tell you, more deadly than the male. The Tasmanian wolf is very rare, Lestrade. There may be a handful in the wild. Nobody knows. I went out on a hunting trip there recently and caught it. A miracle. A bloody miracle, it was.’
Ashburton prowled his study, an odd figure, his face tanned and furrowed under the ridiculous nightcap. He chuckled. ‘It was supposed to be a present for Thomas. I thought he might appreciate it. But before I could tell him about it, the flaming thing escaped. They’re unpredictable, Lestrade. It was used to killing to survive. Sheep went. One here, a couple there. Then people began to see it. Thomas saw it. He thought it was a lion.’
‘Why didn’t you tell him?’
‘Oh, I was going to. On several occasions, I was going to. I don’t know why. I went out myself, a number of times, with a gun. No luck.’
‘I used your abo to track it. Why didn’t you?’
‘The same reason I didn’t tell him I’d brought it over. I told you, Inspector, abos are suspicious people. I thought if he knew I’d brought the Tasmanian wolf he’d go berserk. They can, you know. They’ve got a sixth sense when it comes to animals. They’re part of them, almost. When Lamb was killed, I guessed what had happened. He was probably tending a ewe at lambing time. A new-born lamb and its mother are easy meat. Lamb must have got in the way, somehow. I never thought it would kill a man. God.’ He buried his face in his hands again. ‘Then there’s rabies,’ he suddenly remembered.
‘What?’
Ashburton was pacing again. ‘I don’t know if it’s likely, Lestrade. Dogs get it. So do other animals.’
‘I do know the word, sir. One day they’ll muzzle all dogs. Not to mention Tasmanian wolves.’
‘What happens now?’
Lestrade looked into Ashburton’s eyes. ‘Now, I go to bed,’ he said.
‘What about . . . Pentonville?’
Lestrade allowed himself to smile. ‘Don’t worry, Mr Ashburton, we’re not going to take away your sky. The wide open spaces are important to you, aren’t they?’
Ashburton nodded.
‘Being in the Outback as long as you have has dulled your sense of British law, sir. I shall, of course, report my findings to my superiors and the Cornwall Constabulary will require a statement from you. I should think the most you’ll get is a fine for not declaring a wolf at customs.’
‘But there’s a man dead,’ said Ashburton.
‘Such is life,’ said Lestrade – and vaguely wished he hadn’t.
INSPECTOR LESTRADE climbed the parapet again where the abo had killed the Tasmanian wolf. It was raining as the little funeral cortege wound its way through the trees below him. He took off his hat and nodded to John Pemberton. He noticed the coffin was of the finest oak, resplendent with gleaming brass fittings, by courtesy of Mr Percival Ashburton. Momentarily, the vicar stopped as the party went on to the place.
‘He’s a good man, Lestrade,’ he said, motioning towards his brother. ‘But the Outback has coarsened him. We’ve all learned a lesson.’
‘Amen to that,’ said Lestrade and he walked away. As he crossed the churchyard, graves leaning aslant in the drizzle, he heard the vicar’s voice. ‘William Lamb, late of Her Majesty’s . . .’ and the wind in the trees drowned out the rest. As he reached the road and the waiting trap, he saw a lone figure on the parapet. A little brown man stood, almost silhouetted against the skyline. He waved his bow and arrows at Lestrade and then was gone.
‘Gooday,’ Lestrade found himself saying softly. ‘Good hunting.’ And he cleared his throat and straightened up as he noticed the cabman was looking at him strangely. It was, of course, entirely the cabman’s fault, therefore that as Lestrade climbed into the trap he caught his hand in the door and broke his little finger. He didn’t remember much about the journey home. Except that his hand was about a foot across and every image in his brain was curiously finger-shaped and throbbing.
And then there was Beastie.
❖ Beastie ❖
B
enjamin Beeson, ex-sergeant of the Metropolitan Police, sat in Lestrade’s office with his massive fist around the inevitable mug of tea. Walter Dew, constable of the Metropolitan Police, lounged on Lestrade’s desk in front of him, until the inspector swept in, whereupon the aforesaid Dew swept away to busy himself with the filing. Beeson stood to attention as his old guv’nor came in.
‘Hello, Beastie,’ grinned Lestrade. ‘I’d shake your hand, only . . .’ and he held up his bandaged finger.
‘Oh, dear,’ growled Beeson in old familiar way. ‘Nothing trivial I hope, sir.’
Lestrade had forgotten, momentarily, the sense of humour. He motioned to Dew to pour him some tea and offered Beeson a cigar.
‘No, thank you, sir. I don’t any more . . .’
Lestrade sensed the man’s discomfort and noticed the frayed cuffs and shabby shoes. The pension didn’t go far, he mused to himself and stuffed two cigars into Beeson’s top pocket.
‘Well,’ he said, negotiating the steaming mug with his moustache. Shaving wasn’t what it had been before he’d broken his finger. And all in all, he’d thought he’d better decline Mrs Manchester’s offer of help with the cut-throat razor. ‘Well, how is it, Ben?’
‘Not good, sir.’
Lestrade’s grin faded. ‘The pension?’
‘Love you, no, sir. I can get by on that. No, it’s my old mate Joe Towers. He’s dead.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that, Ben. What was it? Accident?’
‘No, sir. I think it was murder.’
Lestrade leaned forward in his chair. ‘So this isn’t exactly a social call?’
‘No, sir, not exactly. I don’t like coming to you, sir, but I thought perhaps twenty-six years on the Force counts for something.’
Lestrade nodded. He had been here before. ‘Dew, get more tea for the sergeant. You’d better tell me about it, Beastie.’
HAD BEASTIE BEESON been an ordinary member of the public, it might have been different. Had his description of the corpse and the manner of death been more unusual. Had Joe Towers not been sixty-two years old. If all of this had been so, or not been so, Lestrade would have applied for an exhumation order in the usual way. Triplicate. Forms. Hours bashing away on the upright Remington on the first floor.
As it was, Lestrade trusted to Beastie’s sixth sense. To the ‘nose’ he knew this old sergeant possessed. After all, the man was right – twenty-six years on the Force must count for something. And he laid his career on the line.
Kensal Green had never been Lestrade’s favourite part of London. Especially at night. Amazing, isn’t it, he thought to himself as the wrought-iron gates chinked and shook under the heavy pincers he carried, amazing how signs carry at night. Breaking and entering. He swung the gate back. He could get ten years for that before a pious beak, out to prove that the law was harsher on bent coppers than on bent civilians. His breath wisped out before him and wreathed back around his face.
‘This way, sir.’ Beeson crunched with all the weight of his twenty-six years’ service on the gravel. Without the aid of lights, the going was hard. The two men stumbled through the undergrowth and tangle of rhododendron bushes, making for the grave they wanted. Around them, in rows neat and clipped, the tombs of deceased Londoners bore silent witness to their intrusion. Tailors from Pimlico rubbed dusty shoulders with bank clerks from Norwood and the odd retired admiral, aptly enough from Gravesend. Beeson collided with a weeping angel, but only his hat brim was dented. In the flitting moon, the smooth white of the draped urns and the grooved columns, broken to the sky, threw shadows across the grass, crisp in the frost of the early hours.
‘Here.’
Lestrade dropped to his knees beside the fresh grave Beeson indicated. A single wreath on the wet, brown earth. Lestrade checked his watch. In the moonlight, he caught glimpses of the hands.
Nearly quarter to two. They set to work, each man with his spade, slicing through the earth. Beeson, for all his strength, was past his best. A man retired for three years is not in peak condition. Lestrade’s contribution was also limited, digging as he was with hand and elbow, to minimise the pain in his finger. Beeson was concerned, in fact something of a mother hen, as, with every stroke, he apologised again to Lestrade for putting him through this. For a thousand reasons, Lestrade breathed a sigh of relief as his spade struck wood. Getting the coffin to the surface, even with the rope Beeson had brought, was no mean feat and both men were cursing and panting as Joe Towers flopped limply into the waiting canvas and Beeson trussed him up.
‘Sorry, Joe,’ he muttered, ‘but it’s for the best. You know, Inspector, I feel like old Ben Crouch, the Resurrection Man.’
‘Before my time,’ hissed Lestrade, lowering the coffin as best he could. ‘Let’s cover this up.’
A casual observer, at dead of night, would have noticed little difference in the appearance of the grave now that the wreath and temporary marker were back in place. Lestrade wondered if the same lack of critical observation was likely to apply to an astute grave-digger in the broad daylight of the following morning. But it was too late to worry about that now. That same morning was showing signs of breaking through to the east, lending an eerie light to the hoar frost on tomb and vault. Between them they carried their tragic bundle down the hill, quickening their pace as they reached the gate. They steadied Towers against a pillar, where he rested his sack-covered head on Beeson’s shoulder, while Lestrade deftly replaced the snapped chain with another from his pocket. He clicked the padlock into place, flattering himself on the skills he had learned from dozens of betties, now mouldering no doubt as surely as Joe Towers, but in the living graves of Pentonville or the Scrubs.
