Lestrade and the Brigade

by M. J. Trow

  ‘Why the suffocation in one case?’ asked Bandicoot.

  Lestrade shrugged. ‘Even your Great Detective would be baffled by that one, I suspect.’

  Bandicoot snorted. ‘I must admit I was impressed by the late Mr Holmes.’

  But as Lestrade knew, it didn’t take much to impress Bandicoot.

  ‘I’ve been given no end of leads,’ Lestrade went on. ‘I’ve been passed from pillar to post. And so far, nowhere.’

  ‘Except that you’ve been suspended.’

  ‘How did you know that?’ Lestrade was incredulous.

  ‘No, Sholto. I’d like to claim it was a flash of the old Bandicoot inspiration.’

  Lestrade racked his brain to think of an earlier instance of this supposed phenomenon. He could not. ‘But in fact, I read it in The Times this morning.’

  Bandicoot fished about in the boot at his feet and produced a crumpled newspaper. Lestrade found it at the bottom of column three, the sixth page.

  ‘Yard Man Suspended. Suspected Attack on Royal Personage,’ he read aloud, and ploughed on silently through the rest.

  ‘It says here I attacked the Kaiser. Inspector Sholto Lefade – I don’t know whether to be outraged or relieved they got my name wrong – was apprehended with his hands around the throat of His Imperial Majesty at Sandringham on the . . . This is libel, Bandicoot. Not only libel, but sheer bloody nonsense.’

  ‘One thing is certain, Sholto,’ said Bandicoot, optimistically. ‘Somebody up there doesn’t like you. Doesn’t it say you’re supposed to answer charges?’

  ‘Yes, next month. Why didn’t Frost get a message to me? He knows where I am. And what is the matter with Charlo, with all his devotion to duty?’

  ‘I never understood the workings of the Yard, Sholto. Even the plumbing mystified me.’

  And the phaeton wheeled into Southam.

  THEY FOUND SETH BOND in the churchyard, dozing against a buttress, his scythe beside him. A stocky man, with white wispy whiskers, battered derby hat and the traditional leggings of the agricultural labourer. His pipe had slipped from his mouth and lay quietly burning a hole in his waistcoat as he snored. Lestrade kicked him with just enough force to impress upon him the need for urgency in stamping out the minor conflagration growing on his chest.

  ‘Thank ’ee, sir. Everything’s so tinder dry, it is. We’ll have some bad fires this year, I shouldn’t wonder.’

  ‘Inspector Athelney Jones of Scotland Yard,’ Lestrade said by way of introduction and stamped hard on Bandicoot’s foot as the younger man called out in surprise at the lie he had just heard. ‘This is Constable Bandicoot.’

  Bond looked up at the golden-headed man blotting out the sun. ‘You’re a fair cop, guv,’ he said and allowed the policemen to help him to his feet. ‘You don’t mind if I carry on? The vicar wants this churchyard cleared by night. Says yer can’t see the stones proper. Besides, I shall be lyin’ ’ere meself one of these days. I ’ope as ’ow somebody’ll be doin’ this for me. ’Ow can I ’elp you gentlemen?’

  ‘Cast your mind back,’ said Lestrade, ‘to your days with the Eleventh Hussars.’

  ‘Ah, great days, they was,’ beamed Bond, ‘if yer didn’t mind the cholera and the flies,’ and he swung with extraordinary gusto for a man of his age into the yellowed churchyard grass. Lestrade sneezed several times in quick succession. Townie, thought Bond, and carried on swinging.

  ‘When did you join the regiment?’ managed Lestrade.

  ‘Oh, it must have been . . . yes, eighteen-forty. The year the old Queen married.’

  ‘Which troop?’

  ‘F Troop. ’Til I was promoted sergeant-major of C Troop.’ He straightened himself with the pride of it. ‘That was after the Charge, of course.’

  ‘Balaclava?’ Lestrade checked.

  ‘That’s right, sir. Now there was a battle! I remember old Bill Lamb . . .’

  ‘Who?’ Lestrade snapped.

  ‘Bill Lamb,’ Bond repeated, somewhat taken aback. ‘Funny, ’e were a shepherd before ’e enlisted. And became one again, I believe. I thought ’e’d lost ’is eyes in the Valley of Death, to be sure.’

  Lestrade held the scythe arm. ‘His eyes?’

  Bond nodded.

  ‘Did your Bill Lamb have a cut across his forehead, narrowly missing both eyes?’

  ‘’E did, sir. A damned Roosian did that for him. So much blood on ’is face, yer couldn’t see. Neither could Bill. ’E was stumblin’ around the field, calling out “Englishman, Englishman.” Must have been a bit light-headed.’

  Lestrade let the scythe arm go, and looked at Bandicoot. He spun to Bond again. ‘What about these names – Joseph Towers?’

  Bond grinned. ‘Yes, ’e were with us. I remember old Joe.’

  ‘Bill Bentley?’

  ‘Sergeant, ’e were. Family man. Always talkin’ about his wife and kid.’

  ‘Richard Brown?’

  ‘Oh, yes, A do-gooder ’e was. Always lickin’ around the officers. ’E were the colonel’s orderly. I never liked ’im.’

  ‘Jim Hodges?’

  ‘Hodges? Oh, ar, I remember now. Wild man ’e was. Always given to jokes and that. ’E once crep’ into the tent of one of the officers an’ spent all night sewing the legs of his overalls together. ’Course, ’e was put on a charge for that.’

  ‘The Charge of the Light Brigade?’ chimed in Bandicoot. Bond and Lestrade looked at him.

  ‘Mr Bond, you have made my day.’ Lestrade shook the labourer’s hand. ‘Take care of yourself. Come on, Bandicoot,’ and the ex-constable dashed after the pending ex-inspector.

  ‘It’s falling into place, Bandicoot,’ Lestrade said as they reached the lychgate. ‘There’s the common pattern. Not two former members of the Eleventh, but all five of them.’

  ‘A sort of red-trousered league?’ mused Bandicoot. Lestrade ignored him.

  ‘The question is, why? And why did Nimrod Frost send me to Mawnan to find the corpse of Bill Lamb? Come on, Bandicoot. You can go to the theatre and I’m going home. It’s time Assistant Commissioner Frost came a little cleaner than he is at the moment.’

  HOT TOWN. SUMMER IN the city. Lestrade and Bandicoot got off the train at Paddington and made their way to the Yard. While Bandicoot waited in the hansom, the inspector entered the building by the back stairs under the shadow of the gateway.

  ‘I’m sorry, Inspector.’ Sergeant Dixon was firmer than Lestrade had ever known him. ‘Mr Frost won’t see you, sir. I ’ave my orders. Now, you’re not goin’ to make a try for the lift are you, sir? You see, in this ’eat, I’d ’ate to ’ave to give chase. Cruel, ain’t it. And as for that bleedin’ river! I remember the Great Stink of ’fifty-eight but it couldn’t ’old a candle to this. Them archaeologists blokes keep findin’ bits of old iron in the mud at low tide and doin’ their nuts about ’em. Reckon they’re from the Bronze Age, or something.

  ‘You’re changing the subject, Dixon. I have to see His Nims now.’

  ‘Inspector Lestrade. Look at it from my position, sir. I’m a married man, four kids, two years orf me pension. I shouldn’t even be talking to you, sir. Not at the moment. You know ’ow it is.’

  Lestrade stood back from the desk. ‘Yes, Sergeant, I know how it is,’ and he strode to the door.

  ‘Thank you, sir. And mind ’ow you go.’

  Bandicoot had bought a morning paper from a street vendor and was eagerly perusing the shares and city news page when Lestrade returned.

  ‘No joy?’ he asked. Lestrade shook his head. He was about to climb into the hansom when the headline caught his eye. Goron In London. Head of Surete On Flying Visit.

  ‘Bandicoot. It’s a long shot, but it could pay off. Where do you stay when you’re in town?’

  ‘The Grand, of course.’

  ‘Of course. Well, get me a room too. Don’t worry, I’ll charge it to expenses. And use the name Athelney Jones. I’d like to see his face when Frost queries that bill! I’ll join you there later. There’s another questi
on I have for Sergeant Dixon.’

  As he rounded the corner, a hoarse whisper crackled in his ear. It was Hector Charlo in the shadows, beckoning to Lestrade to join him.

  ‘I’m extraordinarily glad to see you, Sergeant.’ Lestrade shook his hand. Charlo whisked him behind a plane tree. ‘What the hell’s going on? When I saw Frost a few days ago he was all for reinstating me. Now I find I cannot even get to see him. And that fanatical nonsense of Gregson’s is all over the papers.’

  ‘I don’t know, sir.’ Charlo scanned the upper storey windows of the Yard for signs of life. ‘All I know is, I’ve been ordered off the case. I’ve been told,’ he edged carefully round the tree, ‘that if I have any dealings with you whatsoever, I’ll lose my job.’

  Lestrade fumed. ‘You got this from Frost?’

  ‘Himself,’ nodded Charlo.

  ‘Well, that’s it,’ shrugged Lestrade. ‘Good luck, Sergeant. I’ll see you around perhaps, one day.’

  ‘Inspector,’ Charlo stopped him. ‘If I can get over this damned pleurisy, I’ll stay in touch. Where can I reach you?’

  ‘Sergeant, you are putting your head on the block. You realise that?’

  ‘I’ve been called a chip off the old block before, sir.’ It was the first time Lestrade had seen Charlo smile. Lestrade slapped his arm in gratitude, a little too heartily as it transpired, for Charlo winced with pain.

  ‘The Grand Hotel. Under the name of one Athelney Jones, Inspector of River Police.’

  Charlo positively beamed.

  ‘Listen. I understand that Monsieur Goron, Head of the Sûreté is visiting the Yard. Any idea of his movements?’

  ‘It’s common knowledge where he goes of an evening, sir. Fatima’s.’

  ‘Does he now?’

  ‘Why do you want him?’ Charlo was puzzled.

  ‘I’m not really sure, Charlo. Take care of yourself. And he vanished again.

  THE LAMPLIGHTER WAS doing his rounds in the Haymarket when Lestrade and Bandicoot found their quarry. A squat, iron-grey man with untypical pince-nez bustled through the doorway and the knot of evening strollers.

  ‘Well, well, well.’ Lestrade clicked his tongue.

  ‘What is it, Sholto?’

  ‘You never did find your way round town, did you? In a professional way, I mean. That establishment is Fatima Charrington’s, the best-known bordello in London.’

  ‘Fatima’s?’ Bandicoot was impressed.

  ‘The logical successor to Kate Hamilton’s,’ said Lestrade.

  ‘But what would a man of Goron’s reputation be doing in there?’

  Lestrade looked with faint surprise at his ex-and-acting-constable. ‘Bandicoot, before you and Letitia go through with your ceremony, remind me to have a word with you,’ and he dashed away across the street.

  Bandicoot had not seen the inside of a bordello before, but on the surface it was no different from the hundred or so music halls that littered the West End. Waiters scuttled here and there with trays of champagne. Customers lounged around, laughing and eating grapes proffered by attractive young ladies. On the stage, garishly lit with sulphur, a painted woman sang ‘The First Shove is the Sweetest’, to a rather discordant accompaniment by a female quartet. Here and there, heavies stood in key positions; one near the bar, another at the door, two more by the stage. The air was thick with smoke and the fumes of alcohol, all of it very expensive.

  ‘Can I help you, gentlemen?’ An enormous lady with a blonde wig piled high and cascading over one bare shoulder about the width of Bandicoot’s chest barred the way.

  ‘Miss Charrington, I presume?’ ventured Lestrade. Fatima curtseyed, her breasts wobbling like so much whale meat.

  ‘Athelney Jones, Scotland Yard. This is Constable Bandicoot.’ And as if to forestall her complaint, ‘Don’t worry. This is not an official visit. We are here at the request of Monsieur Goron. May we see him?’

  ‘In person or through the spy hole, dearie?’ Fatima asked.

  Lestrade chuckled. ‘In person, please.’

  ‘This way. Now, dearie, what can we interest you in? A chambermaid, is it? Vicar’s daughter? Perhaps – yes, I see it. An Amazon?’ She was fondling Bandicoot’s arm, gazing into his rather crossed blue eyes and running her toad-like tongue over her thick lips.

  ‘Madame, please. I think you have misunderstood . . .’

  ‘Oh, I see,’ and she dropped her fatal charm. ‘You want Bertram’s across the road. Errand boys. Barnardo brats. More cottage loaves in there than a bakery.’

  Bandicoot’s mouth opened in silent protest.

  ‘Monsieur Goron,’ Lestrade reminded Fatima, and she took them up the velvet stairway to an upstairs room, past chandeliers tinkling and dazzling in their myriad brilliance. ‘Keep your hand on your wallet, Bandicoot – and leave the talking to me.’

  Monsieur Goron sat in an elegant parlour, reclining on a chaise longue of immense proportions. He looked vaguely comical in his pink underwear and top hat, which he now tipped to the newcomers and raised a glass of vintage champagne. The Sûreté certainly do themselves proud, thought Lestrade.

  ‘Who are zees gentlemen?’ he asked Fatima. ‘I distinctly ordered two ladies. And besides, zees two are both white.’

  ‘I fear there will be a slight delay, Monsieur,’ she fawned, in what Lestrade would have sworn was a telephone voice had she had such a piece of apparatus in her hand. ‘Celeste and Angeline are not yet ready. They are making themselves extra beautiful for you. In the meantime, these gentlemen would like to join you.’

  ‘Oh, I see. You wish to see ’ow an expert operates, uh? Well, I ’ad no idea zat ma reputation ’ad spread so far.’

  ‘It has, Monsieur Goron, but it is not your prowess in the boudoir we wish to assess.’

  ‘Non? Perhaps eet ees a matter of length?’

  ‘Good God!’ Bandicoot was beside himself with indignation.

  ‘No, this is professional business,’ insisted Lestrade. ‘My name is Athelney Jones, Inspector of Scotland Yard. This is Constable Bandicoot.’

  ‘Ah, Inspecteur. Enchanté. Enchanté. You know I am studying La Yarde Ecosse for a few days. You are in charge of the River Police, non?’

  ‘Er, yes,’ lied Lestrade.

  ‘Bon. And do you find ze Londres underworld ees particularly prone to ply the river?’

  ‘Er, no more I am sure than their counterparts in Paris ply the Loire.’

  ‘Seine,’ said Bandicoot.

  Lestrade wondered momentarily whether this was Bandicoot’s summation of Goron’s state of mental health. It was not particularly helpful or relevant.

  ‘Whenever I come to Londres, I like to spend my first night at Fatima’s,’ and he kissed the chubby, bejewelled hand of the lady as she swept past in search of Celeste and Angeline. ‘I particularly like two girls at once.’ Bandicoot was surprised he had the stamina. ‘One white, ze other black. It adds to ze zest of the thing, don’t you think?’

  Lestrade did.

  ‘Uh, Bain-de-Coute, what ees your preference? Non, don’t tell me. Beeg, uh? Blonde, like yourself? Probably ze older woman? I know, eet ees ze thighs you go for, locked around your back, uh? I can tell you are a leg man.’

  Lestrade sensed the ‘constable’ tensing at his side. He realised that Goron’s description fitted Letitia Lawrenson exactly, although he couldn’t really speak for the thighs. His cry of’ ‘Not this one, Bandicoot,’ was drowned as the young man snapped at the supposed insult to his lady’s honour and, snarling, flung himself at the prone Goron. Lestrade need not have worried, at least not about the little Head of Sûreté. The Frenchman deftly rolled off the chaise longue and brought his shin up smartly into Bandicoot’s groin. Another second and Goron was upright, the twin barrels of a vest pocket pistol nudging Bandicoot’s ear. It had appeared so fast Lestrade had no inkling where it had come from.

  ‘Ees thees ’ow you London bobbies treat visiting dignitaries from abroad?’ snapped Goron.

  ‘Er . . . a test,’ Lest
rade was suddenly inspired. ‘We have of course heard of your legendary command of self-defence.’

  ‘Ah, oui, the Système Goron.’

  ‘Quite so, and Assistant Commissioner Frost has given orders that various constables should learn all they can from you.’

  ‘The hard way,’ Bandicoot mumbled into the silk of the chaise longue.

  ‘Personally, I would like to know more of your Cookshop.’

  ‘What?’ Bandicoot struggled upright as Goron uncocked the hammers of his pistol and equally skilfully secreted it God-knows-where about his person.

  ‘Quiet, Bandicoot. The grown-ups are talking,’ said Lestrade.

  ‘Goron’s Cookshop, young man. A suite of rooms at the Sûreté where I interrogate prisoners. Of course, in this sophisticated age, this fin de siècle, such things should not be necessary. But you know, both of you, what scum stalks ze earth. I can do things with a leather thong that would make your eyes water – literally.’

  ‘There is one case you can help me with, sir,’ said Lestrade. ‘Poppy Vansittart.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Goron, adjusting himself on the sofa once more and pouring more champagne. ‘An Englishman in Paris.’

  ‘You knew him?’ Lestrade asked.

  ‘Oh, yes, quite well. Aahh,’ and he rose as Fatima returned with an ingratiating smile. ‘Celeste and Angeline.’ Fatima beckoned with a pudgy finger. He whispered as he passed Lestrade’s ear, ‘Actually, their names are Gertrude and May and they are both from Glasgow, but Monsieur, the grip . . . Shall we talk as I perform?’

  ‘Thank you, no, Monsieur,’ Lestrade declined. ‘That is not quite the British way. We will wait for you here.’

  Goron shrugged and left the room, unbuttoning his flies.

  ‘Bon appetit,’ Lestrade called after him.

  What a tasteless remark, thought Bandicoot, but he was still recovering from the kick in the groin and thought he would let it pass.

  For a while, they waited, helping themselves to Goron’s champagne, then Lestrade slowly leaned forward and put his glass on the table.

  ‘Bandicoot,’ he murmured, ‘I want you to say nothing. Anything you do say may well be taken down and conceivably used against you. You see, we are about to be raided by the police.’ Even as they made for the door, the whole building shook with crashing glass and the scream of police whistles. Truncheons rained through the air as blue helmets appeared at every window. Naked girls ran everywhere, screaming and crying. Equally naked gentlemen, tugging on recalcitrant combinations and grabbing somebody else’s hats, canes and scarves, hurtled along the corridors and tumbled down the stairs. In an instant, the place was in uproar.