by M. J. Trow
‘No, Mrs Hope. My name is Lestrade; Inspector Lestrade, Scotland Yard.’
‘Well, I never!’ Mrs Hope climbed up beside him, leaving him to ponder all the way down the hill what it was she never did.
They reached, in the fullness of time, behind the plodding cows, a little thatched cottage. The sun dazzled on its whitewashed walls and the hollyhocks completed the picture of rustic idyll. Only the flagstone floors betrayed its dampness and the only sound within it was the rattle of a dying man.
‘Gransha,’ Mrs Hope called loudly to the bearded old gentleman propped up on his pillows. ‘There’s a gentleman to see you – a policeman.’
Two younger men, in leather gaiters and bowler hats, sleeves rolled up for the harvest, stepped aside at the word ‘policeman’, rather than at Lestrade’s entrance.
‘I am sorry to intrude,’ he said to them all, ‘but I must ask Mr Hope some questions. It may be a matter of life or death.’
‘Aye, his,’ one of the men mumbled.
‘This is Will,’ Mrs Hope said, as though by way of an apology. ‘Don’t mind him. Ask away. Oh, he’s gone again,’ and she leaned over, tenderly slapping the old man’s cheeks as he lay, pale and silent. ‘He goes like this now and again,’ she explained; ‘the falling sickness, see. ’E’ve always had it. ’Aven’t he, Will?’
‘Aye.’ Will was clearly a master of wit and repartee.
‘Can we help, Mr Lestrade?’ she asked.
But with that, the old man stirred.
‘Oh, ’e’s back with us,’ and she shook him gently, motioning Lestrade forward as she did so. ‘This is Inspector Lestrade, Gransha, from Scotland Yard. London, you know. ’E wants to ask you something.’
The old man muttered something incomprehensible, probably in the nasal Welsh dialect of the district which had so thrown Lestrade before.
‘I understand you were once in the Eleventh Hussars,’ said Lestrade. No response. He repeated himself, talking more loudly.
‘No need to shout, I’m not bloody deaf, mun,’ growled the elder Hope. ‘Yes, I was in the Eleventh Hussars. And I rode the Charge of the Light Brigade.’ He struggled upright in his bed at the remembrance of it. ‘And the Heavy Brigade too.’
Lestrade looked for confirmation at Mrs Hope.
‘Oh, yes, he rode in both Charges, all right. The only one to do it, mind.’
‘I was in the guardhouse, see,’ Henry Hope wheezed, ‘on the mornin’ of Balaclava. Well, seein’ all the activity goin’ on, and no guards about, I just walked out of the hut and grabbed the nearest ’orse. I felt a silly bugger, mind, the only Hussar in all them Heavies – and on a trooper of the Greys, isn’t it? But I galloped with them into the Russians. Too late to turn back, see, by then. Of course, when I got back, my boys were formed up for the ride and old Loy Smith would ’ave ’ad my guts if I ’adn’t been there. Afterwards, Lord Cardigan ’isself let me off my charge – I was asleep on duty – well, it was the fits, see,’ and he collapsed in a paroxysm of coughing. His family clucked round him and Lestrade recognised in the greyness of the face all the tell-tale signs. With less than his usual respect for death, he persisted.
‘Think back to the old days, Henry. To the Crimea.’
‘Leave ’im alone, mun!’ bellowed Will, reaching the heights of articulacy.
‘Don’t call Will on your father!’ barked the old man, with one of those magnificent pieces of Welsh rhetoric utterly lost on Lestrade. ‘I pawned my bloody medal years ago,’ old Henry moaned.
‘Do you remember Jim Hodges?’ Lestrade knelt beside the old man, his bowler awry, his hand gripping the old man’s.
‘Aye.’
‘What about Richard Brown? Joe Towers? Bill Bentley?’
Nothing.
‘Think, Henry, think,’ hissed Lestrade. And, with the desperation of a drowning man, ‘There’s not much time.’
Henry Hope looked up at Lestrade. His eyes widened in realisation of what the younger man meant.
‘Aye, I remember them all. All F Troop.’
‘They’re dead, Henry. Murdered. All of them. So’s Bill Lamb. Do you remember him?’
‘Murdered?’ The old man tried to sit up. Lestrade cradled his head.
‘Why, Henry, why? Why should all your old messmates die?’
‘Ask Miss Nightingale,’ he said. ‘The Lady of the Lamp we called her. She can tell you . . .’ He fell back.
‘Henry . . .’ Lestrade called to him.
‘Can’t you see he’s dying, mun?’ Will snarled.
Lestrade ignored him. ‘Henry, why? Why Miss Nightingale?’
‘Surgeon . . .’ gasped Henry.
‘’E wants a doctor. Where is the old bugger?’ Will snapped, whirling to the tiny window and back.
Henry shook his head. ‘Kill . . . Cro . . . Kill . . .’ and he faded away.
Lestrade let the cold hand fall and laid it gently across the old man’s chest.
Will and the other man loomed over him, threatening, bewildered at his intrusion and their sense of loss. It was Mrs Hope who intervened. ‘What’s done is done, Will,’ she said. ‘Twm. Find the doctor. Make yourself useful,’ and slowly the other man shambled out. She saw Lestrade to the waiting trap.
‘My condolences, ma’am,’ said the inspector. There was really nothing else he could say.
‘Was it any help, Inspector – what Gransha said?’
‘I don’t know, Mrs Hope. Perhaps only time will tell us that,’ and he drove away from the white-walled cottage, over the edge of Offa’s Dyke and away to the north-east.
THEY MET, AS ARRANGED, before the altar in the north-west transept. Two gentlemen, enjoying the sun of September and the cold stone of their mediaeval heritage in the double cruciform pile of Canterbury.
‘They found Becket’s bones in the crypt five years ago,’ Charlo informed Lestrade, as though a local antiquary was exhibiting his knowledge for a visiting tourist.
‘Foul play, I understand?’ Lestrade could not resist treading on professional ground, even when pretending to passers-by to be an innocent abroad.
Shop again, thought Charlo, but to be fair that was exactly why he had come to Canterbury.
‘I got the preserve you left with Bandicoot,’ Charlo whispered out of the corner of his mouth as they moved towards the crypt.
‘I would love to see the Huguenot Chapel,’ Lestrade said, for consumption of the passing public. ‘And?’ His voice fell to a whisper.
‘You were right. I had it analysed by a chemist friend of mine. Cyanide.’
‘It’s high time the Yard had laboratories of its own,’ was Lestrade’s comment. ‘What news of the Establishment?’
‘We’ve been ordered to take you in for questioning, sir, if you don’t attend your hearing today.’
‘You’ve got no nearer to Frost, then?’
‘You must remember, sir, I’m only a sergeant. I’m afraid the assistant commissioner doesn’t take me into his confidence. ‘
‘Point taken. What about Gregson?’
‘The gossip is he’s still convinced you tried to kill the Kaiser. Do you think he’s sane?’
‘Gregson or the Kaiser?’
‘Take your pick,’ said Charlo, as they descended into the crypt. It was dark here and colder than the nave.
‘How is Bandicoot?’ Lestrade asked.
‘Well, when I saw him.’
‘And Goron?’
‘Gone home. He didn’t appear to bear any grudge.’
‘Do you know if he said anything to Frost – about me, I mean?’
Charlo shrugged. ‘Why did you want me to meet you here, sir?’ The sergeant was positively shivering.
‘Well, I might have His Grace the Archbishop on my list of suspects, but in fact we have to look up some records. Coming?’
THE SHORT-SIGHTED YOUNG officer yawned and shook himself. He looked at the date on the calendar – September 26th. He crossed to the litter bin, stumbling over something, and began to sharpen pencils. T
he something he had tripped over, a floor-coloured Irish wolfhound, growled resignedly.
‘Come in.’ There was nothing wrong with the officer’s hearing and there had definitely been a knock at the door.
‘Inspector Athelney Jones, Scotland Yard, to see you, sir.’ The corporal saluted briskly. The officer adjusted his thick-lensed glasses and peered around the door, tripping over the dog again on his return to the desk. ‘Sorry, Paddy,’ he had the courtesy to apologise.
Lestrade entered. ‘I was looking for the adjutant of the Eleventh Hussars,’ he said.
‘You’ve found him.’ The officer extended a hand, missing Lestrade’s by several inches. ‘Charles Davenport . . . the Honourable.’
‘Athelney Jones, the Quite Ordinary. This is Sergeant Charlo.’ Lestrade caught the searching hand. Davenport waved vaguely at the wall somewhere in front of which he assumed the sergeant was standing.
‘I’m afraid you’ve missed the others,’ he said. ‘They’re all out.’
‘Out?’
‘Yes, in India, in fact. We have a skeleton staff here and I’m it. How can I help you?’ Davenport squinted through gritted teeth. Lestrade realised he’d have no problem with his subterfuge here. Athelney Jones could have been Davenport’s Siamese twin and he wouldn’t have recognised him.
‘I am making certain enquiries into the deaths of five men who were all formerly members of your regiment. I wonder if I might see your roster books from the eighteen-fifties?’
‘The fifties?’ The adjutant stroked his chin. He rang a number of items on his desk, first a paperweight, then a bronze statuette and finally a bell. The orderly reappeared.
‘Corporal, get me Ledger E5/21a, could you?’
‘Er . . .’ the corporal began.
‘Oh, God, it’s green with gold letters, eighteenth from the end, top shelf.’ The corporal left.
‘Why they give me secretarial staff who can’t read, I’ll never know. Cigar?’ and Davenport offered Lestrade a pencil.
‘No, thanks, I find the lead doesn’t agree with me.’
The corporal returned, miraculously, with the relevant book, and the adjutant began flicking through the pages. Perhaps it’s in Braille, thought Lestrade.
‘Yes, this is the one. May eighteen-fifty to January eighteen-sixty. You should find what you want in there.’
And Lestrade did. John Douglas, Lieutenant-Colonel, Lieutenant Alexander Dunn, with a pencilled VC alongside. But what really interested him was F Troop – Lamb, Bentley, Towers, Brown, Hope, they were all there. So were others, many others. He scribbled down the other names on a notepad.
‘Did all these serve in the Crimea?’ That, he reasoned, must be the link.
‘Those with a “C” by their name,’ said Davenport. That cut down the field a little.
‘Do you have any way of knowing whether these are still alive?’ asked Lestrade.
‘God, no,’ replied the adjutant. ‘Some of them would have been getting a pension. You’d have to go to the War Office for that.’
And the War Office meant London, where Lestrade would be recognised, checks made, verification in triplicate, and so on. Here in Canterbury a man on the run could still be reasonably safe. He needed the resources of the Yard, above all, its miles of shoe leather for this. And that was precisely where Charlo came in. A sudden thought occurred to him.
‘Will you be offended if I make an observation?’ he asked.
‘My dear fellow . . .’ said Davenport, obviously inviting him to feel free.
‘I couldn’t help noticing you were a little . . . er . . . short-sighted.’
Davenport bridled slightly. ‘I wouldn’t have said so,’ he said, petulantly.
‘Well, anyway, I was wondering if you had a spare pair of spectacles. I need them for another case I’m working on.’
‘A spectacle case?’ – the adjutant wished he hadn’t said it – ‘Well, yes, I have actually. For close work, you understand. But how could a pair of specs possibly help?’
‘I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to tell you that, sir.’ It was the sort of phrase Athelney Jones might use, but Lestrade wondered how long he might be at liberty at all.
‘Very well,’ said Davenport. ‘But I will get them back, won’t I? Could you sign here for them?’
Lestrade signed the bus ticket Davenport nudged towards him.
‘And here?’
And he likewise signed the serviette. ‘And finally here.’
The space on the desk between the blotter and ink stand accordingly received Jones’s signature. Davenport handed Lestrade a pair of spectacles the inspector assumed had been made from the bottoms of bottles.
‘Let me see you to the door,’ said Davenport.
‘No thanks, I can manage,’ said Lestrade and tripped head-long over the wolfhound, which merely raised its head.
‘Perhaps you ought to put those on, old chap!’ chuckled Davenport. Lestrade smiled weakly and left, Charlo coughing again in his wake.
LESTRADE SENT A TELEGRAM to Mrs Manchester that day from Canterbury. Stay with friends. Stop. Police watching house. Stop. Trust me. Stop. Sholto. Stop. Then he shaved off his beloved moustache, combed his hair in the centre and travelled to London. Money was running out. So was time. It was September 26th, the date, Charlo had told him, of his hearing, but he would not be there. He was alarmed to find his face staring back at him from the front page of the Police Gazette. But it wasn’t a very good likeness and with the changes he had wrought and particularly wearing Davenport’s glasses, he ought to be all right. Just keep away from police stations and don’t accept sweets from strangers.
HE AND CHARLO PARTED company at Waterloo. It was not fair to the sergeant to be in Lestrade’s company in London. After all, he had been expressly ordered to break with the man. His very career was at stake.
‘I can’t order you to do this, Hector,’ said Lestrade. ‘I can’t really even ask it . . .’
‘Don’t worry, sir. I won’t be far away,’ and the sergeant wrapped his muffler against the September winds and was lost in the crowd.
‘INSPECTOR JONES?’ ASKED the old lady in the wheelchair.
‘Miss Nightingale.’ Lestrade shook the limp, outstretched hand.
‘I don’t get many visits from Scotland Yard. How can I help you?’
‘The Crimea, ma’am.’
‘Ah, yes,’ she smiled. ‘Always the Crimea. Sometimes, Inspector, I can see it still. Even after all these years, the hospital at Scutari. The dirt. The smell. You know, we found a dead horse blocking the drains! And the men, boys, many of them. I still see their faces, too. That’s the worst of it.’
‘In particular, I wanted to know if you remembered any names. Joe Towers?’
Nothing.
And nothing for the others who had died.
‘What about Henry Hope?’ Lestrade ventured, since it was he who had mentioned Miss Nightingale in the first place.
‘Oh, yes, now I do remember him. A simple, passionate Welshman. He had petit mal, I believe. He was with us for two months or so, that would have been the spring of ’fifty-five.’
‘When he was under your care, particularly when he was delirious, did he say anything . . . odd?’
‘When men are delirious, Inspector, they often say odd things. I . . . can’t recall anything particular about Hope.’
‘What about the regimental surgeons, ma’am, of the Eleventh Hussars, I mean?’
‘Regimental surgeons were our greatest obstacle in the Crimea, Inspector Jones. I don’t hold with the new feminism of today, but by Jove we needed it in the fifties. What could I, a mere woman, they used to say, know about medicine? How could I help when they could not? It was war and war was bloody. There was no changing that. The Eleventh, no, I don’t suppose they were any better or worse than the others. Most regimental surgeons stayed with their regiments. One or two of them crossed to Scutari.’
‘The regiment’s records do not appear to show all their names,’ sai
d Lestrade.
‘Ah, Inspector. Something else I learned about men, army men that is, is that then, medical men, chaplains, veterinary officers, all were regarded as inferior. I do remember one surgeon of the Eleventh come to mention it, Henry Wilkin. He was a good doctor, but he longed to be a fighting officer. Regiments didn’t even give their surgeon a horse, or a military burial. I have always found that sad. That a man who made passing as easy as he could for a soldier should be denied full membership, as it were, when his turn came.’
‘Do you remember other surgeons, ma’am? Perhaps one whose name begins with the letters C-r-o?’
‘C-r-o? Why, yes, I believe you must be referring to John Crosse. And he’s not far from us here. For several years now he has been the medical officer at the Royal Military Asylum, Chelsea.’
THE RABBI IZZLEBIT took rooms in Sussex Gardens. He shuffled as he walked, head bent down, as though to peer over the thick-lensed glasses that he wore. He was visiting London from York, or so he told the landlord and anyone else who cared to ask. His black coat was shabby in the extreme and his greasy black ringlets hung sparsely over his hunched shoulders. On the first full day of his stay, he took an omnibus and train to Croydon, to Sanderstead Road, where he knocked vigorously on the door of Number 20.
The burly ex-policeman was not pleased to see him. ‘Look, I don’t want to be unpleasant,’ he said, ‘but I don’t give money away to charities, least of all yours.’
‘But charity begins at home, Beastie, my dear,’ lisped the rabbi.
‘Who are you?’ Beastie demanded.
‘Sholto Lestrade, you idiot. Let me in, for the love of Allah. Or am I mixing my religions?’
Safe inside the portals of Number 20, Lestrade took off the broad-brimmed hat and ringlet wig and peeled off the false beard and moustache. Over a steaming and welcome plate of tripe and onions, Lestrade told Beeson all – or nearly all – that had occurred since Joe Towers had lain on the very table off which they now ate.
‘I heard you was on the run, sir. I couldn’t believe it. What’s going on?’
