by M. J. Trow
‘I know that,’ said Lestrade.
‘Then why . . . ?’ Pennington began.
‘I checked at the box office before the show . . . er . . . performance started. Being up there on stage before hundreds of people each night is quite an alibi, Mr Pennington. And I doubt if even you are actor enough to be in two places at once.’
‘Well,’ sighed Pennington. ‘That’s a relief!’
‘The fact remains,’ Lestrade went on, ‘that somebody killed those men. If it wasn’t you, I must find out who it was.’
Pennington was stumped.
‘Does the phrase “golden dawn” mean anything to you?’ He clutched at meaningless straws.
Pennington thought for a moment, then shrugged.
‘I’m afraid not,’ he said. A series of cheers from the adjoining room brought him back to the present. ‘Chief Inspector, Henry is leaving for an American tour tomorrow, attempting to take some culture to those woefully callow people. I really must bid him bon voyage.’
‘Of course,’ Lestrade was no further forward.
‘Chief Inspector. Might I have a word?’ Stoker closed the door as Pennington left. The manager crossed the floor to the oil lamp. ‘I pride myself on being an intelligent man,’ he said. ‘I have a Master of Arts degree from Trinity College, Dublin. I am Sometime Registrar of Petty Sessions at Dublin Castle. I could forge a soup tureen from my silver medals for History. And I write. Oh, nothing you’ve read, I don’t suppose. The Snakes’ Pass?’
Lestrade shook his head.
‘No, I didn’t think so. Well, we writers keep irons in the fire, Chief Inspector. I’m working on various things now. But there is one work, one work of a lifetime which every writer hopes to complete. I have that work in mind now.’
‘An historical romance?’ Lestrade was proud of that conclusion.
‘Not exactly. Are you familiar with Styria?’
‘I don’t go to the theatre much, Mr Stoker,’ Lestrade confessed.
‘Styria isn’t a play, Chief Inspector,’ said Stoker patiently; ‘it’s a place. Transylvania? Central Europe? Well, I’ve been there. And I know strange and terrible things.’
Lestrade felt the hairs on the back of his neck crawl. If Stoker wrote as he spoke there would be no doubt of the best-selling qualities of his book.
‘No doubt you found Shakespeare’s witches tonight a little false. Funny even?’
‘Well, I wouldn’t have wanted to be the one to say so,’ said Lestrade.
‘When Shakespeare wrote that, he wrote in deadly earnest. Witches were real to him. The powers of darkness were real.’
‘But wasn’t that . . . some time ago?’ Lestrade was hazy on these matters.
‘Do you think, Mr Abberline, because we live in the age of the electric light and the horseless carriage – in the age of the train – that those powers are no more? Go to Styria, Chief Inspector. Ask them about Vlad Ţepeş, the Impaler. I tell you, Chief Inspector, if we put Macbeth on in Budapest, the people would riot.’
Having seen Irving, I’m surprised they didn’t here, thought Lestrade, though it may have been out of place to say so.
‘Forgive me, Mr Stoker, but I don’t see what this has to do with the murders of members of the Light Brigade.’
Stoker faced Lestrade over the oil lamp, his smooth features suddenly dark, haunted.
‘You mentioned “golden dawn” earlier. Why was that?’
‘It was a phrase I heard. From another ex-Hussar. Do you know it?’
Stoker hesitated. ‘I know of it.’
‘What is it?’ Lestrade could not bear the silence.
‘It is evil, Chief Inspector. Evil incarnate.’
‘But . . .’
‘Don’t press me further.’ Stoker’s hand shot out. ‘I don’t know details, man. But this much I do know. If it’s the golden dawn you’re after, look to yourself.’
THE ROYAL HOSPITAL at Chelsea was one of those buildings with which Lestrade had grown up. Founded in Good King Charles’ golden days, the long sweep of its red brick buildings was a familiar sight to all – the office clerks going about their daily business, the Bohemian artists wandering in varying degrees of inspiration up and down the King’s Road. Lestrade entered its portals as Chief Inspector Abberline, praying that the real one was not known to the gatekeeper, or anyone else with whom he might come in contact that morning. On his way up the labyrinthine stairs, he passed a number of proud old soldiers, doddering around in their blue winter uniforms. The morning was crisp, with one of the first frosts after the long summer. Even indoors, the standards hung stiff and starched, weighty with their battle honours on the old canvas.
The attendant hurried on into the bowels of the building, turning now left, now right. At an ominously padded door he stopped, tapped sharply three times. A grille high in the studded woodwork slid back with a grating sound reminiscent of the portals of Hell. Or at least, the Openshaw Workhouse, Manchester.
‘Visitor for Dr Crosse.’
The door swung back and the next attendant took Lestrade into an ante-room. He was asked to wait. He was not alone. Three men sat at points around the room, all of them dressed in disreputable nightshirts. One stared ahead, unblinking. Another rocked backwards and forwards. A third was mumbling to himself.
‘What are you here for?’ the mumbler suddenly asked Lestrade.
‘To see Dr Crosse,’ he answered.
The man’s eyes widened in terror. ‘Him?’ he gibbered. The rocker turned in his chair, attempting to climb the wall, sobbing quietly and burying his head in his arms. The starer stared on. He had not moved, not blinked.
‘You see how they love me?’ A voice brought Lestrade back to reality. In the doorway stood an elderly man in a white coat, for all his years still erect and fit-looking. He motioned Lestrade to enter his office, then quietly shut the door.
‘John Burton St Croix Crosse,’ he said, extending a hand. On the telephone you said you had to see me urgently.’
‘That is correct, Doctor.’ Lestrade sat down. ‘When I heard you were medical officer of the Royal Military Asylum, I assumed that—’
‘That I patched up abrasions and prescribed for gout? No, Chief Inspector, I deal with wounds of the mind. Look at this.’ Crosse dragged a large glass jar into the centre of his desk. Floating in its semi-opaque contents was a human brain. ‘You know what this is?’
‘I’ve seen a few in my time. Or what was left of them,’ said Lestrade.
‘This particular one is rather special. It belonged to the poisoner, Dr Neil Cream.’
Lestrade was interested. Why should Dr Crosse find a poisoner’s brain interesting?
‘I knew him,’ said Lestrade
Crosse looked at him. ‘Alas, poor Yorick, eh?’
Lestrade didn’t follow that.
‘Then you will know better than I,’ Crosse said, ‘that this man was hanged in November last for the murder by strychnine of several prostitutes. Nux vomica, gelatine capsules and some bottles of strychnine were found at his home. Not very careful, was he? I look at this sometimes,’ he said, indicating the brain, ‘wondering what it is about the brain that makes a man a murderer. There is a theory, of course, that physical deformity deranges men. Oh, I know phrenology is old hat now, but to an old stager like me, it still has its appeal. You will know that some of the most murderous monsters in history have been deformed. Genghis Khan. Richard III. Cream of course was cross-eyed. His optician swore this was the cause of his crimes.’
‘Interested in poisons, are you, Doctor?’ Lestrade fished.
‘No more than the next man.’ Crosse shrugged and slid the brain to one side. ‘But I digress. What can I do for you?’
‘You were once a surgeon with the Eleventh Hussars,’ Lestrade asserted.
Crosse chuckled. ‘In my dim and distant past,’ he said. ‘I was born in the year of Waterloo, Chief Inspector. And my memory goes back a long way. Don’t tell me someone has stolen the regimental plate?’
‘How did they die?’ Crosse asked. ‘They must all have been old men.’
‘They were,’ answered Lestrade; ‘but not by natural causes. One was suffocated, the others poisoned.’
Crosse looked at the swimming brain. ‘Ah, perhaps it’s Cream reaching from the grave?’
‘What do you know of aconite, Doctor?’
‘Aconite,’ Crosse repeated. ‘Never heard of it.’
‘But you are familiar with strychnine?’
‘Of course. Is aconite a poison too?’
Lestrade sensed he could fence all day with this man. Old as he was, his mind was as sharp as a razor, honed no doubt in countless battles of wits with half-wits, whom Lestrade had learned over the years never to underestimate.
‘I understand there is a fund for survivors of the Light Brigade,’ Lestrade changed tack.
‘Indeed there is. I have the honour to be in charge of it.’
‘How much money are we talking about?’
‘I don’t believe I have to tell you that, Chief Inspector.’
‘No, sir, you don’t. But please believe me when I say it may be fundamental to my enquiries. That only with that information may I prevent more deaths.’
Crosse ruminated for a while, then crossed to a safe tucked in a corner. He pulled out a sheaf of papers and riffled through them.
‘At the last count, two hundred and sixteen pounds, sixteen shillings and fourpence,’ he said. Hardly a fortune, thought Lestrade. Another wall reared up as he realised financial gain as a motive fluttered out of the window. Surgeon Crosse’s pension alone would be worth more than that. Still, he had better leave no stone unturned.
‘And where does the money come from?’ he asked.
‘Oh, various sources. Bequests. Donations from various individuals, ex-officers, mostly. It doesn’t go far, I’m afraid. Perhaps one day a philanthropist will come along and really provide for these men. I feel sorry for them. However,’ he grew stern, ‘there are people who are prepared to go to extraordinary lengths to be deemed eligible for a share.’
‘Indeed?’ said Lestrade, sniffing a suspect.
‘Unprofessional though it is, I shall name names. Robert Davies, formerly sergeant, Eleventh Hussars, now honorary lieutenant-colonel, has had the bare-faced effrontery to ask for a share. I ask you, lieutenant-colonel! The man of course was promoted officer without purchase – no tone at all!’
‘Do you remember a soldier in the Eleventh named Hope?’
‘Why, yes I do. Epileptic. Interesting condition. Always falling asleep all over the place. Why?’
‘He remembers you,’ answered Lestrade.
‘That’s nice.’
‘Have you heard the phrase “golden dawn”?’ Lestrade tried another new tack.
Crosse looked levelly at Lestrade. ‘Yes, Chief Inspector, I have.’
‘What does it mean?’ Lestrade sensed the electricity in the air.
‘I’m not sure,’ Crosse said. ‘A former patient of mine was obsessed with it.’
‘Go on,’ said Lestrade.
‘Come with me,’ said Crosse and led the inspector out of the double windows into a quiet courtyard overhung with ivy and privet. The dew was still on the grass and as they walked beneath an archway, they emerged into a small graveyard. Crosse pointed out a grave, complete with gleaming marble headstone. It read ‘In loving memory of Donald Crowley, Surgeon, Eleventh Hussars 1820–1893’.
‘This was the patient to whom I was referring,’ said Crosse.
‘Did he serve in the Crimea?’ asked Lestrade.
‘Oh yes. There were five of us. And Gloag, the vet.’
‘May I have the names of the others?’ Lestrade whipped out his trusty notepad.
‘Er . . . oh, God . . . Wilkin. Henry Wilkin.’ Lestrade knew he was dead. ‘Malcolm Ancell. He died at Kadikoy in ’fifty-five.’
Lestrade wrote the name anyway.
‘Ormsby Miller. Funnily enough, I read about him only the other day. He’s high sheriff for Galway now.’ Crosse tapped with his rattan cane on the headstone. ‘And poor old Crowley here.’
‘You said he was a patient of yours
‘Yes, on and off for nearly twenty years. More or less since I’ve been here.’
‘Did he . . . er . . . live in?’
‘Towards the end, yes. He was . . . not fit to be by himself.’
‘And the golden dawn?’
‘It was some sort of organisation, I think. He always spoke of it in awe, but never in detail. I don’t hold with this hypnosis nonsense, Chief Inspector. My patients only tell me what they want to tell me.’
‘An organisation,’ mused Lestrade. He had sensed conspiracy all along. Ever since he had been rattling across Norfolk with Bradstreet after the Bentley investigation. The pieces of the jigsaw were starting to fit.
‘The odd thing about Crowley,’ Crosse went on, ‘was that he rode the Charge of the Light Brigade. So did Wilkin, mind. But he longed for action. Wrong temperament for a doctor, really. I never took Crowley for that type, but still. He was captured by the Russians. We thought he was dead. Then, oh, years later, he turned up in England. That would be about eighteen-seventy. He’d lost his memory. With care and the love of a good woman we nursed him back to health.’
‘Why is he buried here?’
‘This was the nearest he had to a home recently. His wife died some years ago.’
‘We were speaking of Henry Hope earlier,’ said Lestrade. ‘He died last month. I was with him. He said two things I couldn’t understand. “Kill” and “Cro . . .” I took “Kill” to mean John Kilvert, also of the Eleventh. And “Cro . . .” I took to be you, but what if I was wrong? What if Hope was referring to Crowley? And why should he want to kill him?’
Crosse’s mood changed suddenly. ‘Chief Inspector, I have given you all the help I can. As you saw earlier, I have patients to treat. Go through that door. It will take you to the street. Goodbye.’
‘One more thing.’ Lestrade stopped him. ‘The names you mentioned, your fellow surgeons of the Eleventh. I recognised all those names. Except one. Why should someone have removed Crowley’s name from the muster-roll?’
‘I really couldn’t say, Chief Inspector,’ and he vanished through the archway.
Lestrade looked down at the grave. He crouched, sifting the marble chippings with his hand. For a while he ruminated on the transient nature of man. Then he opened the door and walked into the street.
Except that it wasn’t the street. Instead, he found himself standing in a long dark corridor. After the sun in the courtyard, the darkness was total. He must have taken the wrong door. He turned, but the door was shut tight. He rattled the lock. It did not give. He heard something behind him. A rasping sigh. He was not alone. He turned to face the darkness, feeling the lock in the small of his back. As his eyes accustomed themselves to the dark, he made out figures, rising up from benches on both sides of the corridor. He heard the rattle and slither of chains.
‘Who’s there?’ he called.
A mocking laugh answered him. Then another.
‘Nobody here,’ a hollow voice said. ‘Nobody at all.’ He felt hard steel jam into his throat and a powerful force spun him round and down. He was on his knees facing the door, a steel chain round his neck.
A ragged figure with mad, staring eyes appeared before him, giggling hysterically. In the darkness, Lestrade saw his predicament. There were five figures, perhaps six, with enough chain between them to armour all the ironclads in the Navy. The pressure on Lestrade’s throat grew greater and in a moment of inspiration – or was it panic? – he fought his way upright and gasped out the opening words of a ditty which might have some effect on these lunatics.
And one by one, they took up the chorus. A mumble at first, but Lestrade stood to attention, his hands pinned to his sides, unable to reach for his trusty brass knuckles, singing for all he was worth. It wasn’t exactly Marie Lloyd; after all, Lestrade’s voice had never been trained and he did have iron links wrapped around his throat. The mumble rose to a crescendo and one by one the sad ex-soldiers, stirred by their memories, came to attention and the grip relaxed on his neck.
They were still singing and he was by no means sure how many verses there were to go before they became bored and returned to their previous amusement. As it was, he was already at the ‘la, la, la’ stage. So he bolted forward, the chain bruising his neck as he lunged and threw himself bodily at the door. It gave under his weight and he rolled into the sunshine. Behind him he was aware of a whip cracking and cries of ‘Get back’. By the time he had knelt upright, the door was back in place and all trace of his would-be attackers was gone. Suddenly, he was aware of a pair of blue uniform trousers inches from his head, above a pair of large, black hobnailed boots. He didn’t really have to look up to know he was in the presence of a constable of the Metropolitan Police. The voice confirmed it.
‘Hello, hello, hello.’
❖ Balaclava Revisited ❖
T
hey detained Lestrade for an hour or two at Bow Street where he gave his name as Chief Inspector Abberline. ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ the constable had said, as though it were quite permissible for chief inspectors of the Yard to be found, bruised and with a dislocated shoulder, on Chelsea pavements. ‘I didn’t recognise you.’
I’m not surprised, thought Lestrade; but thank God for the lack of observation of the copper on his beat. He had spent a further couple of hours being generally made to feel a lot less comfortable by a doctor and nurses at St Thomas’s Hospital. The doctor, it is true, found Lestrade’s injuries a trifle inconsistent with being run over by a dray, which was the injured man’s story. But then Lestrade reasoned, he had to keep his stories to police and medical authorities the same or awkward questions might be asked. In any case, who would have believed him had he said he had narrowly escaped a beating in a dark corridor full of homicidal lunatics and had damaged himself in a bid to escape? No, the runaway dray it had to be.
