Lestrade and the Brigade

by M. J. Trow

  ‘Good God, sir, you look terrible,’ was Ben Beeson’s comment as Lestrade walked stiffly over his portal. ‘How’s the other fella?’

  ‘Chained to a wall in Chelsea,’ Lestrade croaked, edging to a chair. ‘How I got to Croydon, I shall never know.’

  ‘What happened?’

  And the whole story came out.

  Beeson sat motionless, with his hands clasped around a mug of steaming tea. Lestrade’s hands did likewise around his.

  ‘So you’ve got him,’ said Beeson. ‘You’ve avenged Joe Towers.’

  ‘Not yet,’ said Lestrade. ‘Surgeon Crosse is still at large. Anyway, I don’t think it’s quite as simple as that.’

  ‘I don’t follow you, sir.’

  ‘Whatever the golden dawn is, Beastie, it’s made up of more than one man. John Kilvert, Bram Stoker, John Crosse, they all spoke of it as being something evil. Something. Not someone. Actually, John Kilvert didn’t talk about it at all, but he was a frightened man. The golden dawn isn’t just Crowley. Besides, when Joe died, Crowley had been in his grave a week. I checked. What do you remember about him, this Crowley?’

  ‘Not much. He joined the regiment late. We were already at Balaclava, I seem to remember. He kept to hisself, mostly. Then he rode the Charge and didn’t answer the roll-call.’

  ‘Crosse thought it odd that he should have ridden in the Charge at all. Why?’

  ‘Well, medical men usually keep to the rear in action, sir, waiting to pick up the pieces afterwards, so to speak. But Surgeon Wilkin rode the Charge. No reason why Crowley shouldn’t. Good God!’

  ‘What’s the matter?’ asked Lestrade.

  ‘Oh, it’s nothing probably. Only I’ve just remembered it. You bringing up Crowley again after all these years. It was the morning of the Charge. I was sitting my horse with old John Buckton. He was in F Troop, come to think of it. Strange you didn’t mention him on your list.’

  ‘Somebody got to that list, Beastie. Crowley’s name wasn’t on it either.’

  ‘Well, anyway, John was going to tell me somethin’ about Crowley. Somethin’ I’d never have believed, ’e said.’

  ‘What?’ Lestrade threatened to dislocate his shoulder all over again.

  ‘I dunno.’

  Lestrade flopped back in the chair.

  ‘That’s when the galloper came with the orders and we all had to shift.’

  ‘This Buckton. Is he still alive?’

  ‘I dunno. I last saw him at the Annual Dinner three years ago.’

  ‘Will he be at this one, do you think?’

  ‘It’s possible. I haven’t been since ’ninety.’

  ‘You said you could get me in,’ said Lestrade.

  The ex-sergeant’s face fell. ‘I may have been a little hasty there, sir. The dinner is for members of the Light Brigade only.’

  Lestrade fell silent. Painfully, he got to his feet and paced the kitchen. The sight of his arm in its sling in the kitchen mirror made him turn.

  ‘Beastie, do you think I resemble, in the remotest sense, Joe Towers?’

  Beeson got up and walked over to him. Lestrade saw the old copper’s disbelieving face in the mirror.

  ‘Not even in the remotest sense, sir,’ he said.

  ‘Come on, Beastie. In a bad light, old men’s eyes. Most of them won’t have seen him for years, will they?’

  ‘No, I suppose not,’ Beeson said. ‘In fact, Joe hadn’t been to a Dinner since the first, back in ’seventy-five. But you’re . . .’

  ‘Yes, I know. Thirty years younger! But with some of this,’ he held up a greasy stick, ‘I might just get away with it.’

  ‘What’s that, sir?’

  ‘A spot of five and nine, Beastie. Theatrical make-up. I used it as Rabbi Izzlebit. And when I was at the Lyceum recently, I liberated a little more. A man never knows when a little discreet make-up is going to come in handy.’

  Beeson took the inspector’s word for it.

  ‘What’s the date?’ Lestrade asked.

  ‘Er . . . the twenty-third, I think.’

  ‘That gives us two days before the dinner.’

  ‘That’s right, sir. It’s the day after tomorrow.’

  ‘Right, Beastie, I’ve got to get there. To get in amongst your old mess mates of the Light Brigade. To talk to John Buckton, if he’s there. The answer’s there somewhere, damn it. Mind if I get my head down until then, for old times’ sake?’

  ‘Lord love you, sir. You only got into all this on my account. I owe you that at least.’

  Lestrade settled into the chair again, nursing his aching arm. ‘Beastie, have a butcher’s out of that window, will you? I’ve had the strangest feeling since I left the Lyceum that I’ve been followed.’

  ‘Perhaps they want their make-up back,’ grunted the ex-copper, flicking aside the nets. ‘Wait a minute.’ Lestrade struggled upright. ‘There is somebody there. Youngish bloke, dark hair, wearing a grey overcoat.

  By the time Lestrade got to the window the figure had vanished.

  ‘Shall I go after him, sir?’

  ‘No, Beastie. Let him go. Whoever it was, I daresay we’ll see him again.’

  ‘YOU’RE GOING TO THE dinner, sir?’ Charlo’s consumptive croak was worse than ever. ‘Is that wise?’

  ‘Good God, man.’ Lestrade was past all that. ‘There comes a time when wisdom follows other things. Like survival. There’s a maniac trying to kill what’s left of F Troop, Sergeant.’

  ‘And he’s trying to kill you, sir. The breakfast at the Grand? The Chelsea incident? I’ve got to admit, sir. I wish you’d give it up.’

  ‘But we’re so close, Hector. After all these months, we’re nearly there. Would you have me stop now?’

  Charlo leaned back in his chair. ‘I can’t help any more, Inspector. My doctor says I must rest. Have a long break. I’ve seen Frost. He’s given me a month’s leave.’ He extended a hand.

  Lestrade rose painfully and took it.

  ‘Hector,’ he said. ‘You’ve risked a lot for me. I want you to know – whatever happens – I appreciate it.’

  OCTOBER 25TH, A WEDNESDAY, dawned hard and cold.

  ‘What were you doing thirty-nine years ago this morning, Beastie?’ Lestrade asked.

  Beeson fell silent for a moment, doing some mental arithmetic. Only his frown, his silently moving lips and his wildly twitching fingers bore witness to the exertion it was causing. He smiled at the end of his calculations. ‘Shivering,’ he said. ‘We’d stood to since five o’clock. Saddled and waiting. My fingers were so numb I could barely work the leather. I remember we had no breakfast. Some of the officers had boiled eggs. We didn’t even get our rum ration that day. Wait a minute,’ and he dashed into another room. Back he came with an old uniform of the Eleventh Hussars, the colours still bright, the yellow cord still intact on the jacket and the brass buttons shining.

  ‘I gave mine up when I transferred to the lancers,’ he said. ‘This was Joe’s. I don’t think he’d mind if you wore it tonight. Not if it helps get his killer, anyhow.’

  ‘Thanks, Ben.’ Lestrade smiled.

  ‘Chances are you’ll get into it. Oh, and this,’ and he pulled out a small box. ‘Joe always kept it polished. As I have kept mine,’ and he flicked the lid to show a silver medal with a pale blue ribbon and on it the clasps for Sebastopol, Inkerman and Balaclava.

  So Lestrade began another subterfuge. In the past weeks he had been Athelney Jones, Chief Inspector Abberline, the Rabbi Izzlebit. He was fast forgetting his real name. And now he was Joseph Towers, deceased, former private, Eleventh Prince Albert’s Own Hussars.

  The two men walked slowly into St James’s Restaurant a little after seven o’clock. Beeson looked as smart as his police pension would allow in formal grey suit and bowler hat, his Crimean medal sported proudly on his lapel. Lestrade was wearing the braided jacket and crimson overalls of Joe Towers. They were just a little snug. His hair, beneath the crimson forage cap, had been clipped short on top and greyed with po
wder and greasepaint. Lestrade had etched in wrinkles and lines where he could, ignoring Beeson’s constant clicks of the tongue and shakings of the head. He would have to do.

  The foyer was already full of old men getting plastered. What was still a sacred trust to many of them was also an excuse for a knees-up, although it was very debatable how far up any of these knees would come. Lestrade counted twenty-five, including Beeson. He was one of five in uniform, although he couldn’t help noticing that the others had been let out considerably here and there to accommodate advancing years and advancing girths. And patched here and there with the passage of time. Only medals and eyes were bright. And hearts were great.

  He was relieved there was nobody else in the Eleventh uniform. If his limited knowledge served him correctly, one was from the Seventeenth Lancers, two more from the Fourth Light Dragoons as they then were and one from the Eighth Hussars. It suddenly dawned on him, however, that had any of his co-banqueteers been in his ‘old’ regimentals Lestrade would have been able to avoid them so as to avert any awkward questions about his miraculous change in appearance. As it was, any one of the bowler- or top-hatted gentlemen might suddenly say ‘Who the hell are you?’

  ‘Who the hell are you?’ The bombshell burst behind him. He opened his mouth to attempt an answer.

  ‘Ben Beeson, Eleventh Hussars,’ his companion answered.

  ‘Of course,’ beamed the other man. ‘I didn’t recognise you. You’ve put on some weight. Job Allwood, Thirteenth Lights.’

  ‘How are you?’ Beeson returned the handshake. ‘Er . . . you remember Joe Towers?’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ beamed Allwood. ‘Good to see you again, Joe. My God, can you still get into your old uniform? The years have been kind.’

  Let’s hope they go on being so, thought Lestrade.

  ‘Well, well.’ Beeson moved on like a shield before the doubly vulnerable Lestrade. ‘Jim Glanister. How are you Jim?’

  ‘Not bad,’ slurped the other, the left corner of his lip dragging to reveal a row of brown, uneven teeth. ‘I can’t complain.’

  ‘Remember Joe Towers, F Troop?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ Glanister was having serious salivary problems as he shook Lestrade’s hand. ‘That’s funny, I remembered you being taller.’

  ‘I haven’t been well,’ ventured Lestrade.

  ‘You don’t look well, either,’ another man chipped in.

  Lestrade turned to face John Kilvert, socially superior as always in his astrakhan collar. Kilvert’s smile vanished.

  ‘Haven’t we met recently . . .?’ he said. Lestrade glanced at Beeson for support. None was forthcoming.

  ‘Not since the Crimea,’ said Lestrade, hoping he had said the right thing.

  ‘Oh,’ was Kilvert’s limp and dissatisfied rejoinder. And the gong sounded to summon them to dinner. It was a fine spread. Roast goose with all the trimmings. Unfortunately, Lestrade found himself next to Glanister and spent most of the meal watching items of food miss the old man’s mouth altogether, slithering down his left arm.

  ‘Pistol ball at point-blank range,’ Beeson whispered in Lestrade’s other ear, as though to explain Glanister’s problems.

  ‘Time heals all wounds,’ Glanister said at some point during the conversation. Not very well, thought Lestrade, flicking cream off his sleeve.

  ‘Gentlemen, pray silence for the regimental tunes,’ a major-domo barked from a corner. The good-natured banter stopped as one by one the regiments’ marches played. As the band struck up, knots of men stood here and there at the sound of their own regiment’s calls. Beeson tugged Lestrade to his feet at the commencement of ‘Coburg’, the slow march of the Eleventh. Lestrade hoped his delayed reaction was explained by his age and his recent fall.

  Across the room from them, away from the Eleventh men, a figure stood alone while Coburg played. He had arrived late and was not in time to take his place alongside his old messmates.

  ‘John Buckton,’ hissed Beeson from the corner of his mouth, nodding in his direction. Something fell from Glanister’s mouth too, but Lestrade didn’t care to notice what.

  When the Tunes of Glory were done and the hand-kerchieves put away for another year, the major-domo rose again.

  ‘Gentlemen, pray silence for His Excellency the Quartermaster-General, Sir Evelyn Wood, VC, GCB.’

  ‘And bar!’ shouted Sir Evelyn, one of the halest men there, though as old as any of them. ‘Which way is it?’ The veterans broke into cheers and applause. ‘Gentlemen, I will not keep you long. I am here tonight as your guest of honour. Some of you may think me a fraud.’ Cries of ‘No,’ ‘Shame,’ and ‘Resign.’ Wood held up his hand. ‘But I am here for two reasons. I had the distinction many years ago of sharing quarters in the Sepoy Mutiny with a fine and gallant gentleman, now, alas, deceased, Colonel Morris of the Seventeenth Lancers.’ Cheers from the men of the Seventeenth. ‘And I am proud to say that I was greatly honoured to serve with him and some of you in that fine regiment. Shortly after the Crimea, I joined the Thirteenth Light Dragoons’ – the veterans of that regiment whistled and stamped – ‘and no more loyal and impressive body of men could be found anywhere.’ Applause.

  Get on with it, thought Lestrade. If we are going to have Sir Evelyn’s life story, I’ll never get across to Buckton.

  ‘Some thirty-nine years ago tonight, gentlemen, I was a midshipman in the Royal Navy. And on my ship I heard of what was described as “a short, sharp, cavalry action”.’ Guffaws and poundings on the table. Beeson was working things out on his fingers again. ‘I think in all my years of service I have never heard of an engagement described with such woeful inadequacy.’ More poundings. ‘Gentlemen, I can only misquote the late Poet Laureate, Lord Alfred Tennyson, and say to you, men of the Light Brigade, “When can your glory fade?”’

  The rapturous applause from so small a group of men promised to bring the chandeliers down. Even Lestrade found himself joining in in full measure, physically painful though it was to him. Toasts to Her Majesty, to Sir Evelyn, to the commanders of the various regiments at Balaclava, all now dead, followed.

  Then the major-domo announced ‘Coffee and brandy, gentlemen, by courtesy of Sir Evelyn Wood.’ Poundings on the tables greeted this not altogether unexpected privilege. Cigars appeared from leather cases. Kilvert, not for the first time that evening, studied Lestrade closely through wreaths of smoke. Lestrade himself was about to make a move to contact Buckton, when there was a resounding crash in the passageway leading to the banqueting room. A white-coated waiter burst in, rushing in Buckton’s direction. ‘Don’t drink the coffee!’ he screamed as the man had the cup poised at his lips. Even as he reached Buckton, a shot rang out and a scarlet gash appeared in the centre of the waiter’s back. In the seconds of panic that followed, a figure stood in the shadows, aiming his pistol first at Buckton, who ducked under the table, then at the knot of Eleventh men around Lestrade. The first bullet whistled past Beeson’s head. A second shattered the coffee cup between Lestrade and Glanister. The latter crumpled, though unhit, clutching his jaw and moaning, ‘Not again!’

  Lestrade wasn’t waiting for the next shot. Needs must when the devil drives and he stood up, hurling over the table. He and Beeson clambered over it as the others crouched, bewildered and confused, in the smoke.

  ‘Our friend isn’t much of a shot, thank God,’ said Lestrade. He reached the fallen waiter and turned him over. ‘Good God,’ he said, recognising under the slicked-down hair the mournful, haunted face of the Bounder, with whom he had absconded from Openshaw Workhouse, an eternity ago. ‘He’s still alive, Beeson. Look after him.’

  ‘I’m coming with you, sir.’ All pretence at his being Joe Towers had gone.

  ‘No, no. This one’s mine,’ and Lestrade dashed for the door. ‘Sir Evelyn, I wonder if I might use your sword for a moment?’

  The general, who had not moved from his seat during all the shooting now stood up and drew the ivory-hilted weapon from its scabbard. ‘My dear fellow, be my
guest,’ and called after him, ‘Remember the “Rear Protect”, private,’ as Lestrade disappeared down the darkened corridor.

  ‘Was it the Russians?’ asked Glanister, emerging from the tablecloth. Someone patted him calmingly on the head.

  Lestrade dashed, as fast as his bruises would permit, past the milling waiters and servants, through the kitchen swarming with hysterical cooks.

  ‘That way,’ somebody shouted at him, pointing to the open back door.

  ‘Who was it?’ he yelled.

  ‘One of the waiters,’ came the reply. You can’t get decent staff these days, thought Lestrade. But that was what he wanted to know. He had not seen the figure who fired the shots at all closely. Now he knew his target wore a white jacket and shouldn’t be difficult to see in the dark. He edged into the yard. Empty, save for a couple of dogs tethered and barking. Behind him, the noise and lights died away. He was aware of men coming out of the doors and windows being opened overhead. But no one followed him.

  He took stock, as he moved, of his situation. He was carrying a general officer’s mameluke sabre. A beautiful, ornate weapon, but it gave no protection for the hand. In a fight, he would have reach, but his adversary, whoever he was, had a gun. All right, he was no great shot, but he could get luckier. And Lestrade couldn’t move as he usually could. He turned into an alleyway. Ahead, a brick wall, the intangible counterpart of which had risen before him so often in this case. He stood still, panting with the effort of having run this far. No other sound, except somewhere a distant train whistle and the snort of a hackney horse.

  He slithered round the corner into a second yard. It had been raining and the cobbles glistened wet in the green gaslight. A white jacket lay at his feet. The would-be murderer’s disguise had gone, but it didn’t matter. Lestrade knew where to find his man, if he had left the yard. He advanced slowly, sword arm extended. To each side were piles of timber and sacking. Good hiding places for a desperate man. His lips were dry. He licked them, tugging open the Hussar jacket for a bit more air, a bit more freedom of movement. His breath was visible on the air before him. And then he heard it. A tapping on the cobbles. Footsteps. He threw himself against the wall, trying to melt into the shadows.