Last Nocturne

by M. J. Trow

‘So,’ Grand said, looking around, ‘when will it be finished?’

  Martin looked puzzled. ‘What are you saying?’ he said, after a pause.

  Grand was puzzled now. ‘I’m saying, when will it be finished?’ he said, a little more slowly.

  ‘It is finished,’ Martin said. ‘I was just filling in the last card when you came in. Of course, some of the small drawers will seem a little sparsely filled and the last column and a half of the big ones are completely empty, but that is to leave room for new cases which, of course, are coming in daily.’

  ‘May I check?’ Batchelor asked. ‘Oh, just to see if I understand, of course. I am sure you have done a simply perfect job.’

  ‘Please,’ Martin said. ‘It’s important that you know how it works.’

  Batchelor opened a random drawer and took out a card.

  Martin gave a small shriek. ‘Oh, please, Mr Batchelor, when you take out a card, put a place holder in so you know where it came from.’

  ‘But … it’s in alphabetical order …’

  ‘Even so.’ Martin had gone several shades paler and was shaking his hands in distress. ‘It’s just something I need you to do …’

  ‘All right,’ Batchelor said, and slotted a bright blue card from a holder on top of the cabinets into the place. Grand meanwhile was making a mental list of all the jobs they would not be able to send Martin out on. In a few moments, his list was complete, and short. None of them.

  Batchelor consulted his card and went across to the larger drawers, opened one and walked his fingers down the files. He lifted one out and compared it with the card. He turned to Grand. ‘It does work,’ he said. ‘Look at that!’ He tried to keep the amazement out of his voice.

  Martin shrugged. ‘It’s what I do,’ he said. ‘You should see my sock drawer.’

  Grand and Batchelor would rather not.

  ‘I suggest,’ Grand said, ‘that you take the rest of the day off. We’ll have another case for you to sort out tomorrow and Miss Wolstenholme will need to be trained.’ The three men looked at each other, all wearing the expressions of those who want to believe in the triumph of hope over experience.

  ‘If you’re sure that’s all right,’ Martin said. ‘I do have a lunch appointment tomorrow, though; I had said my friend could meet me here … I should have asked first, perhaps …’

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ Batchelor said. ‘You’re an assistant, not a slave. Look,’ he pointed to the sign on the desk, ‘it says so, here, so it must be true!’

  ‘Thank you so much, Mr Grand, Mr Batchelor,’ Martin said, slipping on his coat and making for the door. Then he paused, came back in and lined up his pencils, just that bit straighter. ‘Thank you,’ and he was finally gone.

  ‘Mad as a hatter,’ Grand said, ‘but you have to hand it to the guy. He sure is neat.’

  Fleet Street was next. While Batchelor grabbed the Advertiser and the Telegraph, Grand hailed a cab and they rattled east. In the Strand, with the traffic as usual at a standstill, they bundled out and continued on foot, past the solid spire of St Clement Danes, crossing into the City where, until a few weeks ago, Temple Bar had stood. The City of London Corporation, anxious to widen the street, had taken it down, all 2,700 stones of it over an eleven-day period. Had it improved the flow of traffic? Of course not.

  ‘Why wasn’t I told, Johnny?’ Batchelor wanted to know, hurtling into the Telegraph’s inner sanctum.

  John Lawson looked up at him, ‘Told what, James?’

  ‘About Anstruther Peebles. Another body in the Cremorne.’

  Lawson nodded, ‘They’ll shut it down now, for sure,’ he said. ‘There’s only so much bad publicity a garden can take. Oh, and, sorry, was I supposed to be keeping you informed about every fart that flies?’ He looked at Grand, blocking the doorway. ‘You must be Captain Grand,’ he got to his feet for the first time. ‘My condolences, sir,’ he shook the man’s hand, ‘to be working with this reprobate. I know what that’s like!’ He glowered at Batchelor.

  ‘My apologies, Johnny,’ Batchelor had the grace to say. ‘The late Mr Peebles was part of an ongoing enquiry of ours.’

  ‘Was he, now?’ Lawson reached for his notepad.

  ‘Put that away, you stew-stick. We saw him first.’

  Lawson laughed.

  ‘The Telegraph was a little coy, Mr Lawson,’ Grand said.

  ‘Johnny, please. Yes, I know. The editor’s of the Methodist persuasion, prepared to believe good about everybody, you know the sort of thing.’

  ‘How odd,’ Grand said, ‘in Fleet Street, I mean.’

  ‘Tell me about it,’ Lawson muttered.

  ‘We were hoping you’d tell us about it, Johnny,’ Batchelor said. The thud-thud of the ten-feed printer was already pounding in his temples. ‘Peebles.’

  Lawson leaned back in his chair. ‘Cause of death still undetermined,’ he said, waving vaguely to other seats for his guests. ‘Body was found by the park police, as per, stuffed under some bushes. The dress was odd, of course.’

  ‘Mess?’ Batchelor guessed.

  ‘Walking out?’ Grand threw in. ‘Stable?’

  ‘Cross,’ Lawson said. ‘The late Lieutenant Peebles was wearing women’s attire.’

  ‘We’ve met that before,’ Batchelor said, ‘the Boulton and Park case.’

  ‘It seemed to be all the rage here a couple of years back,’ Grand reminded everybody.

  ‘Yes, but this is different,’ Lawson said. ‘The impression I get – and it is only an impression, mind you, since officially the Yard aren’t talking – is that Peebles used the disguise as a lure to have his wicked way with ladies.’

  ‘How would that work, though?’ Batchelor asked. ‘I mean, if a chap turns up in his three-piece tweeds, jingling a few bob and does a deal with a girl, fair enough – although your editor might not approve, Johnny, it’s the way of the world. But if a chap ditches his three piece and dons ladies’ kecks, what then? Wouldn’t the girl in question be a little surprised? Along the lines of screaming blue murder, attracting a whole station-house of coppers. So it wouldn’t work, would it?’

  ‘The ways of the Cremorne are strange, James,’ Lawson said. ‘It’s not for us to delve into a man’s inner demons – and it’s certainly not anything I can print in a family newspaper. Some people even allow their servants to read it, apparently. That’s why we didn’t mention the women’s clothing bit.’

  ‘We know he was a regular in the Gardens,’ Grand said. ‘A fellow officer in his regiment confirmed it. We also know that one of his regulars was the same Mabel Glossop whose body was found there, not eighteen months ago.’

  ‘I did not know that,’ Lawson said, but his movement towards his pad was thwarted by an acid glance from Batchelor.

  ‘You can use that, Johnny,’ he said, ‘on condition that you keep us posted with anything else that breaks.’

  ‘I’d appreciate your insight into all this,’ Lawson said. ‘It appears that all roads lead to the Cremorne at the moment.’

  ‘More than you know,’ Grand said, thinking of the Whistler painting he had rather liked in the Grosvenor gallery.

  ‘Isn’t that the whole point of this conversation?’ Lawson spread his arms wide. ‘There’s a lot, apparently, that I don’t know, and that’ll never improve unless you tell me. See your conversation of seconds ago.’

  ‘It’s nothing, Johnny,’ Grand said. ‘Just a coincidence, is all.’

  Neither Grand nor Batchelor believed in coincidences, but Lawson didn’t know that.

  ‘We have three deaths.’ Batchelor tried to make sense of it all. ‘Two at least are related. First, Mabel Glossop, poisoned and found in the Gardens eighteen months ago.’

  ‘Third,’ Grand had leapt forward to make the link, ‘Anstruther Peebles, found days ago not yards from where Mabel Glossop’s body had been left, he being a client of hers.’

  ‘And second,’ Batchelor went on, ‘Clara Jenkins, ditto ditto the Cremorne. And here we have to differ, Matthew; I t
hink all three are related. After all, Clara and Mabel are out of the same stable, Mrs Arbuthnot’s in Turks Row.’

  ‘But no known links between Peebles and Clara?’ Lawson checked.

  ‘My point exactly,’ Grand said.

  ‘Tight-lipped though they are,’ Batchelor looked at Lawson, ‘do we know who’s on this at the Yard?’

  ‘B Division?’ Lawson scratched his head. ‘The superintendent there is Hendricks. He’ll have passed it down to …’

  ‘Metcalfe,’ the square-jawed man said, ‘Inspector. How can I help you gentlemen?’

  Grand and Batchelor knew Scotland Yard well, but they hadn’t expected to be allowed across its portals. Instead, they were in the snug of the Clarence, with Whitehall rattling away between the squares, Parliament and Trafalgar, feet from them. The air was thick with cigar and pipe smoke and the planks on the floor crowded with dozens of the largest feet in the Metropolis. A green-looking detective constable sat next to Metcalfe. He had just been despatched to buy the drinks.

  ‘We were hoping you could help us,’ Grand said.

  ‘Moses’ Metcalfe didn’t get out of his Division often. This was a rare visit to the holy of holies, the headquarters of the Metropolitan Police, or at least its drinking den. He smiled, as though chewing a wasp. ‘I didn’t realize you were from the colonies, Mr Grand,’ he said. ‘Your coppers over there still shooting people at random?’

  ‘No more than fall down stairs in your lock-ups, Inspector,’ Grand countered. This was not going well.

  ‘The Cremorne case …’ Batchelor thought he ought to focus on the here and now.

  ‘Which one?’ Metcalfe asked.

  This was progress, Batchelor thought – an acknowledgement of reality.

  ‘Both ladies of the night,’ Grand said, ‘and Lieutenant Peebles.’

  ‘It’s in the paper,’ Metcalfe shrugged, dipping his moustache into his beer.

  ‘We all know that’s only ever part of the story,’ Batchelor said.

  ‘That’s right,’ Metcalfe smiled. ‘You used to work in Fleet Street, didn’t you, Mr Batchelor?’

  ‘You’re well informed,’ Batchelor said.

  ‘Of course I am.’ Metcalfe leaned back, folding his arms. ‘I’m a detective. And for the record, Mr Grand, I know perfectly well that you are an American. Formerly of the Union army, I believe, Third Cavalry of the Potomac.’

  ‘You’ve done your homework, sir,’ Grand nodded.

  ‘When so-called private detectives ask to see me,’ Metcalfe said, ‘I make it my business to find out all I can about them. I suspect there’s rather more than I can uncover.’

  ‘It would serve all our purposes better,’ Batchelor said, ‘if we co-operated. After all, we are on the same side.’

  Metcalfe roared with laughter. ‘Are we, Mr Batchelor? Are we really? I can tell you nothing about the Cremorne case, as you call it, as per a recent directive from the Home Office via Mr Howard Vincent. Scotland Yard’s – and B Division’s – lips are sealed. But it’s been very pleasant sharing a pint with you gentlemen. Don’t worry about expenses. Barnes here is paying.’

  And that was it. The police clearly weren’t helping anybody with their enquiries. ‘Why is he called Moses again?’ Grand asked Batchelor as they jostled their way out past Black Marias crowding the archway that led to Whitehall.

  ‘’Cos it took him forty years to get out of the wilderness,’ Batchelor said.

  Back in the snug, Metcalfe finished his pint. ‘Busy getting the people of London out of the bondage of crime as I am, Barnes,’ he said, smugly, ‘I haven’t got time for lowlifes like those two. Who’s paying them, eh? Who’d engage a pair of privates to look into the deaths of harlots? The only people who catch criminals for nothing is us. There’s something going on here, something fishy. They know you now, so put somebody else on them – Twisleton, that university bloke, he’s good at undercover. I want to know what they know.’

  ‘So, where are we, James?’ Grand was sampling the latest bourbon, sent from Boston care of his mama and sister. The colour was pure Liberty Bell with a hint of Minuteman, all those flavours and hues that the manufacturers claimed to have been mixed into their alcoholic creation. It was all rather rebellious, and decidedly anti-British, so he hadn’t offered one to Batchelor.

  The ex-Fleet Street man was perfectly happy sipping his Scotch, redolent of the mists of the Highlands and glowing with haggis and sheep-shit. All of it was a part of the advertisement-writers’ art and it put hair on your chest.

  ‘The Cremorne or the Grosvenor?’ Batchelor asked.

  ‘Let’s start with the Cremorne,’ Grand said. ‘I need to clear my head.’

  ‘Right,’ Batchelor cleared his throat. ‘Two prostitutes, both working for the same madam, found murdered in close proximity eighteen months apart.’

  ‘Method of dispatch?’ Grand asked.

  ‘Cyanide poisoning,’ Batchelor answered.

  ‘Administered how?’

  Batchelor shook his head. ‘Absolutely no idea.’

  ‘But it must go something like this,’ Grand reasoned. ‘Mabel and Clara, like so many before and since, go into the Gardens looking to relieve a guy of part of his wallet.’

  ‘They give him the eye – “Are you good-natured, dearie?”’

  Grand frowned. ‘Do they always say that?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Batchelor assured him. ‘Vital part of the training.’

  ‘Right,’ Grand nodded. ‘So our friend is feeling good-natured, or so he claims.’

  ‘So, he flashes coin of the realm …’

  ‘Or does he? We don’t know that.’

  ‘He’d have to,’ Batchelor observed. ‘All right, we don’t know either of the deceased, but working girls don’t work for nothing. No cash, no how’s-your-father.’

  ‘And we don’t know how much cash, if any, the women had on them.’

  ‘Thanks to Scotland Yard, no.’

  ‘What next?’ Grand asked.

  ‘How’s your father,’ Batchelor reasoned. ‘Or not, as the case may be. The accounts, of course, don’t make that clear. This is 1878; there are certain newspaper reports for which the world is not yet ready.’

  ‘And we can’t get our hands on any police reports. What about that number two of Metcalfe’s?’ Grand asked. ‘The guy in the Clarence. Seemed kinda wet behind the ears. Could he be prevailed upon, do you think?’

  ‘Worth trying,’ Batchelor nodded.

  ‘Okay, so how’s your father or not, our friend gets the girls to eat something … er … currant bun, roast beef sandwich, cyanide salad …’

  ‘… to which she says “Ta” and wallop.’

  Grand frowned. ‘Are we being a little trivial here, James?’ he asked. ‘The women are, after all, dead. Are we being flippant?’

  ‘Flip away, old-timer,’ Batchelor said. If his American accent was supposed to be Midwest, it lost Grand completely. Batchelor was serious again. ‘We’ve got a job to do, Matthew,’ he said. ‘If we can’t use gallows humour between the two of us, what’s the point?’

  ‘What indeed?’ Grand swirled the bourbon around his tonsils. ‘What then?’

  ‘Well, this is where it gets interesting. There is no suggestion in the papers of mutilation or anything like that.’

  ‘Not even, as far as we know, disarrangement of the clothes …’

  ‘… implying that sex is not the motive.’

  ‘So, what is?’ Grand had to ask.

  ‘Somebody doesn’t approve of prostitution,’ Batchelor proffered. ‘Takes it out on two unfortunates.’

  ‘Well, that only leaves us with the Church of England and every other denomination, the entire upper and middle class and the vast majority of the workers. Any hope of cutting that down at all?’

  Batchelor sighed. ‘If only,’ he said.

  ‘What about cyanide?’ Grand was thinking aloud. ‘Who has access to that?’

  ‘Doctors,’ Batchelor was making a mental list, ‘chemi
sts. The problem is the stuff’s cheaper than starch. Anybody can go to a pharmacy and pick up a little without having to say what it’s for.’

  ‘Not that they’d admit to intending to poison somebody anyway.’

  ‘Exactly. No.’ Batchelor was topping up his Scotch. ‘It would take too much shoe-leather to do the rounds of cyanide purveyors, even using the wonder-boy with the Oxford degree. It wouldn’t achieve anything.’

  ‘All right,’ Grand was topping up too. ‘Let’s get to the big one. Anstruther Peebles.’

  ‘Anstruther Peebles,’ Batchelor passed Grand a cigar. ‘You met him. Could he pass for a woman, do you think?’

  Grand screwed up his face, trying to remember the billiard room and the gymnasium at the Rag. ‘Clean-shaven,’ he said.

  ‘That helps,’ Batchelor nodded.

  ‘Difficult to picture it. Feller’s wearing his regimentals, you naturally assume … I mean, it’s difficult to picture him in a dress.’

  ‘The issue is,’ Batchelor said, ‘why did he wear one?’

  ‘Not to lure the ladies,’ Grand said. ‘We established that with your friend Lawson. If a lady of the night meets another lady of the night, they don’t sit down and swap john stories. They both assume the other is trying to steal her patch.’

  ‘And the Cremorne’s not that big,’ Batchelor nodded. ‘So, what is this with Peebles? Another peccadillo to go with his other peculiarities?’

  ‘Seems like,’ Grand said. ‘I don’t suppose Mrs Arbuthnot shed any light.’

  ‘As far as I know,’ Batchelor said, ‘she only had the name – and the peculiarities we already know about.’

  ‘Of course,’ Grand took another sip. ‘Peebles could be one almighty red herring. We’re forgetting the Queen’s Counsel in all this.’

  ‘Keen? Yes,’ Batchelor agreed, ‘yes, we are. Or …’

  ‘Or?’

  ‘Person or persons unknown. Just because Mrs Arbuthnot had a shortlist of Mabel Glossop’s regulars doesn’t mean that either of them killed her. And we don’t even have a list, short or otherwise, for Clara Jenkins.’

  ‘No,’ Grand sighed. ‘No, we don’t. Let’s face it, James, we’re getting nowhere fast on this one. What about the Grosvenor? A case, may I remind you, for which we are actually getting paid.’