Lestrade and the Guardian Angel

by M. J. Trow

  ‘Damn you, Cherill, you can’t even harness a horse, man. I won’t put you on the troughs tomorrow. I’ll put you in them! And why did you have to choose a black one? Where is the bloody thing?’

  Lestrade tugged on the right rein and whipped the horse in the darkness past the wing where Richard Tetley lay. The house was dark and dead now, except for a slight glow in a downstairs room . . .

  A SLIGHT BREEZE LIFTED the leaves in Letitia’s hanging arrangement on the veranda. Lestrade had had dinner and now enjoyed a cigar in the stillness of the night. Far across the lake, the nightjars hunted in the low woods and a single ghostly owl followed the line of the water, skimming the giant elms that guarded Bandicoot Hall.

  ‘It was good of you to come, Sholto.’ Harry poured them another brandy. ‘I didn’t want to trouble you.’

  ‘It was no trouble, Harry.’ Lestrade blew smoke rings to the sky. ‘But I’ve been little help, I’m afraid.’

  ‘It wasn’t that I knew Tetley well, nor even liked the man, but he was a tenant, you see.’

  ‘Did he have any enemies, Harry? Anyone who would want to see him dead?’

  ‘You’d better ask Bulleid. Tetley was hardly ever at home. We rode to hounds once or twice, bagged a few pheasant, but his real love was archaeology. I’ll see the Chief Constable, Sholto. I’m not happy leaving this to Guthrie. He has the finesse of an elephant on heat.’

  ‘I’m prepared to forego your Indian reminiscences, Harry. Did he owe money?’

  ‘Guthrie? I wouldn’t be surprised.’

  ‘No. Tetley.’

  ‘I wouldn’t know, Sholto.’

  ‘I know.’ Lestrade held up his hand. ‘Gentlemen don’t ask. You’d have made a tolerable copper, Harry, but you’d never have got far because you don’t gossip about people.’

  ‘Sorry, Sholto.’

  ‘Mr Bandicoot, sir!’ a voice called from the shrubbery.

  ‘Tom?’ Harry was on his feet.

  ‘It’s the Superintendent, sir. You’d better come quick!’

  ‘The Superintendent?’ Lestrade hobbled upright.

  ‘My horse,’ Harry shouted. ‘Help yourself to the brandy, Sholto. I might be gone a while,’ and he followed the groom into the gloom.

  ‘Young man!’ A voice like a bass drum caught his ears.

  ‘Good evening.’ Lestrade found his chair again.

  ‘Don’t get up,’ the voice said. ‘You must be Inspector Lestrade.’

  ‘Yes, Mrs . . . er . . .’

  ‘Miss,’ the voice was firm, ‘Miss Balsam.’

  ‘Ah, yes. Letitia’s nanny.’

  ‘Letitia’s, yes. And now I supervise the children’s nanny.’ She sat down on Harry’s chair. ‘Yes,’ she said, her grey eyes twinkling in the light from the French windows, ‘yes, I can see it.’

  Lestrade glanced down, but all was well. ‘Indeed?’

  ‘Emma. She has your nose, poor dear.’

  ‘That’s kind of you, Miss Balsam. The rest of her is, I would imagine, like her mother.’

  ‘You would imagine?’ Miss Balsam sat upright. ‘When did you last see your daughter, Mr Lestrade?’

  ‘I assume you’ve been on the premises, Miss Balsam. And yet we’ve never met. You must know, I have hardly seen her since she was born.’

  Miss Balsam sat back, shaking her raddled old head. ‘A great tragedy,’ she said. ‘It is true we have seldom met, but I am often away on business. I had hoped you would have visited your child in my absence. Now, young man,’ she said, ‘this murder.’

  ‘What murder, Miss Balsam?’

  She poked him with a window hook that was minding its own business on the veranda. ‘Don’t play the innocent with me, Inspector Lestrade. I’ve known too many little boys. And for all they grow into nasty, horrid men, they don’t lose one basic inability.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Their inability to tell Nanny Balsam a lie. Now, what theories do you have?’

  ‘Miss Balsam,’ Lestrade tried dignity as a first approach. ‘I am an Inspector of Scotland Yard. I cannot divulge . . .’

  ‘Tosh and fiddlesticks. Richard Tetley was a dreadful old reprobate. It was his only vice which killed him.’

  ‘His only vice?’ Lestrade’s ears began to prick up. He still had some hours of his Frost-given twenty-four left.

  ‘He was a thief, Mr Lestrade.’

  ‘A thief?’ Lestrade sat up. ‘You mean he stole things?’

  ‘Not that I’m one to gossip, you understand,’ Miss Balsam assured him.

  ‘No, no, of course.’ Lestrade blew smoke rings on the night air. ‘You have proof, of course?’

  ‘Let’s just say I know things. Goodnight, Mr Lestrade,’ and she smiled disarmingly and rose.

  ‘Nanny. It’s long past your bedtime.’ Letitia floated through the French windows. ‘You’ll catch your death. And, little Nan, you’ve had a busy day.’

  ‘Yes, time for Bedfordshire,’ Miss Balsam said. ‘I have enjoyed our little chat, Mr Lestrade. A bientôt, as the French say,’ and Letitia shepherded her away.

  ‘Has that mad old besom gone?’ A harsh whisper rasped from the wisteria.

  ‘Who’s that?’ Lestrade called.

  ‘Bulleid. I was walking in the grounds to get rid of some of Letitia’s buck venison. Capital dinner, what?’

  ‘Capital indeed, Mr Bulleid.’

  ‘You know she’s mad, don’t you?’

  ‘Letitia?’ Lestrade found it hard to believe.

  ‘Miss Balsam. The twice I’ve met her she seemed totally doolally. Talked about how important it was not to overpraise a child. Bad luck, apparently. And how all her babies but one cried at the font.’

  ‘I don’t follow,’ Lestrade confessed.

  ‘My dear boy, do you think I did? She obviously noted my lack of comprehension and harangued me for half an hour on the subject of children and superstition. Two hundred years ago, they’d have burnt her. Mind you, if I catch her near a candle, I might do it myself. You got off lightly.’

  Lestrade poured the archaeologist a brandy. ‘You heard her accusation, then – about Tetley being a tea leaf?’

  ‘Balderdash!’ he snorted. ‘Here’s gold in your trowel,’ and he quaffed the glass. He leaned forward to Lestrade. ‘It’s the curse, you see.’

  ‘The curse? But surely, Miss Balsam is too old . . .’

  ‘No, no, man. The Curse of the Pharaohs. That’s what killed Richard Tetley.’

  Lestrade smiled. ‘I thought you didn’t believe superstitions, Mr Bulleid.’

  ‘That Balsam woman’s folklore gibberish, no, I don’t. But the testimony of the spade, Lestrade. It never lies.’

  ‘I think you’d better explain that, Mr Bulleid.’

  ‘Very well. I’m a Celts man myself. Some years ago I discovered the Lake Village at Glastonbury. Ninety wattle and daub huts in a settlement extending to three and a half acres. Tetley was altogether a more . . . shall we say, exotic, archaeologist. He loved fame, the bright lights, foreign travel. The only reason he rummaged around at Wookey is that it was on his doorstep so to speak. I gather from Harry that the Yard is not always welcome on forays into alien territory, eh?’

  ‘One can encounter certain difficulties, yes.’

  ‘Chief Inspector Guthrie?’

  ‘He is the difficulty I had in mind, yes,’ Lestrade admitted.

  ‘Perfect swine.’ Bulleid produced an ornate briar and began to fill it. By the smell, the tobacco was probably third century BC. ‘Which is why I didn’t tell him about this.’

  He groped in a pocket and brought out a piece of marble, dark green in colour and as smooth as glass.

  ‘What is it?’ Lestrade asked.

  ‘It’s an amulet. Of the time of Amenhotep. But it’s rather a curious one. It’s the scarab, don’t you know.’

  Lestrade didn’t know.

  ‘The beetles of death. Actually, it’s the symbol of Khepri, the sun-god and as such a talisman of creation. But among archaeologists
, it has a more sinister reputation. As it is found adorning the dead, it has come to be associated with the dead.’

  ‘And this is one of Tetley’s?’

  ‘Well, it might be, but . . . I certainly found it on his body.’

  ‘You said “but” . . .’ Lestrade was a stickler for unfinished sentences.

  ‘Well, Tetley let me have a look at his inventory. He was very thorough. I don’t recall seeing a scarab among his souvenirs. Yes. It was wedged between his teeth.’

  Lestrade rose to his foot. ‘Between his teeth?’ he repeated.

  ‘Bizarre, what? What do you make of it?’

  ‘I’m not sure . . . yet.’

  ‘Well, you can’t arrest a ghost, Lestrade.’ Bulleid helped himself to more of Bandicoot’s brandy.

  ‘A ghost?’

  ‘The Curse of the Pharaohs. Anyone who touches the graves of the kings risks death. Look at young Jones.’

  ‘Jones?’

  ‘Oscar Myron Jones III. Came from a good family in Indiana.’

  ‘Indiana? Let’s see, that’s . . .’

  ‘America, Lestrade. The colonies. Still, let’s not be bigoted about this. Young Oscar had a very promising career ahead of him and he worked with Tetley on the Amenhotep dig.’

  ‘What happened to him?’

  ‘He died.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘The curse, y’see. Twenty-four he was. Still, they buried him in Luxor. He’d have liked that.’

  ‘Tell me, Mr Bulleid.’ Lestrade joined the archaeologist in a replenished glass. ‘Did anyone else on that dig die?’

  ‘I’m talking about ten years ago, Lestrade. There were hundreds of niggers on the job, of course, as well as Tetley, young Jones. At the time, it was the biggest dig in the world. I seem to remember there was a third member of the expedition. A woman. She had something to do with the Jeromes.’

  ‘The Jeromes? Didn’t they write Three Men in a Boat?’ Lestrade was ever the man of culture.

  Bulleid looked at him oddly. ‘Different branch,’ he concluded. ‘Jenny Jerome knew her well. Y’know, Lady Randolph Churchill.’

  ‘Churchill?’

  ‘Do you know her?’

  ‘I believe I’ve met her son, Winston.’

  ‘Ah, shame. Man’s a dolt. Not, I fear, a chip off the old block. But as I was saying, Lestrade, you can’t arrest a ghost. Mark my words, some pretty strange things happen in the East.’

  ‘The giant rat of Sumatra,’ Lestrade mused, suddenly some miles away.

  ‘Eh?’ Bulleid clamped again on the pipe-stem.

  ‘Oh, nothing,’ Lestrade smiled. ‘Just a story for which I hope the world will never be ready.’

  Bulleid leaned closer to him. ‘It’s the hand of Amenhotep, Lestrade,’ he whispered, ‘reaching from the grave. That,’ he tapped the scarab, ‘is his calling card.’

  ‘You realize your withholding of this constitutes obstructing the police with their enquiries?’ He raised an eyebrow in Bulleid’s direction.

  ‘And I thought I’d done you a favour!’ Bulleid snorted.

  ‘So you have, sir,’ Lestrade assured him, ‘so you have.’ And he put it in his pocket.

  ‘By Jove’s beard!’ Bulleid shouted. ‘Look at the time. I must get back to my hotel. I’m staying at the George in Glastonbury. Beds are damned lumpy, but the coffee’s good. I hope we meet again, Lestrade.’ He clasped the inspector’s hand. ‘And good luck with this business. It’s nasty, very nasty. I couldn’t face my lunch the day it happened for half an hour or so. Toodlepip!’

  And he marched off to say his farewells to the Bandicoots.

  Lestrade sat awhile in thought, ruminating. It was probably Letitia’s buck venison. The night air had turned chill and he had many miles to go before he slept.

  ‘Sholto,’ a warm voice called to him from the drawing-room.

  ‘Letitia, thank you for an excellent dinner. I’m sorry I was late for it.’

  ‘Don’t be silly. You wouldn’t be here at all if I hadn’t come to see you. Harry is so much happier now you’re here. Can you help?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I shall need to see the coroner’s report. But I’ve stumbled on something.’

  ‘Oh, do be careful, Sholto.’ Letitia knew Lestrade’s habits of old.

  ‘Do you believe in the Curse of the Pharaohs?’ he asked her.

  ‘What?’

  ‘That a man dead for thousands of years can reach beyond the grave and commit murder.’

  She stopped and looked at him. ‘Is it the brandy?’ she asked sagely.

  He patted her hand tucked into the crook of his elbow. ‘I expect it is,’ he said, ‘and now I must be going. Or Assistant Commissioner Frost will have my guts for garters. Is there someone to drive me to the station?’

  ‘I’ll take you,’ Letitia said. ‘But first . . . You haven’t seen your daughter.’

  He held her hand. ‘Letitia . . .’

  ‘You’ve hardly seen her in three years, Sholto. Not since you brought her to us, a babe in arms. You didn’t even come when our boys were born.’ She held up her hand, ready for the explanation. ‘I know,’ she said, ‘I know. Crime and tide waits for no man.’

  ‘Letitia . . .’ he said again. ‘I’m afraid.’

  She looked into the sad, dark eyes. ‘You?’ she said. ‘You, who have faced East End roughs and bullets and swords and death itself? She’s asleep, Sholto. What harm can a little girl do you?’

  She led him quietly up the stairs, though by virtue of the crutch, the progress was a little slow. They entered the twilit nursery where the night light lent a greenish glow that shone on the huge dolls’ house and the dappled rocker. The boys, sturdy now in their nightdresses, lay together, snoring quietly. In another bed, on a feather pillow edged with lace, lay Emma Lestrade, now Emma Bandicoot, her golden hair curling round her cheeks, the middle fingers of her left hand resting gently on her slightly parted lips.

  ‘There.’ Letitia nuzzled her head against Lestrade’s shoulder.

  ‘There she is. What is it that frightens you? That wasn’t so bad, was it?’

  And he held her to him, kissed her swiftly and slid down the stairs, in haste so that she couldn’t see his face, jarring his foot on every riser.

  LESTRADE LIMPED ACROSS the cobbled courtyard and eased himself up the steps.

  ‘Mr Lestrade, sir.’ Sergeant Dixon was still shaving in the outer office. ‘Morning, sir. Can I get you something?’

  ‘About three years’ leave, sergeant. And a new leg. But right now, I’d settle for a cup of tea.’

  ‘Leave it to me, sir. Would you like a Peake Frean?’

  ‘A what? Oh, I see. No thanks. My stomach would rebel. What time is it?’

  ‘Nearly five-thirty, sir.’

  ‘Anybody in yet?’

  ‘I don’t think Skinner’s gone home, sir.’

  Lestrade looked up in alarm. ‘But I left him here yesterday morning,’ he said. ‘Send the tea up, will you?’

  He swung his leg into the lift and whirred and clanked to his floor. Sure enough, Constable Skinner sat at his desk, in exactly the same position as when Lestrade had seen him last.

  ‘Well, Skinner, what news on Captain Fellowes?’

  ‘Ah.’ The constable stood up. ‘He had smallpox as a child, sir.’

  Lestrade collapsed gratefully into his chair, freeing his tie and collar and unbuttoning his waistcoat. ‘Good Lord, no.’

  ‘He attended St Ethelred the Unready Preparatory School in Buxton.’

  ‘He was lucky to survive all that, wasn’t he?’

  ‘Indeed, Inspector, he was.’ Skinner adjusted his pince-nez, an odd accessory for a young man. ‘But survival at Charterhouse was, I suspect, more difficult for him. How he obtained a commission, I can’t imagine.’

  ‘Sandhurst?’ Lestrade suggested.

  ‘Indeed, but I was referring to the rather vulgar moral tone of the place . . . not particularly comme il faut.’

  ‘Ye
s, of course.’ Lestrade smiled through gritted teeth. ‘Tell me, constable, when are we going to get to anything vaguely connected with the captain’s death? Only I shall be retiring in twenty years or so, and I would like to make some headway by then.’

  ‘Well, if I may posit a hypothesis, sir?’

  ‘If you must,’ Lestrade sighed. ‘And then let’s have some ideas.’

  ‘The Ashanti medal. Fellowes was a member of a special field unit, drawn from various regiments. They were trained for a secret mission, and would be what I believe the Boers of Natal call Kommandoes.’

  ‘If this is secret,’ Lestrade took the steaming mug from the constable who entered, hotfoot from Sergeant Dixon, ‘how do you know about it?’

  ‘Ah.’ Skinner rummaged through the mountains of paper. ‘Captain Fellowes’ diary. All military men over thirty commit their experiences to paper. So that when they become famous, their memoirs are ready for publication.’

  ‘So you’re ruling out suicide?’ Lestrade checked. ‘A man who writes for prosperity is not likely to kill himself.’

  ‘Unless he were trying to choke himself to death, I think suicide highly unconvincing, sir.’

  ‘So do I, constable. Am I warming to you, or is it because I’ve had no sleep all night?’

  ‘Fellowes was a hero, sir. At least if we believe his diary.’

  ‘Is there a reason why we shouldn’t?’

  ‘Memoirs are particularly suspect material for the historian, Inspector. My uncle is Regius Professor at Oxford. Take Francis Place, for instance . . .’

  ‘You take him, Skinner. One case at a time is enough for me. What does the diary say?’

  ‘Oh, various details of embarking and so forth. He mentions the Fetish Tree being destroyed January before last . . .’

  ‘The Fetish Tree?’ Lestrade’s mind was drawn irresistibly to Kew Gardens and the seeds found on Fellowes’ suit.

  ‘It was at Koomassie, sir, a place of annual sacrifice of slaves.’

  ‘Does it have any significance?’ Lestrade asked.

  ‘Within the tribal structure of the Ashanti, sir, the place of slaves is an anomalous one. Certainly, as a survival of an ancient culture . . .’

  ‘I mean, what has it to do with Fellowes?’