by M. J. Trow
‘Nothing, sir.’
Lestrade nodded. ‘Get on with it, Skinner.’
‘But the Bowl of King Prempeh has.’
‘Oh?’
‘The Bowl was used for sacrifices. It was also at Koomassie, which means, in the Ashanti tongue, the City of Death. Sir Francis Scott who led the expedition brought it back last year. The Bowl is probably of Moorish origin, with lions’ heads in bas relief . . .’
Lestrade leaned forward. ‘I’ve been up for thirty-six hours, Skinner,’ he grated. ‘What has this to do with Fellowes?’
‘Well, sir, it seems that he and the rest of his Kommandoes got to Koomassie well ahead of the main British Expeditionary Force. They were evidently spotted by Prempeh’s cohorts and Fellowes and another officer named Hely became detached from the detachment.’
‘That makes sense,’ shrugged Lestrade.
‘They were captured, tortured and, thanks to Fellowes’ heroism, escaped. Unfortunately Hely was killed in the mêlée. Fellowes rejoined the unit.’
Lestrade waited. ‘And that’s it?’
‘Nearly, sir. Look at the handwriting.’
Lestrade did. Pages of averagely neat lines. ‘Well?’ he said.
‘Do you notice anything?’
‘Don’t tell me; his spelling’s poor. Well, St Ethelred’s, Charterhouse, what can you expect?’
‘No, no. The slope of the letters. A sound cursive hand, but here, on these pages, it slopes so,’ he riffled further on, ‘and here, so.’
‘Change of pen,’ Lestrade concluded.
‘Change of fact.’
‘What?’
‘I have studied graphology, sir – the science of interpretation of human characteristics from modes of writing – and I believe Captain Fellowes is lying in these pages.’
‘As you say,’ said Lestrade. ‘Suspect material. If a man can’t blow his own trumpet, so to speak, who will do it for him?’
‘I’m not sure it’s as simple as that, sir. I believe Fellowes had something very positive to hide.’
Constable Lilley arrived at that moment with Dew at his elbow. Both men were visibly shaken.
‘Gentlemen.’ Lestrade noted it. ‘What’s the matter?’
‘You’d better walk this way, sir,’ Dew said.
‘If I could walk that way, Dew, I wouldn’t need this damned crutch. Still, as Shakespeare said, “Lead on, Macbeth”.’
Skinner groaned.
‘If I stay here much longer, I’ll be as mad as Constable Skinner. Go home, man,’ Lestrade said to him. ‘You clearly need more sleep than I do.’
❖ Victim of the Witch ❖
T
he three policemen stood below the massive stone beast. Yards from them, the Palace of Glass glinted in the summer sun and the strains of Handel floated across the water.
‘Ugly.’ Lestrade was grim-faced.
‘But you haven’t seen it yet, sir,’ Walter Dew said.
‘I was referring to the monster.’ Lestrade cocked his head in the direction of the giant reptile that crouched craftily in the shrubbery. ‘What have you dragged me all the way down here to see?’
The three policemen met several more and uniformed, gloved hands shot helmetwards at their arrival. The inspector in the centre shook Lestrade’s hand. ‘Sholto,’ he said, ‘good of you to come. Your man found you, then?’
‘My man?’
The inspector nodded at the pallid Lilley.
‘Oh, of course. You live here, don’t you, constable?’
‘Not on the Hill, sir,’ Lilley answered. ‘I couldn’t afford the rent.’
‘No, of course not. Well, Arnold, what have we got?’
‘I hope you enjoyed your breakfast, Sholto. You’ll probably see it again in a minute. Down here.’ The inspector led the inspector through a gap in the rhododendron bushes near the lake. All avenues here were guarded by constables and roped by the inevitable cerulean cordon. Lestrade always admired the thin blue line. She lay on her back on the dry grass of summer, dead, sightless eyes staring at the sky. Her face was a mask of blood and there were splatters of it across the leaves and over her dress.
‘Who found her?’ Lestrade crouched there, turning the battered head slightly from side to side.
‘Do you mind if I sit this one out, sir?’ Walter Dew had never been the same since the Ripper case.
‘All right, Walter, but remember you’re booked for the Mazurka.’
‘In answer to your question, Sholto,’ the inspector crouched beside him, ‘one of the groundsmen. Half-past five this morning.’
‘And?’
‘I’ve had a word. He’s clean as a constable’s whistle.’
‘She’s been dead . . . what? Twelve, thirteen hours?’
‘I’d say so.’
‘That makes it last night, somewhere between ten and midnight. Any sign of a weapon?’
‘None.’
‘Anything on here last night?’ Lestrade stood up and craned to see the Palace at his back.
‘Thursday night,’ the inspector said. ‘Fireworks all month. That would have drowned any noise.’
‘It would also have meant the place was swarming with people. Was the groundsman any help there?’
‘He said this particular part of the park wasn’t used much.’
Lestrade nodded. ‘Do we know who she is?’ he asked.
The inspector shook his head. ‘Well-to-do, though, wouldn’t you say?’
Lestrade would.
‘Sir.’ A constable was dragging a painted lady through the cordon.
‘What’s this?’ the inspectors asked simultaneously.
‘Sorry, Arnold,’ Lestrade demurred. ‘Your patch.’
‘Thank you, Sholto. What’s this?’
‘Don’t you mean who?’ the girl flounced.
‘Now then, Liz,’ the constable snarled. ‘None of your lip.’
‘Are you acquainted with this young lady’s lips, constable?’ the inspector asked.
‘Ain’t ’e, though!’ Liz giggled, much to the discomfiture of the blushing bobby.
‘She has some information, sir. I thought you should hear it.’
‘Go on . . . madam.’ The inspector stiffened.
‘’Ere, what’s going on?’ Liz made an attempt to push past him to the clearing of carnage.
‘Better you don’t know.’ Lestrade held her shoulders.
‘Ooh, you’re a strong un, aren’t yer? Got nice ’ands. I go for ’ands, I do.’
‘Yes, quite.’ It was Lestrade’s turn to stiffen. ‘What’s this information you have?’
‘What’s it worff?’
‘Now look . . .’ the inspector began.
‘Arnold, Arnold.’ Lestrade patted his arm. ‘Sometimes a policeman has to do what a policeman has to do. Dew, Lilley.’
‘Sir?’ The plainclothesmen stepped forward.
‘Give this young lady the contents of your pockets.’
Dew and Lilley frowned at each other, but the coppers duly tumbled into her tight little fist and disappeared down her cleavage and into her fol-de-rols.
‘Careful, my dear.’ Lestrade led the girl away. ‘Constable Dew is a married man. Now, what can you tell us?’ He gestured behind him for the others to stay where they were.
‘’Ere, you got a gammy leg?’ She noticed him hobble.
‘Just a limp,’ he smiled.
‘Well, we can’t have you limp, can we?’ she grinned and pinned him against a tree.
‘Madam.’ Lestrade extricated himself. ‘Perhaps another time. What of last night?’
‘Spoilsport!’ She dropped her skirts again. ‘There’s a woman dead over there, ain’t there?’
‘There is,’ Lestrade told her.
‘Green dress, with white ribbons?’
‘That’s right. I didn’t think you’d seen the body.’
‘I ’aven’t, guv’nor. I seen ’er last night. Still walking around in it.’
‘Are you sure? There must have b
een lots of ladies here last night.’
‘Yeah, but not many wiv a bloke what was dragging her through the bushes.’
‘A bloke? What time was this?’
‘Lord love you, guv. I dunno. If you want to know the time, ask a policeman. Only me and the police, we don’t get on, see.’
‘Not even you and Constable Whatsisname?’ Lestrade teased her.
‘Nah. I just says ’ello to ’im, on ’is rounds. ’E’s a Miltonian, see. Can’t afford me on ’is pay. Now you, you probably could . . .’
‘I’m a Miltonian too.’ Lestrade knew the vernacular of the East End.
‘Ah, yeah, but you’re a proper gent. Nice suit. And such nice ’ands . . .’
‘This bloke. The one with the lady in the green dress. Can you describe him?’
‘Er . . . let’s see. Tall, big moustache. Topper and cape.’
‘Did he carry a cane?’
‘A stick fing. Wiv a knob on the end – whoops, begging your pardon.’
‘Granted,’ sighed Lestrade. ‘You say he was dragging her through the bushes?’
‘Yeah. She was carrying on something cruel. She looked too posh for a working girl, but I could be wrong.’
‘Did you hear anything she said?’
‘Er . . . no, not really. Oh, wait. She called ’im a funny name. Now, what was it? Oh, yeah. Looney. That’s it. Bloody silly name that, ain’t it?’
‘Would you know this Looney if you saw him again?’ asked Lestrade, sensing an Irish connection.
‘Nah. After a while they all look the same, guv’nor. I shuts me eyes and finks of England.’
‘Yes,’ smiled Lestrade. ‘There’ll always be one, won’t there? Leave your address with your constable, Liz. I may need to talk to you again.’
‘Ooh, I hope so, dearie.’ She flicked his tie. ‘I can tell you’re good-natured,’ and she flounced away.
‘Well, Arnold,’ Lestrade called. ‘A word in your ear.’
The inspectors strolled together by the lake in the midday sun.
‘How do you see it, Sholto?’
‘With difficulty at the moment, Arnold. A young lady. Mid-thirties, perhaps a little younger. Cause of death, blunt instrument to the head, some time around midnight last night. We have a witness,’ he waved in Liz’s direction, ‘albeit a rather dubious one, who claims to have seen her in the company of a man whose description could fit half of London, apparently dragging her into the bushes.’
‘Ah. A client, perhaps? Things got too rough?’
‘Had she been interfered with?’ Lestrade hadn’t liked to check in case he upset Constable Dew’s sensibilities. There was no fear of upsetting Constable Lilley as he had kept well upwind of the lady since his arrival.
‘No. At least, not recently.’
‘A married woman then?’
Arnold chuckled. ‘You cynic, Lestrade.’
Lestrade stopped. ‘Was she wearing a ring?’
‘No jewellery at all.’
‘But the clothes are fine.’
‘Oh, she was wealthy, all right,’ Arnold said. ‘Or at least, her provider was.’
‘So you’re still clinging to the prostitute theory?’
‘Seems most logical. She may have been a Seven Dials doxy but her fancy Dan set her up in fineries and kept her in the manner to which she was certainly not born but may have become accustomed.’
‘But no jewellery?’ Lestrade was obstinate.
‘Robbery,’ Arnold conjectured. ‘A client was a prig, out for a good time. Tailed her and helped himself to her swag.’
‘But she hadn’t been touched, Arnold. You said so yourself.’
‘All right. So he didn’t tail her. But the rest fits.’
‘According to our friend,’ Lestrade watched as Liz wandered the park in search of new work, ‘the gent was a toff. Topper, cape and knobkerrie. Not your average thief, Arnold.’
‘I wouldn’t take her word for much, Sholto.’
‘Perhaps not,’ he agreed. ‘Does the name Looney mean anything to you?’
Arnold looked blank – his favourite expression.
‘Get the lady over to the morgue, will you? I’ll look in on her later.’
‘Other fish to fry?’ the inspector asked as Lestrade hailed his constables.
‘When is there not, Arnold?’ he asked. ‘When is there not?’ and he hobbled away.
THEY WERE NOT THAT helpful at the Knightsbridge Barracks. Captain Ames was away on leave. It was after all the Twelfth tomorrow and no self-respecting cavalry regiment could expect to have more than a skeleton of officers for the next couple of weeks. The duty officer was a very young subaltern. He had not known Captain Fellowes personally but understood he had covered himself with glory in the Ashanti War. As to Lestrade’s rather fatuous question whether he was a strong swimmer, the subaltern really had no idea. He was not a Marine.
The War Office were even worse. A severely correct clerk in pince-nez told him that as it was Friday, he must really wait until the following week. Surely, it was common knowledge that War Office personnel worked no later than mid-afternoon on Fridays? Had the world gone mad? When Lestrade had attempted to pull rank and asked for the man in charge, he was told that that would be Sir Bolitho Hector, but he was currently unavailable as tomorrow was the Twelfth and there were, after all, priorities. In any case, the information the inspector required, viz. the details of a campaign less than two years old, were highly confidential. When could he call back? In twenty-eight years.
So it was that Lestrade lay dozing fitfully in his old leather chair, stirring occasionally as the scratching of Constable Dew’s pen jarred with the dream whirling in his brain. He stood on the edge of an abyss, leaning down into a chasm so deep, so dark. He could not see the bottom, but he had this overwhelming urge to fling himself down.
‘Jump to it, Lestrade!’ A barked order sent his feet hurtling off the desk top and he focused to see the less-than-welcome features of Chief Inspector Abberline. ‘Ho, ho,’ crowed Abberline, not one of Nature’s gentlefolk, ‘a sleeping policeman.’
‘Mr Abberline,’ Lestrade said through gritted teeth, ‘how nice. Is there something I can help you with? Your coat, perhaps? The Times crossword?’
‘Now, then, Lestrade.’ Abberline refused to be ruffled this fine summer’s evening. ‘None of your attempts at wit. I really haven’t the time. I got a telegram from that idiot Arnold Boreham. Boreham by name and Boreham by nature, eh?’ Abberline sniffed his gardenia ostentatiously.
‘I always found Inspector Boreham to be a first-rate policeman, sir,’ Lestrade observed.
‘If you say so, Lestrade. You must have found him on a good day. The telegram was opened in error of course,’ Abberline assured him.
‘It just happened to fall near your kettle as it was boiling,’ Lestrade smiled.
Abberline didn’t. ‘I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that. The deceased in the shrubbery was one Marigold de Lacy, formerly of Mawson Gardens, Chiswick. He found a ring of hers near the body. It fitted. Boreham’s obviously tied to his patch in Sydenham and would you break the news to her husband?’
‘Her husband?’
‘Yes. And a word of warning, Lestrade.’ Abberline leaned nearer. ‘I know you of old. Your fondness for trampling over the Establishment’s flower beds, untying the old school tie. The de Lacys came over with the Conqueror, you know. You see that you show some respect.’
NUMBER FORTY-THREE, Mawson Gardens was an opulent villa, facing south-west. As Lestrade stood with Constable Lilley on the broad flight of steps that led to the front door, he glanced back and saw above the houses the Chinese pagoda and Lebanon cedars of Kew. He was in his forty-third year and knee-deep in murder. Well, what was new? He wouldn’t really have it any other way.
The door was opened by the man, Manfred, who checked Lestrade’s credentials and showed the Yard men into the library. While they waited, Lestrade scanned the tomes – Debrett’s and Burke’s took pride of place –and he
took the opportunity of showing Lilley what a book looked like. An imposing man of indeterminate years joined them before long. He sported a clipped, military moustache and an elegant dinner jacket.
‘I was on my way out, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘I trust this will not take long. My man informs me you are from Scotland Yard.’
‘Inspector Lestrade,’ said Lestrade. ‘Constable Lilley. You are Mr de Lacy?’
‘Howard Luneberg de Lacy, at your service.’ The man gave a Hunnish bow by clicking his heels. Lestrade was puzzled. Abberline had said this man’s family had come over with the Conqueror. Surely the Conqueror was French, not German? Perhaps he’d misunderstood all those years before at Mr Poulson’s Academy for the Sons of Nearly Respectable Gentlefolk.
‘I’m afraid I have some grave news, Mr de Lacy,’ Lestrade said, ‘concerning your wife.’
‘Marigold? Has there been an accident?’ De Lacy put down the top hat.
‘Should there have been, sir?’ Lestrade asked.
‘Don’t play games with me, man!’ de Lacy snapped. ‘You said your news was grave.’
‘Your wife is dead, sir.’
De Lacy sat down. ‘I see,’ he said. ‘What happened?’
‘Her body was found in Crystal Palace Park early this morning,’ Lestrade told him.
‘Sydenham? But that’s not possible.’
‘Really, sir? Why not?’
‘My wife was visiting friends in Somerset, Inspector. What would she be doing in Sydenham?’
‘Watching the fireworks, sir?’ Constable Lilley’s rejoinder was hardly useful. Both men looked at him.
‘There must be some mistake.’ De Lacy poured himself a drink. He did not offer one to anybody else.
‘I’m afraid we have positive identification,’ Lestrade said.
‘Oh?’
‘A ring was found some yards away, I understand. It fitted the . . . your wife perfectly and her name is inscribed inside.’
‘That could be coincidence,’ de Lacy persisted.
‘Yes, sir, it could be, assuming that she had been to the park recently. Unless of course, you’ve had some jewellery stolen?’
De Lacy shook his head.
‘It’s my unpleasant duty to ask you to accompany me to the mortuary to identify the body.’
