by M. J. Trow
‘The police are here already,’ growled Miss Truefitt and, wading into shallow water, she grabbed the line and hauled it in. Balch added his weight to the problem and hauled with her.
‘Now then, now then!’ An Inspectorial voice echoed above their frantic splashings. ‘What seems to be the trouble?’
The struggling company turned to see Chief Inspector Guthrie and a clutch of constables from the Somerset Constabulary. ‘Lend a hand there, you men!’ he ordered and the bobbies hauled the apparition from the deep.
‘What is it?’ Guthrie crouched beside the prone form.
‘It’s the impostor I told you about,’ said Balch, feverishly unbuckling straps and weights.
‘He’s a policeman,’ Miss Truefitt told the company.
‘Is he now?’ said Guthrie, wrenching the helmet sideways. There was a loud cracking noise and it came away. ‘Lestrade!’ he snarled.
‘He told us his name was Lister,’ Dawkins offered the explanation.
‘I’ll have his badge for this,’ Guthrie went on.
‘For God’s sake, help him.’ Miss Truefitt straddled the unconscious inspector, pushing violently on his ribs.
‘Now then, miss, I’m sure you’re very fond of the inspector, but now is not the time and place. Constable, you went on that life-saving course. Get on top of him.’
‘I’m a married man, sir,’ the constable objected.
‘That is an order, constable.’ Guthrie rocked back on his heels, looking fixedly ahead. The bobby complied and assumed the position astride Lestrade which Miss Truefitt had just vacated.
‘You say he was posing as an archaeologist, Mr Balch?’ Guthrie asked. ‘Do you know why?’
‘To investigate the death of Richard Tetley,’ Miss Truefitt interrupted. ‘I think you’d better ask Mr Balch here about that, Inspector.’
‘What do you mean?’ The digging postman was outraged.
‘You just tried to kill Inspector Lestrade. I saw you!’ Miss Truefitt screamed.
‘Has he succeeded, constable?’ Guthrie asked the bobby pumping at Lestrade.
‘No, sir. He’s coming round. Mind you, he’s swallowed enough peat to start an allotment.’
‘Attempted murder, then,’ beamed Guthrie, though there was something in his eyes which betokened disappointment.
‘Murder, my trowel!’ snapped Dawkins. ‘Look here, Inspector or whatever you are. I am a distinguished archaeologist. Mr Arthur Bulleid who recently vacated these diggings is another. Likewise Mr Balch. Along comes some idiot who clearly doesn’t know a posthole from his kneecap and who claims to be one of us. Archaeology is a precise science, Inspector. We can’t have buffoons cluttering up the place. He could have ruined years of work. Destroyed vital evidence. He might have been a newspaperman!’ Dawkins turned pale at the thought.
‘Worse,’ sighed Guthrie, ‘he’s from Scotland Yard. But you’re probably right about destroying vital evidence. Besides, he was expressly working unofficially. I warned him off last week. I accept that you intended to scare him a little, no more. But you will be careful in future, won’t you?’
‘Of course.’ Dawkins and Balch looked a little shamefaced.
A groan told the company that Lestrade had returned, however briefly, to the land of the living.
‘He must be rushed to the hospital,’ entreated Miss Truefitt.
‘Yes, indeed,’ Guthrie smiled. ‘Wells is the nearest. Lift him up, men. And take your time with your rushing, won’t you?’ He tilted his bowler at Miss Truefitt and made for the entrance by which he had come. ‘Have a nice dig,’ he shouted.
LETITIA BANDICOOT SAT with her hands clasped in front of her in the waiting-room at St Wilfrid’s. Scattered on the table before her were back numbers of the Lancet, but urticaria in the under-fives held no fascination for her, so she stared at the wall. Nanny Balsam on the other hand was concerned to know the prevalence of ringworm in the Chiltern Hundreds or at least found this preferable to the hospital’s excruciating taste in wallpaper. Both women stood up, however, at the arrival of the man in the white coat.
‘Mrs Bandicoot?’ he addressed Nanny Balsam.
‘Yes?’ said Letitia.
‘Ah.’ The man transferred his grip to the younger hand. ‘Dr Higgs. Thank you for coming. You are . . . ?’ He turned back to Miss Balsam.
‘Annoyed at being kept waiting,’ she beamed icily.
‘I’m . . . sure the doctor has many duties, Nanny,’ Letitia chided her.
‘I’m sure he has.’ Miss Balsam looked over her pince-nez at him. ‘And one of them is punctuality. I detest sloppiness in children, Dr Higgs, and I doubly detest it in adults. Where is Mr Lestrade?’
‘I think I should tell you, ladies,’ the doctor ignored Miss Balsam’s jibes as the ramblings of the elderly deranged, ‘that Inspector Lestrade is not the man you knew.’
‘What happened exactly?’ Letitia asked. ‘I only discovered he was here from Mrs Lemonofides who is a personal friend and is a Visitor here.’
‘Indeed, indeed,’ the doctor gushed. ‘A gracious lady. Well, as far as I can ascertain, Mr Lestrade is suffering from acute oxygen deprivation.’
‘If you mean shortage of breath, young man, say so,’ Miss Balsam admonished him. ‘And isn’t that usually fatal?’
‘Eventually, ma’am. But in the meantime, I fear that Mr Lestrade has become a vegetable.’
Miss Balsam’s spectacles hurtled from the bridge of her nose only to be saved from destruction by the twin salvation of her ample bosoms and the chain around her neck. Mrs Beeton’s Household Management had simply not prepared her for this.
‘May we see him?’ Letitia asked, gripping Nanny’s arm.
‘Of course. But . . . I had to prepare you.’ Dr Higgs led the ladies along the corridors, offensive in their institutional green and cream, until they came to the double doors marked ‘Stephen Ward’ and they entered. Wizened old men hauled on their bedclothes at the arrival of the ladies. One of them remained oblivious, struggling as he was with a hacking cough.
‘That’s enough of that!’ Miss Balsam caught his feet a sharp one with her handbag as she sailed majestically past his bed. Sure enough, it was. He stopped immediately.
They came to Lestrade’s bed. The inspector lay on his side, one arm hooked over his face.
‘Sholto,’ Letitia said softly. No response.
‘Mr Lestrade.’ The doctor tapped his shoulder lightly. Nothing.
‘He’s sleeping, dear,’ said Miss Balsam to Letitia. ‘We’ll come back later.’
‘May we stay, doctor?’ Letitia asked. ‘Just for a while?’
‘I fear it will be useless,’ Higgs sighed, ‘but of course you may. I’ll see that a nurse brings you some chairs.’
The doctor went about his business as Letitia closed to the wreck on the bed, craning forward for some semblance of recognition, some sign of hope. Miss Balsam examined the charts at the bottom of the bed.
‘You’re reading those upside-down,’ Lestrade growled from the canopy of his nightshirted arm.
‘Sholto!’ Letitia squealed.
‘Sshh!’ he hissed and the familiar blunted nose protruded from the covers.
‘You’re all right,’ whispered Letitia.
‘As all right as I ever will be. What are you doing here?’
‘A friend of mine is a hospital Visitor. She recognized your name and remembered my talking of you.’
Miss Balsam leaned over him. ‘The doctor thinks you’re a vegetable, Mr Lestrade.’
‘An opinion others have shared, Miss Balsam,’ Lestrade mumbled. ‘Let’s keep it like that, shall we? Letitia, can you get me out of here, released into your custody, so to speak?’
‘I don’t know.’ Letitia sat up. ‘Why don’t you just walk out of the door? What’s the reason for all this subterfuge?’
Lestrade looked around the bed, wondering which of the appliances was the subterfuge. He wished now he’d been to that first-aid lecture.
‘
I don’t know,’ he came clean, ‘but with a summons against me from the Somerset Constabulary, a murderer and two attempted murderers afoot only a few miles away, I thought it best to lie doggo and bide my time. Temporary derangement can be useful.’
‘I don’t understand any of this, Sholto,’ Letitia confessed.
‘All in good time. Now, be a dear and work your feminine wiles on Dr Higgs. There’s much to be done.’
Letitia did as she was told while Miss Balsam scurried hither and yon bringing screens to hide Lestrade’s embarrassment as he rummaged for his clothes. When the nurse came to intervene, Miss Balsam told her to go away and even threatened the back of her hairbrush if the order was not instantly obeyed. Lestrade was in the act of buttoning up his summer issue combinations when Miss Balsam’s ancient head whizzed around the screen. The inspector’s hands immediately sprang to his defence.
‘You don’t need to cover yourself up,’ Miss Balsam assured him. ‘I’ve handled dozens of little boys in my time.’
‘Little boys, possibly, madam.’ Lestrade’s dignity was a little trampled.
‘Well, in your case, there’s clearly little difference,’ and she vanished in search of Letitia.
Now, Letitia Bandicoot was a striking-looking woman, but when it came to striking, she was not in Nanny Balsam’s league. She was getting nowhere with the obstinate Dr Higgs, who insisted that Lestrade was too ill to be moved. Very quietly, Miss Balsam shepherded Letitia out of Higgs’s office and closed the door behind her. There were whispered exchanges, a high-pitched male shriek and the feverish scratching of a pen. Minutes later, Nanny Balsam emerged, beaming triumphantly, waving a piece of paper.
‘This is the authorization we need. Come along,’ and she swept Letitia away.
AUTUMN WAS COMING TO Bandicoot Hall. It coloured the leaves that shook in the breeze along the lake. It shone golden through the stained glass that threw its lights on the flagstoned floor. It whistled with the ghosts of minstrels in the gallery and it made the swallows gather in numbers to wing their way south.
Lestrade strolled beside the still waters with Letitia on his arm.
‘But surely, Guthrie can’t actually issue you with a summons?’ she asked.
‘No, I don’t think he can,’ chuckled Lestrade, ‘but that won’t stop him from trying.’
‘Will you be in trouble at the Yard?’
‘I’m used to the feel of carpet underfoot.’ He patted her hand. ‘Tell me, when is Harry due back from Yorkshire?’
Her face fell. ‘A week or so. He claims it’s business, but you know Harry. He’s packed his Purdy, so he’ll be stalking the moors for a while. He’ll be sorry to have missed you.’
‘I doubt that. Letitia, I’m sorry I can’t help at the moment in the Tetley business. But perhaps you can help me. Where’s Miss Balsam?’
‘In the village, I believe. She’s a law unto herself, Sholto, as you may have gathered at the hospital.’ They laughed. ‘Why?’
‘Oh, it’s nothing really. Something she said about Richard Tetley when I was here last.’
‘What was that?’
He turned to face her. ‘She said he was a thief. What do you suppose she meant by that?’
Letitia chuckled. ‘I don’t know, Sholto, but I wouldn’t read too much into it. Nanny Balsam is the salt of the earth. Before she was my nanny she was nanny to some of the finest, oldest families in the land – and some of the newest. Did you know she’s organized a Nannies’ Convention?’
Lestrade stopped suddenly.
‘I’m serious. A whole coven of them met at Cheltenham a couple of months ago. I couldn’t imagine what had got into her at first, but she said she had her professional pride, that the British Nanny was an institution. I thought it was very enterprising of her.’
Resisting the impulse to tell Letitia that Miss Balsam should have been in an institution, Lestrade laughed. ‘Is she forming a Trade Union?’
‘Sholto, Nanny Balsam is an eccentric from a long line of eccentrics. She’s ever so slightly dotty. And we love her dearly, Harry and I, but you mustn’t take what she says too seriously.’
‘I’m not sure I take anything seriously any more.’ He turned her towards the house. ‘Oh, one other thing. Does the name de Lacy mean anything to you?’
‘Howard and Marigold de Lacy?’
‘Yes. Do you know him?’
‘Not very well. I know Marigold, of course. We were at finishing school together.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Lestrade was grim-faced.
‘Sorry?’ She held his arm. ‘Sholto. I don’t understand. What’s the matter?’
‘My God, you don’t know,’ he said.
‘Know what?’ Letitia looked her most vulnerable when she was alarmed.
‘I thought you’d have read it in the newspapers. Marigold de Lacy is dead, Letitia, over a week ago now.’
Letitia’s hand involuntarily covered her mouth.
‘I’m very sorry,’ he said again. ‘I hadn’t realized.’
‘Was it . . . an accident?’ she managed.
‘No, Letitia. I’m afraid it was murder.’
Letitia sat down heavily on the terrace seat, ‘Oh, my God. Poor, poor Marigold. I can’t believe it. Harry will be heartbroken.’
‘Harry will?’
‘Oh, it’s silly really. He met Marigold shortly before we were married. I could tell he was smitten with her and she with him. I used to tease him mercilessly about it; that she was the other woman and so on. He won’t believe it either. What happened?’
Lestrade sat down beside her and looked out across the darkening waters of the lake. ‘I’m afraid I can’t tell you,’ he said, ‘but you can tell me something. Was Marigold de Lacy due to visit you last week, say on Thursday?’
‘Visit us? Good Lord, no. At least, nothing had been arranged. Harry was in London . . .’
‘I thought you said Yorkshire.’
‘Yes, Yorkshire, but he had some business in the City first. She may have been coming on spec.’
‘Is that usual?’
‘No, it isn’t. Sholto, I haven’t seen Marigold de Lacy since her wedding. Why should she have suddenly come to visit me last week? And why should anyone want to kill her?’
Lestrade stood up. It was late. And he had a train to catch.
‘When I have those answers,’ he said, ‘I might also have her murderer.’
He saw himself out.
❖ Jenny ❖
‘Y
our telegram said an accident.’ Nimrod Frost moved his elephantine girth a little to the left and blotted out the sun.
‘That’s correct, sir.’ Lestrade stood to attention, the bowler in the crook of his arm, his hair carefully macassared in compliance with Winter Regulations. September was nearly over. The Frosts – Jack and Nimrod – would soon be upon him.
The Assistant Commissioner turned to the inspector with the truculence of the grossly overweight. ‘You look bloody well on it.’
‘Don’t let this rugged exterior fool you, sir,’ Lestrade said. ‘I haven’t been feeling myself recently.’
‘Apparently not.’ Frost whisked a piece of paper under his nose and then under Lestrade’s. ‘Attar of Roses, wouldn’t you say?’
Lestrade hadn’t a clue whose Attar it was, but he wasn’t going to show his ignorance to Frost. Not, that is, unless he had to.
‘It’s a letter from a V. Truefitt who claims to be an archaeologist and who claims to know you.’
Lestrade’s colour drained.
‘Tell me,’ Frost lurched around his desk, ‘is this Truefitt a female?’
‘Yes, sir.’ Lestrade didn’t care for the angle of Frost’s eyebrow. It had an accusatory tilt to it.
‘Thank God for that at least. Nothing odd about Miss Truefitt. Except that she claims that the murderers of Richard Tetley were a Professor Boyd Dawkins and a postman called Belch.’
‘Balch,’ Lestrade corrected him.
‘Do I assume from that rema
rk you do not think Miss Truefitt is correct?’
‘No, sir.’
‘And is she correct when she claims that these gentlemen also tried to kill you?’
‘No, sir. It was all a misunderstanding. I merely met with an accident.’
‘And then,’ Frost reached over his stomach to lift a second letter from his desk, ‘there is this letter from a Dr Higgs of Wells in Somerset who claims he was bludgeoned by a deranged old biddy to release you from his care.’
‘Ah.’ Lestrade’s face fell. ‘Does he say how she did it, sir?’
Frost read between the lines. ‘No doubt there are some things better left unsaid, even by the medical fraternity. According to Higgs, your mind has gone due to respiratory failure.’ Frost produced an acid grin. ‘Nice to have it confirmed.’
‘That was a misunderstanding, sir.’
‘And then, of course,’ the Assistant Commissioner reached for a third letter, ‘Chief Inspector Guthrie of the Somerset Constabulary does not use scented notepaper. His prose is colourful enough. Let me see – no warrant, blah, blah, blah; impersonating an archaeologist (very badly) blah, blah; wasting police time, blah; using a police vehicle viz. and to wit blah . . . Need I go on? Or is that enough blah for one morning?’
‘Another . . .’
‘Misunderstanding? Quite, Lestrade. But which of the three do you wish me to accept? Are you the unwitting victim of a murder attempt? Are you a vegetable? Are you guilty of interfering without authority in the case of another Constabulary? Or are you in fact suspended for two weeks without pay? Good morning.’
‘Sir, I . . .’
‘Good morning, Lestrade!’ Frost’s fist landed among the jumping debris of his desk and the inspector sensed the conversation was at an end.
He turned on his heel and hobbled to his office in the labyrinth of the converted Opera House. Constable Skinner was, as usual, buried in paperwork.
‘Good morning, sir.’ He struggled to his feet.
‘Is it?’ Lestrade barked. ‘Where’s Dew?’
‘Er . . . down there, sir.’
Skinner pointed to the curious sight of two plainclothes policemen lolling on the rail overlooking the river.
