Lestrade and the Guardian Angel

by M. J. Trow

  ‘Got anything for me?’ Lestrade asked the bespectacled bobby.

  ‘I’m still working on the Fellowes diary, sir. I fully expect a breakthrough in two or three months. Faster, if only I could find my spectacles!’

  ‘Good. Good. Well, don’t let me disturb your concentration. Oh, by the way,’ he reached into his pocket and found Skinner’s glasses, ‘borrow mine.’

  Lestrade crammed some papers into the battered Gladstone in his locker and took the stairs rather than the lift. He stepped out into the weak sun of September. He felt strangely free, suddenly. And startled coppers going about their business noticed him skipping through the Embankment archway.

  ‘Now then Dew, Lilley.’ He clapped them both on the shoulder.

  ‘Sir!’ Both men leapt upright.

  ‘As you were, gentlemen.’

  They lolled again. Lilley was the colour of the tripe dangling out of Dew’s sandwiches.

  ‘Sandwich, sir?’ Dew offered.

  ‘No, thanks, constable. I’ve got a few years in me yet.’ He squeezed between them to rub shoulders with the other constable.

  ‘Well, Lilley, how’s it going?’

  The constable looked more vacant than usual. ‘He was dead, sir.’

  Lestrade looked at Dew, who was making silent grimaces in Lilley’s direction.

  ‘Well, you shouldn’t eat them.’ Lestrade assumed the sandwiches were to blame. ‘Who’s dead, constable?’

  ‘Mr de Lacy, sir.’

  Lestrade straightened. ‘De Lacy? Howard Luneberg de Lacy?’

  Lilley nodded, then turned sharply to stare at the river sparkling in the morning.

  ‘All right, lad.’ Lestrade patted his shoulder. ‘Feel like talking about it?’

  Lilley didn’t. But his guv’nor was asking. He cleared his throat and began. ‘Well, sir, I went round to Mr de Lacy’s house the next morning, while you was off to Somerset.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘His man told me he’d come back late the night before and had left instructions he wasn’t to be disturbed.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘I disturbed him, sir.’

  ‘Good man,’ Lestrade said. ‘You’ll go far.’

  ‘I said I had my orders and the gentleman was to accompany me to the mortuary to identify his wife.’

  ‘What then?’

  ‘The gentleman’s manservant refused to assist, so I knocked on the door. It opened under my knock and I went in.’ Lilley was shaking.

  ‘Easy does it, lad.’ Lestrade was as gentle as he knew how. It was not long ago he was talking as gently to Walter Dew as he stood quivering outside Miller’s Court in the days of the Ripper.

  ‘Mr de Lacy was lying in bed, sir, staring at the ceiling. There was . . . blood over his pillow.’

  ‘What did you make of it?’

  ‘I thought it must have been a brain heritage, sir.’

  ‘I see. What then?’

  ‘I . . . er . . . I don’t know, sir. I fainted.’

  Lestrade’s eyes narrowed and his moustache twitched.

  ‘Dew. Were you involved in this?’

  ‘No, sir. Two constables from “B” Division did the honours. Sealed off the room and sent for us. Mr Abberline . . .’

  ‘Damn!’ Lestrade’s fist rang on the rail so that passers-by with perambulators looked at him. ‘Where’s the body now?’

  ‘Still at Mawson Gardens, sir. Mr Abberline didn’t want him moved until he had a chance to look him over.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘Day before yesterday, sir. Mr Abberline had an aunt he had to show round the City. Gave instructions Mr de Lacy wasn’t to go anywhere until he returned.’

  ‘An aunt, eh?’ Lestrade was talking to himself. ‘Then we may not be too late. I’ll wager, gentlemen, Mr Abberline’s aunt has flaming red hair and a backside like a Davenport. And I’ll bet she’s seen the sights before. Don’t giggle, Dew, that’s bloody unprofessional.’

  ‘You there!’ An overweight voice caused all three to look up to a window high among the trees across the road.

  ‘Mr Frost.’ Lestrade waved cheerily.

  ‘You’re lolling!’ Frost roared. ‘Dew and Whoever-You-Are. The Criminal Investigation Department doesn’t loll. And you, you’re suspended!’ He slammed the window shut.

  Lestrade pointed to the Gladstone in his hand. Dew and Lilley looked around, wondering to whom Frost was referring.

  ‘Talking of unprofessional,’ muttered Lestrade, ‘fear not, gentlemen. Our dear Assistant Commissioner means me.’

  ‘You, sir?’ Dew was incredulous.

  ‘It’s not the first time, Walter. And I don’t suppose it’ll be the last. I’ve got two weeks unpaid leave and I’m going to enjoy myself. But first, I’m paying a call on the late Mr de Lacy. Lilley, you’ll get over this morbid fear of blood, I promise you. And stop lolling, both of you. This is Scotland Yard,’ and he went off, whistling, in search of a hansom.

  DE LACY’S MAN, MANFRED, seemed as undeterred by the death of his master as he had been by the death of his mistress. The de Lacys had been childless and so it was at least on the cards that Manfred would be looking for another job before too long.

  ‘I understood that the other police gentleman would be wishing to take charge of Mr de Lacy, sir,’ he said, taking Lestrade’s bowler.

  ‘If you mean Mr Abberline, he isn’t a gentleman, Manfred. No, I will be in charge . . .’ He glanced through the netted curtains of the hall at Number Forty-three Mawson Gardens. ‘At least for a while. Where is Mr de Lacy?’

  ‘Walk this way, sir.’

  Lestrade declined. If he walked that way people would talk about him. Manfred led the inspector upstairs into the master bedroom. On a single bed, propped up on pillows and grey of hue, lay all that was left of Howard Luneberg de Lacy, whose family had come over with the Conqueror.

  ‘Your version of the story.’ Lestrade glanced at Manfred, then raised the blinds to let the sunshine fall on the handsome features of the deceased.

  ‘I was in the kitchen, sir, on Sunday last. Mrs Flanagan was preparing the breakfast. Flanagan was blacking Mr de Lacy’s boots.’

  ‘The Flanagans are husband and wife?’

  ‘No, sir.’ Manfred had the emotive delivery of a paperweight. ‘Alan Flanagan is the cook’s son. Mrs Flanagan is a widowed lady.’

  ‘How many more staff, apart from Flanagan and Alan?’

  ‘Beatrice, the downstairs maid and myself, sir.’

  ‘Did the de Lacys have other property?’

  ‘Mr de Lacy, no, sir. Mrs de Lacy had two villas. One in Cannes, the other in Ventnor.’

  Lestrade turned the head of the corpse, as he had of the corpse’s wife days earlier. There was dark brown blood over the pillows and on the sheets and nightshirt.

  ‘You said Sunday,’ Lestrade went on without looking at Manfred. ‘Surely you mean Saturday?’

  ‘With respect, sir,’ Manfred stood firmly on his dignity, ‘I mean Sunday – the day we found Mr de Lacy.’

  ‘My constable called on Sunday morning?’ Lestrade checked.

  ‘Indeed, sir.’

  Lestrade found this odd. Lilley had not mentioned skipping a day. They had gone to de Lacy to break the news of his wife’s death on Friday, to find him too busy to attend the mortuary. Lilley had orders to go the next morning, Saturday. But he had not got there until the following day. What had happened to the lost weekend?

  ‘Go on,’ Lestrade said.

  ‘Your Constable Lilley called at eight-thirty sir, to conduct Mr de Lacy to the mortuary.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I told him Mr de Lacy had been up late the previous night, sir, and was not to be disturbed until nine. It was his custom on a Sunday to take his breakfast in bed.’

  ‘What did Lilley say?’ Lestrade paced the room, checking dressing table top, wardrobe and drawers mechanically.

  ‘He insisted he be taken at once to Mr de Lacy. Reluctantly, I agreed.’


  ‘You brought him here?’

  ‘Yes, sir. I was about to announce the constable when he pushed past me and fell over.’

  ‘Fainted!’

  ‘I believe so, sir. I confess, even with Mr de Lacy thus,’ he waved to the corpse, ‘I was a little surprised.’

  ‘Lilley hasn’t been well,’ Lestrade said. ‘Tell me, Manfred, was Mr de Lacy in this position?’

  ‘His eyes were open, sir. Other than that, yes.’

  ‘You closed them.’

  ‘Of course, sir. I couldn’t leave him lying there like that.’ The tone suggested that Manfred’s motive was one of tidiness rather than humanity.

  ‘Did Mr de Lacy sleep alone habitually?’ Lestrade noted the single bed.

  ‘Sir?’ Manfred registered shock by raising an eyebrow.

  ‘Dammit, man. It can’t matter now and I have a murder or two to solve. Did Mr and Mrs de Lacy share a bed?’

  ‘I believe not, sir, not for the last few months. Mrs de Lacy’s bedroom is along the hall.’

  ‘And of course as a fervent servant you wouldn’t know why this should be?’

  Manfred’s other eyebrow joined the first and he shuddered. ‘Absolutely not, sir. It was none of my business.’

  Lestrade threw himself down in an armchair. ‘Of course not. So, Mr de Lacy didn’t go to the mortuary himself on the Saturday, even though he knew his wife was dead? Odd, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘It’s not for me to say, sir.’ Manfred was guarded in death as he had been in life.

  ‘Where had he been so late on Saturday night?’

  ‘To the theatre, sir.’

  ‘What did he see?’

  ‘A play, sir.’

  Lestrade stood up sharply. ‘What play?’

  ‘I believe it was A Woman of No Importance by some Irishman.’

  ‘And do you know whether he went alone?’

  Manfred hesitated and was immediately lost. ‘I . . . er . . . believe he went with a lady, sir.’

  Lestrade closed to his man like a shark suddenly tired of basking. ‘And do you know who the lady was?’ He placed his nose near to the manservant’s.

  Manfred coughed and wriggled a little, but there was no escape from the jaws of the shark. ‘I believe it was Lady Davinia Harcourt,’ he said.

  Lestrade whipped out his trusty notepad. ‘Write the lady’s address down there,’ he said, and while Manfred was wrestling with the pencil stub, Lestrade checked the door. ‘No key,’ he said. ‘Was Mr de Lacy in the habit of locking his bedroom door?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘What time did he return from the theatre?’

  ‘I don’t know, sir. I retired about midnight. He had not returned by then.’

  ‘If you had retired, who locked the house?’

  ‘Mr de Lacy himself, sir.’

  ‘And when you answered the door to my constable in the morning, was the front door locked?’

  ‘No, sir, it was not.’

  ‘Is that significant, Manfred?’

  ‘Not unduly, sir. Mr de Lacy often forgot to lock the front door.’

  ‘And yet there was no one to check for him?’

  ‘It was his instruction, sir.’

  ‘When he had been to the theatre or when he had been with a lady?’

  Manfred’s eyebrow lifted again. ‘I don’t understand, sir.’

  The basking shark turned on him again. ‘Yes, you do, Manfred. Did Lady Davinia return with Mr de Lacy on Saturday night?’

  ‘I really do not know, sir. I was already abed.’

  ‘“And Mr de Lacy had been a widower for only forty-eight hours, sir” would have been a better answer, Manfred,’ Lestrade told him. He returned to the corpse. ‘A sharp object, rammed with some force through the back of the neck. An ice pick, perhaps, a bodkin of some sort. Severed the spinal cord. Death would have been very quick. And between midnight and eight-thirty on Sunday morning, anyone could have crept in here through two unlocked doors and despatched him.’ He was talking to himself. ‘He would have had to have been lying on his side, probably facing away from the window. Manfred, was the room disturbed? Signs of a struggle?’

  ‘None, sir.’

  ‘So he was asleep at the time.’ Lestrade checked the glass by the bedside, sniffing it carefully. ‘Water,’ he pronounced. A movement beyond the nets caught his eye. A hansom pulled up in the street below and a heavy, moustachioed man with a gardenia in his buttonhole got out, but not before an attractive redhead had hauled him back into the cab and kissed him passionately.

  ‘So that’s his auntie,’ Lestrade murmured. ‘What is her hand doing there? Manfred, the other police gentleman is on his way up. I would take it as a personal favour if you would delay mentioning my presence to Mr Abberline for at least ten minutes.’

  ‘Of course, sir.’ Manfred’s middle name was discretion.

  ‘But first, I’d be grateful if you could point me in the direction of the back door.’

  Manfred did so and, on his way out, Lestrade patted something in the hall. It was a knobkerrie with a particularly large head.

  IT HAD TO BE ADMITTED that Lestrade and Dew were looking in opposite directions when they collided. The crack of skulls and buckling of bowlers ricocheted through the lunchtime streets of Chiswick and the dazed coppers reeled apart.

  ‘Sorry, sir, I was trying to catch your eye before Mr Abberline saw you.’

  ‘An inch or so to the right, and you’d have succeeded, Dew.’ Lestrade steadied himself against a wall. ‘As it is, I think you’ve broken my nose.’

  Gradually the two Constables Dew merged to be one and he dried his eyes.

  ‘Well, what’s your hurry?’ Lestrade asked. ‘I realized the Chief Inspector would not be far behind me.’

  ‘Something else, sir. Arrived at the Yard shortly after you left. Hoped I’d catch you before you went on. Thought I’d better fly over to Chiswick.’

  Lestrade took the proffered telegram marked ‘Urgent’. Its contents came as a bolt from the blue.

  ‘It’s from Chief Inspector Blue,’ he told Dew. ‘Oh, of course, he was before your time. With me in “H” Division years ago. I think he got tired of quips about being the boy in blue and joined plainclothes, before he got tired of that too and went to Yorkshire.’

  ‘If you’re tired of London, you’re tired of life, sir.’ Dew was at his most philosophical on Tuesdays. Or perhaps it was the blow to his head.

  ‘Quite, Walter, quite.’ This was a side of Dew Lestrade had not seen before. He didn’t really care for it. ‘I’ve got to go to York, constable. If anybody asks, you haven’t seen me. Got it?’

  ‘Haven’t seen your what, sir?’ It was Walter Dew’s contribution to levity. Lestrade ignored it and wandered away.

  IN THOSE DAYS THE TRAINS ran into a little station at Blenheim. And not to be outdone, Lestrade ran into a piece of topiary in the likeness of a huge man riding a huge horse and badly lacerated his face on the thorns that protruded from the animal’s kneecaps.

  ‘Are you all right?’ a soft voice called with some concern.

  Lestrade focused through the pain to see a beautiful woman with dark hair and eyes leaning over him as he struggled to free his trousers from the briar grip of the horse’s raised forefoot.

  ‘Puissant, isn’t it?’ The lady looked up admiringly at the giant hedge.

  ‘Privet would have been more sensible, madam.’ Lestrade touched his bowler with what dignity he could.

  The lady was wondering just how a man apparently in possession of his faculties could have collided with a thirty-foot high statue in hedgery. ‘The Great Duke,’ she said.

  Lestrade stood back to take in the flowing curls and leafy armour. It wasn’t his place to say so, but it bore not the slightest resemblance to Wellington.

  ‘I’m looking for Lady Randolph Churchill,’ Lestrade said.

  ‘You’ve found her.’ The lady curtsied low, a fetching sight in her brown velvet riding habit.

&n
bsp; ‘Ah. Inspector Lestrade, Lady Randolph, from Scotland Yard.’

  ‘Inspector Lestrade.’ She shook his hand warmly. ‘Winston has spoken of you many times. I am delighted to meet you at last.’

  ‘And I you, Lady Randolph.’

  She linked her arm through his and walked to safer ground, down to the water terraces where the hedges were fewer. She produced a monogrammed handkerchief and dabbed the blood from his forehead. ‘You poor dear. Blackthorn can be beastly, can’t it? I’m rather afraid you’ve missed Winston. He’s in India, you know. The Malakand Field Force with General Blood.’

  Lestrade had always thought that an unfortunate name for a soldier.

  ‘Of course,’ Lady Randolph went on, ‘there’s talk of trouble with the Fuzzy Wuzzies. Winston will want to see action in the Sudan, I fear. I’ve written to the Sirdar.’

  ‘Forceful man, the Sirdar, by all accounts,’ said Lestrade.

  ‘Really? I always found him rather woolly,’ she said.

  But it was not Winston Lestrade had come to see.

  ‘It is not Winston I have come to see, Lady Randolph,’ he said.

  ‘My other son, Jack? I’m afraid he’s in France.’

  ‘Not your other son either, Lady Randolph, but your good Lady Randolph self.’

  ‘I?’ She stopped by the first of the fountains, cascading lazily in the afternoon air. Her head tilted a little to the right and she smiled at him in a way that caused a flutter to his heart. He mustn’t miss lunch again, he thought to himself.

  ‘I understand you knew the late Oscar Jones, the archaeologist.’

  ‘Why, yes I did. We expatriates tend to stick together, Mr Lestrade.’

  Lestrade had assumed Jones had been American, but he wasn’t going to push the point.

  ‘I am pursuing a murder enquiry, Lady Randolph.’

  ‘Murder?’ She instinctively clutched her throat. ‘Good heavens.’

  ‘The murder of one Richard Tetley, also an archaeologist. Did you know him?’

  ‘I never met the man. But of course there was talk.’

  ‘Talk, Lady Randolph?’

  She gently broke away from him and wandered beside the lily leaves floating dead and dying on the dark water. A sudden gust of wind caught the fountain and Lestrade experienced a wet arm. He hastened after her; the wind changed again and the water caught him in the back of the head.