by M. J. Trow
‘Will you stay to dinner, Mr Lestrade? We’re having a few friends. Nothing formal, you understand. Forty or so people.’
‘I hardly think I am dressed for such a . . .’
‘Nonsense. I doubt if Winston’s things would fit you, but I expect I could dig out something of Randolph’s. Good Lord, you poor man, you’re soaking wet! Has it been raining?’
Lestrade held out his hand. ‘Not recently,’ he smiled.
And they walked towards the vast magnificence of Blenheim Palace.
‘Nice place you’ve got here,’ said Lestrade as the sweep of the North Front came into view.
Lady Randolph smiled. ‘Like you, Mr Lestrade, I’m only visiting. I drift these days between here and London, waiting for news of Winnie. I live for him now,’ she sighed. ‘For him and through him.’
‘When I met your son, Lady Randolph, he told me he couldn’t decide whether he wanted to be a general or Home Secretary.’
Lady Randolph laughed, a warm, melodic sound that touched Lestrade’s heart. He hadn’t laughed in the company of a beautiful woman for a long time, it seemed to him.
‘Tell me, Mr Lestrade.’ She was suddenly serious, the eyebrows raised quizzically. ‘Please forgive the imprudence, but I sense a sadness about you as there is about . . . Is there an emptiness in your life too?’
She stood before him, framed by the great grey stones that the first Churchill had watched rise from the ruins of medieval Woodstock. He found himself nodding, wet, tired and bleeding as he was. ‘My wife died two years ago,’ he said. ‘Nearly three.’
She caught her breath. ‘About the time I lost Randolph,’ she said, looking deep into his eyes. Then she closed to him, clamping herself to his sodden sleeve. ‘You shall be my escort tonight, Mr Lestrade. You shall sit by me and save me from being bored to death by the other guests. And I shall tell you all I can about poor Oscar Jones.’
WHEN DINNER WAS OVER and the ladies had retired, Lestrade sat back in his ill-fitting dinner jacket and enjoyed a well-earned cigar. True, Lady Randolph had been on his right hand and had been lovely and gracious in her cream mutton-chop gown, but she had been cornered all evening by a doddery old admiral and she had been unable to escape in order to tell Lestrade what he wanted to know. And it had to be admitted that Lestrade’s attention was rather elsewhere – to his left, to be precise, in the person of the gorgeous and golden Duchess of Marlborough. Her husband, Sunny, the Duke, was away on his interminable business trips and Consuelo, vivacious, curvaceous, voracious, was bored. Had it not been for her title, she would have been true to her Cuban ancestry and pressed her knee against Lestrade’s, little knowing how recently it had been pressed by another. As it was, she made do by sending a note by one of the footmen. And unbeknownst to her, Lady Randolph was sending another footman with a similar message. They arrived at Lestrade’s slouching form simultaneously and waited patiently while the inspector bestirred himself and read first one note, then the other. He looked up nervously at the flunkeys, whose smiles vanished, and they stared ahead in their silk livery and powdered wigs, as marble as the statues which guarded the crackling fireplace.
Consuelo’s note had asked him to come at once, so he downed his brandy, bowed to the oblivious company who had decided that Lestrade must be an estate agent and ignored him accordingly, and left. He wandered through the vast empty rooms, heavy with velvet and ormolu, until he found the Red Drawing Room with its huge portrait of the First Duke. He was still staring at the flames that flickered below it when the door clicked behind him.
‘Madam.’ He stood to attention.
She flicked his tie with her fan. ‘Mr Lestrade, you are a dull guest. I had expected you some little while ago.’
‘I feel I should explain . . .’ he began.
She held her gloved fingers to his lips. The sweet smell of her perfume filled his head with a warmth far lovelier than the brandy and the fire. ‘There is no need,’ she said. ‘You think me forward, brash, even a little vulgar?’
‘Lady Marlborough, I . . .’
‘Well, you are probably right.’ She looked up at the armoured, bewigged Duke towering over them both. ‘Corporal John,’ she sighed. ‘You know, it is said that shortly before his death, he stood before this portrait and said, “This was once a man.” That’s rather sad, don’t you think? Oh,’ she took his hand, ‘I asked you to join me, Mr Lestrade, because I saw in you a man unlike the others in there. A man unlike any of them. A man like him.’ She swept her arm in an admiring gesture at the portrait.
‘Your husband, madam . . .’ Lestrade reminded her. At the corner of his eye he caught the Louis XVI clock. He had two minutes to meet Lady Randolph.
‘. . . is away on business, Mr Lestrade, as I explained to you.’
‘Indeed, madam, but that is precisely the point.’
She sighed. ‘Oh dear, have I misjudged you, dear, dear Mr Lestrade?’ She stood on tiptoe and planted a warm kiss on his lips. ‘It’s Jenny, isn’t it?’
‘No, it’s Sholto,’ he told her. ‘Oh, I see. Jenny,’ and he saw his escape. ‘Yes, I’m afraid it is.’
‘Of course. She is a dear, dear thing and she deserves happiness, God knows, but I think I should warn you that there is another. George Cornwallis-West . . .’
‘I will take my chances, Lady Marlborough. Goodnight.’ He bowed with what he hoped was the right angle for the aristocracy and fumbled through the doors behind him. Wiping the sweat from his brow, he adjusted his bow tie and fled through the vast emptinesses until he found the Long Library. The moon was filtering through on to the priceless carpets and the faded old leather of the spines.
From a darkened corner away from the fire a voice called, ‘Randolph?’
He stiffened and turned to the darkness. ‘Lestrade, madam,’ he apologized, ‘Lady Randolph.’
‘How silly of me,’ the voice came after a while. ‘I was dozing for a moment.’ She walked into the moonlight. ‘Call me Jenny.’
‘Would that be wise, Lady Randolph?’
‘Wisdom, Mr Lestrade? What do I know of wisdom?’ She offered him a seat. ‘That’s Chippendale,’ she said.
‘Perhaps I should sit somewhere else?’ He hesitated.
‘No.’ She looked at him a little oddly. ‘There will be fine. Tell me, was Consuelo’s note the same as mine?’
Lestrade felt his lips bricky dry. ‘It was more to the point, Lady Randolph,’ he said.
She laughed, that tinkling musical sound he loved. ‘Poor Consuelo. She means no harm, you know. She’s deeply in love with Sunny but he’s away so often.’
‘Lady Randolph . . .’
‘Randolph’s mother thinks I don’t miss my late husband, Mr Lestrade – Sholto, isn’t it?’
He wasn’t sure now.
‘But I do. And now,’ she snapped herself back from the distance of her dreams, ‘I spend my time entertaining publishers in order to get my son noticed. Did you hear that old fool Longman earlier this evening?’
‘About Oscar Jones, Lady Randolph.’ Lestrade did not wish to be impolite but he had urgent business in the north.
‘Of course.’ She rang a little bell beside her on the table. ‘The purpose of your visit. Our families were friends from way back,’ she told him, leaning back in the snug chair, firelight dancing on her perfect face. ‘Oscar was a bright boy. Fierce, ardent, intelligent. Not unlike dear Winston, but rather less piggy-looking. Randolph thought Oscar a genius. The poor boy died in Egypt, Sholto, six . . . no, seven years ago now. He was only twenty-four.’
A flunkey appeared at the library door, ‘Scargill, brandies and coffee, please.’
The flunkey bowed and exited.
‘How did he die?’ Lestrade asked.
Her face became puzzled. ‘I don’t believe I know,’ she said. ‘But he died, I am sure, happy. He’d made his greatest discovery.’
‘Had he? I thought he was working under Richard Tetley?’
‘Oh, no, Sholto. Someone has been misinform
ing you. Look.’ She produced from her sleeve a crumpled note. ‘I found this while dressing for dinner and meant to give it to you earlier.’
He craned forward to read the faded words in the firelight. ‘From Oscar?’ he asked.
‘Yes, a day or two before he died. In it, he says that he had found the tomb of a Pharaoh. He also says that he is anxious to complete his work before others can steal it from him.’
‘Steal it from him?’ Lestrade repeated.
‘I believe they were his words. Ah, coffee and brandy, Sholto, one lump or two? Leave us, Scargill. As you see, the poor boy was rather low. He says he has even written to his dear old nanny to tell her of his fears. Could he have meant this Richard Tetley? They say he was devilish ambitious.’
Lestrade stood up. ‘Lady Randolph, I fear I must be leaving too.’
She rose with him. ‘Sholto, you can’t. At this hour?’
‘Is there a train?’
‘I believe there is, at midnight, but . . .’
‘Lady Randolph,’ he took her hand, ‘may I borrow Oscar’s letter?’
‘Of course, if it will help?’
‘You have been generous and more helpful than you know.’
‘Are you nearer to solving your case?’ she asked.
‘Inches nearer, madam, but inches nonetheless. Lady Marlborough . . .’
‘. . . will be disappointed,’ Jenny smiled. Her face lost its sparkle for a moment. ‘But not as disappointed as I . . .’ She held his hand for a long time and he slipped away into the dark.
‘Give my regards to young Winston,’ he said. ‘I will leave the clothes with your man. Thank you, Lady Randolph.’ He watched her for as long as he dared, her eyes bright in the moonlight.
‘A bientôt,’ she whispered, but he didn’t speak Spanish, and was gone.
IT WAS UNFORTUNATE that Mr and Mrs Blue had christened their only son Boyd. It was unfortunate that he had undertaken a career in the police force, for the colour of its uniform dogged him. It was also unfortunate that his height, at a little under five feet two inches, ought to have precluded his joining, but his zealousness forced him to cram newspaper into his boots and in the less than caring days of the 1870s no one had measured too closely. So it was that Little Boyd Blue became a marked man. A man, appropriately enough for the police force, with a nickname.
He sat patiently in the tea rooms off the Shambles, watching the genteel of the city taking their morning refreshment. And among the well-to-do astrakhans and beavers and tweeds woven in the Dales, a rather shabby Donegal he thought he knew.
They told me at the station I’d find you here.’ Lestrade shook his hand, only to have Blue’s bowler smacked smartly in front of his face.
‘Not so loud, Sholto. If I’d wanted the world to know, we could have met at the gaol and shouted your arrival from the top of Clifford’s Tower. How are you?’
‘Confused, Boyd.’
‘Ah, yes, railway repairs at Peterborough. Enough to confuse anybody.’
‘No.’ Lestrade sat down and began disrobing. ‘Your telegram.’
Blue closed to him. ‘I couldn’t give much away.’ He glanced to left and right and his jaw was poised to speak when the waitress arrived.
‘Will there be owt else?’ she asked.
‘No, thank you,’ Blue snapped. ‘Don’t dawdle, girl. Be about your business.’
‘Er . . . I’ll have a tea, please.’ Lestrade stopped her.
She rolled her eyes heavenward. ‘Very good, sir.’
‘Don’t encourage sulky floozies like her, Lestrade,’ Blue hissed under his breath. ‘Well, get on with it, girl.’ He clapped his hands. ‘You heard the lieutenant.’
Lestrade looked around him. Apart from the hum and the clatter of cups, he was unaware that anyone else had spoken. ‘For a moment there,’ he smiled, looking for somewhere to put his bowler, ‘I thought you called me lieutenant.’
His laugh was cut dramatically short by a tug on his sleeve that brought his nose down sharply into the sugar bowl.
‘This is an undercover operation, Lestrade,’ Blue whispered. ‘Didn’t you read my telegram?’
Lestrade clicked his fingers in realization. ‘That was the word! Do you know, I wrestled with that all the way up. Undercover. Yes, of course, I see it now.’
‘The question is, can the Yard spare you? I know it’s a bloody cheek on my part, Sholto.’
‘Well, life is of course frantic, Little . . . er . . . Boyd, but I couldn’t let an old chum and colleague down.’
‘Thank you my dear.’ Blue was suddenly all smiles to the floozie. ‘Just like the lieutenant likes it.’
The waitress gave Lestrade a look which implied that he had recently escaped from somewhere and answered a call from the far side of the room. ‘’Ang about. I’ve only got t’one pair of ’ands.’
‘Aren’t you rather overdoing this?’ Lestrade whispered. ‘What is all this lieutenant business?’
‘Just establishing your alter persona, Sholto,’ Blue explained.
‘Thank you.’ Lestrade adjusted his tie. ‘I’ll establish my own. Now, what’s going on?’
‘You read of course about William Hellerslyke?’
‘No.’ Lestrade helped himself to one of Blue’s chelseas. He was feeling homesick already.
‘Don’t you have papers in London, Lestrade?’ Blue said and instantly regretted his volume. ‘It was in all the dailies. Made front page of the Yorkshire Post.’
‘What did?’
‘The death of Sir William Hellerslyke, Bt.’
It was a new one on Lestrade. ‘Go on,’ he shrugged.
‘He was found dead two weeks ago. In the saddle.’
‘In the saddle?’
‘Cadaveric spasm, the coroner reckoned. Looked for all the world as if he was on picquet duty.’
‘A soldier, eh?’
Blue looked at his erstwhile colleague. Little doubts began to butterfly around in Boyd’s brain. Had his choice been a sound one?
‘The Yorkshire Hussars. They were – and still are – on manoeuvres nearby.’
‘You think this Hellerslyke was murdered?’
‘I’m sure of it. Rigid in the saddle, he was.’
‘Cause of death?’
‘Poisoning.’
‘Type?’
‘Now, there’s the queer thing. Phosphorus, the coroner said. Personally, I think he’s bluffing. Leaves no trace you see.’
‘Yes it does, Boyd. It glows in the dark.’
Blue looked at Lestrade and a snigger escaped in spite of himself. ‘Get away!’ he roared.
‘I’m serious, Boyd.’ It was Lestrade’s turn to whisper. ‘Twelve hours or so after death, the corpse gives off a very definite phosphorescent glow.’
‘Well, I’m damned.’ Blue sat back in his chair. ‘Of course, I thought he’d choked at first.’
‘Choked?’
‘Yes, he had a locket in his teeth, wedged by the action of his jaws.’
Lestrade’s chelsea landed squarely in his tea cup. ‘Did you say a locket? In his mouth?’
‘Yes. It’s damned odd, isn’t it?’
‘Odder than you know, Boyd.’ Lestrade fished the soggy cake out. ‘What’s your problem?’
‘The county set,’ said Blue. ‘They’re a close lot. To use the local vernacular, “See Nowt, Do Nowt, Say Nowt”.’
‘Which means they aren’t very helpful?’ Lestrade translated.
‘Quite. I’ve visited the camp, of course. Made the usual enquiries. Went to Hellerslyke’s home at Goathland. Nothing. Nobody knows a damned thing. But the poison isn’t only in Hellerslyke, Sholto. It’s in the air. I can smell it.’
‘So you need a new face?’
‘Exactly. I scratched around and thought of you.’
‘Naturally,’ Lestrade said. ‘So what’s your plan?’
‘The Hussars have one more week of manoeuvres, including Hellerslyke’s funeral tomorrow. Half Yorkshire will be there. Full regimental ho
nours etcetera, etcetera.’
‘How do I fit in?’
‘Fit is the operative word,’ Blue beamed, ‘and I hope you will. How’s your sabre drill?’
‘My what?’ Lestrade froze. He hadn’t touched a sword in three years and then it had been an emergency. And the dark days of cutlass drill with the City of London force were long ago and far away.
‘Here.’ Blue slipped a key under the table to Lestrade. ‘Room sixty-one, the White Swan Hotel. I’ve booked you in as Lieutenant Lister, Duke of Lancaster’s Own Yeomanry. You’re still using the old alias?’
Lestrade was annoyed. ‘I’m annoyed, Boyd,’ he confessed. ‘Elephants and old policemen never forget, eh?’
‘Less of the old, Lestrade. I’m forty-three, same as you.’
‘Haven’t done very well, have I? A lieutenant at forty-three?’ Lestrade was checking his credentials.
‘Doesn’t work that way in the Yeomanry,’ Blue told him. ‘Who you are, not what, etcetera, etcetera. When you get to your room, you’ll find a tin trunk under the bed. It contains all the uniforms you’ll need.’
‘Uniforms?’ Lestrade panicked at the thought of more than one.
‘Don’t worry. In the trunk you’ll also find a book of Dress Regulations. It’ll tell you what to wear, when. There’s also a Cavalry Drill Book for 1885.’
‘Marvellous!’ grunted Lestrade. ‘Let’s just hope they haven’t changed the rules since then!’
‘Come, come, Lestrade. Horses still have a leg at each corner, you know.’
‘That’s about all I do know about horses. Isn’t there another way of doing this, Boyd?’
‘Well, I thought of getting you in as a newspaperman, but they wouldn’t tell a journalist any more than they told me. Less, perhaps. Whereas, a brother officer . . .’
‘If my history serves me correctly,’ Lestrade sneaked a sugar lump from the bowl, ‘wasn’t there a bit of a punch-up between Yorkshire and Lancashire?’
‘You’re talking about the Wars of the Roses, Lestrade,’ Boyd reassured him. ‘All rather a long time ago. I wouldn’t worry. Here,’ Blue handed him a large envelope.
