by M. J. Trow
‘Well, I’d just refilled our glasses. My guest was a Miss Barlow, a bit of all right, I can tell you . . .’ He guffawed.
‘Quite. Quite. What of Hellerslyke?’
‘Well, he suddenly brushed past Henrietta . . . Miss Barlow, in a rather brusque manner. I said, “Steady old boy” and he had the grace to apologize, but his face was dark as thunder.’
‘Do you know why?’
‘Well, he kept glancing backwards over his shoulder. As though . . .’
‘His pouch belt was slipping?’ Lestrade was still playing the cavalry officer.
‘As though he was afraid of something.’
‘Did he talk about it?’
‘He only said he couldn’t believe it.’
‘Couldn’t believe what?’
‘Well, that’s just it. I don’t know. He said it twice, “I don’t believe it”, just like that.’
‘When did you see him last?’
‘Not again until the picquets found him. He left the marquee there and then and strode off to his horse.’
‘Was that usual? To leave a Lady Day luncheon?’
‘No. I was the duty officer. Willie should have stayed there and entertained the ladies.’
‘Did he have any guests?’
‘Oh, yes.’ Daubney guffawed. ‘Three, in fact. Rather a one for the ladies, our Willie.’
‘Was he now?’
‘Look here.’ The affable adjutant was beginning to see things more clearly through the steam. ‘You’re askin’ an awful lot of questions. Not a peeler, are you?’ He guffawed.
Lestrade guffawed even more heartily. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Know what my nickname is in the Duke of Lancaster’s? Nosey. Nosey Lister.’
‘Haw! Haw!’ Daubney bellowed, flicking Lestrade across the face with his gloves. ‘And you’ve barely got one, have you? Well, must fly. See you in the mess tent. Dinner’s at eight. Got your mess kit?’
‘Er . . . yes.’ Lestrade thought he’d seen that listed in his trunk.
‘By the way.’ Daubney paused on his way out. ‘You haven’t a batman, have you? I’ll get you Private Robbin. He’ll lay things out for you. Toodlepip!’ and he vanished in a cloud of horse liniment.
LESTRADE LEARNED NOTHING from Private Robbin about the sort of man Captain Hellerslyke had been. After all, Yeomanry Camp lasted for a month each year and apart from occasional Review Days, the men of the Yorkshire Hussars scattered to the corners of their large and very draughty county. At least, however, Private Robbin was more au fait than Lestrade in the manner of fastening mess dress and he laced up the blue vest accordingly and buffed the scarlet jacket with vigour. It might have been better, as Lestrade pointed out, if he had used a brush.
‘Course, I found ’im, y’know.’ Robbin huffed on Lestrade’s shoulder cords.
‘Captain Hellerslyke?’
‘Aye.’
‘What time was this?’
‘Ee, it were near midnight.’
‘Where, exactly?’
‘In t’woods, back o’t’camp.’
‘Should Captain Hellerslyke have been there at that hour?’
‘’Appen,’ the private nodded, ‘’e were on picquet duty. Should have been relieved at eleven. Only no one could find ’im. We all searched in all t’directions of t’compass. Reckon ’e be off in York after t’Lady Day.’
‘Why?’ Lestrade tied the black armband on himself. ‘Was that the custom for officers?’
Robbin adjusted his collar and closed to Lestrade. ‘T’ain’t for me to say, y’understand, but it were for ’im, aye. Proper ladies’ man, they said.’
‘They?’
‘Folk, like. Nowt so queer as folk, tha knows.’
Lestrade had noticed that.
‘So you expected him to be with a lady in York?’
‘Aye. I know I shouldn’t speak ill o’t’dead, but there it is. No changin’ it now. Any road up, I saw ’im, sittin’ on ’is ’orse, ’e were. T’animal were munchin’ t’grass as though nothin’ ’ad ’appened.’
‘But it had?’
‘’Appen,’ Robbin confirmed. ‘I said, ‘“’Owdo, sir. Parky tonight, i’n’t it?’”
‘And what did he say?’
‘Bugger all. ’E were dead.’
‘But still in the saddle? Rigor mortis?’
‘Well, that’s as maybe, but ’e were bloody stiff an’ all. And another thing, ’e ’ad this stuff down ’is jacket, all glowin’ in the dark it were.’
‘Phosphorus,’ murmured Lestrade.
‘Eh?’ Robbin blinked.
‘It was vomit, private,’ Lestrade said, secretly admiring the cut of his jib in the mirror in the tent. ‘Captain Hellerslyke had been poisoned with phosphorus. It glows in the dark.’
‘Well, I never . . .’ Robbin’s voice trailed away.
‘Probably not.’ Lestrade tapped the man’s shoulder. ‘Or you’d be dead now. Time for dinner?’
HE DIDN’T LEARN MUCH at dinner. Someone thought they ought to beg Sir George Wombwell for the umpteenth time to tell the story of the Light Brigade and Colonel Lord Bolton had to be nudged periodically during the telling of it as his snoring was making the silver rattle. At one point, Lestrade dropped the salt-cellar, only to have it scooped up in a deft movement by the tent-pegging corporal from B Troop.
The wine flowed and the cigar smoke curled and then, when the colonel and his guest were gone, the adjutant came up to Lestrade.
‘You wanted to know about Willie Hellerslyke,’ he said, stern-faced.
Lestrade searched the man’s face. He had ridden headlong into traps before now. ‘I was just idly curious,’ he said. ‘Nothing more.’
‘Well, come with me. You might learn something.’
The adjutant led him through a maze of tent flaps and out into the chill night air. From the camp fires of the men, a fiddle had struck up a jaunty Yorkshire tune and the clap of hands and stamp of boots began to accompany it. From the horse-lines, the odd snort and stamp as the animals settled down to the autumn night with its promise of frost and stars. He led Lestrade up the hill on to the level and through the French windows of the great house that overlooked the park. From the city in the distance, the bell of the Minster chimed the hour. Dead midnight.
In the hall of the house, the furniture was arrayed as though for a trial. More spacious and comfortable than the Bailey, certainly, but essentially for the same purpose. Behind a large, leather-topped desk at one end sat three officers whom Lestrade recognized as the majors of the regiment.
Around the walls sat brother officers, still wearing their mess kits, still smoking their cigars.
A nod from the senior major, Alfred Myndup, and three more officers entered, two in mess dress flanking a third in levee order, the dim lights flaring on the silver lace of his jacket. He unhooked his busby and placed it on the desk beside a solitary chair. Then the sword, which he unbuckled from its slings and placed out of the scabbard on the majors’ desk.
‘I spy strangers.’ Another major pointed to Lestrade.
‘Lieutenant Daubney,’ Myndup barked, ‘who is this gentleman?’
Daubney stood up. ‘Lieutenant Lister, sir, Duke of Lancaster’s Own Yeomanry. He believes he knew Captain Hellerslyke, sir, and as such I believed he ought to be present.’
Myndup ruminated. The quail was not being kind. ‘Gentlemen,’ he said, ‘do we want to wash our dirty linen in public?’
The three majors’ heads bent together and broke again. Myndup addressed the officer in full uniform. ‘Lieutenant Hardinge, do you have any objection to Lieutenant Lister’s presence?’
Hardinge looked at Lestrade. ‘I have nothing to hide,’ he said firmly.
‘So be it. Lieutenant Lister, you may stay.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ Lestrade nodded.
‘Lieutenant George Blisworth Hardinge,’ Myndup faced the man in the dock, ‘you have requested a hearing before your brother officers of the Princess Alexandra’s Own Yorkshire Hussar
s in order to clear your name of the murder of Captain William Hellerslyke of this regiment on the fourth instant.’
Lestrade sat up.
‘You are aware that, as a Yeomanry regiment, we are not empowered to hold courts martial of this kind and that no decision by this court can be regarded as binding.’
‘I am aware,’ Hardinge answered.
‘And as such, we shall not be following the procedure as laid down regarding courts martial in Her Majesty’s Regulations?’
‘I am aware,’ Hardinge repeated.
‘Do you have a prisoner’s friend, or do you intend to conduct your own defence?’
‘I will defend myself,’ Hardinge said.
‘Captain Kilcommons,’ Myndup sat back, ‘you may proceed.’
A tall, sharp man emerged from the shadows at the far side of the room. He fitted a monocle into his left eye socket and stood looking at Lestrade for some time.
‘Lieutenant Hardinge, what was your relationship with the deceased?’ he asked.
‘Brother officer,’ Hardinge answered.
‘He was a superior officer?’ Kilcommons queried.
‘Yes.’
‘Was there any other relationship?’
‘No.’
‘How long had you known William Hellerslyke?’
‘For about five years.’
‘Before you joined the regiment, in fact?’
‘Yes.’
‘In what context did you meet him?’
‘On a shooting weekend, near Scarborough, I believe.’
‘What opinion did you form of the man?’
‘I liked him,’ said Hardinge, ‘at first.’
‘At first?’
Hardinge slammed his fist on to the table at his side. ‘It is common knowledge, Captain, that William Hellerslyke seduced my sister. That seduction led to her death by suicide six months ago. For that, sir, I hated William Hellerslyke.’
‘Hated him enough to kill him?’ Kilcommons saw his opening, and pounced.
‘Yes!’ Hardinge was on his feet.
‘Lieutenant!’ Myndup pounded the desk with his gavel. ‘May I remind you that we are all gentlemen here? You requested this hearing. Captain Kilcommons is merely playing devil’s advocate. There is nothing personal in his remarks. Please remember that and conduct yourself accordingly.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Hardinge subsided. ‘I apologize.’
‘On the day Captain Hellerslyke died,’ Kilcommons began to walk around, enjoying, it seemed to Lestrade, the limelight, ‘were you in the luncheon party at midday?’
‘I was.’
Kilcommons produced a sheaf of paper. ‘I have here, Mr President,’ he addressed Myndup, ‘copies of the report of the County Coroner. May I submit them?’
Myndup nodded and accepted the papers, as did his fellow judges and Daubney. As adjutant, the lieutenant was frantically scratching down in note form all that proceeded. Lestrade took advantage of his busyness to glance at the report. Phosphorus poisoning. Probably ingested in wine. For Robbin to have found Hellerslyke dead and stiff at midnight, he must have drunk the deadly potion at about midday.
‘Captain Hellerslyke died of phosphorus poisoning,’ Kilcommons told the court, ‘administered probably in his luncheon wine and probably by someone in the luncheon marquee.’
‘How many people were there?’
All eyes in the court turned to the questioner. The adjutant looked askance at the man beside him.
‘Lieutenant . . . er . . . Lister,’ Major Myndup said, ‘it is highly irregular for interruptions to come from the court. Especially, if I may make so bold, from a strange officer.’
‘Forgive me, m’lud . . . er . . . Mr President. May I beg the court’s indulgence and converse with Lieutenant Hardinge for a moment?’
Murmurs and rumblings ran the length of the room.
‘Mr President, I must protest . . .’ Kilcommons began, but Myndup’s raised hand stopped him as the judges’ heads nodded together again.
‘Mr Hardinge,’ he said, ‘do you wish this gentleman to have converse with you?’
As nonplussed as anyone else, Hardinge agreed. Lestrade led him to the darkened end of the room, as far from the others as he could.
‘Mr Hardinge, I am sticking my neck out as far as I dare. My name is not Lister, it’s Lestrade. And I’m not a Yeomanry officer, I’m an inspector of Scotland Yard.’
‘What?’
‘I can’t explain it all now, but I’m as anxious to find the murderer of Willie Hellerslyke as you are.’
‘Why are you telling me this? Why the imposture?’ Hardinge hissed.
Lestrade looked blank.
‘The cover,’ Hardinge simplified it for him.
‘The cover was the idea of the Yorkshire police.’
‘So you’re playing the spy, not quite in mufti?’
‘You might say so. I’m telling you this because you need help.’
‘I can clear myself.’
‘Can you? This Kilcommons; what does he do for a living?’
‘He’s a barrister.’
Lestrade nodded grimly. ‘I thought so. He has the look of the breed. Do you think this trumped-up schoolboy court is going to do you any good? Whatever evidence you give, they aren’t going to forget it.’
‘I’ve taken no oath,’ Hardinge reminded him.
‘That doesn’t matter. By requesting this nonsense, you’ve laid yourself open. What’s to stop Kilcommons or Myndup or anyone else from going to the police?’
‘They wouldn’t,’ Hardinge insisted.
‘Wouldn’t they?’
‘No. They are my brother officers. My peers. I’ve asked for this hearing.’
‘Why?’
‘To clear my name.’
‘If these men are your brother officers they wouldn’t expect you to clear your name. There’d be no point if they really trusted you. Would there?’
‘Er . . . no . . . I suppose . . .’
Lestrade was in full flight, albeit in a whisper. ‘And where do you suppose Kilcommons got those coroner’s reports? This gentlemen’s honour court of yours is turning a bit professional, Mr Hardinge, and if I’m any judge, a bit nasty.’
‘What can I do?’ Hardinge saw the point.
‘Appoint me as . . . what do you people call it? Prisoner’s friend? Let me defend you. Tell the court I am a barrister too. For God’s sake, do it.’
‘But you’re not a lawyer.’
Lestrade fumed. ‘And you’re too honest, Mr Hardinge. Take my word for it, I’ve seen more cases of murder than you’ve had hot dinners.’
‘Do you know enough about this one?’ Hardinge asked.
It was a pertinent question, but Lestrade hadn’t time to answer it. ‘I’ll have to think on my feet,’ he said. It would be an unusual experience.
‘Mr President.’ Hardinge returned to the centre of the court. ‘I should like to appoint Lieutenant . . . Lister . . . to prisoner’s friend.’
Hubbub.
‘Mr President, this cannot be . . .’ Kilcommons protested. ‘A strange officer.’
Myndup looked at his fellow judges then at Hardinge and Lestrade. ‘Mr Lister, what are your qualifications to take up this appointment?’
‘I am a barrister, sir,’ Lestrade lied.
Kilcommons’ monocle tumbled from his eye. Daubney hoped fervently that Lister was a better lawyer than he was rider.
‘I am going to allow it,’ said Myndup, much to Kilcommons’ disgust, ‘but, Mr Lister, I can give you no time to acquaint yourself with the details of the case.’
‘Very well,’ said Lestrade.
‘Mr Kilcommons.’ Myndup reconvened the court. Lestrade stripped off his jacket and sat there in shirt-sleeves and mess vest, doggedly watching his adversary’s every move.
‘Did you, on the day of Captain Hellerslyke’s death, engage him in conversation?’
‘I hadn’t spoken to William Hellerslyke since the day after my sister died.’
Hardinge hesitated. ‘I called on William Hellerslyke at his villa in Scarborough.’
‘For what purpose?’
‘I called him out.’
‘Called him out?’ Kilcommons worried him like a terrier. ‘Do you mean challenged him to a duel?’
‘Yes.’
‘In other words you tried to kill him?’
‘Objection!’ Lestrade was on his feet.
‘Mr Lister.’ Myndup tapped with his gavel. ‘I am not at all sure that objections raised in a criminal proceeding are applicable at this hearing.’
‘Mr President,’ Lestrade countered, ‘my client’s reputation is at stake. Mr Kilcommons is leading him. That is contrary to any law in the land.’
‘How would you class a duel, Mr Lister,’ Kilcommons snapped, ‘if not attempted murder?’
‘A duel, Mr Kilcommons, while being illegal under British law, is an affair of honour. The object is to satisfy that honour, not to kill.’ Harry Bandicoot had taught Lestrade that a long time ago. He had not forgotten it. It was the only useful piece of knowledge Harry had ever imparted.
‘Objection sustained, then.’ Myndup was surprised that this scruffy-looking bad horseman could hold his own against Kilcommons. Things were getting serious.
The real barrister tried a new tack. ‘What was the outcome of this affair of honour?’
‘Nothing,’ Hardinge told him. ‘Hellerslyke refused.’
‘What did you do?’
‘What could I do? Under the law, my sister killed herself. Threw herself off Aysgarth Falls. The police couldn’t touch him. Under God, Hellerslyke was responsible. As if he had pushed her himself.’
‘So your only recourse was to kill him yourself?’
‘Objection!’ Lestrade was on his feet again and into his stride by now. ‘Counsel is badgering the accused.’
‘No, I want to answer,’ Hardinge interrupted. ‘Yes, I wanted to kill him. I thought of it, many times. In the end, I . . . suppose I lost my nerve.’
‘Until the luncheon on the day he died,’ Kilcommons went on. ‘I suggest, Lieutenant, that you had been waiting for your chance ever since your sister’s demise. You seized your opportunity on that day to slip the poison into the captain’s glass in the luncheon marquee.’
