Lestrade and the Guardian Angel

by M. J. Trow

  ‘No, I . . .’

  ‘Lieutenant Hardinge,’ Kilcommons shouted, ‘I put it to you that in asking for this hearing, you have condemned yourself. Far from standing acquitted in the eyes of your brother officers you have openly admitted to a motive for killing the deceased. You also had the opportunity. And because you lost your nerve, as you put it, you carried out the act in the most cowardly way possible. You administered a poison that took long enough to kill so you were away from the scene of death. Captain Hellerslyke was out on picquet duty by the time it did its deadly work.’

  Kilcommons swung away from the gaping Hardinge. ‘Mr President, I submit to this court that Lieutenant Hardinge stands guilty of murder of Captain Hellerslyke and further submit that his name be struck from the roll of this illustrious regiment and civil matters be proceeded with.’

  He sat down to a ripple of applause from some of those who lined the walls.

  ‘The court recognizes Lieutenant Lister,’ Myndup said, and Lestrade took Kilcommons’ place in the centre.

  ‘Mr Hardinge, how long have you been in this room?’

  Everyone looked at each other. ‘I don’t know,’ the lieutenant answered. ‘Perhaps half an hour.’

  ‘And in that time, have you had a chance to note the number of persons present?’

  ‘Really, Mr President,’ Kilcommons yawned, ‘have we come here to listen to charades?’

  ‘If the court will bear with me,’ Lestrade countered, ‘I wish to establish a point.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Myndup. ‘Continue, Mr Hardinge.’

  ‘About thirty, I suppose.’

  ‘And how long were you in the luncheon marquee on the day of Captain Hellerslyke’s death?’

  ‘Over an hour,’ he said.

  ‘Long enough then to observe how many people were present?’

  ‘I should say a hundred, perhaps two.’

  ‘Who were these people?’

  ‘Wives, ladies of the regiment. Some children.’

  Lestrade faced the court. ‘A hundred, perhaps two, any one of whom might have placed the poison into the captain’s drink.’

  ‘Oh, come, Lister,’ Kilcommons intervened. ‘Are you saying that a lady of the regiment killed him? Or a child perhaps?’ Guffaws all round.

  ‘You spoke of opportunity, Mr Kilcommons,’ Lestrade rounded on him. ‘The selfsame opportunity presented itself to anyone else in the luncheon marquee. Perhaps Major Myndup, Lieutenant Hardinge or even yourself, Captain.’

  ‘How dare you!’ Kilcommons was on his feet, fists clenched, monocle dangling ominously. A tap from Myndup’s gavel defused the situation.

  ‘Show me your hands, Lieutenant Hardinge,’ Lestrade said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Your hands, if you please.’

  He pulled off the white, doeskin gloves and held his hands out in front of him.

  ‘Let the record show,’ he said to Daubney, ‘that the accused’s hands show no signs of burning.’

  ‘Burning?’ said Kilcommons. ‘Why should they? What does that prove?’

  ‘I fear you’ve lost us, Mr Lister,’ Myndup said, seeing the confusion in the eyes of his fellow judges.

  ‘How did you administer the phosphorus, Lieutenant?’ Lestrade asked Hardinge.

  ‘Dammit, man. I didn’t.’

  ‘Had you done, it could be done in one of two ways. The first way is to handle it in its waxen state. May it please the court, are there any pools or ponds nearby?’

  Myndup consulted with the judges. ‘No,’ he said, ‘other than the river that passes the abbey.’

  ‘Have any horses died suddenly during camp?’

  They consulted again. ‘Dr Fyler, as veterinary officer to the regiment, are you aware . . . ?’

  ‘One sore back, sir, since camp began. No other problems,’ said the old officer from the corner. ‘And certainly no deaths.’

  ‘Have any explosions been reported?’ Lestrade asked.

  ‘Mr President,’ Kilcommons howled, ‘what is this nonsense?’

  ‘With respect,’ said Lestrade, ‘one way in which phosphorus can be administered is by using it in its wax-like form . . .’

  ‘So you said,’ Kilcommons harangued him.

  ‘In which case, it must be kept under water. If there are no ponds or pools nearby it cannot have been kept close at hand. The running water of a river would wash it away. And as no horses have died, it cannot have been kept in a horse trough.’

  ‘Why under water?’ Kilcommons demanded.

  ‘Because phosphorus is highly comestible,’ said Lestrade, deepening the confusion. ‘Whoever handles it in that form would be risking an explosion on contact with air. At very least, his hands would be burned.’

  Murmurs ran round the room.

  ‘There is another way,’ Lestrade told them. ‘Mr President, may I indulge the court’s patience still further and ask an orderly to get something?’

  ‘Objection, Mr President,’ Kilcommons interrupted. ‘We cannot allow Other Ranks to be privy to any of this.’

  ‘He’s correct, Mr Lister. Protocol must serve – whatever the customs of your regiment, sir, here it will not do,’ Myndup ruled. ‘However, Mr Daubney, perhaps . . .’

  ‘Certainly, sir.’

  Lestrade whispered hurriedly to the adjutant who looked at him oddly and left the court.

  Within a few frozen minutes he was back, clutching a tin.

  ‘This,’ said Lestrade, ‘is the other way phosphorus can be administered. It is a tin of Ratto rat poison, gentlemen. Your maidservants will be familiar with it. It costs twopence-halfpenny from any hardware shop or chemist and I daresay it lies among the dust of many of your outhouses, which is where, I would imagine, Lieutenant Daubney found this.’

  The adjutant nodded.

  ‘It contains several grains of phosphorus,’ Lestrade told the court, ‘enough to wipe out half of us in this room. Major,’ Lestrade approached the bench, ‘I notice you still have your brandy. May I ruin it for you?’

  ‘Well, I . . . er . . .’

  Lestrade flicked open the lid and tipped a tiny quantity into the balloon.

  ‘Steady on!’ echoed round the hall.

  ‘I am not suggesting you drink it, Major,’ Lestrade said, ‘merely observe its colour.’

  The judges did. ‘It’s cloudy,’ said Myndup.

  ‘And that’s how it will stay,’ said Lestrade. ‘A smaller quantity would cloud less, but might not be lethal.’

  ‘What’s your point, Lister?’ Kilcommons examined the drink too.

  ‘Would you drink wine that was cloudy?’ Lestrade asked him.

  ‘Well, I . . . how do we know Hellerslyke noticed?’

  ‘We don’t,’ Lestrade admitted. ‘Just as we don’t know that Lieutenant Hardinge placed anything in his wine. Gentlemen,’ Lestrade turned to the court, ‘why did Mr Hardinge wait for six months to kill his man? Why not shoot him out of hand, on the road? Smash his skull with a poker in his study? Run him down in a four-in-hand? I’ll tell you why, because unlike some members of this regiment,’ he scowled at Kilcommons, ‘Lieutenant Hardinge is a man of honour. Hellerslyke seduced his sister, jilted her and refused to take the consequences. When Mr Hardinge was unable to avenge her death honourably, he could not avenge it at all. There is as much evidence that any one of you poisoned William Hellerslyke as that Lieutenant Hardinge did it.’

  He sat down to general applause. Kilcommons approached the bench. ‘Mr President . . .’

  But Myndup held up his hand. ‘This court is dismissed,’ he said. ‘Lieutenant Hardinge, pick up your sword. And welcome back to the regiment.’

  There was a cheering and back-slapping and hand-shaking all round, but Lestrade noticed Kilcommons slip out of a side door and engage an Other Rank in conversation. He didn’t like the look of it.

  ‘Lister.’ Hardinge stopped him as he made for the French windows. ‘I owe you my honour,’ he said. ‘How can I thank you?’

  ‘See
me to the edge of the camp,’ he said.

  ‘Of course, but why?’

  ‘Er . . . I’m afraid of the dark,’ Lestrade said.

  ‘How did you know all that about phosphorus?’ Hardinge asked as they walked, hooking up his sword again.

  ‘Years of experience,’ Lestrade said, watching the blackness ahead.

  ‘Mind how you go,’ Hardinge said. ‘The ground is a little treacherous around here. You know, you missed your way as a policeman. You’d have made a superb advocate.’

  Lestrade laughed. ‘I look so awful in a wig.’

  ‘So who did put phosphorus in Hellerslyke’s wine?’ Hardinge asked. ‘I’d like to shake him by the hand.’

  ‘In his wine, nobody. As I showed in court, it would have been too visible. It was in his food, but how his food and no one else’s is the problem. And then there’s the timing. I’m not happy about it.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Well, phosphorus can kill in less than twelve hours. But it can take three or four days. No one mentioned Hellerslyke feeling unwell before the day he died, so he must have taken it on the morning of his death.’

  ‘Ah, you mean, not necessarily in the luncheon marquee at all?’

  ‘Quite.’

  ‘But how does that help us?’

  ‘I’m not sure it does, yet.’

  A commotion to their left stopped both men in their tracks. ‘Mr Hardinge, sir, horse down in the lines.’ A corporal came hurrying out of the darkness.

  ‘That’s the way to your tent, Lister.’ Hardinge pointed ahead. ‘You can’t miss it. I’ll join you later,’ and he ran off with the corporal.

  This was what Lestrade had been expecting. He even expected what followed, but he wasn’t prepared for the numbers. First one, then three, then five full dress jackets emerged from the blackness, their white frogging and silver buttons glowing in the flitting moonlight.

  Lestrade took stock of the situation. The odds were five to one. His sword was in his tent. Besides, he wasn’t much of a swordsman. His skill with a blade was best confined to tackling a Coburg prior to toasting it over the fire. His trusty brass knuckles, his four companions for twenty years, were in his Donegal in his hotel room. Two fists against ten. Assuming, that is, they weren’t armed. Ten fingers against fifty. Or more precisely, eight fingers and two thumbs against forty and . . . He was still doing the mental arithmetic when the first blow hit him – one of the items he hadn’t had time to count; a boot hit him high in the ribs and he went down. Another crashed into his kidneys and he arched his back.

  ‘Captain Kilcommons’ compliments,’ snarled one of the attackers. Lestrade rolled sideways hard and brought the man down. He grabbed the barrelled sash around his waist and wrenched it off. He remembered something that old George Wombwell had been saying inside during his interminable recollections of the Charge of the Light Brigade; how a fellow officer, Captain Morris, had kept a dozen Cossacks at bay by the moulinet, a constant whirling of his sword. Lestrade did the same now with the heavy end of the sash, twirling round in a widening circle, roaring and shouting. The man whose sash he had hit him from the blind side and Lestrade swung him over his shoulder and wrapped the sash round his throat. The soldier knelt in the frost, gasping and gurgling.

  ‘One more step, gentlemen, and I’ll break his neck.’ It was pure bravado, of course. Lestrade had no clue how to break a neck, but he hoped it sounded impressive. It didn’t and the four of them closed on them.

  ‘You men there!’ A voice stopped and scattered them. The crouching Yeoman struggled upright, snatched back his sash and was gone.

  Lieutenant Daubney arrived at the trot. ‘Lister, my dear fellow, are you all right? What’s going on? I’ll see those men . . .’

  ‘No,’ Lestrade gasped, ‘it’s all right. What you could do for me is help me to your tent. I’m not sure mine’s going to be very safe tonight.’

  ‘My dear fellow, of course. You’re hurt.’

  Lestrade did his best to stand. ‘Only a few splints’ worth.’ He held his ribs. ‘But I’d kill for a brandy.’

  ❖The Wheel of Misfortune❖

  ‘B

  ut apart from the broken rib, Mr Lestrade, how did you enjoy your stay with the Yorkshire Hussars?’

  The inspector woke up sharply and jarred his side anew. A lovely girl with dark red hair was smiling down at him.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘I must have dozed. Miss Hardinge?’

  ‘Elsie,’ she said, ‘and don’t apologize. George told me what happened. You were very brave to defend him. He’s feeling particularly guilty, being called to that horse at the very moment you were attacked.’

  Lestrade smiled, subsiding gratefully on to the ottoman again. ‘He needn’t,’ he told her. ‘It wasn’t exactly chance, you know.’

  She sat down beside him and rang the bell for tea. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘The horse was a blind,’ he said. ‘A ruse to get your brother away while a few gentlemen of the Hussars used me for punching practice.’

  ‘How dreadful,’ she said. ‘Will you arrest them all?’

  He chuckled. ‘I’m after bigger fish,’ he said. ‘Miss Hardinge . . .’

  ‘Elsie,’ she reminded him.

  ‘Elsie. You were at Lady Day when William Hellerslyke died?’

  ‘Yes, I was.’

  ‘Did you notice anything unusual? In the morning? In the luncheon marquee?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’ She frowned to remember. ‘I’m pretty good at remembering details. Or so Monsieur Lamartine says.’

  ‘Monsieur Lamartine?’

  ‘My tutor. I attend a finishing school at Geneva, Mr Lestrade. I have my coming out soon, you know. Oh, will you come? Say you will.’

  He looked into her earnest, pleading eyes.

  ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘I’d love to.’

  ‘Good!’ She clapped her hands together. ‘Would this help you?’

  ‘What?’

  She bounced away from him and rummaged in one of the decks of her brother’s bureau. ‘This.’ She held up a triumphant piece of paper. ‘It’s a guest list for Lady Day.’

  Lestrade took it and ran his eye down the names. Half of Yorkshire seemed to have been there. Still, it began to narrow fields.

  ‘Ah, tea. Nanny, where’s Chepstow?’

  ‘On the River Severn, missy,’ the tray-carrying crone trilled, ‘as you well know.’

  ‘Oh, Nanny!’ She swiped the air, narrowly missing the old girl’s bombazine-encrusted shoulder. ‘Nanny’s little joke, Mr Lestrade. Chepstow is the name of our butler.’

  ‘It’s the way I tell ’em, missy,’ the old girl croaked, her single tooth wobbling with mirth. She clattered the tray down. ‘Who might you be, young man?’ she asked.

  Lestrade resisted the temptation to tell her.

  ‘This is Inspector Lestrade, Nanny,’ Elsie said. ‘He’s a friend of George’s.’

  ‘Inspector? Well, have you found my umbrella?’

  ‘Er . . .’ Lestrade wasn’t following much of the conversation.

  ‘When I was in York last, I left my umbrella on the tram. I reported it and the inspector told me he’d make it his life’s work to find it. Are you one of his men?’

  ‘Different department,’ Lestrade thought it simplest to say.

  Nanny grunted. ‘Well, I’d better get my knitting then.’

  Elsie looked alarmed. ‘Why, Nanny?’

  ‘Chepstow’s handling the coal delivery,’ she said. ‘That’s why I brought the tea. I didn’t realize you was alone with a gentleman, missy. I’ll get my knitting and sit with you.’

  ‘No, Nanny.’ Elsie shepherded the crone towards the door. ‘Mr Lestrade is a policeman. It’s all right to leave me alone with him.’

  Nanny looked up, at once frightened and aghast. ‘Like I left Miss Vicky alone, with that Hellerslyke?’

  ‘Wait!’ Lestrade’s voice stopped them both. ‘Miss . . . er . . .’

  ‘Nanny,’ sai
d the old girl.

  ‘Nanny.’ Lestrade was gentler. He took her arm and led her to the ottoman. ‘Nanny, did you know Mr Hellerslyke?’

  Nanny spat contemptuously, to be answered by the metallic pinging of the firedogs.

  ‘I see. Would you tell me what happened – between Miss Vicky and Mr Hellerslyke?’

  Nanny looked up at Elsie. ‘This is not for your ears, my girl. Off with you.’

  Elsie’s eyes flashed indignantly. ‘Nanny, I’m seventeen.’

  ‘Elsie,’ Lestrade said, ‘please?’ and something in the iron of his voice made her go.

  ‘I’m eighty-three,’ Nanny said. ‘I was Nanny to old Mr Hardinge in his day and now to his three babies. Two babies it is now.’ She blew her nose on her apron so that the Sevres on the dresser rattled. ‘It’s my fault, you see,’ she sobbed, ‘that Miss Vicky died. I shouldn’t have left them alone.’

  ‘Why?’ Lestrade asked.

  She looked at him hard. ‘You’ve got kindly eyes, Mr Inspector,’ she nodded, patting his hand, ‘not like him. Not like Willie Hellerslyke. He only ever wanted one thing from Miss Vicky.’

  ‘One thing?’

  She nodded, swallowing back the tears. ‘The One Thing that is a fate worse than death.’

  ‘Ah,’ Lestrade realized; ‘that Thing.’

  Nanny nodded.

  ‘It was me she told,’ she said, drying her tired old eyes. ‘Elsie was away. And anyway, she’s only a gel. Georgie would have been furious. She was afraid he’d have gone out after Hellerslyke with his gun. Anyway, I think she loved him. Really loved him. That’s why she . . . killed herself.’

  ‘What happened?’

  Nanny sighed, wringing her gnarled old hands in her apron. ‘She went out for a walk,’ she said. ‘I offered to go with her. She’d been strange ever since she knew she was . . . with child. I told her we’d manage. Worse things have happened, I told her. We all loved her.’

  ‘What did she say?’

  ‘She sat on her bed, in her bonnet and shawl, and said that was the point. He didn’t love her. She couldn’t bear that. Then she went. I watched her going out across the lawns as I’d watched her all her life. That funny little way she had, that swaying of her dress.’ She breathed in deeply, fighting with the memory of it. ‘It was Chepstow who found her. At the bottom of the Falls. They brought her back, her hair all wet, her dress ruined. I tried to dry it . . . to make it better. I always used to make it better,’ and she fell sideways, sobbing silently.