Lestrade and the Guardian Angel

by M. J. Trow

  Lestrade cradled the old woman’s head for a moment, then called for Elsie, who held Nanny’s head and smoothed the silver hair, whispering softly. The inspector collected his bowler and crept away.

  ‘But I made it better in the end,’ Nanny whispered in between gulps to Elsie. ‘I told Coquette.’

  CHEPSTOW HAD LOADED Lestrade’s uniform trunk into the landau and George Hardinge had driven him into York. Back in the Shambles, Lestrade arrived at the supper rooms at the appointed hour. A hearty fire roared and crackled in the grate and the Barnsley chop was followed by a treacly parkin that tied itself round Lestrade’s tonsils.

  ‘So,’ Blue leaned forward, ‘I’ve fed you royally. What have you got for me?’

  ‘I won’t embarrass you, Boyd, by opening my waistcoat and shirt here in full view of Yorkshire’s finest.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘A handful of Yorkshire Hussars decided to take turns to see who could kick me to death first. Must’ve been trying out new issue boots.’

  ‘Good God,’ Blue said, wiping the froth of his nut-brown ale from his moustache. ‘Rumbled you, did they?’

  ‘I don’t think so. Let’s just say I rather upset one of the officers of the regiment by siding with the scapegoat they’d got lined up for Hellerslyke’s death.’

  ‘When we talked to them, the buggers clammed up. One of them actually said, “William Who?” So we’re no further forward.’

  There’s this.’ Lestrade produced the paper. ‘A guest list of visitors on the day Hellerslyke died.’

  ‘Good God. There’s half Yorkshire on this list.’

  ‘I thought so. Well, that’s your problem, Boyd. Your boys haven’t anything better to do. They can look up all those. But they won’t find anything.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘It’s my guess – and it’s only a guess, mind you – that whoever poisoned the late captain either used an alias or sneaked into the tent uninvited.’

  ‘Was that possible?’

  ‘There are nearly three hundred names on that list. They wouldn’t all have fitted in the tent itself. Anyone could have mingled with the crowd, slipped in and doctored his lunch.’

  ‘Lestrade!’ a voice called across the room. It was George Hardinge.

  ‘Mr Hardinge,’ Lestrade rose with difficulty. ‘Do you know Chief Inspector Blue?’

  ‘Ah, yes. We met briefly at camp.’

  ‘Mr Hardinge is the scapegoat I was telling you about,’ Lestrade said.

  ‘I see. You’d better join us, Mr Hardinge. Lestrade here was telling me his cover hadn’t been blown and here you are. Curious.’

  ‘Mr Hardinge was the exception,’ Lestrade confessed. ‘And if you receive a clandestine visit from a Mr Kilcommons with a cock-and-bull story which tries to implicate Mr Hardinge, just ignore it.’

  ‘Sholto, I’m not sure I can.’

  ‘Take my word for it, Boyd. This is not the man you want.’

  ‘No, but I know a man who might be,’ Hardinge said.

  ‘Yes?’ A raucous, bored voice shattered the conversation. The waitress stood over them, idly chewing her pencil stub.

  ‘Old Peculiar,’ Hardinge ordered. Lestrade assumed it was a justified insult and waited until the sulky floozie had gone.

  ‘You interest us strangely, Mr Hardinge,’ he said, blowing the froth away from his glass.

  ‘I’ve just come from the old man, Lord Bolton. I tendered my resignation from the Yorkshire Hussars. Sorry, Lestrade, after all your hard work to clear me. Not to mention the pasting you took.’

  Lestrade shrugged. It didn’t surprise him at all.

  ‘I realized that you were right. They were no brother officers of mine. Besides, I like the cut of the Yorkshire Dragoons better. I’ll probably join them next season.’

  ‘Are you saying Lord Bolton did it?’ Boyd tried to follow the conversation’s drift.

  ‘No,’ Hardinge chuckled. ‘He’s had his hands full with a Miss Hardmuscle for some weeks. He can’t cope with much more than that. As I was leaving, Daubney, the adjutant, met me. He’s about the only decent chap in the regiment, apart from the old man.’

  ‘And?’ Lestrade looked with horror as a deep bowl of brown arrived.

  ‘Old Peculiar,’ Hardinge explained. ‘Try some?’

  ‘No, thank you,’ Lestrade said, a little too quickly. ‘I’ll stick to my parkin.’ It was no more than the truth.

  ‘Seems Hellerslyke’s batman had a word with him.’

  ‘Private Robbin?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right. He’d remembered something about the day Hellerslyke died.’

  ‘Oh?’ Lestrade and Blue leaned forward, but the aroma of the Old Peculiar drove them back.

  ‘Hellerslyke received a present. In his tent shortly before luncheon.’

  ‘What was it?’ Lestrade asked.

  ‘A box of chocolates. Made by Rowntree.’

  ‘Rowntree?’ Lestrade looked from one to the other.

  ‘A local firm. I buy their Caramel Nutties. Can’t leave them alone,’ Blue admitted.

  ‘Did Robbin know who’d delivered them?’ Lestrade asked.

  ‘No. But he does remember a card. On the one side it said “Because the Captain loves . . .” and on the other side “Coquette”.’

  ‘Coquette? Is that a make of chocolate?’

  ‘I always thought it was a French tart,’ Blue said. Lestrade hadn’t been far wrong.

  ‘Did Robbins know if Hellerslyke ate any?’ Lestrade asked Hardinge.

  ‘Yes, he had two or three. Robhin was a bit miffed because he didn’t offer him one. And that’s not all.’

  ‘Ah?’ The policemen risked the casserole to lean forward again.

  ‘Hellerslyke said he didn’t care for them. That they had a rather bitter taste.’

  ‘Phosphorus,’ the policemen chorused and looked around quickly to make sure the ruminating room had not overheard.

  ‘These chocolates,’ said Lestrade, ‘can they be bought anywhere?’

  ‘Anyone who is anyone buys them direct,’ Hardinge told him. Blue had not known that, but then he wasn’t anyone. ‘The Rowntrees have a bijou little emporium in Walmgate.’

  ‘Mr Hardinge, you’ve been of great help,’ said Blue. ‘Leave it to us now, please,’ and he rose to go.

  ‘Lestrade.’ Hardinge took the inspector’s hand. ‘Though I may have given you the clue to Willie Hellerslyke’s murderer, I hope you’ll understand when I say I almost hope you don’t catch him.’

  IT WAS BRIGHT AND EARLY on a frosty morning that Lestrade walked under the great city gateway bound for the premises of Messrs Rowntree. The smell of chocolate hit him like a sickly wall as he entered the lavish, glass-fronted door.

  ‘Good morning, sir.’ A bespectacled young man hove into view, in apron and white gloves. ‘What will it be, sir? My Little Nuggets? Hazelnut Surprises? And would you care for a cup of cocoa while you ponder? A fruit gum, perhaps?’

  ‘I’m not quite sure. A friend of mine serves with the Yorkshire Hussars, currently on manoeuvres nearby. A secret admirer sent him some of your chocolates and he said they were perfection.’

  ‘Ah, that’ll be our Perfection Confection Selection, sir,’ the young man said. ‘Each centre hand-crafted by our loving care, enrobed with succulent chocolate and with just a hint of brandy essence.’

  ‘My problem . . .’ Lestrade leaned on the counter confidentially and placed his elbow squarely in a tray of Mint Imperials that flew in all directions, as befitted the Empire. ‘Sorry.’ He helped the young man pick them up and watched amazed as he polished each one and put it back in its wrapper. ‘My problem is that I didn’t actually see or taste the chocolates myself. How can I be sure they are the same?’

  ‘Perhaps your friend could spare the time to accompany you to the shop?’ the young man suggested.

  ‘Ah, I fear not. He’s been called away,’ Lestrade said. He did not elaborate.

  ‘That’s no problem, sir,’ the y
oung man beamed. ‘We keep a careful record of personal deliveries. And of special orders.’ He opened a chocolate-coloured ledger. ‘When did your friend receive his chocolates?’

  ‘Er . . . let me see. It would have been the fourth inst, I believe.’

  ‘Very well, let me see.’ He adjusted his pince-nez. ‘Old Mrs Hallett bought her usual bon-bons. There was an order from the School of Dancing – hazelnut whirls. Ah, here’s one – Perameles.’

  ‘Perameles?’ Lestrade repeated. ‘A regular customer?’

  ‘No. I’ve never heard the name before. It sounds rather Greek, don’t you think?’

  Lestrade spun the ledger to him. ‘Perameles,’ he said again. ‘No Christian name. What’s this?’

  The young man spun the ledger back to him. ‘Praline Cluster. Oh, yes, a very sound choice. Is that, I wonder, what your friend received?’

  ‘Very possibly,’ muttered Lestrade, ‘but with a few additions. Is there another unusual name on that date?’ They probably didn’t come any more unusual than Perameles.

  ‘No. The only other order was from Twelvetrees, a stately home not far from here. It’s a monthly regular. Would you care for a box of Pralines then, Mr . . . er . . . ?’

  ‘Lister,’ said Lestrade and the young man wrote it down. He disappeared behind a velvet curtain and emerged moments later with a box wrapped in ribbon.

  ‘Fascinating,’ said Lestrade. ‘How do you make them?’

  ‘Haha,’ the young man laughed, ‘trade secret, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Perhaps I could see the manager,’ the inspector persisted. ‘I really would like to know the ingredients and perhaps see over your premises.’

  ‘I am Benjamin Seebohm Rowntree.’ The young man straightened. ‘And I’m afraid my father’s answer would be the same as mine. Impossible. That will be one and sixpence please.’

  Lestrade rummaged in his pockets, wondering how he could charge this to expenses. He paid up and unwrapped the ribbon. ‘If I wanted to add something to these chocolates,’ he said, ‘how could I go about it?’

  ‘Add something?’ Rowntree’s suspicions were growing. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, a liqueur, perhaps. Rather more of the brandy essence.’

  ‘We don’t make those as such, but it could be done by . . . Wait a minute. Who are you?’ Realization dawned. ‘Why are you asking all these questions? You’re a spy, aren’t you?’

  ‘A spy?’ Lestrade had long ago perfected his look of innocence. It fooled no one.

  ‘You can’t fool me with that look of innocence,’ Rowntree told him. ‘I’ve been working among the poor of York for years. I know the disingenuous when I see it. You’re a spy for Terry’s, aren’t you? I never thought they’d stoop so low. Are you going to leave? Or do I call a policeman?’

  Lestrade raised his hand. ‘Thank you, Mr Rowntree. I’ll see myself out,’ and he leaned towards his man, ‘but I’d be very careful what you call policemen.’ And he grabbed his chocolates and ran.

  WINTER WAS COMING ON as Lestrade travelled south. There were delays at Peterborough due to railworks, but they gave him time to think. Captain William Hellerslyke, late of the Yorkshire Hussars, had a reputation as a womanizer. There was probably a trail of broken hearts and broken promises all over the Ridings. But one of them had gone astray. Victoria Hardinge had fallen pregnant – what a silly phrase, he thought again, as he had every time it crossed his mind – and when the balance of her mind was disturbed, through unrequited love, she had thrown herself into the foaming waters of Aysgarth Falls. Revenge, then, as the motive? But who was this Coquette who left him the poisoned chocolates? And were Coquette and Perameles the same person? Or two? He was still pondering this as the train pulled in, snorting and squealing, to Euston. And the last person he expected to see was Walter Dew.

  ‘Dew.’ Lestrade threw his Gladstone to the constable as he alighted on Platform Four. ‘You’re the last person I expected to see. As the late Mr Holmes used to say, apparently ad mausoleum, “What’s afoot?”’

  ‘It’s funny you should say that, guv’nor. There’s a gentleman here who’s anxious to meet you.’

  ‘How did you know when to expect me?’ Lestrade asked.

  ‘I didn’t. Skinner, Lilley and I have been waiting for every train in our rest time for the past two days.’

  ‘Nobly done, Walter.’ Lestrade approved enterprise. When it came from Dew, he was rather unnerved by it, but he approved nonetheless.

  ‘Across the road, sir.’ The Yard men emerged into the raw fog of a November London. ‘In the cafe.’

  Lestrade saw behind the ornate plate glass a face he thought he knew. He sat down at the table in front of it. ‘Dr Watson.’ He shook the man’s hand. ‘It’s been a long time.’

  ‘I hate to say it, Lestrade, but it’s good to see you.’

  ‘Two teas, miss,’ Lestrade ordered, observing that Watson still had his. ‘This man’s paying.’ He pointed to Dew, who began to thrust his arm into his trousers. ‘Not now, Walter,’ Lestrade reminded him, ‘there are ladies present. Now, doctor, what can I do for you?’

  John Watson was a solid, respectable man, the wrong side of forty-seven. He had been the confidant of the late and legendary Sherlock Holmes, whose exploits were, as Lestrade and Watson spoke, being embroidered and indeed invented by Watson’s co-author, another quack by the name of Conan Doyle – Conan the Barbarian as one reviewer had called him. Watson was worried.

  ‘It is not generally known,’ he confided to Lestrade, ‘that I belong to a club of bicyclists. We call ourselves the Wheel of Fortune.’

  ‘Very colourful, doctor.’ Lestrade tapped Dew’s wrist. The man was slurping his tea again.

  ‘Well, to cut short a long story . . .’ Watson must have been worried. This was not his usual style at all. ‘One of our number has died in rather mysterious circumstances.’

  ‘Go on,’ said Lestrade.

  ‘It was last Sunday. My Poor Law practice was very slack, so I left Dr Wyatt in charge. Bunions, smallpox, you know, the trivial things. He can handle those.’

  Lestrade nodded.

  ‘I went out with the club. We met as usual at the Tottenham Court Road and pedalled north into Hertfordshire. We stopped for luncheon at the Rose at Tewin, prior to our return. It was on the way back that it happened.’

  Lestrade and Dew waited.

  ‘One of our number, Hughie Ralph, forged ahead. He usually did.’

  ‘A scorcher, eh?’ Like all policemen, Lestrade disapproved of racers.

  ‘An aficionado of the road, Inspector,’ Watson corrected him. ‘Hughie was an advanced rider. You’ve doubtless read Crawley’s Art of Bicycle Riding.’

  ‘Old Creepy? My constant companion,’ Lestrade lied.

  ‘Quite. Hughie was an expert – side-saddle, mounting in motion and so on. Marvellous stuff. A joy to behold.’

  ‘What happened on the return ride?’ Lestrade asked.

  ‘He came a cropper.’

  ‘Fell off,’ Lestrade translated for the benefit of Dew whose pencil stub raced feverishly over the pages of his notepad.

  ‘Quite,’ Watson went on. ‘Unheard of. None of us had ever seen Hughie Ralph come off before. He lay motionless on the road. When I examined him, he was dead.’

  ‘Broken neck?’ Lestrade asked.

  Watson shook his head. ‘Mild contusions,’ he said. ‘But I couldn’t find a pulse.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘All I could. A couple of the ladies became hysterical, of course. Ladies will. I attempted artificial respiration, but they objected. As for poor Hughie, no avail. He was gone.’

  ‘Heart attack?’ Lestrade tried again.

  ‘The damnedest thing.’ Watson’s voice fell to a whisper. ‘We carried him to The Long Arm And The Short Arm at Lemsford, the nearest inn, and laid him out in the back room. I rang his doctor from Welwyn Police Station. They’d just had a telephone machine installed.’

  ‘Why his doctor?’
<
br />   ‘I didn’t want to take responsibility. I thought there was something odd about it and I was right.’

  ‘In what way, odd?’ Lestrade asked.

  ‘The others went ahead. I stayed with the body. It was evening before Hughie’s doctor arrived, together with the local constabulary. And by that time it was dark.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And Hughie’s body was glowing, Lestrade. Like a glow-worm. Uncanny, it was. I’ve seen some sights in my time, but nothing like that. I could have read my Bicycle Union Code of Conduct by him were it not for the oil lamp’s rendering that unnecessary.’

  Lestrade’s extra sugar lump had plummeted into his tea. Dew was wiping his sleeve and notebook down accordingly. ‘Phosphorus,’ the inspector said.

  ‘What?’ the doctor and the constable chorused.

  ‘Answer me this riddle, doctor,’ Lestrade said. ‘What glows in the dark?’

  ‘Phosphorus?’ Watson was no fool.

  ‘And Hughie Ralph and Willie Hellerslyke,’ he said.

  ‘Willie who?’

  ‘Someone I almost met recently in Yorkshire,’ Lestrade said. ‘Tell me, doctor, you’re a man of the world; where is the easiest obtained source of phosphorus?’

  ‘Er . . . Bryant and May matchgirls?’ Watson suggested. He had long been suspicious of Annie Besant.

  ‘Rat poison,’ Lestrade corrected him, ‘and some beetle powders. Let me ask you another. What are the odds on two men, probably unknown to each other, being despatched by the same method within two weeks of each other, a hundred and fifty miles apart?’

  ‘Good God!’ It was a common enough rejoinder from Watson. ‘What does this mean, Lestrade?’

  ‘It means, doctor, that I appear to have stumbled on a little conspiracy. What do you know about this Ralph?’

  ‘Not much, really,’ Watson said. ‘We’ve ridden together, spoke by spoke, for a few months. He’s something or other in the City. Well off, one gathers.’