Lestrade and the Guardian Angel

by M. J. Trow

  ‘We’ll take a few of you bastards with us!’ another voice said.

  ‘That you may,’ said Lestrade, ‘but if Commissioner Frost sends for the army, that’s it. It’ll make Bloody Sunday look like a chapel outing.’

  ‘Is that likely?’ Not even Chubb Rupasobly wanted to take on the British Army. He had a reputation for winning fights and he wasn’t sure he would win that one.

  ‘Frost’s got a headache, Chubb,’ Lestrade said. ‘Now Abberline’s got one too. Neither of them’s got a very long fuse as it is.’

  ‘So what do you suggest?’

  ‘Let’s you and me take a little walk to that ’bus; have a little chat with Maguire. See if we can’t talk this thing out.’

  There was another silence.

  ‘Lestrade, you know my boy Turk, don’t you?’

  An ugly head with stubble and broken teeth emerged briefly from the shadow of a doorway and grinned.

  ‘The Annie Oakley of Shoreditch? Intimately.’

  ‘Well, then, you’ll know he’s as good with a chiv as he is with a snowball. He’ll be watching us all the way to the ’bus. Any nonsense from your boys in blue or that Irish scum and there’ll be three blades in your back – your two and his. Savvy?’

  ‘Savvy,’ said Lestrade.

  The dwarf stepped into the gaslight, took off his rings and diamond tiepin and passed them to a confederate. ‘No point in antagonizing that Irish filth,’ he said. ‘If they see gold they go berserk. Comes of eating spuds all your life. And Lestrade . . .’ He reached up and caught the inspector’s lapels, ‘I do mean your life. You!’ Rupasobly jabbed Bandicoot in the navel. ‘You come with us. If that Irish trash try anything, you’re big enough to cover me. Savvy?’

  ‘Er . . .’

  ‘He savvies,’ Lestrade spoke for him.

  The odd trio began their walk. Again, all three of them had their hands in the air. The bowler was dull under the gaslight, the topper shining and, at waist-level, the wide-awake floating outsize on the tiny head.

  ‘Lestrade, what’s going on?’ Abberline called, the body of policemen shifting sideways as he began to walk in echelon with the trio.

  ‘Stay where you are, Chief Inspector!’ Lestrade shouted. ‘Leave this to me now, please.’ He half turned to see Turk take up his place on the edge of the shadows, a whole kitchen-range of knives in his fist. The policemen stopped. ‘Whatever happens now, keep your men back,’ he said.

  The omnibus seemed miles away. The gas and moonlight shone on the gleaming brassware and the oil lamps flickered at front and back. One by one they were blown out.

  ‘Far enough!’ an Irish voice grated.

  ‘Evening, Cosh,’ called Lestrade cheerily.

  ‘Mr Lestrade, sor,’ another voice came back, ‘where’s dat handy little brass knuckle you’ve got?’

  ‘Back there in the snow,’ Lestrade said. The man was well informed, for a navvy.

  ‘Who’s the toff?’ Maguire asked.

  ‘Harry Bandicoot. He’s a friend of mine.’

  ‘Move away, Mr Bandicoot. There’s a funny little bug at your feet.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Bandicoot. ‘I’m comfortable where I am.’

  Rupasobly looked up at him. ‘When I can get my hands down,’ he whispered, ‘I’ll give you my card. If you ever need a job, look me up.’

  ‘Mr Lestrade,’ Maguire shouted, ‘tell that poison dwarf I want him in front.’

  ‘I’ll stand in front,’ said Lestrade.

  ‘No, you won’t!’ Turk shouted from the far end of the street.

  ‘All right,’ shouted Lestrade, his hands still in the air. ‘Harry, you stand in front of Chubb. Chubb, you stay where you are. I’ll stand behind you.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Bandicoot, ‘changing from line to column, eh? This reminds me of the Corps at Eton.’

  Lestrade and Rupasobly looked at him.

  ‘Before you do that, Mr Lestrade,’ the Irishman called, ‘tell that misfit midget I want to see all his weapons. All of them.’

  Rupasobly snarled.

  ‘Chubb,’ said Lestrade quietly, ‘do it for my sake. By the way, Turk is a cool type, isn’t he?’

  Rupasobly chuckled and slowly produced a knife from his pocket. He held it up to the light and dropped it in the snow. Then he clawed out an iron jemmy and dropped that. Then a pocket pistol. Then a lead and leather life preserver.

  ‘All of them!’ growled the Irishman.

  Rupasobly produced a steel Sikh throwing quoit with its murderous circular blade and tossed it aside.

  ‘Now you make your move,’ said Maguire.

  The three of them manoeuvred before the parked ’bus. There was consternation from the policemen.

  ‘What the bloody hell is Lestrade doing?’ Frost asked.

  Abberline shook his head. ‘Looks like a gentlemen’s excuse me,’ he muttered.

  ‘All right,’ called Maguire, ‘so what’s the deal, Mr Lestrade?’

  ‘Mr Rupasobly wants his man back, Cosh.’

  The Irishman popped his head over the rail and spat volubly.

  ‘I want something else,’ said Lestrade.

  ‘What’s that?’ Maguire asked.

  ‘First of all, I’d like to put my hands down if it’s all right with you.’

  ‘You know my boy, Seamus?’ Maguire asked.

  A tousle-haired figure swung out from the stairs of the ’bus and waved.

  ‘The Annie Oakley of Ballybrophy? Of course.’

  ‘For the benefit of that fancy dan in front of the insect, Seamus is a legend in his own lifetime with the throwing-shillelagh. Any funny business and he’ll part your hair for you, mister.’

  ‘We understand that, Cosh,’ Lestrade called from the back. Rupasobly was no problem, but Bandicoot obscured his view of the ’bus. He couldn’t count the number of the opposition, but he guessed a dozen. In the shadows behind him, perhaps thirty of Rupasobly’s people. There must have been as many coppers clustered around Frost and Abberline, like an infantry square facing Fuzzy-Wuzzies. God alone knew how many more of all three sides were closing in on the scene from all the streets around. It must have been nearly midnight, early by East End standards. The pubs weren’t closed yet.

  ‘Well, Cosh,’ Lestrade did his best to smile. ‘How’s Mrs Maguire?’

  ‘She’s fine, Mr Lestrade.’

  ‘And the sixteen little Maguires?’

  ‘Padraig’s got a touch of the tuberculosis – and of course there’s the ringworm and the smallpox – but apart from that, fine.’

  ‘Good, good. Now, Cosh, about this little problem of ours . . .’

  ‘Don’t play around with the Irish bastard, Lestrade,’ hissed Rupasobly.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr Lestrade,’ the Irishman shouted, ‘I thought I heard somebody break wind.’

  ‘Nothing,’ Lestrade said quickly, ‘just nerves. Now, Cosh, what happened?’

  ‘Nothin’,’ said Maguire, ‘nothin’ at all.’

  ‘Tell that Irish sod he’s lying,’ snarled Rupasobly.

  ‘Tell that Polish dwarf . . .’

  ‘Gentlemen!’ Lestrade raised his hand again. ‘This is getting us nowhere. Chubb, what do you say happened?’

  ‘This bog-trotter knifed my boy.’

  ‘Bollocks. We found ’im like this.’ Maguire fetched the corpse at his elbow a smart one round the head.

  Rupasobly moved as though to rush the ’bus. Lestrade heard movement from behind and Bandicoot heard it from in front. Knife and shillelagh were raised in the air. Both men were seconds from death.

  ‘You’d better tell me about it, Cosh,’ Lestrade shouted, hoping that his voice sounded less hysterical than he was.

  ‘Like I said, Mr Lestrade,’ the Irishman answered, ‘two of my boyos were on the ’bus. They knew this son-of-a-bitch but left him alone. I didn’t want trouble with Rupasobly. It’s Christmas. I was going to have my sainted mother over from Wicklow.’

  ‘You are a whitlow!’ snarled Rupasobly. />
  ‘Chubb,’ Lestrade hissed, prodding him in the back with his toe. ‘So how did we all end up here?’ Lestrade asked Maguire.

  ‘Another of the dwarf’s idiots got on and started talking to this one.’ He tapped the corpse again. ‘He realized he was a goner and started picking on my lads. There was a punch-up on the top deck. There’s teeth all over the place up here to prove it.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘Word gets round, Mr Lestrade, you know that. Me and my lads got here first. The driver stopped the ’bus and the passengers got off, except for one, I believe. The driver said he wasn’t goin’ a step further, so we unhitched the bastard’s horses and pushed a life preserver up ’is throat. Then Rupasobly’s boys arrived. It’s his little legs, you see. Can’t get anywhere fast enough.’

  ‘You . . .’

  ‘Chubb!’ Lestrade hissed again. ‘Let me talk to the driver and conductor,’ he called to Maguire.

  There was activity on the ’bus and a figure rose head and shoulders above the others. ‘I’m the driver,’ a Cockney voice called, the first one Lestrade had heard, apart from Dew’s, all night.

  ‘Inspector Lestrade, Scotland Yard,’ he called. ‘Did you hear what Mr Maguire said?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is it true?’

  ‘I dunno ’ow it started, guv. But ’e’s right about ’ow it finished.’

  ‘Where’s your conductor?’

  Another head popped up and the driver’s popped down.

  ‘Did you see how it started?’ Lestrade asked him.

  ‘I saw this bloke get on and talk to the dead ’un,’ came the tremulous reply. ‘He fell against the wall and then all ’ell broke loose. Look, I’ve lost a tooth, guv’nor. I’ve got a wife and kids. Get us out of ’ere.’

  He was yanked sharply down by somebody. Lestrade heard the driver say, ‘Blakey, stop that bleatin’. Remember you are an hemployee of the Walthamstow and District Homnibus Company. You do your sobbin’ on your own time.’

  ‘Spoken like a true idiot,’ purred Maguire.

  ‘Cosh, I’m coming aboard,’ said Lestrade.

  ‘Why?’ the Irishman shouted.

  ‘Think of me as a referee,’ Lestrade said. ‘I want to see fair play, that’s all. I want to examine the corpse.’

  ‘All right. Seamus, watch him. Any tricks, Lestrade and you’re a dead man.’

  ‘Turk!’ Rupasobly trilled. ‘Watch Lestrade. He’s going on the ’bus. Any tricks and he’s a dead man.’

  Doubly reassured, Lestrade circled the dwarf and the giant and as he passed Bandicoot he heard him whisper, ‘May you always have the last shot, Sholto.’

  The rail felt icy cold under his hand. A number of Irish roughs made way for him to take the stairs. He stumbled over a pair of feet and realized he was momentarily out of sight of the Annie Oakley of Shoreditch. But Harry was not, his broad, unassailable back blocking out the light, and in his shadow hid Rupasobly. Besides, the Annie Oakley of Ballybrophy was grinning up at him, cradling the smooth knob of his shillelagh and longing to practise his deadly art.

  ‘Let him through, there!’ barked Maguire. ‘’Tis himself coming up the stairs.’

  Lestrade emerged on the top deck, the only figure walking upright. He was already the target for knife and club. He only hoped that no copper had got hold of a gun and that his silhouette under the green moon was unmistakable enough. He looked at the doubled-up driver and the quaking conductor and the assorted roughs in mufflers and titfers draped about the floor and seats. He looked at the corpse. The dead man was about twenty-five with a shock of black hair and a heavy moustache. His face was criss-crossed with old scars and his eyes stared straight ahead. Lestrade felt in his pockets. A tram ticket, a switchblade knife which Maguire lifted from him and a gold watch, which the Irishman also confiscated.

  Lestrade straightened. ‘This is Tom “The Sheep” le Mouton,’ he called down to the little figure obscured beyond Bandicoot.

  ‘That’s right,’ said Rupasobly.

  ‘We can all go home, then,’ said Lestrade.

  ‘What do you mean?’ shouted Rupasobly.

  ‘Chubb, you and the Maguire gang have been at each other’s throats for years. What do they carry?’

  A moment’s pause. ‘Shillelaghs,’ he said.

  ‘And?’ Lestrade’s breath spread out on the night air.

  ‘Chivs.’

  ‘What sort?’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘I’ll tell you,’ said Lestrade. ‘Broad blades, mostly single-edged. Am I right?’

  ‘What of it?’ snapped Rupasobly.

  ‘This man has been skewered through the neck,’ Lestrade told him, ‘by something no wider than a pencil. It’s your boys who use stilettos.’

  ‘And those Wop bastards,’ roared Rupasobly.

  Realizing the scenario might move up the road to the Italian quarter, Lestrade grabbed the conductor and hauled him upright. ‘Who was sitting behind this man?’ He pointed to the corpse.

  ‘Er . . . I don’t know.’

  ‘Think, man,’ Lestrade pressed his tipless nose against the conductor’s. ‘Your life, all our lives, may depend on it.’

  ‘Er . . . um . . . a woman. It was a woman.’

  ‘On her own?’

  ‘Yeah. Got on at the Tower, I think.’

  ‘Old? Young? Colour of coat? Hair?’

  ‘’Ow the ’ell should I know? I see thousands of passengers, guv’nor. Wait a minute . . .’

  ‘Yes?’ Lestrade gripped the man’s lapels.

  ‘She definitely ’ad ’air.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Lestrade. ‘Chubb, any of your men in the habit of dressing up as a woman?’

  There were shouts of anger from the shadows and whistles and hoots from the ’bus.

  ‘I should be very careful, Mr Lestrade,’ Rupasobly said quietly.

  ‘What about yours, Cosh?’

  This time the cheers and cat-calls burst from Rupasobly’s corner and the Irishmen fell silent. Maguire closed to Lestrade.

  ‘I’d keep your distance, Cosh,’ the inspector whispered, ‘there’s a knife on me out there somewhere and I don’t know how good Rupasobly’s man is.’

  The Irishman relented.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ Lestrade said, ‘this has nothing to do with either of you. The Sheep was murdered by person or persons unknown. By a woman, in fact.’

  ‘That’s right,’ shouted Maguire. ‘We’d no need to creep up on the bastard from behind. If any of my boys done it, it’d be face to face.’

  ‘Chubb?’ Lestrade called quietly.

  ‘A misunderstanding then, Mr Maguire,’ he trilled.

  ‘Precisely so, Mr Rupasobly.’

  ‘We’ll say goodnight, then.’ Rupasobly clicked his fingers and a lackey leapt from the shadows to pick up his discarded armoury.

  ‘Top o’ the evening to you,’ Maguire called.

  ‘We’ll just take The Sheep home,’ said Rupasobly, as his men warily closed in.

  ‘No, you won’t,’ Lestrade said firmly. Abberline and the knot of policemen, now grown to nearly a hundred, advanced on the ’bus. ‘He’s mine for a while, Chubb. You can have him later. Leman Street Mortuary.’

  A silence. Nobody moved.

  ‘Merry Christmas, Mr Lestrade.’ Rupasobly smiled and disappeared through the throng of his boys.

  From the ’bus, a fiddle struck up ‘The Wearing o’ the Green’ and Maguire’s lads tumbled out and skipped away across the snow.

  ‘Merry Christmas, Mr Lestrade, sor,’ said Maguire and shook him warmly by the hand. ‘Here,’ he slipped him a bottle, ‘one of Mrs Maguire’s specials. It’ll put hair on your caubeen.’

  Lestrade had had one of Mrs Maguire’s specials before. He was in no doubt of it. The inspector looked at the driver and conductor cowering on the floor. ‘Gentlemen, I suggest you catch your horses. This ’bus is running late.’

  He leaned over the side. ‘You men,’ he called to the nearest constables, ‘up he
re on the double. I want this body delivered to Leman Street. Harry,’ he called to the squire, ‘you can put your hands down now, I think.’

  As he reached the bottom stair, there was a whisper from inside. He frowned into the darkness. A middle-aged lady slumped in a seat in a corner. Lestrade crouched beside her, wondering what unspeakable outrage Maguire’s mob had perpetrated on her person. Then he smelt her breath. ‘One of Mrs Maguire’s specials,’ he said to himself.

  The lady woke. ‘Marble Arch?’ she asked.

  ‘Not yet, love,’ Lestrade patted her hand. ‘I’ll give you a shout when we get there.’

  WHEN LESTRADE ARRIVED at the Grand, it was breakfast time. He was shown into the room with its stiff white tablecloths and clutter of silver.

  ‘Ah, Mr Lestrade.’ He heard an elderly voice he thought he knew.

  ‘Miss Balsam. Good morning. I was hoping to catch Harry to thank him for last night.’

  ‘I believe the lambs are lying in this morning, Inspector. Won’t you join me? There’s toast and the marmalade is quite delicious.’

  ‘Well, I . . .’

  ‘Now,’ she wagged a matronly finger at him, ‘I’ll wager you haven’t eaten since last night. I must insist.’

  Lestrade smiled and sat beside her. He was not of the class to have had a nanny himself, but he could imagine how all Miss Balsam’s charges must once have jumped.

  ‘Waiter,’ she called, ‘another cup, if you please. You will take coffee, Mr Lestrade?’

  ‘Thank you,’ he said and helped himself to the toast. She noticed he had used the wrong knife, but said nothing.

  ‘Now,’ she closed to him, ‘do tell me what happened last night.’

  ‘I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to . . .’

  ‘Stuff and nonsense!’ She slapped his wrist with her napkin. ‘If you were smaller, I’d smack your legs. Harry will tell me anyway . . .’ She looked at him engagingly.

  He laughed. ‘Yes, I suppose he will. Very well, but you must understand, Miss Balsam, that this is strictly between the two of us.’

  ‘Of course,’ she frowned, horrified that he should imply it was not.

  ‘A man was found dead on an omnibus.’

  Her cup hit the saucer. ‘Good heavens! How awful. I should hate to go on public transport. One never knows against whom one would fall.’