Lestrade and the Guardian Angel

by M. J. Trow

  ‘He appeared to have been sitting alone,’ Lestrade told her.

  ‘What was it? Heart?’

  Nice of the old girl to be familiar, Lestrade thought. ‘Murder,’ he said.

  She bit heavily on her toast and for a second her dentures remained clamped to it as her lips came away. With a deft after-bite she regained them. ‘What is the world coming to?’ she said, shaking her head.

  ‘The man was a petty crook.’

  ‘Oh, but even so.’ She was still aghast when Letitia joined them. Lestrade rose and she kissed him.

  ‘Sholto, this is a lovely surprise. I didn’t think we’d see you again this time. Good morning, Nanny,’ and she kissed the old girl on her tousled forehead.

  ‘Hello, dear. Mr Lestrade is telling me about the events of last night. A fellow has been foully murdered.’

  ‘I know, Nanny,’ said Letitia as the waiter hovered. ‘No, just coffee, thank you. Harry was full of it.’

  ‘I came to thank him,’ said Lestrade.

  ‘No need to.’ She held his arm. ‘He was glad to be of service.’

  ‘All the same,’ Lestrade said, ‘he could have been killed.’

  ‘He was pretty dead when I left him just now!’ Letitia laughed. ‘Who was this man on the ’bus, Sholto, the one who’d been stabbed?’

  ‘Stabbed?’ Nanny Balsam repeated. ‘Oh dear me. Oh dear, dear me.’

  ‘His name was le Mouton,’ Lestrade told her, ‘known as The Sheep in the circles in which he moved.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Miss Balsam.

  They looked at her.

  ‘Letitia,’ she scolded, ‘I taught you the rudiments of French. Le mouton means the sheep.’

  ‘Yes, Nanny.’ She patted the old girl’s hand. ‘Do you know who killed him, Sholto? Can none of us ride on an omnibus again?’

  ‘I think the odds against the same thing happening to you or to Miss Balsam are very long,’ Lestrade reassured her. ‘Le Mouton was on borrowed time anyway.’

  ‘In what way, Mr Lestrade?’

  ‘He was a flimp . . .’

  Nanny Balsam fanned herself with her napkin.

  ‘Sorry,’ he smiled. ‘Force of habit. I mean he was a snatch pickpocket, operating all over London, usually in crowds. He was on the edge of a gang led by one Chubb Rupasobly.’

  ‘Good Lord!’ Letitia suddenly straightened.

  ‘What’s the matter, dear?’ Miss Balsam asked.

  ‘I knew I’d heard the name le Mouton before,’ she said. ‘Nanny, you remember, last year. Roger Lytton. He was walking in Hyde Park when this rough tried to pick his pocket.’

  ‘No, dear, I’m afraid I don’t.’

  ‘Yes, yes, you must. Sholto, I am right, aren’t I? Roger was a distant cousin. We were all deeply shocked.’

  ‘What happened, dear?’ Miss Balsam was confused.

  ‘Roger grappled with the man and the man pushed him. He fell and hit his head on a park bench. He died in hospital.’

  ‘And le Mouton was charged with murder,’ Lestrade said, ‘only there was confusion among the witnesses.’

  ‘Confusion?’ Miss Balsam repeated.

  ‘One of the things which makes my job difficult, Miss Balsam, is the unreliability of witnesses. There are, what . . .’ He glanced around the breakfasters, ‘. . . thirty or so people in this room. If a man were to burst in now and attack you . . .’

  She inhaled violently and a toast crumb nearly did for her. Steadied by Letitia and Lestrade and soothed by a timely gulp of coffee, she recovered.

  ‘Very well, then . . .’ Lestrade thought it best to correct himself. ‘If he attacked me.’

  Miss Balsam felt a little safer.

  ‘I guarantee we’d have thirty or so different descriptions of the man in question.’

  ‘So this sheep went unpunished?’ Miss Balsam asked.

  ‘So it would seem,’ said Letitia. ‘Roger’s family felt most awfully about it.’

  ‘I’m not so sure he did go unpunished,’ Lestrade told them. ‘Letitia, where do the family live?’

  ‘The Lyttons? Cheltenham. Parabola Road, I think. Isn’t it, Nanny?’

  ‘I’m sorry, my dear, I must be getting old. The Lyttons, you say? They only seem to impinge on the periphery of my consciousness. I do seem to remember being introduced to Bulwer Lytton, the novelist. I told him my favourite was What Will He Do With It?’

  Letitia patted her arm. ‘No, Nanny. Not the same family. Do you need to visit them, Sholto?’

  ‘I may learn something,’ he said.

  Letitia sighed. ‘Very well, I’ll give you their address. But . . .’

  ‘But?’

  She whispered in his ear. ‘They are a little . . . odd, Sholto.’

  ‘Odd?’ he whispered back.

  ‘Well, no, not odd.’ She smiled. ‘More . . . peculiar.’

  ‘Peculiar?’ He was none the wiser.

  ‘Perhaps . . . unusual is the right word.’

  ‘Oh, good.’ Lestrade’s smile was more fixed than usual.

  ‘Sholto!’ It was a grotesquely robust Harry Bandicoot who crossed the dining-room in three bounds. ‘Kidneys and mushrooms, waiter. I could eat a horse.’

  ❖ Number Thirteen,

  Parabola Road ❖

  L

  estrade took the midday train from Euston. He also took Dew and Lilley. They followed the meandering Chelt for a while, alighted as dusk gathered and booked in at the Fleece Hotel, apt considering they were here in connection with The Sheep, le Mouton. Dew spent the night doing the paperwork that an overnight stay on expenses entailed.

  In the morning, after a breakfast less impressive than the Grand’s at which Lilley sipped delicately from a glass of mineral water, they went in search of the address Letitia Bandicoot had given them. Cheltenham in the grip of winter was a wonderland. The fountains were frozen and the watery sun dazzled and sparkled on the dripping cascades. Mile after mile of mellow Cotswold villas spoke of opulence beyond the imagination of the three Yard men. The odd dark faces among the genteel throng also spoke of India. Cheltenham was wall to wall with Pukka Sahibs and Nabobs who had retired here for the saline and chalybeate springs and many had brought their ayahs and syces back with them. A troop of identically clad young fillies in frothy lace and ringlets their mothers would have worn in their day skipped past the bowler-hatted trio and giggled. One of them winked at Dew, who blushed a little and quickened his pace.

  They crossed Montpelier Walk, around the Rotunda and on to Queen’s Parade. A sharp right brought them into Parabola Road and they rang the bell outside the door of Number Thirteen. There was no reply, but as Lestrade glanced upward at the tracery of wrought iron that graced the balcony, he saw the nets in the window above shiver aside. With that there was a sliding of bolts and a rattling of keys and a hideous old woman stood there. Lestrade was aware of Lilley reeling a little behind him.

  ‘Good morning,’ he said, ‘we are from Scotland Yard. I am Inspector Lestrade. This is Constable Dew and Constable Lilley.’

  The old woman said nothing but showed them into a vast freezing hall, with the inevitable black-and-white chequered floor. The cobwebs hung thick and white from the aspidistrae.

  ‘I should like to see Mr Lytton,’ Lestrade said and his voice fell as the crone raised a knotty finger to her blue lips. In fact, all of her was blue and Lestrade knew why. He couldn’t feel his fingers either. It was freezing outside and freezing in.

  The old lady left them, padding noiselessly up the stairs. The trio watched her, until she was silhouetted against the light of a huge oriel window, then she was gone.

  ‘Rum place,’ whispered Lilley, catching sight of the grotesque elephant-headed statuettes that coiled and leered from each corner.

  ‘Mrs Bandicoot did warn me,’ Lestrade murmured.

  ‘Gentlemen!’ A young female voice sounded overhead and an apparition in white glided down the stairs. ‘I am Cleopatra Lytton. My aunt informs me you wish to see Mr Lytton.’


  ‘Er . . . yes, indeed. I’m sorry, Miss Lytton,’ Lestrade said. ‘I assumed the lady was your housekeeper.’

  ‘She does keep house,’ said Cleopatra, suddenly aware of the cobwebs, ‘though not very well. She was once a Trappist nun, Mr . . . er . . .’

  ‘Lestrade, ma’am. Inspector Lestrade.’

  She raised her hand for him to kiss it. ‘And the rules of austerity are with her yet. It is a little trying when one is placing orders with tradesmen. You see, she refuses to write as well. Still, we manage. Gentlemen, you must be frozen. Pray, go into the drawing-room. I will arrange some tea.’

  The drawing-room was, if possible, colder than the hall. The three men stood there, looking at each other. The enormous mirror over the black, empty fireplace was cracked from side to side. A spidery plant with pale tendrils was growing through a crack in the wall.

  ‘Now.’ Cleopatra Lytton returned. ‘Please, gentlemen, do be seated. I’ve asked Aunt to make some tea. My cousins will bring it in shortly. We do not get many guests from London. Still less from Scotland Yard.’

  ‘It’s about the late Roger Lytton, Miss Lytton. He was . . . ?’

  ‘A tower of strength to us all, Inspector.’ She sat quite still for a moment, as though wrestling with an inner problem.

  ‘Quite.’ Lestrade was at his most patient. ‘But what relation was he to you, Miss Lytton?’

  ‘He was my brother, Inspector.’

  ‘And your parents . . . ?’

  ‘Mama died many years ago. She is buried in her beloved Arbroath.’

  Lestrade had been there once. There wasn’t much else to do but be buried in Arbroath.

  ‘Papa is upstairs, Inspector. He doesn’t normally see visitors, but I realize you must have your reasons.’

  ‘I may have what is good news for him,’ said Lestrade. ‘The man who may have been responsible for your brother’s death is himself dead.’

  Miss Lytton pressed her hands together and appeared to be praying silently, ‘God keep me from thoughts of revenge.’

  Lestrade was becoming less and less comfortable.

  ‘Ah.’ Miss Lytton snapped out of her trance. ‘Tea.’

  At that moment, the double doors swung wide and three teenaged girls flounced in. They were all deathly pale, with red-rimmed eyes and flaxen hair.

  ‘Mr Lestrade, my cousins, Faith, Hope and Charity.’

  The policemen stood up and the girls curtsied, clattering down trays, cups and spoons.

  ‘Thank you, girls!’ Miss Lytton senior clapped her hands and the three junior Misses Lytton departed, chattering excitedly. Lilley could have sworn he heard one of them say beyond the wall, ‘I want the little blond one,’ and it brought a lump of fear to his throat.

  Now, Lestrade had been around. He had drunk more tea in his time than the whole of the late East India Company had imported, but he had never seen any this colour. It was green and things were floating in it. Mechanically, the three policemen stirred the concoction and one by one, tasted it and put down their cups. Lilley had turned the colour of the marble mantelpiece.

  ‘Have you been to London recently?’ Lestrade asked.

  ‘Why, yes, as a matter of fact, I was there yesterday,’ Miss Lytton told them. ‘You see, we have no servants, Mr Lestrade – you may have noticed that. We are all Socialists in this house.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Lestrade commiserated.

  ‘Yesterday, I was attending a dockers’ meeting at Wapping.’

  ‘Alone?’ Lestrade asked.

  ‘Oh, good heavens no. Aunt Sybil – you met her just now – came with us. And my brother Mortimer.’

  ‘Mortimer?’

  ‘Yes, he is my eldest brother. Roger was the middle child. I’m afraid Mortimer is not here just now. He’s taking the water at the Pittville Pump Rooms.’

  Lilley was beginning to realize he had just taken the waters and was feeling decidedly odd.

  ‘Tell me, Miss Lytton,’ Lestrade persisted, ‘how did you travel?’

  ‘By train, Inspector. It’s too far to cycle in this inclement weather.’

  ‘You are a keen bicyclist, Miss Lytton?’

  ‘Oh, rather.’ She sipped her tea enthusiastically. ‘The whole family is. In summer and autumn we think nothing of cycling a hundred miles a day.’

  ‘Indeed? Have you been . . . er . . . cycling recently?’

  ‘Now, let me see. I believe we did Hertfordshire this season. Yes, that’s right. We tend to do a county a season.’

  ‘I see.’ Lestrade smiled, his eyes catching Dew’s. It was unfortunate that both men had bent forward simultaneously, but the sickening crack as their heads met did not reverberate too obviously around the chill room. ‘And while you were at Wapping, did you travel around at all? By omnibus, perhaps?’

  ‘Why, yes, Inspector. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Oh, idle curiosity. What was the number of the ’bus you caught?’

  ‘Oh, Inspector, I’m afraid I don’t remember, they all look rather alike to me. I know it had seats and those stair things and it was pulled by two horses, but other than that . . .’

  ‘Where were you going?’

  ‘Well, we stayed at a small hotel in Paddington. We caught a bus that took us through town.’

  ‘Along the Ratcliffe Highway?’

  ‘I really don’t know. All those street things look alike to me, Inspector. Why are you asking me all these questions?’

  ‘Force of habit, ma’am, I’m afraid. I wonder if I might talk to your father? Did he accompany you to London?’

  ‘No. He has been confined to his bed for the past year. I’ll see if he’ll see you.’

  The three men got up as she left them. Lestrade looked at the others. ‘Right,’ he said, ‘we’ve got a connection with London, with a ’bus, with The Sheep and with cycling in Hertfordshire. Dew, talk to the silent old bat. Try to get something out of her.’

  ‘But sir . . .’

  ‘I’m sorry, Dew, you are the only one who went to that sign language lecture. Do the best you can. Lilley, get to those girls. Find out all they know.’

  ‘But, sir . . .’

  ‘Mr Lestrade,’ Cleopatra had returned. ‘My father will see you now.’

  ‘Thank you.’ He nodded in the various directions and followed Cleopatra up the stairs as his underlings went in search of their respective quarries.

  Walter Dew tapped lightly on the kitchen door. There was no answer, so he pushed it. Aunt Sybil rose to greet him with a quizzical expression on her hideous features. The door closed on them and Lilley heard no more. He followed a winding passageway that seemed to go on forever, the walls becoming wetter and colder as he went. Then, the parting of the ways. Two doors. He fumbled in his pocket for a tanner and tossed it. Tails. The story of his life. He adjusted the bowler in the crook of his arm and opened the door. It led down two or three steps into a darkened room. Lilley wasn’t partial to the dark and he hesitated more than once. But around the corner, he saw daylight again and opened a second door into the garden. Here, in the frozen leaves, swept up from autumn’s rout, he heard a plaintive whistling. Climbing the stairs to lawn level, he saw an old man with a muffler wrapped around his head, digging heartily under an elm.

  ‘Good morning,’ Lilley called.

  The old man stopped, looked up as though scenting the wind and carried on digging.

  ‘I say, good morning,’ Lilley repeated.

  This time the old man spun round. ‘Ah,’ he said, ‘over there, if you please.’ Lilley followed the man’s pointing finger and stood there. Unfortunately, the spot placed him in a difficult position and he edged forward.

  ‘No, against the wall,’ the old man insisted.

  Lilley wiggled backwards so that the top of his head was jammed under a parapet of bricks.

  ‘Well, where is it?’ The old man paused, staring wildly around him with rheumy eyes.

  ‘What?’ Lilley had lost this conversation a long time ago.

  ‘
The shit,’ the old man said, and catching sight of Lilley’s horrified and bewildered countenance, modified it a little. ‘Very well, then, the dung, the manure, the ordure. Well, I did order it!’ and he laughed hoarsely, slapping his thigh in a weak sort of way until a paroxysm of coughing caught him and he had to sit down.

  ‘No, I’m not the gardener,’ Lilley explained.

  ‘Of course you’re not. I am,’ spat the old man.

  ‘I’m a policeman.’

  The gardener visibly jumped. ‘There’s no law against it.’

  ‘What?’ asked Lilley, emerging now from his cramped position.

  ‘Burying this ’ere dog.’ He gestured at the ground. ‘He was dead, you know.’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course.’ Lilley began to retreat. ‘I obviously came the wrong way. I was looking for the Misses Lytton.’

  ‘Oh, we’re all called Lytton round here.’ The gardener drove his spade into the rock-hard earth again. He hauled up a wooden cross and rammed it into the mound he had created. ‘Even the bloody dog,’ he sighed and Lilley noted the carved marker ‘Lytton Lytton of Parabola’. ‘Still,’ the old man muttered to himself, hammering in the cross, ‘the little bastard won’t pee over my chrysanths again!’

  Lilley returned the way he had come, up the dark staircase and to the other door, the one he had come to wish he had taken in the first place. He adjusted his bowler again and knocked. No reply. He pushed the door and stepped into nothingness. Blackness met his gaze and his legs sawed violently in the air as he plummeted downwards. He was aware of nothing more.

  LESTRADE STOOD RESPECTFULLY bareheaded before the old man in the smoking cap and shawl.

  ‘You’ll have to speak up,’ Cleopatra muttered. ‘He’s a little hard of hearing. Papa,’ she automatically increased her volume, ‘this is Inspector Lestrade. He’s come about Roger.’

  ‘Hmphh,’ the elder Lytton snorted, ‘it’s a little late, young man. My son is dead.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Lestrade. ‘I know. I have come on another matter.’

  Lytton suddenly drove a sharp cane into his daughter’s side. ‘He’s come about another matter, you blithering idiot. I can’t stand people who blither. Especially women! I’ve been in India, Lefarge. They used to burn the buggers there, you know. Bally good idea. Now, what’s all this about Roger?’