Lestrade and the Guardian Angel

by M. J. Trow

  She nodded.

  ‘The guide at Wookey Hole – Old Spiggot – said there had been a woman with an ear trumpet there on the morning of Tetley’s death. Whoever killed him was presumably the same person who placed the scarab in his mouth shortly after he died. That woman was you.’

  She nodded.

  ‘Do you remember when we first met?’ he suddenly asked, looking up.

  ‘Why, yes, I do.’ She brightened at the memory of it. ‘It was at the Openshaw Workhouse in Manchester. I was visiting with Harry . . .’

  ‘Then your intended.’

  ‘. . . Yes. And you were on an assignment, posing as an inmate. Looking back, I remember your face when Harry recognized you and didn’t realize the situation.’ She laughed in spite of herself. Then her face became serious again. ‘Sholto, why are you talking about this?’

  ‘The death of Hughie Ralph,’ said Lestrade. ‘You see, Letitia, each of the deceased in this case was himself guilty of a crime. The murderer was merely exacting revenge. Hughie Ralph’s crime was that he swindled an honest man out of a fortune. That man is now dying alone in a workhouse. His name – or at least one that in his shame and solitude he uses – is George Hypericum Lawrenson.’

  Letitia caught her breath. ‘Oh, my God,’ she whispered.

  ‘I couldn’t remember at first where I’d heard the name. Then on the train here this morning, I remembered. When we met at the Openshaw Workhouse you were a widow, weren’t you? And your name was Lawrenson.’ He smiled to himself. ‘It’s funny. All the way down, the train rattled on the rails, “Letitia’s name, Letitia’s name”. I couldn’t get it out of my head.’

  She looked at him.

  ‘He wasn’t a relation, I suppose?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ she said.

  ‘You were in London, as was Harry, when The Sheep died. And it was you who sent me on a wild goose chase to Parabola Road in Cheltenham. Although the Lyttons proved more useful than you know. Before “Sally” Mander died, he had a visitor. A female visitor, I believe, although there is a confused corporal of Engineers who might call me a liar. And what a neat coincidence for anyone wanting to confess to murder, that old relationship between Harry and Marigold de Lacy. That wasn’t true you know – about their affair.’

  ‘I know,’ she said and the tears trickled down her face.

  ‘But of course,’ he left the settee and stood framed by the window, ‘it was your classical education that really gave you away.’

  ‘Sholto?’ She sat upright, searching his face in a vague rising sense of panic. He was cold, passionless. Suddenly he wasn’t playing a game any more.

  ‘The name you left in Rowntree’s ledger. The chocolates you bought and added poison to for Willie Hellerslyke. The name Perameles.’

  ‘Perameles?’ she repeated.

  ‘What does it mean?’ he asked.

  ‘I . . . I don’t know,’ she said. ‘For God’s sake, Sholto, I don’t know.’

  He crossed the room to her in three strides. It would have taken the fallen Harry one. He held her hand. ‘You’re a clever woman, Letitia,’ he said, looking her in the glistening grey eyes. ‘Clever enough, unlike Harry, to be sufficiently vague about murders you were not guilty of to fool me . . . well, Guthrie, anyway. You’re also clever enough to use phosphorus – again, unlike Harry – without burning your hands.’ He wiped a tear from her cheek, and smiled. ‘But I’ve been talking to murderers for twenty-five years, man and boy. And I think I know a lie when I hear one.’

  ‘It wasn’t me,’ she whispered, suddenly a little girl again, and afraid.

  ‘No,’ he told her, ‘I know.’

  There was a groan behind them. Lestrade turned to find both men coming round. ‘You can let Harry go in a minute.’ He threw her the key from Guthrie’s pocket. ‘You’d better before he pulls this ring out of the wall and the wall with it. As for this one,’ he glanced down at Guthrie, ‘I think I have the answer,’ and he casually dropped a jardiniere down on his head. Festooned with roots and potting compost, Guthrie fell back, unconscious once again.

  For safety’s sake, Lestrade popped his head out of the window. ‘Oops,’ he called to the sergeant, ‘there goes the other one.’

  And he made for the door.

  ‘Sholto?’ Letitia held his arm. ‘What does Perameles mean?’ she asked.

  ‘That’s the devil of it,’ he smiled. ‘That’s what brought me here this morning. It’s the Latin for Bandicoot,’ and he saw himself out. ‘I was right to risk your coffee after all.’

  ‘HOW IS SHE?’ LESTRADE looked at the prone figure of Maisie lying on the kitchen table.

  ‘Overwrought,’ said Miss Balsam. ‘We all are.’

  ‘I’m glad you’ve put the shotgun down, Miss Balsam.’ Lestrade closed the door behind him.

  ‘So am I,’ she said. ‘How are the lambs? What’s happened?’

  ‘Well, both Harry and Mr Guthrie will have headaches for a while, but other than that, all is well.’

  ‘Good, good.’

  ‘Perhaps we can have a little chat, Miss Balsam? You see, Harry didn’t kill Richard Tetley.’

  ‘I know he didn’t,’ she said. ‘I did.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘Walk this way, Inspector,’ she smiled. ‘I have a capital glass of port put by for moments such as these.’

  ‘Port, Miss Balsam?’ Lestrade stopped in his tracks.

  She chuckled as he followed her up a little spiral staircase. ‘I’ll have a glass too,’ she said.

  Her rooms were cheerful, the December sun of mid-morning filtering through the latticed windows and falling dappled on the chintz of the sofa.

  ‘Please,’ she said, ‘have a seat. I was wondering how long it would be before you came to see me. Here,’ and she poured a large glass for them both.

  Lestrade hesitated, checked the liquid in the clear glass and when she had drunk, he did so too. ‘Capital,’ he said, raising his glass in a toast.

  ‘Well,’ she said, ‘this is nice. I suppose you’d like to know how I did them all.’

  ‘I should caution you, Miss Balsam . . .’ Lestrade began.

  ‘Oh, fiddlesticks!’ She waved him aside. ‘Do you have the time, Inspector?’

  He was, of course, the right person to ask and he flicked out his half-hunter. ‘It’s ten-thirty,’ he told her.

  ‘Right. Well, where can I start?’

  ‘Archibald Fellowes?’ he prompted her.

  ‘Yes, of course. Archie. Thoroughgoing rotter, he was. I was his nanny for a time, oh, many, many years ago of course, just before I became dear Lettie’s nanny, in fact. He was a grizzly, petulant child, always pinching the other children and running away. A dreadful coward, I’m afraid.’

  ‘A coward?’

  ‘Indelibly. You could have knocked me over with a perambulator when I read his commission in the Gazette. All we nannies follow the futures of our charges, you see. I wouldn’t have thought Archie would have gone for a soldier at all.’

  Rather more Mortimer Lytton’s bent, reflected Lestrade.

  ‘Still, there it was. And I read of course of his exploits in the Ashanti War and was still more incredulous.’

  ‘Then?’

  ‘Then, oh, let me replenish your glass,’ and she topped them both up, ‘then I had a letter from a dear old friend of mine – whose name, by the way, need not concern you – who had been the nanny of Captain Hely, the unfortunate brother officer who died in Ashanti. She was heart-broken and it bothered me. I couldn’t sleep, Inspector. My old friend spoke of a letter written to her by young Hely shortly before he died. Some of our charges are very attached to us, you see. Apparently, they found it on the body of the poor boy, after the Fuzzy Wuzzies or whoever they are had finished with him.’

  She fanned herself with a napkin at her side.

  ‘It said that Fellowes had led them stupidly into a trap and then fled, claiming to be going for help. Of course, he never returned.’

  ‘Wolsel
ey thought it was something like that,’ Lestrade mused.

  ‘Wolseley?’ she snorted. ‘Useless. Not enough roughage as a child, that’s his problem. Perhaps because the envelope was addressed to Nanny . . . never mind; perhaps because the army chose not to investigate, they merely took Archie’s word for what had happened – the word of a coward and a liar.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘I decided on something that is sadly all too rare in England these days, Mr Lestrade. I decided on justice.’

  ‘I see. You didn’t go to the authorities?’

  ‘Of course not. That would have been a total negation of justice. I found out where Archie was stationed and paid a street urchin to deliver a verbal message to him to meet me.’

  ‘A verbal message, so that there was no note for me to find.’

  ‘You’re quite clever for a policeman, aren’t you?’ she smiled.

  ‘And you met in Kew Gardens?’

  ‘Good heavens!’ She sat upright. ‘How did you know that?’

  ‘A lucky guess,’ said Lestrade. ‘How did you kill him?’

  ‘Phosphorus,’ she beamed. ‘I remembered Archie had a very sweet tooth. Most boys do. I gave him three – or was it four – chocolates. Unrobed phosphorus is quite revolting to the taste, you see. Alas, I was rather naive and totally unused to the stuff.’

  ‘Would you remove your gloves, Miss Balsam?’ he asked.

  ‘Tsk, tsk. You forward man! I am old enough to be your mother!’ and she complied to reveal the reddish scars along fingers and thumbs.

  ‘I had no idea how long the wretched process took then. I steered the conversation around to Ashanti. To the medal he had not won fairly. To the story he had told. He was carrying the medal in his pocket and he began to stagger.’ She closed her eyes and shuddered. ‘I was blind with fury as he admitted his guilt and I tried to . . . I don’t know, steady him, I suppose. In the struggle he fell on to the towpath beside the river and I popped the medal into his open mouth – like a final chocolate, I suppose. All my boys have to learn to take their medicine, you see. He rolled sideways and fell into the river. I didn’t see him struggle and I watched his body float away among the reeds. Well, I waited for someone to rush up and seize me. But no one came. It was broad daylight and yet there was no one around to witness the scene. It was astonishing. I walked away.’

  ‘And Richard Tetley was nearer to home?’

  ‘In every sense,’ she said, smiling at the sun on the steaming frost outside, it was a curious coincidence that I too received a letter from an old charge, one I cared for for only a short time, Oscar Jones, an American boy. I must have made more impression on him than he on me, I’m afraid, because he wrote to me off and on. His last letter told of fears for his life, that Richard Tetley was jealous to the point of insanity about Oscar’s clever find in Egypt and he could not turn his back on a man like that. I was on the point of replying to him when I read in The Times of the poor boy’s death. And I knew he had turned his back. I should probably have done nothing had not the dig at Wookey come to light. While Arthur Bulleid was at dinner, I suggested he invite Tetley to join him on the excavation. I also suggested to Harry that he offer him the Dower House, which was vacant, at a nominal rent. It all worked perfectly.’

  ‘And you were the lady in the cave with the ear trumpet?’ Lestrade asked.

  ‘A rather feeble disguise, I’m afraid. My hearing is perfectly good. The senile old guide wouldn’t have noticed if I’d been riding a hobby horse upside-down, but I was on home territory, so to speak, and I couldn’t risk being seen. I knew that Tetley worked alone in the mornings or with Bulleid. I chose the former and gave him some of Nanny’s delicious chocolates.’

  ‘And the beetle?’

  ‘Yes. It occurred to me after Archie’s demise that the placing of something in the mouth was rather symbolic. Naughty boys taking their medicine at last, as I said. I wanted justice, Mr Lestrade. And this was the final touch of poetry about it. I had pretended to Tetley that I was fascinated by archaeology and he was vain enough to show me his collection the night before he died. It was the work of a moment to slip the Amenhotep scarab into my purse and take it, along with the chocolates, the next day. Phosphorus is tricky stuff, Inspector. Archie died too quickly. Tetley died too slowly. I barely had time to pop the beetle in before I heard someone coming. I thought it might have been visitors, but in fact it was Arthur Bulleid. Luckily, there are plenty of hiding places in Wookey for an old witch like me.’

  ‘Which brings us to Howard de Lacy,’ Lestrade prompted her.

  ‘What a churl. Married dear Marigold for her money and killed her for the same reason.’

  ‘You know this for a fact?’

  ‘Tosh and nonsense,’ she said. ‘I realize, dear Inspector, that you police chappies are bound by regulations and evidence and proof and so forth. I have been raising children now for more years than I care to remember. Dear Marigold was a constant companion to Lettie as a girl. She wrote to Lettie saying she was deeply unhappy. Life with Howard had turned bitter. When Lettie told me of her death, I was sure of my path. I caught a London train and waited for my chance.’

  ‘Not phosphorus this time,’ Lestrade said, helping himself to Miss Balsam’s port.

  She slapped his hand. ‘Polite boys ask,’ she said and poured it for him. ‘No, I didn’t have time to mix up the compound. My “laboratory” is merely this cabinet, Mr Lestrade. I’m afraid it’s not very sophisticated.’ She opened the doors to show him a box, with pestles and mortars and a little metal bowl stained yellow. ‘So I bided my time and used this instead.’ She whipped out a knitting needle, stiletto-sharp, and held it glinting at Lestrade’s throat. He gently pinged it from his tie knot.

  ‘Oh, I’m so sorry,’ she smiled. ‘It took me a little while to file that thing to a point. I used a contraption of Tom Wyatt’s, the groom here.’

  Lestrade nodded. ‘How did you get into de Lacy’s bedroom?’

  ‘Through the door,’ she said. ‘I couldn’t believe it was that easy. The pig was snoring in his bed. He turned over as I crouched over him and . . .’ She shuddered again. ‘Oh dear, I haven’t really the phlegm for a murderer, Mr Lestrade. He did do it, didn’t he? He did kill Marigold?’

  Lestrade nodded. ‘I believe he did,’ he said. ‘But explain something to me, Miss Balsam. You weren’t nanny to all the victims of those you killed?’

  She laughed. ‘Good heavens, no, dear boy. My personal involvement ended there. I’m a sentimental old fool you know, underneath this homicidal exterior. I thought it would be fun to meet up with some of my old colleagues, from the days we’d walk our charges in Hyde Park, and talk over old times.’

  ‘The Nannies’ Convention in Cheltenham!’ Lestrade remembered.

  ‘Yes. Now that Letitia has Miss Shadbolt, I am a free agent these days – though I doubt whether I will be for long. I had the time to travel all over the place in search of my quarries. Oh, I feigned dizziness and senility and tiredness to put people off the scent. It seemed to work. I was dismissed as a harmless old eccentric and that was that. You were looking for what – a bayonet? A stiletto?’

  Lestrade nodded, smiling.

  ‘My fellow nannies told me some terrible tales, Mr Lestrade. Tales similar to those I had already heard about Archie Fellowes, Richard Tetley and Howard de Lacy. I committed them all to memory and went to work. You know,’ she giggled, ‘I’m getting quite merry on this port. Still, I suppose it will be the last for a while.’ She clinked her glass on his.

  ‘Cheers, Coquette,’ said Lestrade.

  She tapped his knee. ‘You awful boy,’ she scolded him, smiling. ‘It’s been a long time since anyone called me that.’

  ‘Was Mortimer Lytton one of your charges?’ he asked.

  ‘Mortimer? No, but the Lyttons were cousins to Lettie. I had to pretend not to remember them at breakfast at the Grand that day so that you wouldn’t become suspicious of me. You see, I still had work to do.’
>
  ‘Did Mortimer take his nickname Coquette from you?’

  ‘Yes, he did. It became a family joke, apparently – although in that family, pray tell me who isn’t a joke! For some reason, he liked the name and it stuck.’

  Could it be his mincing gait? Lestrade wondered, but he wouldn’t have shocked Nanny Balsam for the world.

  ‘And Perameles?’

  ‘Ah.’ Miss Balsam’s gnarled features darkened. ‘That was a terrible mistake on my part, wasn’t it? A nanny colleague, old Nanny Hardinge – I’ve forgotten her real name – told me of the tragedy of poor Miss Hardinge. William Hellerslyke was obviously a cad and a rotter. I invited myself to York, told Lettie I was visiting friends, and went along to the open day thing the Hussars had. I introduced myself to the captain as the sender of the chocolates and asked if he’d enjoyed them. He said yes, they were delicious, but who was I and why had I sent them? I explained the whole thing, quietly in the hubbub of people, and he became rather upset and stormed off.’

  ‘You’d got the dose right by now?’

  ‘Yes. It took several hours. Time enough for me to slip away. I had a delightful luncheon before I left with a charming officer named Daubney.’

  Lestrade shook his head. ‘Charming, but unobservant,’ he said.

  ‘Once again, I’d got the problem of not being able to take my mixture. I had my knitting with me, of course, but that way proved impossible. So I bought some rat poison in York and some chocolates too.’

  ‘And made Coquette’s confection,’ Lestrade said.

  ‘Quite. But I was rather taken aback when the gentleman asked me to sign his ledger. I thought of the first thing I could which I believed would never be traced. Perameles – the generic name for Bandicoot. Oh, it was wicked of me, Inspector! Wicked! I would not implicate those two dear lambs for the world. I never dreamt anyone would notice.’

  ‘No one did,’ said Lestrade, ‘unless you count Constable Skinner. It was his rather belated translation that brought me here in the first place.’

  ‘To arrest me?’

  Lestrade looked at her from under his eyebrows. His reputation lay in the balance. ‘To arrest Harry,’ he admitted.