Sherlock Holmes and the Disgraced Inspector

by John Hall

  Sherlock Holmes and the Disgraced Inspector

  John Hall

  © John Hall 1998

  John Hall has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 1998 by Breese Books Ltd, London.

  This edition published in 2015 by Endeavour Press Ltd.

  Table of Contents

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ONE

  As what I might term the official biographer of Mr Sherlock Holmes, I have perforce been obliged to become accustomed to being asked a good many questions about the world’s greatest, if not actually first, consulting detective. A great many of these questions are trivial and some are nothing more than impertinent, but some are more serious, and there are some which are perennial, questions which almost everyone asks. One of these latter evergreen questions, couched in various terms, concerns the relationship between Sherlock Holmes and Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard. ‘When we first hear of Lestrade,’ say these hypothetical enquirers in effect, ‘he is consulting Holmes several times a week over a forgery case; for many years he then both consults Holmes and rejects his advice; finally he regards Holmes almost with adulation.’

  In fact, there is no great mystery about any of this. When I first met Holmes, he was at the very start of his career. Indeed, it is no insult to say that in those days he was in very truth nothing much more than a consulting detective, an armchair reasoner, rather than a man of action. Lestrade could ask Holmes’s opinion, and Holmes could draw upon his own extensive knowledge of the history of crime to give that opinion, without either man treading, as it were, upon the other’s toes, encroaching into the province which belonged more correctly to his fellow.

  Later, when Holmes left his armchair, a development for which I myself might perhaps venture to claim a modest share of credit, then he and Lestrade were brought into more or less direct personal conflict. It was not that Lestrade did not value Holmes’s opinion. Rather it was that Lestrade could not in all conscience be seen to consult Holmes too often, or listen to his advice in every case, for that would merely have made Lestrade look inept in the eyes of his superiors. Lestrade was thus in the somewhat unenviable position of needing Holmes’s help on many occasions, whilst still being obliged to try to maintain his own position at Scotland Yard. You must remember that at this time there was a good deal of rivalry between the various policemen; I seem to recall that I have mentioned elsewhere the jealousy which existed between Lestrade and his colleague Gregson right at the very start of my acquaintance with Holmes.

  Now we come to the last point, the fact that Lestrade came to have a genuine admiration for Holmes. In part, and it was a very large part, this was nothing more than the effect of time, Lestrade having had so many proofs of Holmes’s ability that he could not help but rely upon him and admire him. But that was not the whole story. There was more, a specific instance when Lestrade desperately needed help, and Holmes came to his assistance. I have never revealed this fact before, and indeed, were it not for events which I need not dwell upon, I should not be telling the tale even now.

  It was, then, a dull October day a year or so after Holmes had returned to London. I was living at 221B, Baker Street, and we had more or less resumed the old partnership on the old terms. We had finished breakfast a long hour ago, but neither of us had much inclination to be out and about. Holmes was curled up in an armchair reading a little black-letter volume he had just acquired, The Burnynge of Paules Church by the Bishop of Durham, if memory serves me correctly, and saying nothing, other than making an occasional bitter remark as to the destiny which ultimately awaits those who mutilate old books by cutting out ornate capitals. For myself, even reading seemed too active, and I was whiling away the time standing in the bow window and idly regarding the passing throng.

  After a time, I turned to Holmes. ‘You once said something to the effect that a maiden vacillating upon the pavement betokened an affair of the heart,’ said I.

  ‘Did I?’ he answered without looking up from the page. ‘It seems a damned silly thing to say, but I have no doubt that you are correct.’ He suddenly looked up at me, and threw the book down. ‘But is there a maiden vacillating, then? Have we a case, think you?’

  ‘No maiden, certainly, whether vacillating or otherwise,’ said I with a laugh. ‘I should be underestimating Lestrade to say that. But he is certainly showing every sign of indecision.’

  ‘What, Lestrade?’ Holmes’s interest was stirred, I could tell.

  ‘Yes.’ I nodded at the window. ‘He is standing over the road, by the doorway of Camden House, and looking across here. He has looked three times at the front door, and four or five times has he glanced up at this window. The last time he caught sight of me, and turned away rather pointedly. But he is still there.’

  ‘Now, that is indeed interesting.’ Holmes left his chair and came over to my side. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘it is he.’ There could indeed be no mistaking Inspector Lestrade’s wiry figure, or his sharp, alert features. ‘Now, I wonder just what he is up to?’ Holmes mused, then fell silent.

  ‘Yes, one does — ’ I began, turning to Holmes. But he was gone. I looked across the room to see him changing his dressing gown for an overcoat. He came back to the window and stared out. ‘Still vacillating, is he? Another moment, I think, Watson, and he will be away. Yes, by Jove, he is off. But I shall have him, Doctor! Stay here, if you will, and I shall bring him up to give us a full explanation.’

  Before I could think of anything by way of reply, Holmes was out of the room, snatching his hat from the peg as he passed it. I stood there, mystified, looking at the little drama that unfolded.

  As I have said, Lestrade, after standing on the opposite pavement looking across at 221B for some considerable time, had suddenly squared his shoulders for all the world as if he had finally come to a decision, turned on his heel, and set off down Baker Street. He did not hasten; but Holmes, who had just emerged from our front door, did. He fairly ran across the road and after Lestrade, slowing down when he was about ten paces from the detective, and strolling to catch up with him in the most casual manner possible.

  I saw Holmes tap Lestrade on the shoulder with the crook of his stick, to get his attention; I saw the Scotland Yard man start, and turn, and look surprised to see Holmes. There followed a short conversation, at the end of which Holmes took Lestrade by the arm in what was obviously a friendly but firm fashion, and led him back to our front door.

  Determined not to spoil Holmes’s little theatrical performance, I hastily settled myself in the chair he had vacated, and began reading a novel. As the door opened, and I heard Holmes’s somewhat strident tones inviting Lestrade to step inside, I glanced up, as if surprised to see them. ‘Good morning, Inspector,’ said I. ‘Take a seat. Shall I ring and ask Mrs Hudson for a pot of tea, or is it too early in the day for something stronger?’

  ‘Brandy,’ said Lestrade shortly, throwing himself into a chair. ‘That is, if it’s not troubling you too much?’

  ‘No trouble at all,’ said Holmes, busying himself with the decanter and gasogene. ‘Watson?’

  ‘Bad form to let a guest drink alone, Holmes. Only a small one, though,’ I added, ‘for it is rather early.’

  Holmes, I regret to say, took me at my word. I lifted my glass to the light in an attempt to determine whether he had indeed dispensed a drop of the spirit, albeit a pathetically parsimonious drop, and, loo
king through the thin glass of the balloon, was astounded to see Lestrade drain his far more generous measure at a single gulp.

  ‘Another, Lestrade?’ asked Holmes, with just a hint of cynicism in his tone.

  Lestrade set his glass down, and wiped his lips with the back of a rather unsteady hand. ‘Not at the moment, Mr Holmes,’ said he. ‘As Doctor Watson says, it is a bit early in the day.’ He gave a sort of uneasy laugh, and went on, ‘The fact is, gentlemen, I’m rather ashamed that you should see me like this. The brandy, and all. It’s — that is to say — well, I’ve had what you might call a nasty turn.’

  ‘Indeed?’ said I. ‘If I can be of professional assistance, pray do not hesitate to say so.’

  Lestrade shook his head. ‘It’s nothing in your line, Doctor,’ he told me. He glanced sidelong at Holmes. ‘No, it’s more — ’ and he fell silent.

  Holmes, who had been hanging up his coat and hat and resuming his old dressing gown, sat down opposite Lestrade. ‘Command me, Lestrade,’ said he.

  ‘Indeed, yes,’ I echoed.

  Lestrade gave another embarrassed laugh. ‘It’s kind of you, Mr Holmes. And you too, Doctor. But even you, gents, for all your cleverness, could hardly be expected to help me now. And then, if you did, I hardly like to think of the consequences.’ He collected himself with an obvious effort. ‘Well, to be plain, gentlemen, you would merely be sharing in my disgrace. And that to no useful purpose, for I see no way out of it, and that’s a fact.’

  ‘Disgrace?’ said I.

  Holmes sat back in his chair, and regarded the detective critically. ‘You are like Watson,’ said he, ‘telling your tale back to front, with the ending first. I know you do not drink through the day, save, perhaps, in some dire extremity such as the present instance. You are happily married, and thus proof against the charms of mistress, maid and housekeeper alike.’ Lestrade gave a sardonic and perhaps a slightly regretful grin at this. ‘Moreover,’ Holmes continued, ‘you are one of those sea-green incorruptibles of whom someone or the other once wrote in such glowing terms. There is therefore no great difficulty in deducing that it is a question of some professional difficulty, a delicate matter of professional conduct, which has brought you to the sorry state of sitting by our fireside to drink brandy and soda at half past ten in the morning.’ He leaned forward and regarded Lestrade keenly. ‘Or perhaps it might be more accurate to term it suspected professional misconduct?’

  Lestrade smiled weakly. ‘There’s no fooling you, sir,’ said he, then he fell silent again.

  Holmes put the tips of his fingers together, and regarded the ceiling. ‘It may perhaps have been the case,’ said he, choosing his words with evident care, ‘that I have had occasion in the past to point out certain deficiencies in your deductive technique. However, that was done, I assure you, in no carping or unfriendly spirit. For straightforward police work, you are unequalled. In fact, were I an ordinary, unimaginative villain there is no hand that I would less like to feel on my collar than that of Inspector Lestrade.’

  Lestrade took a moment to work this out. ‘Why, thank you, Mr Holmes,’ said he, cheering up somewhat.

  ‘And that being the case,’ said I, ‘will you not tell us your troubles? Even if we cannot help, we can at least lend a sympathetic ear. A trouble shared is a trouble halved, you know.’

  ‘Watson is right, as usual,’ said Holmes. ‘Help yourself to a cigar,’ he added. ‘And perhaps another brandy?’

  ‘Well, a small one, then, but only if Doctor Watson is having one.’

  ‘Oh, certainly, certainly. Anything to help.’

  Holmes frowned. ‘It were as well to keep a clear head,’ said he.

  ‘Not much chance of anything else!’ said I, gazing ruefully at the niggardly measure he had poured.

  He affected not to have heard me. ‘Now, Lestrade,’ he said, ‘you mentioned “disgrace”, I think?’

  ‘Complete and utter disgrace, sir,’ agreed Lestrade, nodding his head.

  ‘Tell us about it,’ ordered Holmes.

  Lestrade rubbed his head. ‘I don’t really know where to begin, Mr Holmes.’

  ‘At the beginning, man.’

  Lestrade put his glass down, and lit a cigar. ‘You were right about keeping a clear head,’ said he, ‘so I won’t have any more brandy, but I’d be grateful for a glass of water by my side, for my tale is a long one, and perhaps will be somewhat confused. It began,’ he went on, ‘some three weeks ago, or the first part of it did anyway. Or did it perhaps begin twenty years ago?’

  Holmes looked sternly at him. ‘Which is it, Lestrade? Three weeks, or twenty years?’

  ‘Well,’ said Lestrade, ‘it’s better if we start with the three week business, as being nearer, as it were, and thus easier to recollect. Three weeks ago, then, I was called to investigate a robbery and brutal murder at the town house of Sir Octavius Fotheringay.’

  Holmes raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Name means something, Mr Holmes?’ asked Lestrade with a quizzical look.

  ‘It sounds as if it should, but I cannot quite recollect the details. No matter,’ said Holmes, ‘continue with your tale, Lestrade, for I can always look him up in my index should he continue to elude me.’

  ‘Oh, he’ll come to mind soon enough,’ said Lestrade, with the closest approach to humour that I had seen in him since he sat down.

  ‘The name means nothing to me,’ said I, endeavouring to emulate Holmes’s methods, ‘but I take it he was a self-made man?’

  ‘Why that?’ asked Holmes curiously.

  ‘Elementary, my dear Holmes! If he were the eighth child, as his name suggests, and if his father were a baronet, which is the only hereditary rank entitling his eldest son to be “Sir” somebody-or-other, then it would be most improbable for the first seven children to be all girls. The inescapable conclusion is surely that he earned his knighthood himself.’

  ‘Well done, Watson! Inescapable, Lestrade?’

  ‘Maybe it is, but it’s wrong,’ said Lestrade. ‘He’s a baronet, all right. Inherited from his elder brother. Or one of ’em.’

  ‘Oh?’ Holmes looked a question.

  Lestrade leaned forward in his chair and looked intently at us. ‘Eight in the family, and this Octavius the last, exactly as Doctor Watson deduced. Five girls, three boys. The oldest brother died young, in mysterious circumstances. Out riding with this Octavius, nobody else about, and his horse, an old, well-mannered horse, mark you, throws him.’

  ‘Riding accident, then?’ said I. ‘Might happen to anybody. I recall one time in Jalalabad — ’

  ‘Riding accident my foot!’ said Lestrade coarsely. ‘He’d been raised with horses, rode a pony at three, a horse from being four or five. Why, he was like one of them old Greek chaps, centurions, was it? Half man, and half horse. This was out in the country, of course, and the local police handled it. That is, if you can call it “handling” it. We never got a look in, the Yard, I mean. If we had — well! But let’s be kind and leave that for the moment. A year or so later, the father dies. Natural causes that time, no doubt of that, and the second son inherits the title. A year or so after that, the eldest son announces his engagement. A fortnight later, blow me if he doesn’t die too. Left the gas on in his bedroom, unlit, if you’ll believe it. That was here in London, and you can be sure we investigated it pretty thoroughly.’

  ‘And?’

  Lestrade shrugged. ‘And nothing. This Octavius was nowhere near the family’s town house, or so it appeared. He was in Brighton, with a lady, if that’s what you could call her. Plenty of witnesses, at the hotel and what have you, so it was iron-clad. But I had my eye on him, Mr Holmes.’

  ‘You were right to do so, for it sounds most suspicious. I recollect the last case, now you mention it. Some five or six years back?’

  ‘Getting on for ten,’ amended Lestrade.

  ‘Is that so? Ah, me.’ Holmes sat up straight and looked keenly at Lestrade. ‘The case was never resolved, there were no suspects at all, is
that not so?’

  Lestrade nodded. ‘None, apart from the obvious. No, sir. Still open, Mr Holmes. Well, a week back, I was called to the town house, now the property of Sir Octavius, for a second time. Place had been robbed, turned upside down, and his wife lying dead amongst it all. A bad business, a cruel business. Head bashed in. And it wasn’t as if she could have been much danger to any determined burglar, for the poor lady was practically an invalid.’

  ‘A bit too much of a coincidence, that,’ said I.

  ‘Even Watson, most tolerant of men, cannot accept that it is a coincidence,’ Holmes told Lestrade. ‘I saw the reports of that, of course, although I was not personally consulted.’ He looked a question.

  The Scotland Yard man shook his head sadly. ‘Nothing to be made of it, sir,’ said he. ‘Once again, Sir Octavius had an unshakeable alibi. He was with his lawyer.’ And he hesitated.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Well, Mr Holmes, you’ll have difficulty believing this, but a few years back this lawyer’s wife died in exactly the same way. Killed in the course of a robbery.’

  ‘Now, that really is lightning striking twice, or indeed three times, in the same place!’ I exclaimed. ‘Not merely a coincidence, but a coincidence of truly monumental, unbelievable, proportions.’

  Lestrade nodded. ‘So I thought, Doctor, you may be sure. I picked up Sir Octavius, and the lawyer chap, and laid into them both pretty well.’ He broke off, and mopped his brow.

  ‘Well?’ asked Holmes again.

  ‘I wish to Heaven I may never have such an interview a second time,’ said Lestrade. ‘The lawyer chap, he’s done well for himself, Queen’s Counsel now, and tipped to become a judge in the not too distant future. “How dare I, a mere vulgar policeman, suggest anything of that kind?”, says he, and so on and so forth. Then when he ran out of steam, Sir Octavius got started. “Grief-stricken, heart-broken, how dare I — ” and off we went down the same road. Ending with, “The Police Commissioner and the Home Secretary shall hear of this!”, and I don’t know what else.’