Lestrade and the Dead Man's Hand

by M. J. Trow

Lestrade nodded. ‘It is, Walter. You see it could have been any one of them. The motive is jealousy if it’s de la Warre, Bruno, Mountains or Burke. It could even have been the old man after all if he disapproved of his daughter’s lifestyle that strongly. But if it was any of them, they’d kill her here, wouldn’t they? They all knew about this place, I’d stake my reputation on it. The last place they’d kill her is at Earls Court – too many fingers would point too soon in their direction. But Kilburn is perfect. It even sounds a suitable place for a murder. But a train. Why a train?’

  ‘Well . . .’ and Constable Dew had run the gamut of his deductive powers.

  ‘Well, Walter,’ Lestrade sighed, ‘there’s nothing for it. We’ve got to bite the bullet and visit Superintendent Tomelty of the Railway Police. Get a cab, will you? Oh dear,’ he flicked out a pocket lining, ‘I appear to have no change.’

  ‘WHY A TRAIN?’ SUPERINTENDENT Tomelty of the Railway Police repeated. It wasn’t a question that had ever been put to him before. Which was odd for a man in his position. That position was four storeys up in the Railway Police Headquarters at Finchley Central, perched on a narrow windowsill, watering his geraniums.

  ‘Let me answer that by asking you a question, Lestrade. Know anything about gerania?’

  ‘I fear not, sir,’ the Inspector said, then, on reflection, ‘Oh, they’re those little red things aren’t they? You find them in gardens and so on.’

  Tomelty’s face was a picture, ‘I’m very much afraid you’re a philistine, Lestrade,’ he said.

  ‘Please sir,’ the Inspector bridled, ‘not the f word if you please. I was sent by Assistant Commissioner Frost to lia . . . leea . . . work closely with your department.’

  ‘Were you?’ Tomelty clambered back to his desk and produced a magnifying glass of the type purported to have been used by the late Mr Sherlock Holmes of 221B Baker Street. ‘Aphids,’ grunted Tomelty. ‘Those little green bastards are the worst foes known to man.’

  ‘Really, sir?’ Lestrade sighed. So much for departmental cooperation.

  ‘Did you know that if an aphid were the size of a man it could munch its way through Hyde Park in a fortnight? I find that sinister, Lestrade, sinister.’

  ‘I find murder sinister, sir,’ the Inspector said.

  ‘Eh? Oh lor’, yes. Rather. Well, how can I help?’

  ‘Two women have been murdered by the same method of dispatch on the Underground in the last three months. I have a feeling that the answer lies on the train in this case and not in the soil. I have, in effect, been sent to solve the murders for you.’

  ‘Ah yes. Righto. Well, look,’ Tomelty vanished below his desk and re-emerged with a lethal-looking spray gun, ‘I don’t know much about the Underground myself. Not much about railways, really. It’s mostly lost property anyway. Do you know how many lawnmowers were left on the Underground system in the financial year just gone?’

  ‘No,’ said Lestrade.

  ‘Oh, really,’ Tomelty was disappointed, ‘I was hoping you’d seen the figures. I can’t seem to get hold of them. Anyway, in 1887 it was sixty-three. I ask you, Lestrade! Why should sixty-three people be carrying lawnmowers on the Underground, let alone forgetting they’d got them? Unless it’s some vast underground conspiracy of course.’

  ‘I will need to talk to the officers who dealt with the bodies.’

  ‘Ah yes. My man at the desk will give you their names,’ and he blasted the foliage at point-blank range.

  ‘And I will need detailed times of all the trains.’

  ‘Ah yes. Bradshaw’s. My man on the desk will have a copy. But actually, you can’t do better than to ask Melville Lavender.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Melville Lavender. He runs a little museum off Covent Garden somewhere. Apparently he always wanted to be an engine driver when he grew up but he was allergic’

  ‘To steam?’

  ‘Work. My man at the desk will have his address. Good morning. Oh . . . and if I can be of even more assistance, don’t hesitate to ask.’

  ‘I wouldn’t dream of it, sir,’ Lestrade assured him. ‘Helpful isn’t the word for what you’ve been.’

  MELVILLE LAVENDER LIVED four floors up an increasingly rickety stairway in Maiden Lane. The walls of his rather shabby drawing-room were hung with railway timetables and paintings, in his own fair hand, of locomotives past and present. He was a wizened little man with a pencil moustache Lestrade suspected he’d pencilled in himself. He wore a scarf which appeared to be two or three stitched together and moved as though on castors over the threadbare carpet.

  ‘Welcome to my little museum,’ he said with the rattle of a simple railman.

  ‘Fascinating,’ said Lestrade looking in vain for somewhere to sit. The climb had taken it out of him. After all, he would never see forty again.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry.’ Lavender sensed his predicament and removed a cat. The ginger beast showed the most amazing fortitude by maintaining perfect rigidity as its master lifted it. Even when he rested it upside-down on a sand-filled bucket, the creature neither demurred nor purred. Only slowly did the observant Inspector realize that the animal was stuffed and it stared at him from its curious angle with sightless glass eyes.

  ‘The old station cat,’ beamed Lavender. ‘Unfortunately it mistimed its daily crossing of the line at Crewe some years ago and caught the eight-thirty-five to Runcorn. It didn’t stop bouncing until Congleton. Tea?’

  ‘Thank you.’ Lestrade eased his buttocks on the excruciatingly uncomfortable wooden slats of a Great Western Railway station seat. Luckily they were not broad gauge so he didn’t fall through them.

  ‘It’s only LNER, I’m afraid,’ Lavender apologized.

  ‘So you’re a railway enthusiast?’ Lestrade checked, staring at the life-size locomotive front that appeared to be coming through the wall facing him.

  ‘Now, how did you know?’ Lavender stuck his head round a beaded curtain. ‘This is from Marrakesh Central, by the way,’ he explained.

  ‘Ah,’ Lestrade looked relieved. He thought he hadn’t seen its like on the South-Eastern recently, ‘Superintendent Tomelty sent me.’

  ‘Ah, how is Prufrock?’

  ‘A little narrow in his interests, I thought.’ Lestrade placed his bowler on the seat. It landed on a small piece of green cloth, heavily stained.

  ‘Yes, I know,’ Lavender said. ‘About the width of a window box, am I right?’

  The Inspector nodded.

  ‘How some people can let their hobbies dominate their lives, I really don’t know. Oh, just a minute.’ And he abandoned the tea-making in mid-brew and leapt to the window, flicking a half-hunter out of his waistcoat pocket. ‘Listen,’ he said. ‘That’s the six-five special coming down the line.’

  ‘Really?’ Lestrade could only hear the usual early-evening shouts of the vegetable vendors, calling the prices of caulis and carrots.

  ‘The six-five special’s right on time,’ beamed Lavender with evident satisfaction. ‘Now, where was I?’

  ‘Expressing amazement that people allowed their hobbies to dominate their lives.’

  ‘Quite. Quite. Oh, mind that, won’t you?’ He gingerly removed the cloth from below Lestrade’s bowler.

  ‘This bit of rag?’

  ‘Rag?’ He was barely audible. ‘It may be a piece of rag to you, Inspector.’ He rubbed it lovingly against his chin. ‘It is in fact the coat tail of Mr William Huskisson, late President of the Board of Trade and the first man to be killed by a train.’

  ‘Really?’ Lestrade hoped his face wasn’t betraying his indifference.

  ‘The poor man was attending the opening of the Liverpool to Manchester line in 1830 when the Rocket jolted forward without warning, catching Mr Huskisson’s coat tail in its moving parts. Look, here is the very oil that smeared the garment.’ And he pointed lovingly to the dark stains that tracked it.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ noted Lestrade, less than fascinated.

  ‘The Duke of Wellington was there of course
. And for the second time in his life the man observed that a colleague had lost his leg inches from him.’

  ‘Ah well, luck of the Irish, these aristocracy,’ Lestrade observed.

  ‘Your tea.’ Lavender poured for them both. The china was crested GWR and the liquid was the colour of engine oil. ‘What do you think of this?’ He held up a rusted bolt, sheared at one end.

  Now Lestrade had been a detective, man and man for nearly twenty years. Trained to observe, not to miss one single clue, however small. ‘It’s a rusted bolt,’ he said, ‘sheared at one end.’

  ‘Good, good,’ gloated Lavender, ‘but not just any old bolt, Mr Lestrade. I have reason to believe it is the bolt which snapped and caused the terrible accident at the Tay Bridge during the night of 28 December 1879, when thirteen of the seventy-four spans fell ninety feet while a train was passing over them.’

  ‘Ah yes,’ Lestrade remembered. ‘I believe I’ve read the poem.’

  ‘There were ninety deaths,’ Lavender said grimly, ‘but that’s nothing in comparison with this.’ And he held up a glass case beneath which was a shrivelled mess of greyish-green.

  ‘Er . . . ?’ Lestrade had never seen anything quite like it.

  ‘It’s a sandwich, Mr Lestrade,’ Lavender whispered. ‘The first of its kind to be sold in station buffets at Swindon. Man, in the wrong hands, it could cause an epidemic.’

  Lestrade didn’t doubt it.

  ‘Still, you didn’t come here to listen to my nonsense. How can I help?’

  ‘Superintendent Tomelty said that you knew more about the Underground than any man living, or words to that effect.’

  Lavender turned puce. ‘Oh, he’s too kind, Mr Lestrade. Too kind. To be precise, the Underground is not my forte. It’s true that Tubes help you breathe more easily. But there’s too much wheeling and dealing for me. I’ve no head for business.’

  ‘It’s the business of murder I’m interested in.’

  ‘Murder?’ Lavender narrowed his eyes. ‘Ah, that poor unfortunate who died at Liverpool Street the other day.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Unfortunate.’

  ‘Well, I assume anyone who meets his or her end by foul means to be singularly unfortunate, Mr Lestrade. I was only saying to my good friend Dr Watson the other day . . .’

  ‘Dr Watson?’ Lestrade interrupted. ‘Dr John Watson?’

  ‘Yes. Do you know him?’

  ‘Hardly at all. Go on.’

  ‘Well, there’s no more to say. I merely felt sorry for the lady.’

  ‘And Sarah Culdrose?’

  ‘Er . . . ?’

  ‘Sarah Culdrose was found dead on an Underground train at Blackfriars in February last.’

  ‘Oh good Lord, yes. But didn’t her husband do it? I seem to remember the Standard said . . .’

  ‘Yes, well, the Standard wouldn’t know the truth if it got up and bit it. Both women died on Tube trains. They both died by strangulation. If Mr Culdrose did it, then he has some extraordinary powers. He was in a remand cell at Wormwood Scrubs when Jane Hollander died.’

  ‘I see.’ Lavender swirled the dregs of his cup. ‘But I don’t see how I can help.’

  ‘Mr Lavender,’ Lestrade edged forward on the station seat, ‘what I am about to ask you is highly irregular.’

  ‘Oh goodie,’ Lavender beamed.

  ‘But from time to time Scotland Yard is forced to ask for expert help outside the realms of conventional police work. I’d like you to come with me to Liverpool Street. And to Blackfriars. I want you to tell me how it is possible for a man to strangle two women and walk away from it.’

  ‘Oh, Mr Lestrade,’ Lavender chuckled, ‘on the Underground, anything is possible.’

  ‘SO, DEW,’ LESTRADE crossed his ankles on the paper-bestrewn surface of his desk, Standard III, Inspectors, for the use of, ‘let me have it again.’

  The Detective Constable’s collar was awry. It was an extraordinarily hot night for April, and the Yard was its usual stifling self.

  ‘Righto, guv,’ he said. ‘The body of Jane Hollander was found by a guard on the ten-twenty, up line at Blackfriars. He blew his whistle and two railway policemen turned up.’

  ‘What time was that?’

  ‘Er . . . half past eleven.’

  ‘An hour and ten minutes later?’ Lestrade raised an eyebrow to the level he reserved for the reproach of incompetence. ‘What do you deduce from that, Russell?’

  The young rookie sat to attention. ‘Er . . .’

  ‘Good,’ nodded Lestrade. ‘Loyalty to brother officers. I like that. Go on, Dew.’

  ‘PCs Dogberry and Verges of the Railway Police reported as follows . . .’

  Lestrade held up his hand. ‘Wait a minute,’ he said. ‘We’ve heard these names before, haven’t we? Bromley?’

  The old rookie frowned. Years on the Essex Force had taught him caution, circumspection even. ‘Er . . .’

  ‘Think, man, think. You’re supposed to be a detective.’

  Inspiration came to him. ‘Shakespeare, sir,’ he beamed. ‘Twelfth Night or As You Like It or one of those.’

  Lestrade’s look would have withered a civilian. ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Bromley. You’re not tramping the Essex marshes now, you know. Look to your laurels. Assuming, that is, you have any laurels to look to. Go on, Dew.’

  ‘They reported that the deceased was lying slumped on her back with . . .’ he peered to read his notes by the gaslight, ‘her nether limbs spread and her skirts raised.’

  Russell tugged at his collar.

  ‘If this gets too much for you, lad,’ the Inspector said, ‘you know where the door is. There are any number of bobbies’ helmets to vomit into.’ He nodded at Dew.

  ‘She was fully clothed. No actual sign of outrage.’

  ‘From which you deduce, Bromley?’ Lestrade was giving the old rookie a second chance.

  ‘Our man is impotent,’ the new detective ventured.

  ‘That’s about the eighth possibility I had in mind,’ Lestrade said, stirring his tea with his pen. ‘What else could explain it . . . Russell?’

  ‘Er . . .’

  ‘Exactly, lad. Well done. Our man dithered, just as you’re doing now. He intended assault on Mrs Hollander. She wasn’t having any – which meant that he wasn’t either. She struggled. He killed her – and then panicked.’

  ‘Could he just walk away though, sir?’ Bromley asked.

  ‘Certainly he could,’ Lestrade said. ‘Assuming he wouldn’t be daft enough to attack the woman in a crowded carriage. With luck, in three or four minutes the job would be done and he’d get off at the next station.’

  ‘Temple,’ said Dew.

  ‘Fact, Walter?’ Lestrade raised the ever-censorious eyebrow.

  ‘Suppository, guv’nor,’ Dew confessed.

  ‘I’d put my money on Charing Cross.’ Lestrade proffered. ‘Our man could lose himself more easily there. And if no one got on until Blackfriars, that gave him time to vanish.’

  ‘He took a chance, though,’ Bromley said.

  ‘Murder is a chancy business, Constable,’ the Inspector said. ‘But as long as he stopped Mrs Hollander from reaching the communication cord and as long as no one got into the carriage as he got out, it was a chance worth taking. From Charing Cross, he could have caught a train on the down line of the Circle, travelling west. Or . . . Dew?’

  ‘He could have got off the train and cut back down Villiers Street to the Arches; thence across the bridge.’

  ‘Or . . . Bromley?’

  ‘Er . . . west along the Strand into Trafalgar Square, then any point of the compass, really.’

  ‘Vague but reprehensive,’ Lestrade nodded. ‘Or . . . Russell?’

  ‘Er . . . east.’

  ‘East,’ Lestrade agreed after a pause. ‘You’ve summed it up well there, son. Along the Strand, you mean? Down Fleet Street? And into the City. Well, we’ve no hope of catching him there, thanks to our co
lleagues in the City Force. Any pieces of evidence at the scene of the crime, Dew?’

  ‘Dogberry and Verges didn’t report anything, sir. The floor of the carriage was full of rubbish, of course, it being the last train.’

  ‘Of course,’ Lestrade nodded. ‘Theatregoers. Pub crawlers. And only three million to choose from. Right, gentlemen. It’s time we went to work.

  There was a rattle at the door. The unmistakable knuckles of a uniformed man.

  ‘Sergeant Dixon,’ Lestrade greeted the avuncular face, ‘what brings you out from behind your desk this sultry evening?’

  ‘Evening all,’ the Sergeant saluted. ‘Beggin’ your pardon, Mr Lestrade, sir. There’s been another one. On the City and South London. Down the Elephant.’

  THE GROWLER DROPPED them at the domed entrance to the station at the Elephant and Castle. It was young Russell’s first murder; old Bromley’s third. As for Lestrade and Dew, they’d long ago lost count. At the turnstile, there was a delay while the buck was passed down the chain of command. Dew would have coughed up willingly enough, but the Yard Maria fleet was undergoing its annual refit, and the growler had just cleaned the Detective Constable out. There was nothing for it, then. Russell was paying.

  They wedged into the wooden-panelled Otis Elevator and a bewhiskered attendant kicked the contraption into motion. It whirred and clanked to the bottom. The bewhiskered attendant tugged the peak of his cap. ‘Every trip,’ he managed through ill-fitting dentures. ‘Clunk. Click.’

  The four policemen ignored him, especially the hand held out for the tip, and paced the dim, green platform to where the No. 6 Mather and Piatt locomotive sat hunched like a little yellow bee over the electric line that gave it life. The place was full of policemen and there were mysterious light shafts darting to and fro in the distant, dusty tunnel like deranged fireflies. Mass salutings followed and Lestrade entered the metal-gated tail platform alone. Inside the dim, brown interior of the padded cell, four lights barely illumined a bizarre scene. Two women sat there, one with her head in her large, workmanlike hands; the other, oddly upright, some seats away in the central carriage, her eyes staring sightlessly ahead, her lips blue, her tongue forced obscenely between her teeth. Her bodice had been ripped away and there were the tell-tale purple marks of a maniac forming a necklace of bruises around her throat.