by Trow, M J
Lestrade relaxed a little as Eddy was introduced to various dignitaries. He appeared to be normal, polite, suave, if a little stupid. Lestrade chuckled as Eddy was introduced to McNaghten himself and he watched the Head of the Criminal Investigation Department straighten out his cravat, which, by virtue of his suit of armour, he wasn’t wearing. His gauntlets rattled ridiculously on his beaver and he escaped into the refuge of the Dashing White Sergeant with the nearest woman.
‘Remember, Eddy,’ Lestrade heard the Prince say as he joined in the revels, alcohol having lightened his lead feet, ‘the Tenth don’t dance.’
‘Quite so, Father.’ Eddy sulked in a corner for the rest of the evening.
The storm arose when Lestrade had been out on the terrace for some minutes. The night air was cool and there was no rain at first. He puffed gratefully at his cigar and rubbed his nose where the mask had been chafing. Now and then, a flash of lightning lit the terrace and the shrubbery beyond. He caught the wandering forms of patrolling constables. All was well, all was calm. But he had a murderer on his hands. And so far, all efforts to catch him had failed.
‘Oh, ho, Harlequin.’ Lestrade spun round. A large bearded officer of the Hussars emerged into the lightning flash.
‘Your Royal Highness.’ Lestrade bowed.
‘Glorious night,’ said the Prince. ‘Rain soon, I shouldn’t wonder.’
‘Quite so, sir.’
‘Who are you?’
‘Inspector Sholto Lestrade, Your Highness, Scotland Yard.’
‘Ah, one of McNaghten’s detectives, eh?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Good. Good. Got a light?’
‘One thing Hussar uniforms and Harlequin costumes have in common, sir, is that they have no pockets. I got my cigar from a subordinate.’
‘Quite right,’ roared the Prince. ‘That’s where I got mine from too.’
‘Would it be presumptuous of me, sir?’ Lestrade offered his cigar.
‘No. Damned civil. I’ve been longing for a smoke for hours.’ The Prince of Wales puffed heartily on his own cigar, pressed end to end with Lestrade’s. He blew rings into the air with undying gratitude. ‘Mama – that’s the Queen, you know – doesn’t really approve of my smoking. Silly, isn’t it, Inspector? I’m fifty years old and I still care what my mother thinks. Do you have a mother?’
‘It happens to us all, sir.’
‘Yes, yes, quite. Now tell me, I have a taste for the lurid. What case are you working on at the moment?’
‘I’m sorry, sir, I cannot divulge, even to the heir to the throne …’
‘Oh, balderdash, Lestrade. I know about Freddie Hurstmonceux, and a little bird tells me there were others in the series, as it were. It’s not generally known that I am something of a sleuth myself. Perhaps I can help.’
Lestrade began to feel uneasy. The bushes below him were illuminated with lightning. ‘May I ask the source of your information, sir?’
‘Freddie Hurstmonceux from Rosebery. The business rattled him a great deal. He’s sweating in Mama giving him a Garter, you know. He’s prepared to do a lot of talking at the moment – in the right quarter, you understand.’
‘And the others?’
‘So there are others?’
Lestrade realised he had been caught out. ‘Very clever, Your Royal Highness.’
The Prince chuckled. ‘Yes, I thought so. No, actually, I wasn’t … what’s the phrase … fishing. You’re not telling me anything, merely confirming it. I’m afraid I can’t tell you any more. It would be betraying a confidence.’
‘Then you understand, sir, that I must be equally discreet.’
‘Oh, you disappoint me, Inspector. A man without a mother must be a totally free agent.’
Before Lestrade could answer, they were joined on the terrace by a bevy of officers from the Tenth.
‘I hope you’re not checking up on me, gentlemen,’ grumbled the Prince. The company dutifully chuckled. ‘Onslaught.’ He summoned a young lieutenant to his side. ‘Inspector Lestrade, this is Henry Onslow, my son’s ADC. He has allowed my boy to escape him. The least he can do is get you a drink. I have detained you long enough.’
Lestrade was grateful for the escape clause and returned with the lieutenant to the main ballroom. It seemed of little moment to the Prince that Eddy had given his watchdog the slip, but to Lestrade, it meant more. It meant more still when he saw his quarry in earnest conversation with a shapely raven-haired beauty at the far corner of the room. His arm was resting firmly against a pillar as if blocking her line of escape into the room. Two other things quickened Lestrade’s step as he snatched a passing champagne glass and made for the couple. One was that the young lady was Constance Mauleverer, the other was that McNaghten had good reason to believe the man was Jack the Ripper. It was irrational, perhaps, of Lestrade to behave as he did, chivalrous to the point of folly. First he shoulder-barged the Duke of Clarence with something more than necessary force and then he poured champagne over his jacket with a scarcely concealed tip.
‘Dolt!’ The Duke was not pleased.
‘My apologies, sir. Your gold lace blinded me.’
‘Liar!’ The volume was such that guests in their finery stopped waltzing to stare at the ugly scene developing.
‘Mrs Mauleverer, isn’t it?’ Lestrade was attempting to change the subject. She smiled as the inspector kissed her hand. He was jerked upright by a strong right hand. For a split second Lestrade glanced at the gloved fingers on his sleeve. If McNaghten was right, either of those hands had the power of life and death. The large eyes bulged and flashed. ‘You have insulted me, Harlequin. Choose your weapons.’
‘My dear Duke,’ Mrs Mauleverer intervened. ‘I am sure Inspector Lestrade meant no harm.’
Clarence checked himself a little. ‘Inspector. So you’re a policeman.’
‘Most of us are, sir. This is a police ball.’
‘And my father and I are guests of honour.’
‘Well, your father is.’
‘Damn you, Lestrade. You’ve insulted me again.’
By now three or four officers of the Tenth had joined them. ‘I will have satisfaction.’ This was delivered at such a pitch that the band began to waver. When Clarence’s left hand snaked out and caught Lestrade across the face, it stopped altogether. ‘My second will call on you.’
Lestrade recovered his composure, although Mrs Mauleverer pressed his arm in a silent plea for restraint. ‘If you are challenging me to a duel, sir, you are some decades too late. Duelling has been illegal in this country since Thornton and Ashford.’
Simultaneously, the silence was broken by two shouts, both harsh and guttural, both acutely embarrassed. One, from the Prince of Wales, ‘Eddy!’ The other, from McNaghten, ‘Lestrade!’ Both men reached the quarrelsome pair simultaneously. ‘Lestrade, you will apologise to His Highness immediately.’
‘I already have,’ said Lestrade, unperturbed.
‘Eddy, it is time we were away.’ The Prince and his entourage bustled Clarence towards the door, Eddy scowling and muttering the while. The band struck up the National Anthem discordantly. McNaghten whisked Lestrade into an ante-chamber and proceeded to lecture him on the need for protocol and not upsetting Royalty.
One of the many witnesses to the scene, Sergeant Forbes, was chuckling helplessly in a corner. Bandicoot was straight-faced and sober.
‘Come on, Constable. Your inspector’s had it. He’s cooked his goose good and proper.’
‘I don’t care for your homespun smugness, Sergeant. The inspector always has his reasons.’
‘Oh, good God, Bandicoot. I didn’t think they made sycophantic policemen any more. If you want a real boss, go to Gregson, transfer to Special Branch.’
‘I’m happy with Lestrade.’
‘You’ll never learn, will you? Waiter …’ Forbes snapped his fingers and helped himself. As the ballroom returned to normal, Forbes spotted another target for his razor wit.
‘Isn’t that
Sherlock Holmes?’
‘I believe it is the Great Detective.’
Forbes looked heavenward. ‘God, Bandicoot, there you go again. Toadying.’
‘Steady, Sergeant. That’s a little harsh.’
‘Look at them. Holmes and Watson, like a bloody music-hall double act.’
‘Excuse me, Sergeant Forbes, I think I’d prefer the conversation of the double act.’ Bandicoot crossed the floor to Holmes, decked out like an Egyptian Pharaoh. Watson had discarded the gorilla mask by this time as it was too difficult to get the champagne past the rubber lips.
‘Hello, Banders, old boy. Didn’t think you’d be here,’ said Watson. ‘Holmes, have you met Harry Bandicoot? Old Etonian, friend of my nephew, Edward.’
‘Ah, yes.’ Holmes suddenly came alive. ‘The Atlanta Washington case. I read in what Fleet Street laughingly calls the newspapers that your Lord and Master, Lestrade, let him go.’
‘I believe that was because he was innocent, Mr Holmes.’
Holmes shook his black wig tragically. ‘What a pity. There seems to be no improvement in these Scotland Yard fellows. But then,’ he said archly to Watson, ‘he is a friend of your family.’
‘I wanted to ask you, sir, if I may, about the …’
‘Watson will answer any questions. I don’t discuss my cases in public. God, Watson, why ever did I allow you to talk me into coming to this charade? I feel ridiculous.’
‘Oh, I don’t know, Holmes. It’s difficult to tell you from Rameses himself.’
Holmes flicked up his flowing robes and swept majestically towards the ante-rooms. ‘Bring your bag, Watson.’
The doctor’s normally jovial moustaches drooped somewhat. He patted Bandicoot on the arm and followed the Great Detective. The constable saw Lestrade cross the hall in the opposite direction.
‘You’ll need a second, Inspector,’ he said, intercepting him.
Lestrade looked at him hard. ‘You don’t imagine I’m going to fight that royal buffoon, do you?’
‘If you were an Etonian, sir, you’d have no choice.’
‘Where’s Mrs Mauleverer?’ asked Lestrade.
‘I haven’t seen her, sir. But Sergeant Forbes seems to be … er … looking after Miss McNaghten for you.’
Forbes was standing embarrassingly near the daughter of the Head of the Criminal Investigation Department. She seemed not to be displeased by it. ‘Are you going to barge into him too?’
Lestrade flashed anger at Bandicoot. It had not been his night. ‘Miss McNaghten can take care of herself.’ And he moved to the door. A gloved hand caught his arm. ‘Sholto.’ It was Constance Mauleverer. Lestrade glanced behind him. Both Forbes and Arabella McNaghten had noticed. Bandicoot tactfully faded into the background.
‘Sholto, what’s happening? You can’t fight the heir to the throne, especially over me. Why did you insult him?’
‘I can’t tell you, Constance.’
‘You won’t go through with it?’
‘Of course not. Constance … I didn’t think I’d see you again. Especially here.’
‘I came with my uncle, John Watson.’
‘Watson? Doctor Watson?’
‘Yes, do you know him?’
Lestrade laughed. ‘Indeed. Don’t you read the rubbish that he and Conan Doyle cook up between them? One day I’ll sue them both.’
‘You are in Uncle John’s short stories?’
‘Some of them. Dear lady, I am cut to the quick. Not that my “appearances” are very flattering. Mr McNaghten is far from pleased that Scotland Yard detectives are held to ridicule and scorn.’
‘Sholto.’ Constance was suddenly serious. ‘I hate to bring this up, but are you any nearer to finding my husband’s murderer?’
Lestrade looked hard into the dark eyes of this woman who had captivated him. ‘I didn’t know John Watson was your uncle.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘You didn’t know his nephew was murdered recently?’
‘Edward Coke-Hythe. Of course, he was my cousin.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘I didn’t think it necessary … You mean the two are connected?’
‘I don’t know, Constance. But I do know that most people have no connection with murder at all. You have a connection with two. You are a dangerous woman to know.’
‘Am I accused, then?’
‘Ma’am, I never arrest ladies at police balls.’ Lestrade kissed her hand. He led her on to the steps of the hotel amid leaving guests. Suddenly, a deputation of Hussars stood before them. Onslow stepped forward.
‘Inspector Lestrade, I am instructed by His Royal Highness the Duke of Clarence to offer you choice of time and place to settle this affair of honour.’
‘Affair of … oh, yes, of course.’
‘Sholto.’
‘No, Constance. This won’t take long. Dawn, gentlemen. That gives us three hours or so. Time enough to get to the Headless Chicken at Highgate.’
Onslow saluted briskly. ‘Very well, sir. His Highness chooses sabres.’
Lestrade thought of the debacle of his constable days struggling through cutlass drill.
‘Naturally,’ he smiled.
Onslow and his party departed.
‘Sholto.’ Constance took the Harlequin’s hand. ‘He’ll kill you.’
‘Over my dead body, Constance,’ smiled Lestrade.
Duels
True to the spirit of melodrama and Gothic novels, a chill mist swirled around the gravestones of Highgate Cemetery. Two parties emerged through the wet greyness of the dawn, walking in parallel down the overhung greenness of Swain’s Lane. To the left walked His Royal Highness, the Duke of Clarence, in the patrol jacket and forage cap of the 10th Hussars. Behind him, draped with cloaks and rattling with spurs and accoutrements, four of his brother-officers, grim-faced and moustachioed. To the right, arm in arm against the chill of the morning, Inspector Lestrade, wrapped in his Donegal and Mrs Mauleverer in a velvet walking-out dress. Behind them, crisp in morning coat and non-regulation bowler, Harry Bandicoot, and, in his one and only suit, Walter Dew, constables of Scotland Yard. It made a faintly ludicrous and extremely unlikely picture. It was the morning of September 16th, 1891. It was the modern world. But one man was not going to walk away.
The officers of the law took their positions at the gates of the Egyptian Avenue. The Hussars tramped to the top. There was an awkward pause and then two of them came down to the centre.
‘Sholto, do you read Sir Walter Scott?’
‘Alas, no, Constance.’
‘If you did, you would know that knights in the Courtly Age carried a lady’s favour when they fought. Please, wear this for me now.’ She tied her silk scarf around his neck. He held her hand briefly.
‘I think they’re waiting for us, sir,’ said Bandicoot.
Lestrade turned to him. ‘Bandicoot. Dew. Neither of you should be here. You are officers of the law. You should both know better. Bad enough if I’m caught in this nonsense, but you two …’
‘You need a second, sir,’ Bandicoot broke in. ‘Who will hold your coat?’
Lestrade allowed himself a smile for an instant. ‘Very well, but Mrs Mauleverer should not be here. Dew, escort the lady back to the Headless Chicken. Inside the carriage, please.’
‘I’ve come this far, Sholto. I’ll stay with you a while longer. And besides,’ she went on in a stronger voice, ‘you wouldn’t order Constable Dew away at a time like this.’
‘So be it,’ Lestrade grinned. He threw his Donegal to Bandicoot and stripped to his shirtsleeves. The two men walked uphill to where Clarence and Onslow waited. To their surprise, it was Onslow who took off his cloak and jacket, rolling up his sleeves.
‘Etiquette demands that I cannot fight you, Lestrade,’ Clarence delivered haughtily. ‘I am after all the heir to the throne. Besides,’ he produced a handkerchief, ‘I have a cold coming. I trust Lieutenant Onslow will do as my substitute?’
Lestrade bowed
.
‘Rather a sacrilegious choice, this place of yours, I must say,’ the Duke remarked.
‘It’ll save the cost of burial,’ quipped Lestrade, ‘for one of us.’
Clarence drew a cloak from two cavalry sabres lying across his arm. Bandicoot, with his Etonian grasp of such matters, inspected both carefully and nodded. Lestrade took one and turned to take up his position. The sabre was a good foot longer than the cutlass he remembered and he had forgotten how damned heavy the thing was. He took his cue from Onslow, who bent his knees and assumed the en garde position, having saluted Lestrade with his sword. On one side, Clarence drew his sabre and on the other Bandicoot held the points of all three blades together.
‘What now?’ Lestrade broke the silence, unable to take the whole thing seriously. ‘Do we all pirouette to the right?’
Clarence scythed his blade upward and Bandicoot sprang back. For a second which seemed to Constance an eternity, nobody moved, then Onslow swept forward, his blade licking in over Lestrade’s guard to find his arm. The white sleeve darkened red and Constance started forward, checking herself before Dew had a chance to restrain her. Onslow straightened up, saluting.
‘Sir,’ he said to Clarence. Lestrade felt dizzy and not a little sick. There was a numbness in his left elbow.
‘Again,’ Clarence sneered.
Bandicoot cut in. ‘By all the rules of duelling, sir, even among the less salubrious schlagers of German universities, first blood is sufficient.’
‘I will decide what is sufficient. Onslow, again.’
Onslow saluted again and came to the ready. Yards away, Dew gripped Constance’s arm. Silently her heart went out to Lestrade, left arm hanging useless, facing a professional swordsman again. Onslow’s attack was slower this time and Lestrade banged it aside.
‘You’re not trying, Onslow. I want him taught a lesson.’
Onslow’s pace increased. His feet slid forward, faster, faster, his blade circling Lestrade’s, inches from the inspector’s body. Lestrade was retreating, trying to keep in step as best he could. He could hear words of encouragement from Bandicoot on his right. Further away the shouts of the Hussars and the angry yells of Clarence. The family vaults in their granite silence swept by him, but all he could see was that flashing, probing blade and Onslow’s sweating face behind it. Desperately he parried and cut, using two hands once when he felt his back against an Egyptian column. Onslow’s sword crunched inches from Lestrade’s face. He ducked under his arm and caught him high in the ribs, purpling the white shirt. He dropped to his knees, fighting for breath. Onslow staggered back against a vault.
