The Adventures of Inspector Lestrade

by Trow, M J

  ‘Who?’

  Bandicoot reached for his notepad. ‘A man named “Skins”, sir.’

  ‘Skins?’ Lestrade leaned back in his chair, chuckling silently.

  ‘Sir? Do you know this man?’

  ‘The only one I know called Skins is one Albert Evans, a down-and-out. He’d tell you he’d stolen the Crown Jewels if you promised him a pint. Ah, thank you, Constable.’ Dew arrived with the drinks.

  ‘But what if he did see something?’

  ‘All right, I’m prepared to wait. What else have you got?’

  ‘Not a lot, I’m afraid. Sergeant Forbes received a note from a street urchin just before the end of his shift yesterday.’

  ‘Did you see the boy?’

  ‘No. The desk sergeant did. But that was the first place I asked. They hadn’t seen the boy before and probably wouldn’t know him if they saw him again.’

  ‘That’s what I like,’ mused Lestrade. ‘Efficient, observant police work. What else?’

  ‘I then thought to check the note – handwriting or something.’

  ‘You’re improving, Banders. And?’

  ‘Sorry, sir. Sergeant Forbes must have taken it with him, but it wasn’t on him when they found him.’

  ‘Have you been to the scene of the crime?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Two hundred yards from here in Gravel Lane. The constable who found the body was on a routine beat. He heard nothing, although he had passed the spot minutes before. Sergeant Forbes was due to meet his informer at midnight. His body was found round about half past two – the constable’s watch was not accurate.’

  ‘This constable, did he find any clues?’

  ‘Nothing, sir. Which is off. Sergeant Forbes was an experienced policeman and a well-built man. I would have expected him to put up something of a fight against the gang.’

  ‘Gang?’

  ‘The men who killed him, sir.’

  Lestrade leaned forward again. ‘Have either of you gentlemen seen the body?’

  ‘No, sir,’ the constables chorused.

  ‘His thumbs are missing. We are not looking into a beating-up that went too far. We are looking for Agrippa.’

  Dew and Bandicoot were astounded.

  ‘So that’s why Forbes didn’t fight!’

  ‘Whoever the murderer is, he took Forbes sufficiently by surprise.’

  Bandicoot was thinking. Lestrade saw the strain showing on his face.

  ‘If I recall rightly, sir, the next victim ought to have been little suck-a-thumb, named Conrad. Did Sergeant Forbes have that habit?’

  ‘We needn’t be too literal, Bandicoot. But you’ve got a point. I think Forbes was on to something. The murderer knew that and had to get rid of him. He’s broken the pattern. Oh, the method is correct – the thumbs removed with scissors, but he’s been so close to the text so far, I can’t believe he wouldn’t have had a Conrad in mind had he been given a little more leisure.’

  ‘Wouldn’t he have found it rather difficult to find a Conrad, sir?’ asked Dew. ‘There can’t be many of them.’

  ‘I’ll grant you that,’ Lestrade replied.

  ‘Why not stay with the text, though?’ asked Bandicoot, ‘And bump off Sergeant Forbes anyway. Make it look like a gangland slaying, as we thought it was.’

  ‘I don’t understand Agrippa’s motives, Bandicoot. If I did, we’d have him in custody, wouldn’t we?’

  ‘Excuse me, sir, isn’t that Skins?’

  Dew pointed to the door through which an ageing wreck of a man, toothless and grey, had shambled.

  ‘Bandicoot, your round. Three beers and two gins. Dew, bring him over.’

  The constables departed to their various tasks. For almost the first time, Lestrade took in his surroundings. The cellar was filling up with people, beer fumes and smoke. Here and there carousers rolled drunkenly around a piano-accordion. A harlot was singing tipsily in a far corner. Three men had their hands up her skirt, but she appeared not to have noticed. The East End was crowded again after the recent return of the hop-pickers from the Kentish countryside. All human life lay before Lestrade as he watched Dew drag the struggling Skins across the sawdusted floor. Prostitutes, thieves, murderers, even the odd curate in silk top hat flashed before his gaze.

  ‘’Ere, wa’s your game?’Skins was still squawking at the pressure of Dew’s hand on his none-too-savoury collar. ‘Oh, it’s you, Mr Lestrade, sir.’ Skins seemed to have gone even paler under the lurid lights when he saw Lestrade.

  ‘Hello, Skins, how’s the dead-lurking business? Set them down, Bandicoot. The gin is for Mr Evans, here.’ Skins leapt for the glass, but Lestrade’s hand slammed down over the top of it. He placed his bandaged nose an inch from the grey, whiskery face of Skins. ‘When he’s told us what we want to know.’

  ‘Look, guv’nor, you know me. I been in and out o’ the Bridewell all me life, but there’s some ’ard men around these parts now. ’onest, if I gets seed by one of them talking to the likes of you, why, then you’ll find me floatin’ and that’s the Gospel truth.’

  ‘“The likes of me”, Albert. That’s not very charitable.’

  ‘’Ave an ’eart, guv’nor.’ Skins’ eyes flashed round the room. The man was obviously terrified.

  ‘Last night. Midnight. Gravel Lane. What did you see?’

  ‘Nothin’, guv.’

  Lestrade sat up, staring long and hard at the other man. ‘Albert Evans, dead-lurker, noisy racket man, snoozer, sawney-hunter, skinner …’

  ‘Oh, no, sir.’ Skins was indignant. ‘Don’t you know that’s why they call me Skins? ’Cos I wouldn’t do it. It’s not natural.’

  ‘You’re missing my point, Albert. Do you know there are 20,883 men and women in prisons in this country? How would you like it to be 20,884? And I’m not talking about theft, Evans. Failure to report a murder will mean the crank and the treadmill.’

  Skins fell back in his chair. He was steadied by Dew on one side and Bandicoot on the other. ‘Think of it, Skins. Six hours a day, fifteen minutes on, two minutes off. You’ll climb 8,640 feet a day. And of course for you we’ll apply the brake to make it even more difficult.’

  ‘Oh, no, sir. Not at my time of life. I couldn’t take it, not again.’

  ‘There again, murder carries the drop.’ Lestrade quaffed his pint, artlessly. ‘I was talking to James Berry the other day …’

  ‘The public hangman?’ Skins was pure white.

  ‘That’s him. He was telling me how he miscalculated the drop at Preston last week. Pulled the lever and the villain goes down, wham!’ Lestrade brought his good fist down on the table. ‘Unfortunately, the rope was too short and his head came off. Blood all over the place …’

  ‘All right, guv,’ Skins sobbed. ‘I get your meanin’. I’ll tell you. Only I got to ’ave police protection.’

  ‘We’ll walk you to the door,’ said Lestrade.

  ‘Well, I was mindin’ me own business …’

  ‘Dead-lurking.’

  ‘Shut up, Dew.’

  ‘An’ I seen two men talking in Gravel Lane. It was a dark night last night so I couldn’t see ’em clear, but they was both toffs. One of ’em had a topper and cloak. I thought, it’s the bloody Ripper come back, I thought.’

  ‘And?’ Lestrade couldn’t wait for asides.

  ‘I couldn’t hear what they was sayin’. They both whispered, like. Then, and I was just about to turn into Gaydon Square, the gent in the topper ups and stabs the other one, thumps him in the chest, like.’

  ‘Did you see the knife?’

  ‘No, guv’nor. I ran. Last thing I seed was the toff kneelin’ down over the other un. And I said to meself, that’s it, ’e’s done for ’im.’

  ‘Why didn’t you report the incident?’ asked Bandicoot. All three men around the table looked at him with utter scorn.

  ‘The murderer,’ Lestrade said. ‘Is there anything about him you can remember?’

  ‘Like I said, guv’nor. It was real dark. ’E was a big bloke. A
bit taller than you.’

  ‘As big as Bandicoot here?’ The constable obligingly stood up.

  ‘No, I wouldn’t say so. ’E walked funny.’

  ‘Walked funny? What do you mean, man? Out with it.’

  ‘Well, sort of … I don’t know, sir, as if ’is feet was ’urting ’im. Can I have a drink now, guv’nor?’

  Lestrade gestured to the glasses. Skins downed one gin, then the other, as if they were life savers.

  ‘Hello, Skins.’ An alien voice made them all look up. Four big men filled the space in front of the raised table. Their spokesman was a sailor by his coat and tattoos. Bandicoot was particularly aware of the smell. ‘Talking to coppers again?’

  As if at a signal, the music and drunken revelry died down. Beyond the four men, Lestrade saw all faces in the cellar turned towards them.

  ‘We’re not looking for trouble,’ Lestrade told the sailor.

  ‘Well, you’ve found it all the same.’

  Bandicoot stood up, massive and immaculate. ‘I should warn you that we are officers from Scotland Yard,’ he said.

  One of the men behind the sailor spat on the floor.

  ‘Haven’t you read the sign?’ said Lestrade, pointing to the far wall. ‘No hawkers. No spitters.’

  ‘’E’s a big boy, ain’t ’e?’ said another man to his mate, eying Bandicoot.

  Lestrade turned to his constable. ‘Why don’t you tell them you won a cap at Eton for boxing? That’ll really frighten them.’

  ‘Don’t you think that’s a little arrogant, sir?’

  ‘Skins, you’re a dead man,’ the sailor snarled and aimed a burly right arm at him. Bandicoot caught it in mid-air and, spinning the man round, kicked him into the crowd. A roar went up as the fight started and tables and chairs were scattered as the crowd took up the best vantage points. The sailor got up, his pride more hurt than the rest of him. Skins had vanished in the smoke. Two other roughs in caps and monkey jackets sidled up to the raised table. Lestrade and Dew were now on their feet and the inspector began to walk steadily towards the centre of the room. A hundred miles away, or so it seemed, the staircase was bathed in a lurid green light. He saw the blow coming from his left, but his left arm was too stiff and painful to deflect it. He spun round and his brass knuckles crunched head on with the wildly swung fist. The rough fell back, his hand broken. Lestrade staggered too, his wrist aching. Only the knuckleduster had saved him from a similar fate. Two of them rushed at Dew and that valiant policeman was last seen by Lestrade disappearing under a tangle of arms and legs. Bandicoot was parrying blows with his shoulders and Lestrade saw him pick up one of the smaller roughs and throw him the length of the bar. More and more bystanders were knocked about as the melee spread.

  When it became apparent that all three policemen were essentially on their feet, and that three roughs lay unconscious on the floor, the mood turned nasty. There was an eerie pause, during which the cheering died down and then four knives flicked out, almost simultaneously, flashing in the sulphur light. Each of the policemen prepared for it in their own way. Lestrade flicked his own catchblade out, which certainly surprised Bandicoot and Dew, if not the clientele of the White Elephant. Bandicoot picked up a chair, like a rather unconvincing lion tamer. Dew grabbed the nearest pewter mugs, two in each hand, and waited.

  ‘Prepare ye for the Lord!’ a harsh voice bellowed, shattering the stillness.

  All eyes turned at once to the stairs. Half way down them, silhouetted against the gaslight green stood a white-haired, wild-bearded man in a military frock-coat. The light seemed to play around his head as if it were a halo. Around him, a number of burly, uniformed young men were gathering. He descended the stairs, his footsteps the only sound in the entire cellar.

  ‘Repent, sinner,’ he snarled at the nearest rough and brought his heavy Bible crashing down on the man’s head. The rough collapsed among the overturned chairs.

  ‘You likewise, brother.’ And he smashed the brass clasps of the Bible into the teeth of a second. Before he reached the third, the area had cleared and some of the troublemakers had sloped towards the steps.

  ‘No one leaves!’ The terrible old man pointed towards the stairs and his henchmen formed a solid wall of blue. ‘Time for a prayer meeting.’

  To the constables’ astonishment, the assembly – harlot, sneak-thief and drunk alike, all bowed their heads, as though they were in a church. Lestrade crossed the floor quietly.

  ‘Something for your collection, General?’ He produced a sovereign from his coat.

  ‘And something for yours, Inspector.’ The old man produced a book from his and pressed it into Lestrade’s hand.

  ‘Take your hat off, Dew,’ Lestrade growled. ‘You are in the presence of a great man.’

  The assembly at the head of the stairs parted to let the policemen through.

  In the alley above, it was Dew who first broke the silence. ‘Was that …?’

  ‘General William Booth of the Salvation Army, laddie. And thank his God he turned up when he did.’

  From the cellar tap-room of the White Elephant, there floated the strains of ‘Abide With Me’ and the incongruous rattle of a tambourine. Bandicoot glanced over Lestrade’s shoulder at his book. In Darkest England.

  ‘And is there a “way out”, Inspector?’

  ‘That’s too clever for me, Bandicoot. Let’s go.’

  ‘One thing, sir. What did Skins mean when he said skinning was unnatural? What is skinning, sir? I’m afraid I didn’t understand any of that conversation.’

  ‘Skinning, Bandicoot, as any novice bobby will tell you, is the crime of enticing children into alleyways and stealing their clothes.’

  ‘No wonder he thought it unnatural,’ said Bandicoot, distastefully. ‘He obviously has a moral streak.’

  Lestrade chuckled. ‘No, no, Bandicoot. Skins thinks it unnatural because skinning is women’s work. It would be a blow to his manhood. Dew, call me a cab in The Minories. We’ve got some bruises to look after.’

  And Dew’s voice echoed back as he disappeared into the darkness. ‘You’re a cab in The Minories.’

  Séance on a Cold Thursday Evening

  This time there were two mourning letters for Lestrade. They both came two days after the murder of Forbes. McNaghten had intensified the search for ‘Agrippa’, Agrippa the Elusive. Twenty-six constables and three sergeants had been found from somewhere, but house-to-house searches had revealed nothing.

  The first letter, Lestrade had been waiting for –

  The door flew open, in he ran,

  The great, long, red-legg’d scissor-man.

  Oh! Children, see! The tailor’s come

  And caught out little suck-a-thumb.

  Snip! Snap! Snip! They go so fast,

  That both his thumbs are off at last.

  ‘Agrippa’ had become the ‘great, long, red-legg’d scissor man’. It was the same man, unruffled. So Forbes had found something, but what? He was onto someone, but who?

  It was the second letter that took Lestrade by surprise. The scissors man had struck again, even before there was a body, even before a crime was reported. Somewhere, Augustus lay dead –

  Augustus was a chubby lad;

  Fat ruddy cheeks Augustus had;

  And everybody saw with joy

  The plump and hearty healthy boy …

  Across the twilight river, the trees of October were dark and gaunt. A curlew called from the heathland. A knot of men wound their way up from the moored boat. Their lanterns swung as they walked, flinging shafts of light across the walls of the mill. Inspector Hovey of the Kent Constabulary looked at the huge, black building ahead of him. To one side the mill stream rushed and gushed, the overshot wheel groaning in the green darkness. A solitary light flickered in an upstairs room, high on the right.

  ‘Somebody’s in,’ a constable muttered.

  ‘Inspector.’ Hovey held out his arm to the front door, by way of invitation to his guest. Lestrade took the bell pul
l. Far away, down an echoing hall, they heard a distant answering ring.

  ‘Old Prendergast’s too mean to pay servants. And, as he’s deaf, you’ll wait for ever,’ Hovey observed.

  ‘This is your county, Hovey. It should be your boot in the door.’

  ‘Vowles. You’re the one with the shoulders. Open that door.’

  Constable Vowles passed his lantern to a colleague and tried the door. It opened easily. ‘It was nothing, sir,’ he beamed. Hovey and Lestrade ignored the levity and in a confusion of courtesy, the inspectors collided abreast in the doorway.

  It was Lestrade who finally led the way through the darkened house. There was no gas, not even any oil lamps that he could see. The lanterns threw long shadows across the faded wallpaper, peeling in the passageway. There was dust everywhere and cobwebs thick and white in the torchlight.

  ‘Oh, Jesus!’ Vowles cried out. The others turned, constables’ hands poised over their truncheons. ‘Mice,’ said Vowles, a little sheepishly.

  ‘For God’s sake get off that chair, man. You’re a policeman.’

  The party continued on its way, room by room. Empty, silent, dark.

  ‘The light was at the top of the house. Furthest away from the wheel,’ Lestrade observed.

  ‘That would be through here.’ Hovey now led the way, elbowing aside cobwebs as he reached the first landing. ‘God, it’s cold.’

  The door at the end of the corridor was firmly locked. It took Vowles and the other two constables several attempts to force it open. The stench in the total darkness forced them back.

  ‘Christ, what is it?’ a constable asked.

  ‘That’s the smell of death,’ Lestrade told him.

  ‘I’m sure this was the room with the candle,’ said Hovey.

  Lestrade took a lantern. ‘Opening the door probably blew it out,’ he said. His feet crunched on broken glass. He glanced about him. A bed, a chair, a sideboard near the window. His feet hit something else. It rattled, clanked. It was a chain, heavy, long. He picked up the cold links and pulled them taut. There was something at the end of it. Holding the lantern up, he saw what it was. An old man, greyish-green, in tattered nightgown, lay face up on the floor. Near his body the chain divided, one length attached to a bracelet on his wrist, the other on his ankle. Lestrade saw that the skin around these bracelets was cut and chafed. The man was skeletal, the eyes sunken, staring blindly at the ceiling. Lestrade looked up. Silhouetted against the dark blue of the night sky was a bowl of fruit. He could see by the lantern light that it was mouldy and shrivelled. He understood completely.