The Adventures of Inspector Lestrade

by Trow, M J

  ‘Augustus,’ he said.

  ‘No. Isaac Prendergast,’ Hovey corrected him, peering over his shoulder. ‘God, the smell.’

  Lestrade saw effluent all over the dead man’s clothes and the floor. There was no sound now but Vowles quietly vomiting on the landing.

  ‘Have your constables stand guard at the front door, Inspector,’ Lestrade said. ‘We can’t do much until daylight.’

  Daylight brought an unkind drizzle from the west. Lestrade had spent a cramped night sitting bolt upright in the settle of the snug of the Folded Arms. He was wakened by a tweenie raking out the fire with myriad apologies for disturbing ‘the gennelman from Lunnon’. Breakfast was a cup of very mediocre tea and the journey, by trap and rowing boat back to the old mill, was equally wet and nasty. Vowles huddled against the doorframe, dripping wet and nearly as blue as his helmet. Lestrade threw off his Donegal and hung the soaking thing on another constable in the hall. Isaac Prendergast was even deader by daylight than he had appeared in the dark. The room was vile, floor and bed covered in excrement and the old man’s body at the full stretch of the chains as though he had been reaching with his dying breath for the window.

  ‘This is unbelievable,’ Hovey was muttering. ‘It looks as if some bastard chained him up so that he couldn’t reach the fruit, leaving it there just out of reach. I’ve never seen anything like it in twenty years in the Force.’

  ‘Nor will you again, Inspector,’ said Lestrade. ‘Are your men reliable?’

  ‘They may not be the Yard, Inspector, but they are Kentish men. They know what they are about.’

  ‘Good. Then have them go over this house with a fine toothcomb, especially this room.’

  Hovey looked at the state of it. ‘You’re asking a lot …’

  ‘Look, Hovey,’ Lestrade’s patience, after such a night, was wearing a little thin. ‘Why do you think I’m here, man?’

  ‘I was wondering that.’

  ‘Well, call it sixth sense. Let’s say it fitted a certain pattern. Isaac Prendergast is not an isolated case. He is the ninth victim of the man I’m after. And I’ll hang up my cuffs if he claims a tenth. So if you or any of your yokels are going to get squeamish on me, God help me, I’ll see you drummed out of the Force.’

  The silent response told him he had struck a chord. Hovey spun round and barked orders to his men. Lestrade went to find some fresh air. He watched the raindrops make ripples on the river, and the dark lines of the mill broke and shivered.

  ‘He was a spiritualist, you know,’ Hovey had joined him. ‘I wonder if he’ll come back.’

  Lestrade turned to him with a rising feeling in his heart – the first he had had since the case began.

  ‘Perhaps he will if we call him,’ he said.

  McNaghten’s telegram was more encouraging that Lestrade had expected. Go ahead, it read. Have great faith in spiritualism. More Things in Heaven and Earth. Get some results. McNaghten. Lestrade was wondering how he could implement this decidedly off piece of extra-curricular police work when the solution fell right into his lap. He was visited by a deputation of sinister-looking ladies and gentlemen from the Dymchurch Spiritualist Circle. It had been some time, they said, since Isaac Prendergast had joined them, but each member of the Circle had once promised to do his or her utmost to reach the others when he or she crossed to the Other Side and, by a fortuitous coincidence, the great Madame Slopesski had expressed a wish to attend a séance for this very purpose as part of her European and American tour. The time was Thursday at seven in the evening. The place was Carlton Hall, the old manor house beyond Dymchurch Level. The Circle had heard from Inspector Hovey of Lestrade’s interest in the case (Lestrade hoped that his colleague had not given too much away) and invited both inspectors to the meeting.

  In the event, Hovey had pleaded a previous engagement and Lestrade went alone. He crossed Dymchurch Level a little before seven. Far away he heard the rush of the sea, haunting, lonely. It was a clear night, starlit and cold. The turf was springy beneath his feet. He didn’t quite know what to expect. He had played with table-rapping as a boy, when such things were more in vogue than they were now. But he had never attended a séance in his life. Those held by Mr Lees, the medium employed in the Ripper case, had been observed by a very small, select gathering, headed by McNaghten and Abberline. Though Lestrade had met Lees, he had not been present at the séances. His directions for tonight had been very clear and by a quarter past seven his feet crunched on the gravel drive leading to Carlton Hall, an imposing mid-century house, turreted and bastioned. Very Gothic, Lestrade mused to himself. As a boy, his favourite paper had been Varney the Vampire. He could almost hear the leathery wings flapping through the crypt.

  A tall, elegant Lascar took his hat and Donegal in the porchway he was shown into the drawing room, heavy with velvet curtains, latticed screens and studded doorways. A huge fire roared and crackled in the grate.

  ‘Not a night for smuggling.’ A cheery voice welcomed Lestrade from an ante-room.

  ‘If you say not,’ he answered.

  ‘No, too cold. Too clear. Hasdrubal Carlton. Welcome to my home.’ The squire extended a hand.

  ‘Sholto Lestrade. Thank you.’

  ‘Ah, yes, from Scotland Yard, no less? Not much chance you being a smuggler, eh?’ Carlton chuckled.

  ‘I don’t look too good in scarecrow’s rags.’

  ‘Ah, so you know our local legend – Dr Syn, the redoubtable Vicar of Dymchurch?’

  ‘I get the impression that before the death of Isaac Prendergast, people in this part of the world talked of little else.’

  ‘You may be right, Mr Lestrade, but please if I may be so bold, we of the spiritualist persuasion do not use the word “death”; we don’t acknowledge such a thing. We prefer “going over”. Brandy?’

  Lestrade accepted a glass gratefully and turned his backside to the welcoming fire. It looked as though they were in for another winter like the last, beginning in October and ending in May. Carlton was called away by the arrival of other guests. One or two of them Lestrade recognised as having been in the deputation who had called on him at the Folded Arms. Introductions over, the group was taken through into the ante-room from which Carlton had first emerged. The entire room was hung with black velvet and, under a single oil lamp in the centre, was a large oval table surrounded by nine chairs. Solemnly, the guests took what seemed to be accustomed places. The Lascar showed Lestrade to a seat between two elderly ladies of the parish, lit a number of incense sticks and then retired, closing the double doors behind him.

  ‘We have two surprises tonight, ladies and gentlemen,’ Carlton said in a soft whisper. ‘Apart, that is, from the welcome presence of Inspector Lestrade.’

  Nods and beams all round in the direction of the inspector.

  ‘One is that Madame Slopesski can be with us after all.’ A ripple of applause. ‘As some of you will know we thought yesterday she would be unable to be with us because of the pressure of her tour. I am delighted to report that I received a telegram but an hour ago and she will join us presently. The second surprise is that we have yet another guest, someone who is revered by you all and known I think to one or two of you, a founder member of the Society for Psychical Research, Mr Frank Podmore.’

  Rapturous applause, somewhat at odds with the hushed tones which preceded and followed it, heralded the newcomer’s arrival. Lestrade had heard of Podmore too, but in a rather different context. Gregson had mentioned him because the man was a Fabian Socialist and to Gregson, of course not terribly conversant with the finer points of politics, that smacked of anarchy. Athelney Jones was after him too, strongly suspecting that Mr Podmore was a secret cottage loaf who had other designs on a long string of paper boys and telegraph lads than merely cataloguing their supposedly paranormal experiences.

  Podmore was tall, distinguished, with greying hair and side-whiskers, perhaps forty. His eyes were calm and kind and he showed a huge sense of occasion as he quietly took his seat.
He made it clear that tonight’s ‘show’, if such was the right term, belonged not to him but to Madame Slopesski.

  It was some minutes before the Great Lady arrived. Carlton was the soul of courtesy and hostmanship, ushering the living legend to her place. Lestrade took her in at a glance. The light of the oil lamp shone mercilessly on her dull grey hair, wild and unruly by English standards. She was a woman of about sixty, he would judge, large, matronly with a chronic stoop and a pronounced limp. She bore a passing resemblance to the Queen, who also of course dabbled in such things, though hardly for a living. Her hands were strangely young, with long, tapering fingers and when she spoke, it was in a deep, resonant middle-European boom. Gregson would no doubt have assumed her to be another anarchist, had he been here, Lestrade mused to himself.

  For what seemed an hour, the Sensitive and her Circle sat in silence. The phonograph rasped out some anonymous music, somewhere behind Lestrade’s head. Madame Slopesski spent most of this time with her eyes shut, breathing deeply every sixth or seventh breath. The others sat with bowed heads, except Lestrade, who watched them all.

  Then the Great Lady stretched out her arms. It was the signal to commence. Carlton leapt to his feet with noiseless experience and turned off the phonograph. As he returned he dimmed the oil lamp and it went out. In the flickering firelight, Lestrade felt the hairs on his neck stand a little shamefacedly on end. He hoped he hadn’t visibly jumped when he felt the two old ladies, one on each side of him, grab his hands, their bony fingers sliding into position until fingertips touched.

  ‘Is anybody there?’ Madame Slopesski intoned.

  Nothing.

  Lestrade watched every face in the flickering light. They all had their eyes shut, except himself and Podmore, who was carefully watching the medium.

  ‘Aaaaggh,’ Madame Slopesski cried out in a harsh guttural scream. Lestrade felt fingers tighten on his own. Madame Slopesski recovered her composure. ‘Is it you, Isaac? Are you among us?’

  Nothing.

  A long silence followed. No one moved. Madame Slopesski occasionally murmured, sighed, arched her neck. Podmore gave nothing away. Lestrade was watching the others. Was it one of them? Was it Isaac Prendergast who was the real target? And had all the others been mere blinds? That was the theory he had put to Forbes the night of the Police Ball. The last time he had seen Forbes alive. Had Forbes followed up that line of enquiry? Had he been lucky where Lestrade had not? And was it that luck that had killed him?

  ‘Isaac.’

  A thump. Then another. The table shook and rattled. There were gasps from those present except Podmore and the medium.

  ‘Knock once for yes, Isaac.’ Madame Slopesski was swaying slowly from side to side. ‘Twice for no. Are you near?’

  A single thump. Lestrade tried to tune his ears to catch the direction of the sound. His detective’s training had taught him to be suspicious of all this. It was trickery, all right, but how was it done? He could not free his hands or break the circle and he could not see beyond the heads and shoulders of the members hunched around the table.

  ‘Are you happy?’

  A double thump and then several more, agitated, malevolent. The chandelier tinkled and rang, sending sparks of reflected light shooting over ceiling and walls.

  ‘Have you a message?’

  Yes, said the thump.

  ‘Speak through me,’ wailed Madame Slopesski, swaying now more violently.

  Another long silence.

  ‘Hypocrites!’ It was Madame Slopesski’s lips that were moving, but it was not her voice. ‘Isaac,’ whispered the old lady on Lestrade’s left. ‘That’s Isaac’s voice.’

  ‘All of you, hypocrites. You left me. Deserted me. Where were you when I needed you?’

  ‘Oh, Isaac,’ sobbed another lady, ‘we didn’t like to disturb you. We know how you hated to be called upon.’

  ‘Quiet, Esmerelda,’ snapped Carlton. ‘We’ll lose him.’

  Silence again.

  ‘Mr Podmore?’ Carlton turned to the eminence grise for advice. Madame Slopesski remained motionless, rigid in her chair. Podmore leaned forward without breaking the circle.

  ‘Isaac,’ he whispered. ‘Is it warm, where you are?’

  Nothing.

  ‘Is it dry?’

  Nothing.

  ‘Are you cold?’

  A thump.

  ‘We’ve lost him,’ hissed Carlton.

  ‘Not yet,’ Podmore answered. ‘Isaac.’

  Another silence.

  ‘Is your murderer here?’

  A single thump, followed by violent shaking of the table. The fire spat and crackled.

  ‘Who is it?’ It was Lestrade’s voice, to his surprise as much as to everyone else’s.

  A deep guttural roar came from somewhere within Madame Slopesski. She stood up, hands outstretched. ‘Beware,’ she growled in Isaac’s voice, pointing to Lestrade. ‘Beware, you will join us before long. Beware.’

  She slumped back in her chair. Lestrade’s eyes flashed from side to side. Everyone was looking at him. Except Podmore, who was smiling to himself and looking at Madame Slopesski.

  Hasdrubal Carlton re-lit the oil lamp and the Circle broke up. ‘I believe this is all we shall have tonight,’ he said.

  Podmore took the limp wrist of the medium and checked the pulse. ‘I think it would be unwise to ask Madame Slopesski for more,’ was his verdict.

  The Circle generally agreed that voice manifestation was enough for one evening. Madame Slopesski’s speciality was ectoplasm, but all present, except Lestrade, knew that such physical manifestation was rare and that conditions had to be just so. The ladies in the Circle fussed around Madame Slopesski who began to revive. Some of the others began to make leaving noises. It was Lestrade who stopped them.

  ‘May I remind you, ladies and gentlemen, that Madame Slopesski – or was it Isaac Prendergast? – told us that a murderer was present. I am afraid I must detain you for a while.’

  ‘But you can’t believe that one of us …’ Carlton began.

  ‘It’s not a matter of what I believe,’ Lestrade interrupted him. ‘It is not my belief that is at stake here, but yours. If Madame Slopesski is wrong, then either she is a fake – or your whole spiritualist movement is.’

  There were cries of indignation at this, but Lestrade had his suspects in a cleft stick. ‘Mr Carlton, may I use your drawing room for the purpose of my interrogations?’

  Grudgingly, mine host agreed. Lestrade began with Carlton himself, to give Madame Slopesski a chance to recover. He was aware of the danger of leaving other members of the Circle together in an adjacent room, with a perfect opportunity to concoct and perfect a story. But without constables and without a telephone, he really had no choice.

  ‘How long have you known the deceased?’

  ‘We of the spiritualist persuasion …’

  ‘… do not use the word “deceased”. Yes, I know,’ Lestrade chimed in. ‘All the same, Mr Carlton, I am conducting a murder investigation and would be grateful for an answer.’

  ‘About five years. I am not a Kentishman myself, Inspector. I was until lately in Her Britannic Majesty’s Civil Service in India.’

  ‘Hence the servant – the Lascar?’

  ‘Jat, actually. Jemadar Karim Khan. Late of the Viceroy’s Bodyguard. A capital fellow, Lestrade.’

  ‘These fellows have some interesting ways of despatching their victims, I’ve been told.’

  Carlton laughed. ‘I see your reasoning, Inspector. I am supposed to have sent Karim Khan to do the evil deed, thereby giving myself a suitable alibi.’

  ‘The thought had crossed my mind.’

  ‘May I remind you, sir, that you are a guest in my house? The audacity of it!’

  ‘Murder is an audacious enterprise, Mr Carlton. Although this particular murder wasn’t. It can’t have been difficult to overpower a weak old man.’

  ‘Weak? Inspector, I don’t know why you have been talking to, but Prendergast was far
from that. I’ll grant you, he must have been seventy, but he must also have weighed over twenty stone.’

  Lestrade found it genuinely difficult to conceal his surprise. He had assumed that the emaciated corpse he had stumbled over at the mill was not appreciably lighter than the former living frame. Then Struwwelpeter came back ominously to his mind –

  Augustus was a chubby lad;

  Fat ruddy cheeks Augustus had;

  And everybody saw with joy

  The plump and hearty healthy boy …

  ‘Yes, Inspector, your deceased was obese – and powerful with it. He would not have gone easily.’

  ‘Did you like him?’

  ‘God, no. No one did. I think it’s probably true to say that the whole Circle hated him. He was an almost total recluse, especially of late. The only time he ventured out was to attend our meetings, and then grudgingly.’

  ‘So why did he come?’ probed Lestrade.

  ‘He believed, Inspector.’ To Carlton that was reason enough.

  ‘When did you last see him?’

  ‘It must have been three, no four, months ago.’

  ‘And then he stopped coming.’

  Carlton nodded.

  ‘Why didn’t you – one of you – check on him? After all, he was seventy.’

  ‘I’m sixty-three myself, Inspector. Anyway, you don’t bother a testy old gentleman like Isaac Prendergast. He hated callers. I’ve heard he put buckshot into the Vicar’s breeches once. Vicar never admitted it, of course, but his progress to the pulpit each Sunday is painfully slow.’

  ‘You attend church, Mr Carlton?’

  ‘Why, certainly, Inspector. And I am not, as you are probably thinking – what is the phrase – “Hedging my bets”. I am simply a Christian spiritualist. There is no dichotomy here.’