by M. J. Trow
‘Madeleine,’ she smiled, ‘when I’m off duty.’
Lestrade admired the transformation. The starched apron and winged cap had gone and her long chestnut hair swayed as she moved. Perhaps Carman had better taste than Lestrade had given the under groundsman credit for. She sat him down on an upright chair and eased off the regulation tweed jacket. Next came the regulation tweed waistcoat and his braces twanged to one side.
‘You poor man,’ she murmured, easing her fingertips along the seam of his shirt and probing for the spine. ‘Oh, how tense you are! Has a doctor seen this neck?’
‘I did go to the Police Surgeon,’ Lestrade told her. ‘He told me that’s what came of sticking my nose in other people’s business.’
‘And your neck out, I suppose?’ she soothed.
Lestrade felt his arms getting heavy and when Madeleine the Matron unhooked his regulation tie and pinged out his collar studs, who was he to resist?
‘Would you like some brandy, Inspector?’ she asked. ‘I have a little put by for medicinal purposes.’
‘Not while I’m on duty, Matr . . . Madeleine, but now would be fine. Thank you.’
She poured them both a glass and invited him to sprawl on the ottoman. ‘I’m not really sure . . .’
‘Oh, tut, tut,’ she scolded. ‘I’ve had medical training. Besides, this is a boys’ school. I’ve had more males lying there than you’ve had hot dinners.’
Looking at her now, tightly bodiced and full lipped, Lestrade could believe it.
‘Tell me,’ he said, easing his back into the cushions, ‘do you have a theory on these murders?’
She sat beside him, crossing one voluptuous thigh over the other under the taut satin of her dress. ‘It would be rather unprofessional of me,’ she said, ‘Sholto. May I call you Sholto?’
‘You may,’ said Lestrade, a little irritated to find that all and sundry knew his Christian name.
‘Well,’ she sipped her Napoleon, ‘for my money, it’s Adelstrop.’
‘Adelstrop?’
‘Yes. You remember Adelstrop? The head groundsman?’
‘Ah, yes. Why him particularly?’
‘He’s in charge of the boats at the lake. He had ample opportunity.’ She slipped delicate fingers into Lestrade’s shirt front and began to work her way round until she was doing things to his deltoids he had only ever dreamt about.
‘Madeleine . . .’
‘No, no, lie still. It’ll do you good.’
There was no denying that.
‘He’s a cantankerous old besom, Adelstrop. Lost his leg in the Great Rhadegund Riot of ’seventy-two.’
‘Riot?’
‘Yes. They used to be a regular occurrence in schools such as this. Usual thing. The then Headmaster had neglected to give the boys a half holiday and they barricaded themselves in the Orlitarians.’
‘Oh dear,’ said Lestrade. ‘What happened?’
‘The Northamptonshire Regiment was called in to eject them, it proving too much for the local constabulary, I fear. All ended happily. The Headmaster expelled six, caned forty-three and granted the half holiday. Unfortunately, poor Adelstrop was pinned under debris when a staircase full of chaps collapsed. He was lucky it wasn’t more serious.’
‘Quite,’ chuckled Lestrade, ‘an inch or so to the left . . .’
‘How’s that?’ Her fingers wove their magic.
‘No,’ Lestrade’s eyes watered, ‘that’s not what I meant.’
‘Lower?’
‘I like your voice just as it is,’ he told her and removed her hand. ‘So you think Adelstrop bears a grudge?’
‘He tends to blame all boys and all staff for what happened to him. Irrational, I dare say it is, but there you have it. Tell me, Sholto, are you married?’
‘Er . . . no, I’m not, Madeleine.’ Lestrade wasn’t sure he liked this new line of questioning. ‘Except to my job, of course.’
‘Quite.’ She looked him in the eye. ‘I too, of course. And yet . . .’
‘What of Maggie Hollis?’ He desperately changed tack, sitting up now.
‘Silly goose,’ snorted Madeleine. ‘No better than she should be, that one.’
‘Meaning?’
‘She really thought Singh Major would marry her, you know.’
‘Singh Major?’ Lestrade’s neck caught him again. ‘Was he the father of her child?’
‘Of course.’ Madeleine poured them both another tot. ‘I thought you knew that. The talisman in her hand . . .’
‘You knew about that?’
She looped an arm across his chest. ‘My dear Sholto,’ she purred, ‘there is little a school matron does not know.’
She whirled away and began unbuttoning her bodice with her back to him. ‘Dr Nails’s young lady, for example . . .’
‘Oh?’ Lestrade was all ears. Madeleine released her breasts and became even more expansive. ‘When he pretends to be off in the Cairngorms or wherever, he is actually in a house in Balham with a certain Mrs Payne.’
‘So the ropes and irons . . .?’
‘Oh, yes, he still uses those. I believe her north face is the most difficult.’
‘I see you are well informed,’ he said and swallowed hard as she turned to him with buttons and chemise awry.
‘And well endowed.’ Her voice was altogether more husky. She had gone lower after all. She pounced on him, running wild fingers through his hair and kissing him violently on the moustache.’
‘Matron, I . . .’ he mumbled.
‘Madeleine, Madeleine,’ she breathed.
‘Madeleine,’ he repeated, ‘the talisman in Maggie Hollis’s hand . . .’
‘Was a love token, Sholto. Given to her by Singh, I shouldn’t wonder, after a night of wild abandon. I hear these Rajputs are beasts, you know.’
‘Yes,’ he gasped as his shirt tails flapped free and the iron thighs of Matron gripped his waist. ‘I think Major Bracegirdle was of that opinion.’
‘Let’s not talk of him,’ she panted, smothering the struggling Inspector with kisses. ‘Let’s talk of ourselves. Of our needs, our passions.’
‘Yes, well . . .’ Lestrade realised that Matron’s powerful fingers were now making a determined bid for his regulation trousers.
‘I knew it when I first saw you,’ she growled.
‘What?’ Lestrade squeaked, suddenly darting a downward glance to ensure all was well.
‘That there was some madness in you and in me that was infectious.’
‘Rather like diphtheria,’ he quipped only to be forced backwards and wriggled over. His hands alighted by the merest chance on the taut buttocks of his dancing partner, grinding lasciviously against him. Despite himself, he felt the familiar stirrings in his loins and his heart stopped when the door shook with knocking.
‘Yes?’ Matron’s voice was its usual starched self.
‘It’s Spencer, Matron. He’s not well,’ a squeaky little voice called. ‘Come quick.’
‘It’ll be the spotted dick,’ she sighed. ‘Making a reappearance. Some boys should never be tempted by second helpings.’
She hauled herself upright, buttoning and pinning until the siren had gone and the angel stood there. ‘Get a mop, Peartree, and don’t dither. I shall be one moment.’
Footsteps scurried away along the corridor. She fastened her belt with its elaborate silver buckle and popped a humbug into her mouth. At the door she turned to the dishevelled figure, desperately searching for his studs. ‘Another time,’ she purred. ‘There is much more I could tell you . . . And show you,’ and she blew him a kiss.
The pavilion clock struck twelve as Lestrade shivered under the arch of the quad. The wind was rising, blowing the leaves of the limes in great circles across the worn stones. He made for the gymnasium, dark and bleak against the line of trees, the trees which skirted the river where Anthony Denton had died. He pushed the door gingerly with his foot and it creaked back on its hinges.
‘Mr Hardman?’ he said. His voice rang back
at him, bouncing off echoing walls. But there was no reply. He entered the vaulted room. Dim shadows of ropes knocked and swung in the draughts. As his eyes accustomed themselves to the dark, he made out the vaulting horse, the javelins in their racks. Then one head, then two. A muttering grew in pitch-black corners. Lestrade stepped back, once, twice, then felt the cold brick at his shoulder blades.
‘Mr Hardman?’ he repeated, louder now as if the strength of his voice gave him courage.
The House prefect stepped into a pool of light the obliging moon had created in the centre of the floor.
‘Adsum,’ he said haughtily. ‘Oh, I forgot. You don’t have Latin, Lestrade, do you? You coppers are rather short on culture.’
‘And on patience,’ Lestrade said. ‘The fact that you should be tucked up in your little dormitory bed by now does not concern me one jot. But I am a busy man.’
‘You certainly are.’ Hardman picked up a cricket bat that was leaning against a vaulting horse and cradled it in his arms. ‘Quite the little socialite, aren’t you? First visiting Ruffage and then popping along to Matron’s boudoir. Madeleine has quite a little body on her, hasn’t she?’
‘That’s enough,’ said Lestrade.
‘Oh, no, copper,’ snarled Hardman. ‘It’s not nearly enough. Unfortunately, young Peartree, my fag, couldn’t make out the gist of the conversation through the door.’
‘Perhaps he’ll do better next time.’ Lestrade watched with growing unease as more heads appeared silhouetted against the windows and stockinged feet squeaked on Bracegirdle’s polished floor.
‘Oh, there won’t be a next time,’ snorted Hardman. ‘You see, you’ve snooped around here for long enough. Odd, isn’t it, that whenever you appear someone else dies. At best you are a Jonah, Lestrade . . .’
‘Sholto,’ smiled the Inspector. ‘Sholto Lestrade.’ He counted thirteen heads in the moonlight and as many cudgels and bats.
‘And at worst you could be a murderer. Well, after tonight it won’t really matter.’
Rumblings grew from the others. ‘This is St Rhadegund’s’ someone muttered. ‘We don’t like strangers here.’
‘Up school,’ shouted someone else and they rushed at him.
It was true – and as well – that Madeleine’s ministrations had loosened Lestrade somewhat. He rolled to one side, pushing one boy away and catching a second in the groin with his boot. The lad squeaked and hit the floor. Lestrade ran the length of the room, boys hot on his heels. He bounced off the wall and shoulder-barged two of them, then felt a sickening crack as a bat caught him on the shoulder. He crouched as another crunched into the plaster above his head.
‘Get him low, Rhadegund,’ screamed Hardman. ’Come on Beaumont, you’re a prop forward; behave like it.’
Hardman’s wish was Beaumont’s command and the giant hit the Inspector amidships and sent him sprawling. Before Lestrade could roll upright, he was pinned in a sitting position with lads at his corners and unable to move. The circle of panting boys around him parted and Hardman strode into it, tapping the cricket bat lightly on his fingertips.
‘Dear old Dr Grace gave me this,’ he beamed. ‘He’s a family friend, you know. Toughest willow. Guaranteed to crack a skull like eggshell. Goodbye, Lestrade.’
‘We call that murder,’ Lestrade shouted, his wits all that was left to save him.
‘Murder?’ Hardman lowered the bat. ‘Peartree and the others have followed your every move since you arrived. You are, I believe, what is known as accident prone. Sooner or later one of your little slips was bound to result in tragedy. You will be found at the foot of the main staircase. Eighty-nine stone steps. Your head, of course, will be pulp.’
‘That will do, Hardman!’ A powerful voice roared across the gym, rattling windows and composures.
‘Ruffage!’ Hardman’s sangfroid showed signs of melting. A line of school prefects, whose average age appeared to be forty and whose shoulders were built like steam hammers fanned out on either side of the Captain of the School.
‘Your fag gave Mr Lestrade your note at the wrong time,’ said Ruffage. ‘When he was with me. Something of an oversight. All of you,’ Ruffage snapped his fingers, ‘drop those sticks and get out. The prefects and I will be inspecting dorms in five minutes. Anyone out of his bed gets a roasting.’
‘Roasting’s banned,’ Hardman reminded him.
‘When you wear this cap,’ Ruffage pointed to the tasselled velvet perched on his head, ‘you can decide what’s banned. Until then, I will. Now get out. Beaumont, you’re dropped. You’ll never play rugby in this school again. Not even for the Remnants.’
Beaumont shuffled off, crying.
‘One moment.’ Lestrade got to his feet. He crossed to Hardman and the switchblade knife in his pocket flashed clear in the moonlight.
‘Mr Lestrade . . .’ said Ruffage.
‘Don’t worry,’ the Inspector said, ‘I’m not going to draw blood.’
He took Hardman’s bat and cut the rope cording around the grip, then he folded away the knife and, swirling the bat with both hands, shattered it on the wall. ‘King Willow isn’t what it was,’ he tutted and let the broken bits clatter on the floor.
‘You bastard!’ Hardman screamed and lunged for Lestrade, but the Inspector was quicker. He blocked Hardman’s swing with his forearm and slapped him sickeningly across the head with his open hand. Again and again the slaps reverberated until Hardman lay whimpering in the dust of the floor. Lestrade knelt over him, yanking him back by the hair. ‘What do you know about Singh Minor?’ he hissed.
‘N . . . nothing,’ Hardman blubbered.
‘Try again.’ Lestrade pulled the hair harder.
‘Ruffage.’ Beaumont had the sense of outrage to bounce back. ‘Stop this.’
‘What might that be?’ Ruffage turned to face him and the ex-prop forward melted away.
‘All right,’ shrieked Hardman. ‘All right. Cherak Singh knew something. About the murders, I mean. The sneaky little blackamoor was going to tell you what he knew. He was going to peach like a snivelling little prep school oik.’
‘So you killed him?’
‘No!’ yelled Hardman. ‘No, we just . . . hid him for a while. Tied him up in the boat house until he was ready to tell us what he knew. Or until you went away.’
‘And did you tell you?’
‘No. The little bastard was stubborn. It had something to do with his brother and with Whitechapel, but he wouldn’t say what.’
‘So how did Singh Minor die?’
‘I don’t know.’ Lestrade tugged on the hair again. ‘I swear it! This is police brutality, you know,’ Hardman whispered.
‘Ten out of ten,’ Lestrade congratulated him.
‘When we went to see him on the night of the fire, he’d gone. We thought your men had found him and the game was up.’
‘Oh no, Mr Hardman.’ Lestrade stood up. ‘The game is not up yet. I doubt whether, as a certain acquaintance of mine would say, it’s even properly afoot.’
‘W . . . what will happen?’
‘To you?’ Lestrade called as he walked into the darkness. ‘Nothing. As long as you don’t join the Army.’
‘The Army?’ Ruffage asked as Lestrade passed him.
‘Why, yes,’ Lestrade stopped. ‘Surely Hardman has told you all about his father the Field Marshal?’
‘Oh, yes,’ grunted Ruffage, ‘many times.’
There were murmurs of assent from the school prefects.
‘One of the advantages of belonging to Scotland Yard,’ smiled Lestrade, ‘is that one has miles and miles of shoe-boxes crammed full of information. Most of it is useless, of course, but now and again a snippet proves of value. Like the snippet that mentions Corporal Hardman . . .’
‘Corporal Hardman?’ Ruffage sniggered.
‘. . . of the Army Pay Corps,’ Lestrade finished.
Corporate sniggers now.
‘. . . lately cashiered.’
Gales of laughter.
&n
bsp; ‘Something to do with stolen wages. Which might, of course,’ Lestrade continued for the door, ‘explain young Hardman’s sojourn at this expensive school for the sons of gentlefolk . . . and cashiered pay clerks.’
Rapturous applause and whistles.
Lestrade stopped. ‘I could charge you with kidnapping, grievous bodily harm, obstructing the police in the course of their enquiries and attempted murder,’ he said to the broken Hardman, ‘were it not for the fact that I am in a jovial frame of mind tonight. Mr Ruffage, I may well owe you my life. I think I chose my ally well. Goodnight.’
‘Goodnight, Mr Lestrade.’
Not only did Lestrade prove Dollery right by receiving a letter; he also received a telegram. An urgent summons from the Yard. Whatever he was doing, he must leave it, nay, drop it and go to London at once. He left instructions with George and his constables, impressing on them the need to watch closely any reactions among the staff to his deliberate needling of them the previous night and above all to stay away from Matron.
He arrived at the Yard mid-morning, having snatched forty winks on the train, and hurried by hansom to Hyde Park where, in the grey fog of an October morning, Assistant Commissioner Rodney of the Uniformed Branch was calling through a loud-hailer.
‘Er . . .’
‘That sounds like Mr Rodney over there, sir.’ The uniformed constable pointed through the swirling mist.
‘It certainly does,’ Lestrade agreed and collided with Sergeant Woodhouse, the dog handler.
‘Have you seen ’em, sir?
‘Who, Sergeant?’
‘Barnaby and Burgho, sir. My bloodhounds.’
‘No, I’m afraid not.’
‘Oh, Lord. I’ll be forrit. Mr Abberline’s around somewhere an’ ’he’s ’oppin’ mad as it is.’
‘Got out of the right side of the wrong bed again, then?’ beamed Lestrade.
‘Er . . .’ Rodney’s echoing dither seemed to come from all sides at once.
‘What are you doing here, Sergeant, you and your dogs?’
‘Oh, it’s not just me, sir. There are thirty-eight coppers in the park somewhere. Mr Abberline’s idea. I gave Barnaby and Burgho the scent of the Whitechapel murderer. Some blood-stained linen thought to be his.’
‘And?’
