by M. J. Trow
‘I dunno. He gave me his card somewhere.’ Hollingsworth fumbled in his waistcoat pocket. ‘’Ere. The Marquess of Bolsover. Funny ’andle, ain’t it?’
Dew sprang to his feet. ‘You blithering idiot! Don’t you read the papers? The Marquess of Bolsover is a nob of the first water. How long has he been waiting?’
‘A few minutes.’ Hollingsworth shrugged.
‘A few . . .’ Dew was speechless.
‘Do you know,’ Hollingsworth grinned, ‘when you’re annoyed, a little lump comes and goes in your neck.’
‘When I’m really annoyed, Hollingsworth, there’ll be lots of lumps coming up in your neck because it’ll have my fingers round it. Show the Marquess in – and put your jacket on, man. This is Scotland Yard.’
‘Right, Insp.’ Hollingsworth sensed the urgency. ‘But don’t worry. I gave him a cup of Rosie.’ Dew waved him out. He pulled on his best serge and adjusted his tie in the foxed grime of the mirror. With one last desperate swipe he dislodged the typewriter keys and flicked the dust off the depositions neck-high in the corner.
‘His Excellency the Marquess of Bolsover,’ Hollingsworth announced as though at the Lord Mayor’s Show.
A stumpy little man in tweeds brushed past him. ‘Lestrade.’ He thrust out a martial hand.
‘Er . . . no, sir. Chief Inspector Dew, sir.’
‘Eh? Well, where’s Lestrade?’
‘Er . . . at luncheon, sir.’
‘Luncheon? Good God. Police force. Going to dogs; country. You.’ He rounded on the beaming Hollingsworth. ‘Smirking.’ He cuffed the lad around the ear. ‘There. Something to smirk about. Lestrade; where d’s he eat?’
‘Er . . . the Collar, sir.’ Hollingsworth’s cheek smarted.
‘Collar?’
‘The Horse and Collar, sir,’ Dew explained. ‘It’s a public house in . . .’
‘Damn and blast it. Fetch him. Send your chappie here.’ Hollingsworth looked at Dew who looked in turn at the Marquess. ‘Now!’ Bolsover roared and Hollingsworth scarcely had time to grab his bowler before he was hurtling along the corridor as though his tail was on fire.
‘Please your Grace,’ Dew bobbed, ‘won’t you have a seat?’
‘Got one,’ snorted Bolsover. ‘Berkshire. D’ you know it?’
‘Well, I . . . er . . . don’t leave London much, I’m afraid.’
Bolsover sat heavily on Lestrade’s new swivel, the one he’d managed to misdirect by a bit of nifty paperwork before it reached Abberline’s office.
‘Should. Spot of rough shooting. Nothing like it. Soon be the Twelfth.’
Dew looked at Lestrade’s calendar. It was June the fourteenth. The old boy must be a little confused.
‘Rank?’ Bolsover snapped.
‘Er . . . Chief Inspector,’ Dew admitted.
‘Name again?’
‘Er . . . Dew.’
‘Urdu? That’s a bally language, isn’t it? Nigger.’
‘May I ask the nature of . . .?’ Dew ventured.
‘No. Private. Go to top. Best man. Always have. Always will. Unfortunately, best man out. Got to make do with Whatsisface.’
‘Lestrade.’
‘Rank?’
‘Chief Inspector,’ Dew repeated. Obviously the old man was a little Mutt and Jeff as Hollingsworth would have it.
‘Is that all?’ Bolsover lowered. ‘No bally good. Been sold a pup here. Thought he was bally Assistant Commissioner at least.’
‘Oh, I see, sir.’ Dew realized the error of his ways. It was not a first for him. ‘You mean Mr Lestrade’s rank? Oh yes, he’s Superintendent.’
‘Age?’
‘Mr Lestrade? Oh, I don’t know. Er . . . fiftyish.’
‘I’d killed seventy-six tigers when I was fiftyish. What’s he done?’
‘Er . . . well, he’s solved . . . helped to solve several cases.’
‘Exempli gratia?’
Dew’s tongue protruded in the effort of remembering. ‘No, I don’t think that was one of his. That was one of Abberline’s.’
‘Abilene? That’s a town in the colonies. In Kansas. This Lestrade. Any good?’
‘Very, sir.’ Dew was sure. ‘As you say, the best.’
‘Not what I said.’
An uncanny silence descended. During it, Dew’s stomach, cheated of luncheon, gave a gurgling lurch and lay there, mutinous and growling.
‘Hot, isn’t it, Your Eminence?’ he said at last. ‘For June, I mean.’
‘Flaming,’ said Bolsover. And the silence fell again.
It came as the most exquisite relief to the chief inspector when the door crashed back and a bowler came whistling through it to ricochet off the green-painted pipes and land squarely on top of the pile of faded paper.
‘This had better be good, Dew. I gave up a couple of pints of winkles. Oh.’
‘The Marquess of Bolsover, Superintendent Lestrade,’ said Dew. ‘Superintendent Lestrade. The Marquess o . . .’ and realizing his sudden superfluity, crept away.
‘My lord.’ Lestrade extended a hand. ‘I’m sorry, my constable is rather new. I had no idea you’d been kept waiting. I trust that Inspector Dew has been helpful.’
‘Doesn’t know the meaning of the word.’
‘Quite.’ Lestrade gestured to a chair and found that Bolsover returned to his, leaving him to perch like a crippled parrot on Dew’s, ‘Er . . . my Chief Inspector’s rather new as well.’
‘Come to the point, Lestrade. Busy man. Son. Eldest son. Dead. Shot himself, y’ see.’
There was no trace of emotion, no faltering in the Maxim gun delivery of the words.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Lestrade, reaching for a notepad.
‘In the papers. Bally things. Thunderer’s not been the same since Buckle. Who is this Harmsworth chappie?’
‘Who indeed?’ Lestrade stroked his chin ruefully.
‘Wanted to do a bally story on me. Cheeky blighter. I sent his man packing.’
‘Quite.’
‘Wasn’t suicide, Lestrade. Not my boy. Not a Fitzgibbon.’
‘Quite.’ Lestrade was grateful for small mercies at least. Nobody could make a monkey out of him. ‘My lord,’ he said, ‘I shall look into the matter, of course, but I fear, with the Olympic Games so imminent, the entire Yard has its hands full.’
‘Damn foreigners!’ Bolsover snapped, getting smartly to his feet. ‘Bally fool Gladstone. Should’ve sent a gunboat. Palmerston now, there’s the chappie.’
‘Yes, indeed. But until the Games are over, I fear I must place your son’s demise on file.’
‘File be damned.’ Bolsover reached the door. ‘He’d have beaten all those blighters. He was nimbler than all my boys. Fastest thing on two legs I’ve seen. Apart from a wallaby on heat, of course.’
‘Of course . . . my lord, forgive me.’ Lestrade’s nostrils began to twitch. ‘But do I understand that your son was an athlete?’
‘The best,’ Bolsover told him.
The words of Mr Edward Henry rang anew in Lestrade’s ears – ‘The scum of Europe . . .’
‘Please, my lord, sit down. Have my chair.’ He hopped off Dew’s. ‘You’d better tell me all about it.’
The two bowler-hatted gentlemen were shown into the bedroom of the late Anstruther Fitzgibbon, eldest son of the Marquess of Bolsover.
‘I believe you know Inspector Bland. I am Superintendent Lestrade,’ said the shorter of the two, ‘You are . . .?’
‘Overwrought, sir,’ slurred the manservant and he swayed a little as he spoke.
‘Yes, of course.’ Lestrade wandered the thick pile. ‘But what is your name?’
‘Botley, sir. Hinksey Botley. I am . . . I was the master’s manservant, man and boy.’
‘How old was the master?’ Lestrade found a silver-framed photograph of a boy in tasselled cap and white knickerbockers showing just a hint of knee.
‘He was twenty-seven, sir.’ Botley produced a handkerchief and trumpeted into it. ‘A mere boy. I had tended him si
nce he was a baby.’
Lestrade mechanically checked the bed.
‘You found him?’ he asked.
The manservant nodded.
‘Tell me, Botley.’ The superintendent placed an avuncular arm around the old man’s withered shoulders. ‘Would you say the master was the type to take his own life?’
Botley straightened, as cut to the quick by the slur on the family honour as the Marquess had been. ‘Never!’ he said.
Lestrade smiled and patted the man. ‘Well, well. Would you wait outside please? We’ll send for you if we need you.’
Botley hesitated, swaying a little, then pivoted on one leg and made a determined bid to reach the door in a straight line. Lestrade followed him, eyeing the moulding intently.
‘Again then, John,’ he said.
Bland threw his hat on the bed and sprawled on a chaise-longue. He consulted the black notepad, bereft of its gold embossing now that economies were in vogue in C Division. ‘Anstruther George Hartlepool Fitzgibbon. Third son of the Marquess of Bolsover.’
‘Third? I thought he was the eldest?’
‘Eldest surviving.’
‘What happened to the others?’
‘Er . . . eldest died of pneumonia as a child. Second fell prey to a hunting accident. Horse rolled on him.’
‘Ah, you don’t get that problem with a Lanchester,’ Lestrade commented.
‘Two other siblings, we think, but somewhat the other side of the blanket. One was a girl born to some American Amazon. She lives over . . . there. Bolsover never married the mother, although he was unencumbered by a wife at the time. The other was a lad, some years older. I got this from old Botley after a lot of haggling. Son of a serving gel. He seems to have been kept on as a boot boy until he was ten or so. Then he ran away.’
‘What do we know about Anstruther?’ Lestrade asked.
‘Educated Harrow. Seemed to be some nonsense involving the games master. Went to Rugby. Some trouble there with the riding instructor. Went up to Cambridge. Some trouble involving a mathematics professor. Gonville and Caius.’
‘There were two of them?’ Lestrade checked.
‘Apparently. Did a short spell with the Durham Light Infantry.’
‘No Sandhurst?’
‘For three days. There was some trouble with the fortifications lecturer. Don’t quite know how he got a commission.’
‘And in the Durham Light Infantry?’
‘Yes.’ Bland flicked over a page. ‘Couldn’t get much on this. Seems there was some bother with the chaplain and the regimental mascot.’
‘Really?’
‘Ah, I know what you’re thinking,’ smirked Bland. ‘But it’s all right, Sholto. It was a female goat.’
‘I’m relieved to hear it. And since the army?’
‘Well, he always had this poncho for sport. Quite a good hurdler. Would have got a Blue at Cambridge if he’d been there longer.’
‘How long has he lived here?’ Lestrade lit a cigar.
‘This is the family’s second town house. The old man lives in Grosvenor Place. He seems to own half of St James’s.’
‘No money worries, then.’
‘Not judging by the look of this place. Anstruther had been living here on and off since he was eighteen.’
‘Tell me about the Night in Question.’
‘Last Tuesday. June the ninth. Anstruther had been over to the new stadium at the White City. Before that he’d done some running in the park.’
‘Hyde?’
‘Regent’s.’
‘What time did he come home?’
‘Ah, now there Botley wasn’t sure,’ Bland said. ‘It must have been after he went to bed. Around ten thirty.’
‘So we don’t know if he was alone?’
‘No. The next thing we know for certain is that Botley knocked on his door as usual at ten o’clock.’
‘This door?’ Lestrade was drawn to it again.
‘Yes. There was no reply.’
‘What did Botley do?’
‘Nothing. He couldn’t get in.’
Lestrade’s eyebrows knotted. ‘Locked?’
Bland nodded.
‘Where’s the key?’ Lestrade couldn’t see one.
‘Lost. Years ago.’
‘Ah.’ Lestrade wandered to the door again. ‘The bolt.’ It stood an inch or two away from the keyhole. Brass. Highly polished. He touched it with his fingers and it slid back easily. ‘Odd,’ he said, ‘a bolt on a bedroom door.’
‘Sholto.’ Bland crossed the room to join him. ‘I think we must assume that the late Anstruther was not as other men.’
Lestrade narrowed his eyes in the direction of his colleague. ‘A Mary Ann, you mean?’
Bland nodded. ‘God knows who he was entertaining on that very bed.’ The policemen turned collectively to stare at it. ‘The bolt was essential.’
‘All right,’ Lestrade said. ‘What happened next?’
‘According to my information,’ Bland told him, ‘Botley got a couple of tradesmen delivering in the street and they took the door off its hinges.’
Lestrade ran his fingers over the jamb. He withdrew them sharply as a couple of splinters got him. ‘And not put back with any expertise either.’
‘Ah, sorry, Sholto. That’s my boys. C Division was never very hot on carpentry.’
‘Once they were in, Botley and these tradesmen, what did they find?’
Bland read his book from where he was. ‘Anstruther was sitting at his desk.’ Lestrade took the same chair. ‘He was slumped forward, his head by that paperweight thing.’ Lestrade slumped forward.
‘Like this?’ he asked, in a muffled sort of way.
‘Like that,’ said Bland, twisting his head. ‘Sunny side up. Gunshot wound to the left temple.’
Lestrade sat up. ‘You’ve got the photographs?’
‘Ah, well, Sholto.’ Bland was realizing this was not his morning. ‘I’m afraid my boys in C division aren’t really on top of photography. They’re a bit blurred.’
Lestrade looked at his man. ‘How many came out?’
‘Er . . . none.’
Lestrade sighed. ‘All right, John. Tell me about the weapon.’
‘Ah.’ Bland crossed to the far wall and removed a chased box from the sideboard. He lifted the lid to reveal a green velvet lining and a single flintlock pistol. ‘The partner to this one,’ he said. ‘Expensive piece. Made by Egg. We’ve got the actual one at Vine Street.’
Lestrade took the proffered pistol, letting the silver butt rest in his hand. ‘Left temple?’ he asked.
Bland nodded.
Lestrade held the gun to his head. ‘Awkward bloody thing,’ he commented. ‘I’m sure your boys in C Division know more about these things than I do, John. How does it work?’
‘Buggered if I know, Sholto. I think the bullet thing comes out here.’ Bland waved his hand in the general direction of the gun. ‘You pull that thing back, don’t you?’
‘The trigger?’ Lestrade was on alien territory.
‘Yes, but that curly thing. At the top. No. The other one. Yes, that’s it.’
Lestrade clicked back the serpentine. Once. Twice. It would no further go.
‘Does it fire bullets?’ he asked.
‘Well, the doctor dug something out of his head,’ Bland observed.
Lestrade squeezed the trigger and the serpentine fell with a click. ‘Hey presto,’ he said.
‘I should put it down, Sholto. Bloody thing looks dangerous to me.’
Lestrade glanced to his right. ‘John,’ he said suddenly, ‘was the desk in this exact position?’
‘Yes, I think so. Why?’
Lestrade stood up. ‘Sit here,’ he said, vacating the seat.
Bland did as he was told. ‘What?’ he asked.
Lestrade squatted beside him, cracking his knee on the desk corner as he did so. ‘Agghh!’ he screamed.
‘A clue?’ Bland asked excitedly.
‘A minor dislocation,
’ said Lestrade. ‘I’ll be all right. Sit upright as though you’re smoking. Oh, you are.’
‘Like this?’
‘Yes.’ Lestrade closed one eye, concentrating on the wall beyond Bland’s head. He clicked his teeth.
‘Now lean forward, as if you’re writing. That’s it.’ He frowned. ‘Do you always write like that?’
‘Well, in C Division, we haven’t quite got the hang . . .’
‘Yes, I know.’ He lined up the wall again, shaking his head.
‘All right. Now put your head down on the desk. No, nose down.’
‘Sholto,’ Bland muttered, ‘this isn’t very comfortable.’
‘Don’t move!’ Lestrade hobbled across to the far wall. ‘Ah ha!’ he said.
‘What?’ mumbled Bland. It wasn’t easy to talk through blotting paper.
‘What do you make of this?’
Bland joined Lestrade in the corner. ‘Wallpaper. Flock. Chinese, I’d say. We’re quite good on Oriental wallpapers in C Division.’
‘I knew you would be,’ nodded Lestrade, ‘but I’m talking about this brown stuff.’
Bland pressed his nose against the flock – a slight improvement anyway over blotting paper. ‘Camp coffee?’ he guessed.
‘Blood,’ said Lestrade.
‘Good God, so it is. I wonder how I missed that?’
‘I wonder,’ sighed Lestrade. ‘What do you make of it?’
Bland looked bland. Clearly he made almost nothing of it.
‘Admittedly,’ Lestrade helped him, ‘I’m not very O’Fay with guns like that, but if I know my gunshot wounds, part of Anstruther’s head would have been blown out sideways with the impact. And I think it’s a ball, by the way, not a bullet. More or less in a straight line with the angle of the shot.’
‘So?’
‘So get back to the desk again.’
Bland did.
‘Assume the position.’
Bland did.
‘Now, pick up the pistol. No. As you were, nose on the desk. Right.’
Bland sat there, his nose back on the blotting paper. ‘All right?’
‘I don’t know. Are you?’
‘Well, it’s a bit uncomfortable,’ admitted Bland.
‘Yes, you said. So why do it?’
Bland sat up, a little hurt. ‘Because you asked me to, Sholto.’
‘No, I mean if you were Anstruther, why do it? Why not sit back in the chair? Or sprawl on the chaise-longue? Or lie on the bed? Or stand by the window? This thing,’ he took up the pistol again, ‘must be over eighteen inches long. Why sit with your nose on the desk in order to blow your brains out?’
