Lestrade and the Sign of Nine

by M. J. Trow

  ‘I’ll see myself out,’ he said.

  ‘Out’ of course was something of a misnomer. Old Scotland Yard suffered from being far too small and every day, irritated coppers glanced along the new Embankment towards the Mother of Parliaments where the Opera House that was to house their new headquarters rose steadily, brick by brick. Why, they all asked themselves as they climbed over the saddles of the Mounted Division, balanced precariously on the stairs, was it all taking so long? They had no idea that every workman on the side spent his waking hours between tea-breaks arguing the toss over the Dialectic and how long it would be before the huddled masses stopped huddling and brought about the Rise of the Proletariat.

  So the journey to the office of Assistant Commissioner (Traffic) Rodney took Lestrade eight minutes. Agreed, it was only on the next floor, but he had to negotiate the shoeboxes of the Criminal Record Office and he did have a gammy leg. His inspectorly tap on the glass-panelled door elicited the traditional Assistant Commissionerly response, ‘...Er ...’

  ‘Inspector Lestrade, sir. You sent for me.’

  ‘I know I did,’ the Assistant Commissioner bridled. Rodney was an elegant man the wrong side of fifty-three. He had grown his Dundrearies in a more hirsute age when facial adornments were the mark of authority and the old Queen, God Bless Her, had only been on the throne a mere forty-four years.

  Faced with the incredible efficiency of Lestrade, Rodney did the most decisive thing of which he was capable – and indeed for which he was renowned – he plonked himself down in his leather chair. Not for nothing was he known the length and breadth of the Yard as Rodney the Plonker.

  ‘Now then, Abberline, I’ll come straight to the point.’

  ‘Lestrade, sir,’ Lestrade reminded him.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Inspector Lestrade, sir.’

  ‘Yes, well, there are more pressing matters. Monro says you’re his best man.’

  ‘That’s very flattering, sir.’

  ‘What is that – gout?’ Rodney waved an elegant hand at Lestrade’s infirmity.

  ‘Buckshot, sir.’

  ‘My God!’ Rodney turned quite ashen. ‘We hardly ever have these problems in . . . er . . .’

  ‘Traffic, sir?’

  ‘Quite. Now, to the matter in hand.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Mevagissey. Know where that is, Monro?’

  ‘Er . . . the West Country, sir. Cornwall, I believe.’ Lestrade knew the Geography for Detectives lecture off by heart.

  ‘Er . . . is it? Oh, good. Well, catch a train then. You’ll need the London and North Eastern won’t you? Via Godalming?’

  ‘I think that’s the Great Western, sir, via Swindon,’ Bradshaw was, after all, an Inspector’s constant companion.

  ‘Well, well, you know best. You’ll report to me, won’t you?’

  ‘What about, sir?’

  ‘Eh? Well, the murder of course. Good God, Abberline, Henderson said you were his best man. I’d hate to meet his worst.’

  Lestrade hadn’t the heart to tell the Assistant Commissioner that in mentioning Inspector Abberline, he already had.

  ‘Perhaps you could be a bit more specific, sir?’

  ‘Well, really,’ Rodney sighed with exasperation. ‘It’s difficult to know how much more specific I can possibly be. Very well – to recap. My cousin, the Reverend Hereward Rodney was until last Thursday the Rector of Mevagissey.’

  ‘And last Thursday?’

  ‘He ceased to be on account of someone stove in his head.’

  ‘Good Lord.’

  ‘No, no, the local police have ruled out divine retribution. Whatever killed Cousin Hereward, it was not a thunderbolt.’

  ‘Please accept my condolences, sir,’ Lestrade said.

  ‘Hmm? Oh no, I can’t claim Cousin . . . er . . . and I were very close. I hadn’t seen him since . . . oh, now you’ve asked me. No, it’s a matter of principle, you see. Honour of the Yard and all that. I wouldn’t expect a plumber to take out my insides. Same with murder. Can’t have the Cornwall Constabulary stomping about all over the place. It isn’t decent. Get up there, Abberline, there’s a good chap. Take a sergeant or something with you. And keep me informed. Got it?’

  ‘I think so, sir.’

  ‘Excellent!’ Rodney got up, shaking Lestrade heartily by the hand. ‘Well, off you go then, Monro. And I’d have the police doctor look at that arthritis of yours if I were you. Treacherous month, February. Especially on the Pennines. Good morning!’

  George George had been a sergeant for more years than he cared to remember. Like his parents before him, he was not blessed with an unbridled imagination, but in the Criminal Investigation Department at the Yard in those days, that was just as well. He sat with his elbows jammed against the filing cabinets which lined the converted lavatory which was Lestrade’s office. The two young men facing him were apprehensive, standing bolt upright, hair carefully maccassared, bowlers in the crooks of their arms.

  ‘Tyrrell.’

  ‘Yessir.’

  ‘Lancelot Tyrrell?’

  ‘Yessir.’

  ‘Three years on the horse troughs, I understand?’

  ‘Yessir.’

  ‘And what made you become a policeman, Tyrrell?’

  ‘Guilt, sir, I suppose.’

  ‘Guilt?’ George narrowed his beetling brows and his centre parting widened. ‘And that’s sergeant, by the way. Or detective sergeant if you prefer. Inspectors and above are referred to as “sir”. Now what do you mean, “guilt”?’

  ‘I come from a long line of assassins, sir.’

  George slammed back into his chair. ‘Assassins?’ he repeated.

  ‘Yessir. Walter Tyrrell or Tirel was the bloke who shot King William Rufus in the New Forest.’

  ‘Painful,’ George muttered.

  ‘James Tyrrell was the one who had the Princes in the Tower smothered with pillows.’

  ‘How long ago was all this?’ George’s detective nose was beginning to work.

  ‘Well, the Princes were four hundred years ago, sir. William Rufus somewhat longer.’

  ‘I see,’ George sighed. ‘I’ve never known a policeman waste police time before. Even so, I’ll be keeping an eye on you, lad.’ He turned his dull, implacable gaze to the other one. ‘And what long line do you come from, Green?’

  ‘Policemen, sir. It’s in the blood.’

  ‘Is it, now? Eighteen months with Lost Property. Four with Public Carriages. Six with M Division. One week with the River Police. Going for the record, are you?’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘The Commissioner’s Prize for the Most Moved on Policeman?’

  ‘I’ve got to know my trade sergeant,’ Green told him. ‘My old dad told me to work my way up from the bottom.’

  ‘And where, according to your old dad, was the bottom?’ George asked.

  ‘M Division, sir.’

  ‘Well, he got that right,’ George nodded. ‘It says here,’ he peered closer over the ledger, ‘that your first name is Godolphin. Misprint?’

  ‘No, sir, Godolphin, I’m sure. My mates call me “Pad”, sergeant.’

  ‘Pad?’

  ‘Short for “Paddington”, sergeant. “Paddington” Green. Get it?’

  George’s face hadn’t changed one iota. ‘I leave the jokes to my guv’nor,’ he said solemnly. ‘If you’re wise, you’ll do the same.’

  And, as if on cue, his guv’nor hobbled at that moment through the door. Luckily, it was already ajar and he negotiated it quite well, for a man in a hurry with buckshot lodged in his leg.

  ‘Right, George. Get my Gladstone and a spare shirt. We’re going west. Who are these?’

  ‘New recruits, guv’nor. Name of Tyrrell and Green.’

  ‘Any good?’

  ‘Shouldn’t think so, sir. I give ’em three weeks.’

  ‘All right, that’s what they’ve got,’ Lestrade staggered to face them. ‘You’re Green?’

  ‘No, sir, I’m Tyrr
ell.’

  ‘Well there you are,’ the Inspector said. ‘Your first lesson in detective work.’

  ‘What’s that, sir?’ Green asked.

  ‘You only have at best a fifty-fifty chance of being right. And as for getting your man, well . . . Now, to more important matters. Mr George here has a reputation second to none for the quality of his bevy. You, Green, are doubtless acquainted with the mechanics of a steam kettle, Metropolitan Police for the use of?’

  ‘Yessir.’

  ‘Good man. Tyrrell, have you got your bowler hat allowance yet?’

  ‘Yessir.’

  ‘In your pocket?’

  ‘Yessir.’

  ‘Right, that’s the second lesson in detective work – never admit to a senior officer how much money you’re carrying. On the corner, just beyond The Clarence you’ll find Messrs Singh and Son, Purveyors of Darjeeling and China Tea to the Metropolitan Police. They also do a mean line in Bath Olivers. Mr George and I have some planning to do, so while we’re at it – Green, the tea. Tyrrell, the biscuits.’

  ‘Very good, sir,’ they chorused.

  ‘And welcome to Scotland Yard, gentlemen, as ever in the forefront of the relentless fight against crime.’

  There really wasn’t much planning they could do. It was no hardship for two bachelors to throw their meagre belongings into respective Gladstones and make for the train. Snow delayed them beyond Wimbledon and Lestrade dozed fitfully, his outstretched leg in the second-class carriage giving him gyp, while George thumbed through the February edition of Good Housekeeping, where an article written by a Mrs Hudson of Baker Street entitled ‘Living With Two Men’ was rather less salacious than he had hoped it would be.

  Beyond Wimbledon, the level snow gave way to a thaw in the form of nasty, driving rain. And at Swindon, where they changed platforms in the steam and the smoke to take Brunel’s damned broad gauge, there were leaves on the line and a delay of three hours. So they called it a day and stayed at The Bell. George was paying.

  Thursday dawned wet and mild, but in the tangle of wrought iron and glass that was Swindon Central, it was wetter and milder than ever. At least George kept himself in trim by periodically hurtling off down the platform chasing Lestrade’s errant bowler, whisked from his head now and then by recalcitrant gusts. But the same wind had blown away the leaves and the Yard men rattled south-west to Exeter.

  From here it was pony and trap, and two soggy, dispirited detectives, noses streaming with seasonal mucus, had to be helped down and into the cheerless hostelry whose creaking sign said it all – The Happy Traveller. While their Donegals and bowlers dripped and steamed in front of a lacklustre fire, the Yard men were downstairs in the ironically named Snug, partaking of the village’s delicacy, Mevagissey Duck.

  ‘This is off, guv,’ George sniffed his second forkful. ’Smells of fish.’

  Lestrade’s nose joined his sergeant’s. ‘Ah, it’ll be the winds,’ he observed. ‘Eat it, George and don’t look a gift meal in the mouth . . . You have got your wallet, haven’t you?’

  ‘Mr Lestrade?’ A voice caused them both to look up. Before them crouched a wizened old fellow with his collar on backwards. Only the Easterlies through which he had trudged had removed the cobwebs from his orifices.

  ‘The same,’ the Inspector narrowed his eyes. ‘Mr . . . er . . .?’

  ‘Austin. Lemuel Austin. I am . . . was . . . Mr Rodney’s curate.’

  ‘Really?’ The man had to be the oldest holder of that office in the country. ‘Won’t you join us?’

  ‘How kind,’ the little old boy slid back a chair with a practised hand. ‘I don’t usually frequent public houses, of course.’ He turned to the surly figure of his host. ‘A pint of your best, Jack,’ he trilled and then to Lestrade, ‘I understand from Mr Smith that you wish to speak to me.’

  ‘Mr Smith?’

  ‘Sergeant Smith, from St Austell. He’s our local detective, I suppose.’

  ‘Well, you’re way ahead of us, Mr Austin,’ Lestrade admitted. ‘Oh, by the way, this is Sergeant George.’

  The ancient curate extended a bony hand. ‘Charmed, sir.’

  ‘Would you like to tell us what happened?’ Lestrade asked.

  ‘Well, it was a little before Evensong two Sundays ago. I had cycled over from Black Head as was my wont.’

  ‘Black Head?’ George had abandoned the dubious duck in favour of taking notes.

  ‘It’s a fair point,’ the curate explained. ‘About six miles away as the guillemot flies.’

  ‘The guillemot?’ George was out of his depth. They didn’t have guillemots in Bermondsey. Blackheads were ten-a-penny.

  ‘A large sea bird, sergeant. I collect their nests.’

  ‘You do?’ George and Lestrade exchanged glances.

  ‘Yes, it’s a hobby of mine. Talking of which, I don’t suppose either of you gentlemen has ever seen a hobby nest?’ He rubbed his hands eagerly, straining forward in anticipation.

  ‘I’ve seen a hobby horse once,’ George said, and noticing how crestfallen the old curate was, added, ‘not relevant, I suppose?’

  ‘Can we get back to The Day In Question?’ Lestrade asked. It was doggedness like this that had elevated him to Inspector after only thirteen years on the Force.

  ‘Oh yes, I’m so sorry.’ Austin’s wrinkled upper lip disappeared into the froth of Jack’s best. ‘When I get going on nests, I’m like a little terrier.’

  ‘Er . . . the Sunday before Evensong?’

  ‘Yes. The third before Septuagesima. Well, you may have noticed I’m not as young as I was and I came over a little peculiar by the lych-gate. I had to stop and relieve the pressure on my cycle clips.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And I saw the Bishop.’

  ‘The Bishop?’

  ‘The Bishop of Exeter.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Coming out of the church. Or at least I assumed it was he.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Well, he wore gaiters and a top hat with strings.’

  Lestrade mused over his half, undoubtedly from its taste, of Jack’s second best. ‘Did you see his face?’

  ‘No, not actually.’

  ‘Forgive us, Mr Austin,’ Lestrade said, ‘but we are, as yet unfamiliar with the toxology of the churchyard. Would the Bishop have had to pass you to reach the road?’

  ‘Ordinarily, yes,’ the curate said.

  ‘And extraordinarily?’

  ‘Well, he didn’t. He disappeared between the yews and hopped over the wall.’

  Lestrade and George exchanged glances.

  ‘Er . . . this wall,’ the sergeant asked. ‘How high would you say it was?’

  ‘Ooh, eight or nine feet at that point.’

  ‘And how old is the Bishop of Exeter?’ Lestrade asked.

  ‘Oh, slip of a lad,’ the curate said. ‘Seventy-one.’

  ‘Forgive us,’ Lestrade smiled, ‘we’re new here. Is it usual for seventy-one-year-old Bishops to hop over nine foot walls in Cornwall?’

  ‘Habitually, no, but I happen to know that His Grace believes that Fitness is next to Godliness. It was the theme of his Diocesan address last March.’

  ‘Do you have that, sir?’ George asked.

  ‘What?’ the curate was confused.

  ‘The Bishop’s Diocesan Address. I rather think we’ll need to talk to him.’

  ‘What happened next?’ Lestrade asked.

  ‘Well, I waved and said “Hello, Your Grace”.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘That was the odd thing. He didn’t respond.’

  ‘Perhaps he didn’t hear you,’ Lestrade proffered.

  ‘Perhaps not. But I happen to know that he has the finest auricular capability west of Bodmin Moor. I was in Truro cathedral once when a chorister broke wind in the North Transept.’

  ‘Really?’ Lestrade was outraged. Whatever was the world coming to?

  ‘His Grace got wind of it and flew down the whole length of the cathedral before
swinging the lad round by the cassock. Muscular Christianity. It was poetry in motion.’

  ‘And on the third Sunday before Septuagesima?’

  ‘I went into the church, to light up and so on. And I found him.’

  ‘The Rector?’

  The curate nodded. He was paler now and took refuge in his landlord’s best, gulping down the amber nectar with alacrity.

  ‘I realize this is painful,’ Lestrade said.

  ‘Not half as painful as it must have been for him,’ the curate shuddered.

  ‘Could you bring yourself to describe what you saw?’ the Inspector asked.

  ‘The Reverend Rodney was lying slumped over the eagle lectern. His blood was running down over its chest feathers. Not much left of the back of his head.’ He finished the glass with a swig.

  ‘He was dead of course.’

  ‘Or very nearly so. I fancied I heard a gurgling sound, but it may have been the plumbing.’

  ‘The plumbing?’

  ‘We have a little pantry in the Vestry. Mr Smith is under the impression that the Rector was attacked there.’

  ‘He is. Why?’

  ‘Bloodstains, I think he said. I must admit I didn’t notice. I lifted the Reverend down – no easy feat for a man whose cycle clips are killing him – and administered the last rites.’

  ‘Did you see anyone else in the church?’

  ‘No. But frankly I didn’t wait around. For all I knew, there was a maniac lurking in the shadows. The gas lighting isn’t all it should be. I pedalled like a thing possessed to the Verger’s. He sent his boy for the police.’

  ‘That would be Sergeant Smith?’

  ‘That would be Constable Widger, our local bobby.’

  ‘What did he do?’

  ‘Panicked.’

  ‘What?’ It was George’s turn to be outraged.

  ‘He said he’d never seen a body before and wasn’t sure of the procedures. I’ve known Tom Widger all his life. Curiously squeamish for the son of a Cornish poacher.’

  ‘You went back to the church?’ Lestrade asked.

  ‘Oh, yes. I reminded Tom of his duty and led him to the lectern.’

  ‘Led him?’ Lestrade thought he’d misheard.

  ‘Well, he wouldn’t open his eyes.’