by M. J. Trow
‘Get out? You mean Sir Anthony’s night-time wanderings?’
‘Precisely,’ Childers shuddered. ‘If it becomes known that the GOM and Sir Anthony went trawling the streets for a bit of rough, we wouldn’t need Home Rule to finish us. William Gladstone’s third premiership is up the Limpopo and the Liberal Party might as well change its name and vanish without trace. Now tell me, Lestrade, honestly and truly, have you in your enquiries found any link between Sir Anthony’s perambulations and the Prime Minister?’
‘None sir. Mr Gladstone’s rather shocking secret is safe with me.’
‘I wonder, Lestrade, I wonder,’ and the Home Secretary mopped his sweating brow. ‘You’ll keep it under wraps then, old chap?’
‘Oh buried, sir, buried,’ Lestrade assured him.
‘And no more snooping around here? Mud has a tendency to fly, you know.’
‘I have completed my enquiries here, sir, thank you.’
‘Good man. Good man. Remind me to have a word with Charlie Warren. See if we can’t get you promotion or a servant or something. Good day to you.’
‘Sir Hugh,’ and Ruggles-Brise saw Lestrade out.
‘What was all that about, Mr Ruggles-Brise?’ the Inspector asked.
‘Parliamentary paranoia,’ the private secretary said. ‘Think nothing of it.’
‘Very well. Could you show me the way out?’
‘Of course, but let’s go the pretty way, shall we?’
He led Lestrade through a labyrinth of corridors, every bit as dark and tangled as those at the Yard and down into the basement. At another unlabelled door, he stopped. ‘Beyond this door, Lestrade, is the man I fancy . . .’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘. . . the man I fancy will be our Lord and Master come the next election.’
‘Election?’
Ruggles-Brise nodded. ‘My money’s on July.’
‘But Mr Gladstone . . .’
‘Only took over the reins of power in January. Yes, I know, but seven months can seem an awfully long time in politics.’
‘Er . . . should he have an office in this building?’
‘Who?’
‘Whoever it is who’s beyond this door?’
‘Let’s not be too naïve, Lestrade,’ Ruggles-Brise smirked. ‘Secretaries of State may come and Secretaries of State may go but I and the Civil Service go on forever. Whichever way the cat jumps, I’ve got a job for life.’
‘A servant of two masters?’
‘I’m not proud, Lestrade. And it could be worse. I could be working for “Lulu” Harcourt. As for this office, on the plans it’s merely marked “Stores”. As for the man, it’s the Right Honourable Henry Matthews. A fine legal brain, but not much of a cross-examiner. Rather lightweight for a statesman, really. We call him the French dancing master. Oh, by the way, he’s of the papist persuasion. If Salisbury does get back in next time, Matthews will go down in history as the first Catholic in the Cabinet. So if he suddenly genuflects, I should leave the room if I were you.’
‘Oh, yes,’ Lestrade assured him. ‘I always do.’
Ruggles-Brise tapped out a rather curious code on the door and a sonorous voice invited him in.
‘Ah, Evelyn.’
‘Ecce homo,’ said Ruggles-Brise, indicating Lestrade.
The Inspector was about to deny it vehemently when Henry Matthews crossed the floor to him. The wrong side of fifty-nine, he was as smooth as Childers was hirsute. Wisps of lacy hair curled over his ears and the mouth was tight and small.
‘What have you got on Sir Anthony Rivers, Inspector?’ he asked.
‘Er . . . got?’
‘Come, come, man. I am the Home Secretary-in-waiting. Don’t be coy with me.’
‘I rather think these are matters for the current Home Secretary, sir.’
‘Evelyn,’ Matthews motioned the man aside. ‘A word?’
They whispered together in the corner of the Stores, the scruffiest part of which was palatial by Lestrade’s standards. Assuming he had any standards.
‘Evelyn, I thought you said this man was sound.’
‘I’ve checked his file, sir. I assumed he was.’
‘Well, what did it say in the “loyalty” section?’
‘“Unpredictable”.’
‘Well, there you are. You’ve sold me a pup, Evelyn.’
‘Not intentionally, Home Secretary-to-be.’
‘No, no, dear boy,’ Matthews patted his shoulder. ‘I don’t doubt your loyalty. Er . . . Lestrade,’ he turned to the Yard man. ‘You know of course that the late Anthony Rivers was a confidante of the GOM?’
‘So I believe, sir.’
‘Sir Anthony was in the habit, I understand, of frequenting low spots in the East End in search of the low life.’
‘So it would appear, sir.’
‘We are men of the world, Lestrade. We know that the GOM has similar predilections, but he’s such a damned snob he frequents the West End. Affairs of state are involved here.’
‘I don’t believe the Prime Minister is in any danger, sir.’
‘Damn the Prime Minister, Lestrade. What about the rest of us? The public has a right to know, on a need-to-know basis, of course.’
‘What are you saying, Mr Matthews?’
‘Come July, Lestrade, you’ll be taking your orders indirectly from me. How much more sensible to start now. I want you to have the Prime Minister followed. I want his name linked with the life and death of Sir Anthony Rivers. In short, I want him smeared. You can leave the newspapers to me.’
‘With respect, Mr Matthews, that is not my job.’
‘Talking of jobs, Superintendent . . .’ Matthews’s smile was oily.
‘Sir,’ Lestrade stepped backwards. ‘If I find, in the course of my enquiries, that the Prime Minister is involved somehow in this case, then you may rest assured that I will interview him. If I believe him to be guilty of some crime, then you may rest assured that I will arrest him. Good afternoon.’
Ruggles-Brise saw him out. At an unlabelled door that led to the street, somewhere behind Whitehall, he turned to Lestrade. ‘I take it you know what you’re doing,’ he said.
‘Let’s put it this way,’ the Inspector told him, ‘when I do, either of those gentlemen will be the last to know.’
Lestrade stood in what was left of his office a little after dawn the next morning. His first thought was a Fenian bomb, but there was no brickdust, no shattered glass. His cup, it is true, lay on the floor minus its handle, but that was where it usually was and it had never, as far as he know, had a handle in the first place.
Beside him stood Sergeant George and Constables Tyrrell and Green, looking as astonished as their guv’nor.
‘I don’t believe it,’ George kept saying, ‘I just don’t believe it.’
‘Shut up, George,’ Lestrade snapped. It was a bitch of a day already and the sun wasn’t up over Southwark abattoir yet. ‘We’ve just got to face facts. The office of an Inspector of Scotland Yard has been turned over. Your job, today, gentlemen, whether you decide to accept it or not, is to find out what’s missing. Who was on the desk last night?’
‘George Dixon, sir,’ George told him.
‘Still there? I came in the back way.’
‘He was a minute ago.’
‘Right. Green, find the kettle. Tyrrell, I want all these bits of Bath Olivers swept up and collected on a plate, wherever the plate is. We’ve got to establish some sort of priority.’
George Dixon had the sort of face that looked as if it had been lived in by a colony of rats, scrabbling through the granite of his pores. As a copper, he was so-so. As a desk man he was second to none. Two years earlier when a Fenian terrorist had lobbed a bomb at the front door, Dixon had caught it like a rugby full back and drop-kicked it into the bloke’s cart. It had made a terrible mess of the Embankment but it brought Dixon a citation, checked the Fenian dynamite campaign and ensured him an annual season ticket at every game the Harlequins played.
But today he was stumped.
‘No, Inspector,’ he was adamant, ‘I come on duty at eleven forty-five. No one has passed through without a pass since then.’
‘You’re sure, Dixon? If this ever gets out, that someone’s burgled Scotland Yard, we’ll never live it down.’
‘On my ol’ mum’s life, guv,’ the sergeant said. ‘And you know I always look after dear ol’ mum.’
‘Yes, yes,’ Lestrade sighed. ‘All right, Dixon. Run along and get your bacon and eggs, I think I can find my way back to C corridor.’
‘Nothing, guv,’ George said, stirring his guv’nor’s tea.
‘What do you mean, “Nothing”?’
‘There’s nothing missing.’
‘But there must be.’
‘Tyrrell. Cases A – L?’
‘All present and correct, sarge.’
‘Green, Cases M – Z?’
‘All there, sarge.’
‘Well, bugger me,’ muttered Lestrade, but no one took him up on it. ‘What about this present case?’
‘Turned over, sir,’ Green said. ‘Along with everything else. At the very least, it’s given the place a good dusting.’
‘Yes,’ said George, ‘saved you and Tyrrell putting your pinnies on for the annual spring clean. That’s what I like about rookies, guv, don’t you? The positive thinking.’
‘I’d settle for any sort of thinking from a rookie,’ Lestrade said. ‘Tyrrell, I did rather hope when you swept up the Bath Olivers, you’d remove the grit before putting them back on the plate.’
‘Sorry, sir.’
‘Never mind. Do your penance by standing by that door. If anybody tries to open it, you are to die to prevent it. Understand?’
‘Er . . . yessir.’
‘Right. Gentlemen, we have a dilemma here. George, you know Dixon. If he says no one without a pass passed him, do you believe him?’
‘Illicitly, sir.’
‘Me too. Which means what?’
‘My God,’ the colour drained from George’s cheeks. ‘This is an inside job.’
‘Precisely.’
‘What?’ Green was perplexed. ‘You mean somebody from the Yard ransacked this office? Who? Why?’
‘In answer to your four questions, constable,’ Lestrade leaned back in his chair, ‘I said “Precisely”; yes; I don’t know; I don’t know. But this might just tell us.’
He flicked a page from a ledger onto the desk.
‘What’s this, sir?’ Green asked.
‘While dear old George Dixon was making his way to the canteen for his usual bacon and eggs, I was helping myself to a vital piece of evidence from his ledger. It’s a list of all those who came on duty last night. One of these is our ransacker.’
‘But, with respect, guv,’ said George, though he had little enough of that when the chips were down, ‘you came in the back way. So could anybody else.’
‘No, they couldn’t, George,’ Lestrade insisted. ‘I am unique in that respect. Ranks of Superintendent and above aren’t here at night time anyway. I happen to know that no other person of my level or below has a key. That only leaves the Chief Inspectors.’
‘Well, there you are, guv,’ George had made his point. ‘I wouldn’t turn my back on any of them for a start.’
‘Yes, all right, George. You may have something, which is why I’m not sitting too close to you. But let’s start with what we know, shall we? These lads haven’t been here long enough, so the character assassination that is about to follow is down to you and me. Inspector Brownlow. Came on at one thirty.’
‘Good bloke, Bernard. Honest as the day is long.’
‘I’d agree with that. Chief-Inspector Swanson. Ditto.’
‘What about Sergeant Routledge, guv, you missed him out.’
‘With respect,’ Lestrade raised an eyebrow, ‘sergeants and below wouldn’t have the brass neck for anything like this. Inspector Arbalest.’
George wobbled his fingers. ‘Dipsomaniac, isn’t he?’
‘Possible,’ nodded Lestrade. ‘But he certainly drinks. Whoever did this did it swiftly and silently. Arbalest would have fallen over. Inspector Andrews.’
‘Walter Andrews. Don’t really know him, guv.’
‘Idiot of the first water. Promoted out of harm’s way to Lost Property. He only comes in at night to get a bit of overtime. They say Mrs Andrews has expensive tastes. Which leaves Chief Inspector Littlechild. Came on duty at three o’clock. What’s this?’
‘What’s what, guv?’ George craned his neck.
‘I just asked that,’ Lestrade said. Things were not going well. ‘This, look. After Littlechild’s name. “Section D”. What’s Section D? I’ve been at the Yard now for a decade and I’ve never heard of that? What time is it?’
Tyrrell checked his half hunter. ‘It’s nearly ten, sir.’
‘Right, so he’s still on duty. You boys have pinned all the paperwork back to the board, so get your thinking caps on. When I come back, I want a suspect.’
‘John Littlechild.’ Lestrade said, extending a hand, ‘Sholto Lestrade.’
‘Ah, yes. ’Morning, Lestrade. Bath Oliver?’
‘No thanks. I just have. So this is Section D.’
‘What?’
‘Section D. I always thought this was F Corridor.’
‘Oh, you know the new Commissioner.’
‘No, I don’t. Have you met him?’
‘No, but they say he’s a Tartar.’
Lestrade would have thought an Englishman better suited to the job but it wasn’t perhaps his place to say so. ‘Do you know, I was only saying to my sergeant this morning, “I’ve been at the Yard now for a decade and I’ve never heard of Section D.” Something new?’
‘Yes . . . er . . . Administration. Ha, bloody paperwork. I don’t know, I joined the Force to see the streets and what did I see? I saw bloody paperwork. It’s the mandarins at the Home Office, Lestrade. Paper mad, they are.’
Mandarins, Tartars, mused Lestrade. Was the yellow peril getting nearer?
‘Somebody turned over my office in the wee small hours,’ he said, nonchalantly.
‘Never!’ Littlechild exploded. ‘Who?’
‘Well,’ Lestrade lit up a cigar, ‘not to put too fine a point on it, you.’
‘Me?’ Littlechild exploded more forcefully this time. ‘How bloody dare you?’
‘Calm yourself, Chief Inspector,’ Lestrade waved the man back into his chair. ‘Just fishing. I’m seeing everybody who was in the building last night. Just routine.’
‘Routine, Lestrade? Routine? I’ll have you on a charge for this.’
Lestrade stood up. ‘That’s your purgative,’ he shrugged. ‘But next time you want to know anything about the cases I’m working on, ask me rather than turn over my office, there’s a good chap.’
By the time Lestrade had returned to C corridor, he was face to face with a face he’d never expected to see at the Yard.
‘Inspector Towgrass, as I live and breathe,’ he said.
‘’Morning, Lestrade. I’ve got a numb bum from the London, Midland and Scottish and I lost twenty nicker on a horse last week.’
‘Ah, so this isn’t a social call, then?’
‘Good God!’ Towgrass stopped abruptly at the door to Lestrade’s office and the Yard man caught himself a nasty one on the man’s hat-brim.
‘What’s the matter?’ Lestrade mumbled as the room swam before his eyes.
‘This place looks as if it’s been turned over.’
Lestrade looked at him rather oddly. ‘No,’ he said, ‘this is my office after it’s been put to rights.’
‘Bloody hell,’ thundered Towgrass, ‘I’d hate to see it when it’s just been done. Bloody hell, Lestrade, things must be worse than I thought. I knew I’d done right, not to join the Metropolitans, extra allowance or no extra allowance. Your security’s shot to buggery, man.’
‘Yes, well, thank you for your fair and independent assessment, Towgrass, but I
don’t expect you put your hem . . . hemmm . . . piles on the line just to tell me that.’
‘Listen, you,’ Towgrass snarled. ‘I happen to be the most conscientious detective south of Potters Bar. I leave no stone unturned in my quest to catch the criminal. Know how many collars I’ve made since turning Chief Inspector?’
Lestrade shook his head.
‘Three hundred and fourteen. Convictions two hundred and seventy-eight. Executions eighty-nine. And that’s only because of namby pamby judges, devious lawyers and nice policemen who let too many of the bastards off.’
‘Perhaps we should all hang up our truncheons and let the amateurs take over.’
Towgrass looked him up and down. ‘It looks as though they already have,’ he grunted.
‘I was thinking more of people like Sherlock Holmes.’
‘Oh, yes,’ Towgrass threw himself uninvited into a chair. Luckily it had recently been vacated by George George. ‘The giant prat of Sumatra. Waste of space. This,’ he held up a piece of paper, ‘is why I’m here.’
‘Ah, the Morris board.’
‘Ah, so you know about it?’ Towgrass frowned.
‘Of course. Where did this one come from?’
‘That silly old duffer, Fussock, Squire Ralston’s butler. The senile old git had found it on the Squire’s person when they fished him out of the drink. It was only yesterday he thought to tell me about it. I gather you sent him a telegram about it?’
‘That’s right,’ smiled Lestrade.
‘Well, it was only yesterday he remembered that too. You can’t get the staff any more. How come you know about it already?’
‘Fussock showed me,’ Lestrade said. ‘Oh, he didn’t mean to. And at the time I wasn’t aware of its significance. Of course,’ he passed it to the standing George who proceeded to pin it to the green board behind him, ‘it’ll be nice to have the set.’
‘The set. Well, lance my boils,’ Towgrass tilted back his homburg. ‘More of the buggers.’
‘One near nearly every body we’ve found on this case. The Case of the Nine Men’s Morris. The only one that’s missing is the first. The Reverend Rodney. I suspect some Verger swept it up along with the humbug wrappings after a service. Well, I should think you’d have to while away the time during old Austin’s sermons somehow.’
