by M. J. Trow
‘With difficulty, sir,’ sighed Lestrade.
‘Ah, well. Buck up. Lisbon is a capital fellow. He’ll do for us both.’
‘Yes,’ muttered Lestrade, reaching for his battered Gladstone, ‘I’m sure he will.’
Up a bit on the Great Northern. Across a bit on the North Western. For the first time in his life, Detective Sergeant Lestrade rode first class. He dozed in the snug compartment, with the blinds down against the inclement face of Disraeli’s England. March it may have been, but north of Watford the slush lay brown and treacherous and north of Headingley the snow white and unrelenting. Inside, his head nodding against the Chinese flock and his socks steaming nicely over the portable Silber and Fleming stove, Lestrade’s dreams were less tranquil than they ought to have been. Not six months earlier, the rubber-faced Charlie Peace, facing a train window not very far from where Lestrade dozed fitfully now, had unfastened his fly to answer the call of nature and had taken the opportunity to kick his way free of the guards who held him. For a while the piercing eyes flashed in the sunken skull in Lestrade’s dream, the silver whiskers bristled. Then the jaw clicked sideways, the white hood was hauled over his head and the hemp noose slipped into place. There was a jarring sound as the lever was hauled back, the doors crashed down and the thud of the dead man’s shoes as they hit the floor woke the Detective Sergeant up.
‘You for coffee, Mr Lestrade?’ Lisbon was standing over him, beaming like a hangman.
A chaise took them through the blackness of the watering place, past the little churchyard of All Saints with its three Saxon crosses, over the old packhorse bridge that still crossed the darkling waters of the Wharfe. They stood at last below the sheer precipice of the Cow Rock, the great crag that with its child, the Calf, towered over the little town of Ilkley. The Romans had camped here in the early days, when it was called Olicana and dotted here and there were the great, grey mills that gave the North its Satanic gloom. But in the centre, where Inspector Heneage had found the only decent hotel, the new hydropathic establishments were springing up, threatening to rival Buxton in their opulence.
Inspector Bosomworth of the West Riding Constabulary stood ankle deep in snow with his knot of blue-caped men.
‘Doesn’t care for t’weather, then, your Inspector,’ he observed in the stentorian tones of those parts, ‘seeing as ’ow ’e’s not actually up ’ere wi’ us?’
‘It’s been rather a tiring journey, sir,’ Lestrade told him, ‘what with an oyster shortage on the Great Northern.’
‘Aye,’ Bosomworth looked at his own sergeant ‘Life’s a bugger all round, in’t it? Any road up, ’e were found ’ere.’
‘’Ere?’
‘Precisely where you’re stood standin’ now.’
‘Who found him?’
‘You know, I don’t want to pull rank at all. But I speak as I find. Call a spade a spade, that’s my motto. You’re a bloody sergeant, aren’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Right. Well, I’m a bloody Inspector. Thirteen years, man an’ tyke. I don’t believe in standin’ on t’dignity, but a little “sir” now and again wouldn’t come amiss.’
‘Yessir,’ said Lestrade, ‘Of course, sir. My pleasure, sir.’
‘All right, all right. No need t’overdo it. Now, what was yer askin’?’
‘Who found the body, sir?’
‘Oh, aye. Some bloke called Haythornethwaite. Local shepherd. ‘E were out checkin’ ‘is lambs – it bein’ t’season an’ all. An’ ‘e stumbled over ‘im.’
‘Had he fallen . . . sir?’ Lestrade shielded his eyes from the glare of the leaden sky. The great grey crag loomed over him so that he felt for a moment as if the ground was leaving his feet and he would topple backwards.
‘It’s possible. But that’s what you’re supposed t’ be tellin’ us. That’s why we called you buggers from t’Yard in. Not, mind you, that that were my idea. Oh, dear me, nay. It were t’Mayor.’
‘The dead man?’
‘Nay. It were t’Mayor who insisted on calling in t’Yard. Buggered if I know why, lookin’ at you. ’E’s worried, y’see, abowt t’tourists. Afraid no bugger will come to take t’waters if there’s bodies all over t’shop.’
‘There’s more than one . . . sir?’ Lestrade frowned.
‘Nay, lad,’ Bosomworth explained. ‘It were just a figure of speech – an idiot, you might say. But the Mayor, ’e wants this business cleared up right away. I don’t see ’ow seeing t’murder site is going to ’elp you at all. I’ve got my man.’
Lestrade looked at the Inspector. ‘You’ve made an arrest?’
‘Eighteen of ‘em.’
‘What?’
‘What, sir?’ Bosomworth reminded him. ‘I said,’ he raised his voice against the east wind and stamped his feet in the drifting snow, ‘I’ve made eighteen arrests.’
‘On what grounds?’
‘Grounds? Grounds?’ Bosomworth closed to his man. ‘This is my patch, this is,’ he said. ‘This isn’t bloody London town. We’ve got ways, y’know. There’s been a police force in Ilkley since I were a tyke – and that’s going back a few years, I can tell yer.’
He spun round suddenly to silence the sniggers at his back. It was pretty effective. ‘I’ve picked out eighteen buggers I reckon ’ad every reason to do fer whoever it is done fer up ’ere.’
‘Such as?’
‘Such as? Such as? Well,’ he raised a stubby left thumb, ‘Joe Arkwright for a start.’
‘Did he have a grudge against the dead man?’
‘’Ow should I know? I don’t even friggin’ know who t’dead man is, do I? But Joe Arkwright’s been poachin’ across t’moor for bloody donkey’s years. I’ll settle ’is ’ash.’
‘Anybody else?’ Lestrade was incredulous.
‘Aye. Seventeen other buggers. Thieves, confidence tricksters, malingerers and layabouts. Oh, and one army deserter. One of ’em must ’ave done it.’
‘Why?’
‘Stands to reason,’ Bosomworth shrugged, ‘Most of ’em ’ave no fixed abode. You show me a man wi’ out an abode that’s fixed an’ I’ll show you a scallywag of t’worst water.’
‘Bit of a difference between scallywagging and murder, sir,’ Lestrade observed.
Bosomworth’s northern lip curled into a snarl. His southern one stayed where it was. ‘’E were found ere,’ he growled, ‘Right where your feet are. Now unless you’d like us all t’join ’im by freezin’ t’ bloody death, let’s bloody go. Resnick?’
‘Inspector?’ a uniformed constable piped up.
‘Your turn for t’cocoa.’
T’cocoa was just what the Detective Sergeant ordered. Or rather, he didn’t, but he got it anyway. As Bosomworth’s man reminded him as he slammed the chipped, handleless mug down on the table, Ilkley was famous for its bloody ’ospitality. Still, chipped and handleless was what Lestrade was used to. Home from home, really.
Inspector Heneage had risen by this time and Lisbon had helped him dress. Mufflered against the vicious afternoon nip, he crossed the Wharfe in a pony and trap and arrived at the Pump Room basement as Lestrade and Bosomworth approached from the station yard.
The basement of the Pump Rooms did stalwart service as a makeshift morgue. On the very slab where in the season, retired colonels let their flab hang out amid swirling mists of steam, the cold, blue-white body lay naked before the policemen’s gaze.
‘As it’s your first visit,’ Bosomworth grunted to Heneage, nodding in the direction of the corpse, ‘perhaps you’d like t’be the first t’examine ’im. I’d like your views.’
Heneage took one look, moaned, ‘Good God,’ and collapsed gracefully to the floor.
‘Nay,’ Bosomworth shook his head. ‘I don’t think it’s t’Almighty. Somethin’ vaguely blasphemous about that. Does ’e allus do this?’ he asked Lestrade.
‘Only in the presence of corpses and lizards,’ the sergeant told him.
‘Well, shovel ’im up, Smurthwaite. Makes t’place look untidy.’
>
The constable of that name helped the mortuary attendant to carry the fallen Heneage to another slab in the corner.
‘Get a lump of ice from outside and put it on ’is ’ead,’ Bosomworth bellowed. ‘’E’ll be all right. Now then, Lestrade. What do you make on t’this? Or are you goin’ t’go swimmy too?’
Lestrade would not go swimmy. He had seen the Sights before. No doubt he could stand one more. The dead man was about his own age, with light brown hair cropped short. His face had been pulverized with a heavy object, the nose flattened and the nostrils flared, caked in dark-brown blood. Where the eyes should have been were sightless holes, like the sockets in a skull. The teeth, as he peeled back the blue lips, were broken and jagged and the chest had been ripped by diagonal cuts that crossed each other. Neat. Precise. Almost in a geometric pattern.
‘Bit of a facer, in’t it?’ Bosomworth observed, tilting back his bowler. ‘I’ll confess we don’t get many o’ these in Ilkley.’
Or anywhere else, mused Lestrade. ‘Who washed the body?’ he asked.
‘I did,’ a wizened little creature hobbled back from the unconscious Inspector.
‘This is Ben Thirkettle,’ Bosomworth said. ‘T’stoker to t’Pump Room boilers. ’E also lays folk out.’
Lestrade doubted that. At least not for a long time. Still, old Thirkettle could conceivably have been a flyweight in his youth.
‘Which way did the blood run?’ Lestrade asked.
‘Come again?’ Thirkettle squinted at him.
‘When you washed the body, the blood on the chest; which way did it run?’
‘Well, ’e’d bin froze, y’ see,’ the toothless man told him, with much gratuitous smacking of lips. ‘T’blood were crusty, like. I ’ad to scrape it off wi’ a trowel.’
‘From here,’ Lestrade’s finger traced the line of the diagonal cut, ‘Did it run down or up?’
‘Er . . . down. Nay. Nay. Wait a minute,’ Thirkettle closed his eyes and chewed his lip in concentration. ‘Aye. Up. Nay. Down.’
‘Bloody ’ell as like,’ Bosomworth stamped his feet. ‘Mind like a razor, this one.’
‘Down.’ Thirkettle flashed a defiant glance at him. ‘I’m sure. It were down.’
‘And here?’ Lestrade said, following the line of the other cut.
‘Down again. Towards ’is ’ip.’
Lestrade nodded. Suddenly, as Bosomworth and Thirkettle watched, he crouched over the torso, something gleaming in his right hand.
‘What t’bloody hell . . .?’
Lestrade held up a set of brass knuckles with a four inch blade that shone in the lamplight. ‘A little cosmetic surgery,’ he said. ‘I’m sure our friend won’t mind.’ He dipped the point of the knife into one cut, high on the chest. Then into the other. Then he tickled the point between the nipples where the cuts crossed. ‘Right,’ he stood up and clicked home the blade before consigning the weapon to the pocket of his Donegal.
‘Is that t’Metropolitan issue?’ Bosomworth asked, frowning.
‘Not exactly,’ Lestrade said. By now he was peering at what was left of the face.
‘The eyes . . .’ he said.
‘Rooks,’ said Thirkettle.
Lestrade looked at him. ‘It was merely a civil question,’ he told him.
‘Nay, lad,’ Bosomworth explained. ‘Rooks. Y’know. Big black bloody birds.’
‘Oh, rooks,’ Lestrade gave it the southern pronunciation.
‘Aye,’ said Thirkettle, ‘that’s what I said. T’rooks would ’ave ’ad ’em out. Anythin’ layin’ on t’moors for a day or two is fair game.’
‘I’ll tell yer summat,’ Bosomworth grinned, ‘’E’s not goin’ to see us through the week, that’s for certain.’
Thirkettle broke into a donkey’s bray of a laugh, his jaw chewing round and round.
‘These wounds,’ Lestrade ignored them both, ‘to the head. Which way was the blood running here?’
‘Down,’ Thirkettle was sure this time. ‘Both sides of ’is face.’
‘Not off the chin?’
‘Nay. Out to t’sides.’
‘Well,’ said Bosomworth, lighting his pipe, ‘I’d be impressed if I knew what t’bloody ‘ell you were talking about.’
Lestrade stepped back from the body, ‘I think I know what happened,’ he said.
‘Go on then, lad,’ Bosomworth urged him, ‘I’m all friggin’ ears.’
‘The chest wounds came first,’ the sergeant told him. ‘This one,’ he drew his finger from the left shoulder to the right ribs, ‘delivered first, the other second.’
‘Which means?’
‘Our man is right-handed.’
‘Well,’ Bosomworth’s Lucifer had found its mark at the end of his pipe and his stolid features flashed eerily in the dim light, ‘that reduces it t’nine in every ten. What made the cuts?’
‘The murderer,’ Lestrade said, somewhat surprised. Surely, the Yorkshire Constabulary wasn’t that deficient?
‘What weapon, man?’ Bosomworth snapped.
‘Butcher’s knife,’ Lestrade guessed, ‘meat cleaver. Something of that sort. Long and sharp. He was still standing when the blows struck. Which means that our man is both strong and fast. What was he wearing when he was found?’
‘Er . . . combinations, waistcoat, shirt, trousers and jacket.’
‘Right,’ nodded Lestrade, ‘the cuts are quarter of an inch deep. Allowing for a thickness of clothing, the blows must have been delivered with a great burst of energy. Demonic, almost.’
‘Do what?’ Bosomworth asked.
‘As though by t’devil,’ Thirkettle piped up.
The Inspector rounded on him. ‘May I remind you you’re t’bloody boilerman at t’Pump Rooms. There’s a certain perspective t’ be kept around ’ere. What about t’head?’ he asked Lestrade.
‘I think he’d have died from the chest wounds,’ the sergeant told him. ‘The blows to the head were delivered later, with a heavy object. By this time he was lying on the ground. The direction of the blood tells us that.’
‘Does it?’ Bosomworth asked.
‘If he’d been standing, the blood would have trickled down his face, not across it.’
‘Why bash ’im as well as slash ’im?’ the Inspector wanted to know.
Lestrade shrugged. ‘Perhaps he wasn’t sure he was dead.’
‘The meat cleaver,’ Bosomworth sucked hard on the briar, ‘would it ’ave ’ad a sharp point?’
‘Probably,’ Lestrade said. ‘It’s more a butcher’s knife, but single edged, I’d say.’
‘So why didn’t ’e finish ’im off wi’ t’point?’ Bosomworth’s logic was inescapable.
‘I don’t know,’ Lestrade confessed. ‘Can I see his belongings?’
Thirkettle shuffled over to a drawer and jerked it open. ‘’Ere,’ he said, ‘a ’anky. A Albert watch. A letter.’
‘What are they?’ Lestrade pointed into the drawer.
‘Oh, bloody ’ell,’ Thirkettle said, ‘I knew I’d put ’em somewhere,’ and he fitted his dentures back in with much lip-smacking ceremony.
The handkerchief was of finest Irish lawn and in the corner, the embroidered initial ‘N’. Nigel? mused Lestrade. Norris? Norman? Nellie? The computations were endless. The watch was a beauty. Silver gilt and worn, something of an heirloom, he imagined. The glass was cracked and the thing had stopped at ten to two.
‘I reckon that’s t’time ’e died, y’ know,’ Bosomworth said. ‘That butcher’s knife ’it ’im an’ it at that precise moment in time.’
‘Does that help us, sir?’ Lestrade asked.
‘Wi’out knowin’ which bloody day this were, nay,’ Bosomworth said. ‘’Cept it gives me a perfect alibi. I’ve been on t’midday shift every bloody day this month. At least my whereabouts are accounted for. Nice watch, though, in’t it?’
The inscription on the back was in a foreign language. Lestrade spelt it out. ‘N-o-u-b-l-i-e-z-p-a-s-e-y-l-a-u. What’s that?’
&nbs
p; ‘I dunno,’ Bosomworth said. ‘It’s in a foreign bloody language.’
It wasn’t Latin. Lestrade knew that. All those years on the first declension at Mr Poulson’s Academy had given him a taste for the tongue. Unless of course it was the second declension.
‘This is foreign too,’ Bosomworth held up the letter. It had no date. It had no address. It began ‘Mon cher Louis’ and it was signed ‘Maman’. The rest was gibberish. Lestrade held it over the lamp. No discernible watermark.
‘What about his clothes?’ Lestrade asked.
Thirkettle shuffled across to a coat-stand on which a solitary jacket hung. ‘’Ere,’ he said.
Lestrade examined it. A coarse northern tweed, he guessed. No label. No name. The pockets empty. Both elbows were gaping and someone had inexpertly resewn the ragged edges across the lapels, made by the lightning butcher’s knife. ‘Where’s the rest?’ he asked.
Reluctantly, the newly toothed Thirkettle took off his waistcoat, the one with the bad, new stitching and began to unbutton his recently slashed shirt. ‘All right,’ Lestrade held up his hand, ‘I don’t think we need go further. Can I assume that there is nothing to help us identify the man in the clothes you’re wearing?’
‘Layer-out’s perks,’ Thirkettle explained at what he took to be Lestrade’s righteous indignation. ‘Unfortunately, Mrs Thirkettle’s something of a slouch when it comes t’ needlework.’
Lestrade was less horrified by that than the fact that there was a Mrs Thirkettle at all. ‘Come t’ think of it,’ the boilerman/mortuary assistant chewed on, ‘I don’t think I’ll bother,’ and he proceeded to strip to what appeared to be his own combinations.
‘Is this a local cloth?’ Lestrade asked Bosomworth.
‘Yorkshire, as like,’ the Inspector examined the weave, ‘but us is a bloody big county, y’ know. I wouldn’t like t’ be specific about t’Ridin’.’
‘Have the Gentlemen of the Press got hold of this yet?’ the sergeant asked.
‘Press?’ Bosomworth spat vaguely at the floor. ‘Gentlemen?’ he spat again. ‘Neither o’ them words ’ave any meanin’ for a policeman,’ he said. ‘’Sides, t’Mayor ’as threatened to ’ave my balls on a breadboard if one single word gets out. Remember t’tourist trade. They’ll be swarmin’ up ’ere from York an’ Doncaster an’ Leeds by t’week after next. Only if t’buggers get wind o’ this, they’ll bugger off t’ ’Arrogate.’
