Lestrade and the Sawdust Ring

by M. J. Trow

  ‘My Lord,’ an aide burst in, ‘urgent telegram, sir.’

  ‘Oh, bugger and damnation, Blithering. Can’t you see I’m having my photograph taken?’

  ‘I’m very sorry, sir,’ Blithering turned beaming to the camera, quickly slicking down his hair. ‘It’s from the Prime Minister’s Private Secretary.’

  Cambridge’s whiskers positively dropped, along with his swan’s feathers. He threw the lance cap at Blithering who caught it expertly in exchange for the telegram. Unfortunately, in his haste, His Royal Highness had forgotten that he was still attached to the thing by his caplines and he collided with the aide, almost bowling him over.

  ‘Well, don’t just stand there, man. Unhook me from this bloody thing, you idiot, Blithering.’

  While the aide fumbled with his chief accoutrements, a quaking Cambridge read Disraeli’s words with watery eyes. No doubt you’ve heard. Stop. Inquiries being made by one Lestrade, comma, Scotland Yard. Stop. Questions asked at Woolwich. Stop. He wants to know if they had a cadet called Louis Somebody. Stop. Get over to The Shop. Stop. Stop any answer. Stop. I know this Lestrade. Stop. An idiot, comma, but a persistent one. Stop. I’ll lean on Howard Vincent. Stop. And get Lestrade recalled. Stop.

  ‘Good God,’ the aide and the photographer heard Cambridge’s prickers rattle. ‘Blithering, get me a cab. Where’s my bloody cape? If I don’t get over to Woolwich before they shut the post office, you’ll be looking for another job – and so will I.’

  Snowdon sighed, folding up his apparatus. ‘We must do this again some time,’ he said, and then, when His Royal Highness had clumped off in a gust of plumes, ‘bastard.’

  Lestrade had extended his welcome as long as he dare. He was receiving some funny looks from the clerk at the Royal, who knew a member of the relatively unwaged when he saw one. If Heneage did not get back soon, Lestrade would be unable to pay for his room. As it was he had taken to eating at Mrs Mordecai’s, where the shepherd’s pie was cheerful, but above all cheap. On the other hand, when Heneage returned, he’d find Lestrade still there rather than walking the beat on a chilly London night with a pointed blue hat on. And where was Heneage . . . so long at the fair?

  The sergeant received a speedy reply to his telegram; come to think of it, for army, an extraordinarily speedy reply. There was no mention of ‘triplicate’ or ‘receiving every consideration’ or ‘in the fullness of time’. Instead, a simple telegram which said Sergeant Lestrade. Stop. Only Louis we had was Louis la Point Virgule. Stop. Cadet 1791-93. Stop. Killed at Salamanca. Stop. 1812. Stop. Glad to have been of inestimable help. Stop.

  Not only the speed and uselessness of the reply struck Lestrade but the fact that the telegram appeared to have come, not from the Military College at Woolwich, but from the office of the Commander-in-Chief. Was the Duke of Cambridge himself minding The Shop these days?

  It was the second telegram that troubled Lestrade more, however. It was from Howard Vincent, Director of Criminal Intelligence at the Yard and it demanded Lestrade’s immediate return to London. There was nothing for it; the sergeant began to pack his bag and wonder how he could scrape together enough to pay his bill. In the event, his problem was solved in a rather unexpected way.

  A little before eight, as whatever there was of daylight in that desultory spring faded in the west, a frantic knocked shattered the stillness of the converted lavatory that was Lestrade’s room.

  ‘Lisbon?’ the sergeant had never seen a man so pale, at least not one with his cranium still intact and not lying on a marble slab, ‘what’s the matter?’

  ‘Sergeant,’ the man had to steady himself on the door frame, ‘Oh, sergeant.’

  Lestrade caught him as he stumbled forward and together they staggered into the nearest chairs.

  ‘Man and boy, man and boy,’ the valet mumbled. ‘That it should have come to this . . .’

  Lestrade was confused. ‘That what should have come to what?’ he asked.

  Lisbon looked at him through mad, red-rimmed eyes, madder and redder in the firelight. ‘It’s Mr Heneage,’ he muttered, ‘the Inspector. He’s dead.’

  ❖4❖

  H

  oward Vincent, Director of Criminal Intelligence, sat the next morning in his office at the Yard, sharing an apple with his iguana. He had a few moments before the divisional chaplain arrived, so he was thumbing idly through the Thunderer when a smallish headline struck him rather forcefully.

  He sat bolt upright, spitting fruit in all directions. ‘My God, Ignatius!’ he screamed, ‘have you read this?’

  Either the beast had not or he had no comment, for he simply rolled an eye and chewed on, urinating quietly on Vincent’s blotting paper. It was not many Directors of Criminal Intelligence who had an iguana that was office trained.

  ‘“Scotland Yard man found dead”,’ he read aloud. ‘Blah, blah. “Stabbed to death by the roadside near Knaresborough yesterday morning. Blah, blah. Local police baffled.” Well, what’s new? Ah. “Inspector Hastings Heneage was investigating the recent murder of Lieutenant Lyle RA. His Number Two, a Sergeant Lestrade, appears to have disappeared.” Disappeared!’ He thumped the table and the iguana visibly leapt, feeling one of its headaches coming on.

  The Director’s own head was buried again in the Thunderer so that he barely acknowledged the knock on the door. It was followed by the click of a stick and the clearing of a throat.

  ‘With you in a moment, Chaplain,’ he said.

  ‘I’ve been called many things in my life already,’ the visitor said, ‘but never that. Never chaplain.’

  Vincent looked up and stood up in quick succession. ‘Mr Prime Minister,’ he gulped.

  ‘Mr Director,’ Disraeli hobbled to the chair where he hoped the iguana might never sit. ‘I’ve come for a word.’

  ‘Of course, of course. Er . . . did I know you were coming?’

  The old Jew looked over his proboscis at him. ‘I really can’t answer that,’ he smiled. ‘Lovely reptile.’

  ‘Oh, thank you, Prime Minister. Er . . . tea? Coffee?’

  ‘Thank you, no.’

  ‘I am extremely flattered that you took the time to call. Mr Cross didn’t say . . .’

  ‘That’s because Mr Cross doesn’t know. It doesn’t do to tell one’s Home Secretary everything. They tell me you have certain political leanings, Mr Vincent.’

  Vincent straightened up immediately. ‘Oh, no, sir. Nothing of your eminence, I assure.’

  ‘Don’t do yourself down, Director,’ the Prime Minister said. ‘It wasn’t all opening railway stations and royal audiences, you know. I’ve been a hack writer, lawyer, dabbler in shares, traveller, novelist. It took me five years to get into the Commons. And as for my maiden speech . . . yucchh, what a disaster.’

  ‘Ah, but now, sir, you have reached the top of the greasy pole.’

  ‘True,’ smiled Disraeli, his lower lip jutting more than usual, ‘but you got to kiss an awful lot of babies. Nice place you got here, Mr Vincent.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘Er . . . could you sit down, do you think?’

  ‘Oh, of course, Prime Minister,’ and he did.

  ‘No, it’s not all Berlin Conferences and being called “Benny” by Bismarck. You have to talk to people like W.H.Smith.’

  ‘Tsk, tsk,’ Vincent felt for the man.

  ‘I’ve come myself today, Director, on a matter of the utmost gravity – too personal for my personal secretary, too private for my private secretary.’

  ‘Really?’ Vincent craned forward.

  ‘Does the title Prince Imperial mean anything to you?’

  ‘It’s not one to which I personally aspire, Prime Minister, reserved as I believe it currently is for members of the Buonaparte family.’

  ‘Quite. But do you know where he is?’

  ‘Er . . . well, if The Times is to be believed, en route for South Africa, isn’t he? Should be virtually there by now.’

  ‘No, Mr Vincent,’ Disraeli licked his curl
back into position on his forehead.

  The lizard turned his head in something akin to interest.

  ‘Not?’ Vincent frowned.

  ‘No, The Times is not to be believed. The newspaper for which I once wrote, The Representative, could have knocked it into a cocked hat. But that is ancient history and we are concerned with current affairs. The plain fact is . . .’ and he checked the walls for ears, ‘. . . the Prince Imperial has absconded.’

  ‘Abs . . .?’

  ‘Gone walkies,’ Disraeli explained.

  Instinctively, Vincent clapped his hands over the iguana’s ears. ‘Sorry,’ he grinned, ‘but they’re very intelligent, you know. Like dogs, there are some words to which they became accustomed. We never use the “w” word here. You’ve no idea how long Whitehall is until you’ve traversed it with an iguana on a lead.’

  Disraeli could believe it.

  ‘Er . . . I feel bound to ask, Prime Minister, where the Prince Imperial has gone and indeed why.’

  ‘Why?’ Disraeli smiled his most oily smile. ‘Is it so hard to imagine?’ He raised his hands in supplication, ‘You and I are creatures of duty, Mr Vincent. You have your Detective Force and I half the civilized world to look after – not to mention five-sixteenths of the uncivilized. Have you never, even for a moment, wanted to throw open your casement window and gambol in the grass?’

  ‘Well,’ Vincent cleared his throat, ‘I am forty feet up.’

  ‘It’s spring,’ Disraeli beamed, ‘or it would be if the weather got better. In spring an old man’s fancy . . . the primroses are out at Osborne now. And, ah, to see the branches stir across the moon at Portchester . . .’

  ‘So the Prince Imperial . . .?’ Vincent thought he ought to prevent the old man from wandering too much. After all, half the civilized world relied on him, apparently.

  ‘. . . was facing a dull, routine campaign, watching. Oh, you see, we couldn’t actually let him fight. Imagine the furore were he to be killed! He knew he was bound for weeks, perhaps months, of inactivity, so he simply didn’t go.’

  ‘I see,’ said Vincent, ‘But I don’t quite see . . . I mean, why am I involved?’

  ‘Well,’ Disraeli gushed, ‘you see, your second question is a little harder to answer than your first, Mr Vincent. I can understand entirely why he went. Where he went is another matter. That’s where you come in.’

  ‘Yes, of course. You want him found. Well, I see entirely. How many men would you like? Fifteen? Twenty? We are a little stretched just at the moment, what with the corruption charges, dismal pay and so on.’

  Disraeli shuddered. ‘Discretion, Mr Vincent, please,’ he said. ‘I fear that if the great British public got hold of the Prince’s absconding, they would level at him charges of cowardice. That would of course mortify his mama, the Empress, who would bend the ear of the Queen, God Bless Her, and where would that leave any of us?’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ Vincent nodded gravely. ‘Consider your drift caught, Prime Minister. Perhaps one intrepid man . . .’

  ‘Lestrade,’ Disraeli said quickly.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Lestrade,’ he repeated. ‘I understand that he is a Detective Sergeant now.’

  ‘Indeed,’ Vincent was astonished. ‘Do you know him, sir?’

  ‘We met when he was too young to grow fuzz on his upper lip. A rookie greener than grass. I suggested he grow a moustache to add gravitas to his appearance.’

  ‘Well, he certainly took your advice. He has quite a luxurious growth now, for a sergeant, I mean,’ and he patted his own monstrous lip-camouflager with pride. ‘But I fear he is working on a case.’

  ‘Oh, dear,’ Disraeli frowned, pursing his lips, ‘anything vital?’

  ‘Well . . . er . . .’

  Disraeli arched an eyebrow, then loosened his cape to reveal the dazzling bullion frock-coat he had worn at the Berlin Congress and almost every day since, just to overawe people. It worked again.

  ‘Ah, but of course, I can tell you. He is assistant to Inspector Heneage of the Headquarters here. A new man, Harrow and Balliol.’

  ‘Some of us,’ Disraeli smiled, ‘graduated from the University of Life.’

  ‘Oh, quite, quite,’ Vincent agreed, frowning solemnly.

  ‘I was particularly hoping that Lestrade could be released. It’s a silly thing, I know, but you see, he and I went to the same school.’

  ‘Indeed?’ Vincent swallowed in disbelief. Even the iguana looked dubious. But then, to most people, all iguanas do.

  ‘Then of course it was the Reverend Potticary’s. More recently, I understand, a Mr Poulson’s. But the same school, nonetheless. Er . . . this case he’s on?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Rather curious, really. The Yard has been called in by the Yorkshire Constabulary. Two rather ghastly murders, I’m afraid. One of an unknown man at Ilkley, the other of a Lieutenant Lyle of the Artillery.’

  ‘The Artillery?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Tell me about the unknown man.’

  ‘Well,’ Vincent ferreted through his filing cabinet, ‘Ah, here we are. Cause of death, deep slashing cuts to the thorax. Face badly disfigured . . .’

  ‘This is Lestrade’s report?’

  ‘Heneage’s, yes sir. The senior man always submits the report. This arrived five days ago.’

  ‘Does it say how old the victim was?’

  ‘Mid-twenties, they assume.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘A number of clues.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘A handkerchief, a watch and a letter.’

  ‘What did the letter say?’

  ‘Well, here it is, sir. Please read it for yourself.’

  Disraeli did. The colour drained slowly from his face. ‘My God,’ he whispered.

  ‘What is it, Mr Disraeli?’ Vincent asked. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Er . . . nothing,’ the Prime Minister said. ‘I . . . er . . . am just a little surprised at the dreadful handwriting of a Balliol man, that’s all.’

  ‘I’ll have a word with him about it,’ Vincent promised prematurely. ‘Oh, no . . .’

  Disraeli caught the stumble. ‘No?’

  ‘Er . . . have you . . . er . . . read The Times this morning, sir?’

  ‘I told you, you can’t believe a word that’s printed there. Why?’

  ‘Well, you may be right, sir, for I have received no report from Lestrade. But then . . .’

  ‘You’re talking in riddles, Mr Vincent,’ Disraeli snapped.

  ‘I’m sorry, Prime Minister. The Times of this morning reveals that Inspector Heneage is dead; found murdered by a roadside in Knaresborough.’

  ‘Recall Lestrade.’

  ‘That’s just it, sir. I already have. I wanted him to report in person, just to see how Heneage was shaping up – Mr Cross’s scheme for a bit of elitism in the Force, you know. And yet I can’t. He’s disappeared.’

  ‘Disappeared?’ Disraeli clawed for his stick and hauled himself upright. ‘How can a sergeant of detectives disappear?’

  ‘I’ll go to Yorkshire myself, sir, and find out.’

  ‘Do that,’ the Prime Minister snarled, staggering for the door. ‘Do that,’ and calmer now, ‘and do keep me informed, there’s a good fellow. I would very much like to talk to Mr Lestrade as a matter of some urgency.’

  ‘Leave it with me, sir,’ Vincent said. ‘The moment I find him, I’ll send him back to you, even if I have to conduct the case myself.’

  ‘Excellent, Director. Excellent. Mr Vincent’s in his Heaven and all’s right with the world.’

  ‘Tickety-boo,’ beamed Vincent in agreement.

  In the hallway, Disraeli met his Private Secretary, buckling under the weight of a recently arrived despatch. ‘Get a telegram off to that old bugger Cambridge,’ he snapped. ‘Tell him the Peelers have found the Prince Imperial. Then get me that private detective, what’s his name?’

  ‘Steele, sir. Oliver Steele.’

  ‘That’s right.
My study at Number Ten, five sharp. Whether he wants to know the time or not, I want to find a policeman.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’

  Howard Vincent had relaxed from the total rigidity he had assumed during Disraeli’s visit. After all, he was an ambitious man. Politics was indeed his next step. But when it came to toadying, Vincent was as green and as cold as his reptile.

  ‘Even so, Ignatius,’ Vincent lounged with his lizard, stroking its hideous head, ‘there’s something Mr Disraeli isn’t telling us, isn’t there? Something about the death of that man at Ilkley. My God,’ he leapt upright again, riffling frantically through the files. He slapped his forehead, infuriated by his own stupidity. ‘Of course,’ he said, ‘That’s it. A handkerchief with an embroidered “N”. A pocket watch saying “Don’t forget Eylau” and a letter to Louis and referring to The Shop. It’s him. The dead man at Ilkley is the Prince Imperial. My God! My God!’

  He sat down heavily. ‘Well why not?’ he said to the iguana. ‘Heneage is dead and Lestrade must be hopelessly out of his depth by now. Time I did some field work. Sorry, old thing,’ he packed the creature into a soggy cardboard box, ‘I don’t think the Yorkshire air would agree with you. Now, don’t look at me like that. It was the same when I had that invitation to Ireland last year. You didn’t like the Londonderry air, either, did you?’

  ‘How frightful, Emily,’ Jane Rudding said, ‘it’s simply too ghastly. I couldn’t bear to hear it again. Oh, well, then, just once. Where did you say they found him, that poor Inspector of Scotland Yard?’

  ‘By the side of the road,’ her companion told her, sipping her umpteenth cup of tea that morning. ‘Near the Dropping Well.’

  ‘The Dropping Well?’

  ‘Reputedly the birthplace of Old Mother Shipton, the prophetess of Knaresborough.’

  ‘Oh, yes – “And a world to an end shall come in eighteen hundred and eighty-one.” Two years to go. How depressing.’

  ‘Fiddlesticks, Jane. I happen to know that the original verse referred to seventeen hundred and eighty one. Or was it sixteen hundred? Either way, it hasn’t happened yet.’

  ‘Lisbon was pretty shaken, I suppose.’