by M. J. Trow
‘Neither, ma’am. But we of the Yard leave no stone unturned.’
Lady Cardigan was already on another tack. ‘If my memory serves me correctly, Hodges was also orderly for a time to John Douglas. He was colonel of the Eleventh at the time of Balaclava.’
‘Do you know where I might find him?’ Lestrade asked.
‘Aldershot,’ Lady Cardigan answered and again her lightning mind was up and away. She took Lestrade’s hand in hers and gazed into his steady eyes. ‘My family are afraid I will re-marry,’ she said. ‘That would scotch their inheritance plans. It would also solve my present insolvency. These old houses cost a small fortune to run, Inspector.’
‘Is that a proposal, ma’am?’ Lestrade asked.
‘Why not? It may not be a leap year, but I am the notorious Adeline Cardigan. People expect it of me.’
Lestrade patted her hand gently and rose.
‘I couldn’t afford you, ma’am,’ he smiled and turned to the Raleigh. The sight of the saddle unnerved him and he kissed Her Ladyship’s hand, bade her goodbye and walked, a little shakily, to the waiting trap.
LADY CARDIGAN WAS NOT being quite level with Lestrade. Yes, John Douglas, colonel of the Eleventh Hussars was to be found in the vast complex of camps at Aldershot, but he was mouldering in a stone vault, having passed away in 1871. Literally a dead end, thought Lestrade. Even so, for the record, he would dig a little deeper, in the metaphorical sense, to see what those at Aldershot could tell him about John Douglas or his orderly, Jim Hodges.
‘You’re talking about forty years ago,’ he heard as though on a phonograph countless times during the day. By nightfall he was about to retire to the cell-like visitors’ room in the sergeants’ quarters (the AQMG obviously didn’t feel that an inspector of police merited the more salubrious apartments in the officers’ block) when he bumped quite literally into an elderly gent who teetered gingerly along the kerb, trying valiantly to walk in a straight line and treading through the horse manure in the gutter.
‘Ah, thank you, dear boy.’ The elderly officer tipped his cap and regained the pavement. ‘I wunna if you’d be sho kind . . .?’ and he aimed his swagger-stick vaguely at the door in the nearest wall. He stumbled violently and only Lestrade’s presence saved him from smashing his head against the door frame. He spun round, on one leg, the other pirouetting like a skater in mid-turn, glaring accusingly at the ground. He bent nearly double, pointing threateningly at the grass.
‘I’ve been crossing thish threshold for nigh on fifty yearsh,’ he mumbled. ‘I’ve never notished that there before.’ He started upright, remembering that Lestrade was with him. ‘Ah, dear boy, you’re back. You have been sho kind. Would you like to join me for some liquid refes . . . liquid ref . . . a drink?’
‘Tell me, sir,’ said Lestrade, ‘did you know Colonel Douglas, late of the Eleventh Hussars?’
The old man swung up a leg extraordinarily high to reveal the crimson trousers of the Eleventh, before his balance got the better of him and he toppled gracefully back into the shrubbery. Lestrade lifted him out and helped him into his quarters. He fumbled for a lucifer and lit the lamp. The room was a little austere, but cluttered here and there with papers.
‘In the umbrella shtand,’ the gent called out as he gracefully collapsed across the bed. Lestrade found the bottle of Dewar’s and poured them both a glass.
‘Your very good health,’ slurred the old man, still prone, but his hand rock steady around the glass and his arm erect and firm, ‘Mr . . . er . . . Mr . . .?’
‘Lestrade, Sholto Lestrade.’
‘Solto?’ the old man asked.
‘Sholto,’ Lestrade repeated, moving a mountain of screwed-up papers in order to find a seat. ‘And you are?’
‘Drunk as a lord,’ the gent answered and by a feat of astonishing agility, poured the contents of the glass from where it was into his mouth.
He sat up.
‘Allow me to introduce myself. The Reverend Wilberforshe Battye, late chaplain to the Eleventh, Prinsh Albert’sh Own Hussarsh. At leasht,’ he rose uncertainly to his feet, ‘that’sh what it saysh on this dinner invitation,’ and he waved his glass vaguely at a card pinned to the wall, ‘doeshn’t it?’
‘So you knew Colonel Douglas?’ Lestrade asked.
‘Who? Oh, yesh. I knew John. Funny thing,’ he poured himself another Scotch, ‘he had the shame name as you, y’know. Solto. Not related, are you?’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Lestrade.
‘Matter of fact,’ he peered under the rim of Lestrade’s bowler, ‘you don’t look unlike him, y’know. He was taller. I’d shay. And of courshe, he had a noshe.’
‘A noshe?’
‘Yesh,’ and the chaplain waved an inebriated finger somewhere between his eyes.
‘Did you also know his orderly, James Hodges?’
‘Never heard of him.’
Lestrade drew another Scotch, to drown his sorrows. It had been a long shot, of course. He had no right to be disappointed, really. The chances of this old wreck having anything to help his case were pretty remote. The old man fell back on to his bed again. Lestrade took off Battye’s peaked forage cap, folded his arms across his chest and crept towards the door.
‘Mind you,’ the chaplain suddenly came to life, ‘I’ve always sushpected him of killing Alex Dunn, you know.’ His arms flopped down again and he began snoring, loudly, erratically.
Lestrade closed the door and silently began knocking his head against the wall. Who was Alex Dunn? John Douglas a murderer? Why should he bring up murder? Lestrade had not told Chaplain Battye that he was a policeman. He ransacked the rooms to find tea, coffee, anything to sober the old fool up. His hand found a bottle of Vino Sacro, and a voice behind him said, ‘That’ll do nishely,’ and the chaplain, eyes still closed, held out his glass for a drop. He drank it down, then sat up, demanding another. It followed the first.
‘It’sh a funny thing,’ he said. ‘The only thing that bringsh me round ish Vino Shacro. The waysh of the Lord are shtrange. Cheers. God Bless,’ and he downed a third, shaking his head, blinking to clear his vision. ‘Now, what did you want to know?’
‘You mentioned something about John Douglas having murdered Alex Dunn.’
‘Did I?’ The chaplain was trying hard to recollect. The Communion wine had obviously sharpened him more than somewhat, because he suddenly said, ‘Now, why should that be of interest to you?’
‘Because I am from Shcot . . . Scotland Yard,’ said Lestrade, ‘and murder is my business.’
‘Ah, well,’ the chaplain cleared his throat, ‘it’sh a long shtory.’
‘I have all night,’ said Lestrade and settled himself down.
‘Alex Dunn was the mosht brilliant officer in the Eleventh in thoshe daysh.’ He downed a fourth which clarified his sibilance instantaneously. ‘Tall, handsome, debonair. I had only been with the regiment a few months. My first commission. Dunn took me under his wing, as he did with all new boys. I can see him now, laughing at the head of his troop, six foot two, he stood. Shoulders like lecterns. One helluva . . . oh, pardon me . . . one devil of a swordsman. Born to horses of course, they all were in those days. Not like these whippersnappers of today. Public school johnnies. Wet behind the ears, most of them. They don’t know one end of a horse from another.’
‘Dunn?’ Lestrade reminded him.
‘Well, yes, some of them are. But the Eleventh ride chestnuts mostly. Anyway, to get back to Alex Dunn. I’m not one for gossip, you understand, but that’s why Douglas didn’t like him. He always fancied himself as a bit of a beau sabreur, but he wasn’t in Dunn’s class. And then, when he took up with Rosa . . .’
‘Rosa?’ Lestrade repeated. That was the name of the ship moored at Cromer Lighthouse at the time of Bentley’s death.
The chaplain reached across for a fifth Vino Sacro, but Lestrade clamped his hand firmly over the glass. Battye continued to pour it over his fingers and was surprised to find nothing trickling down his
throat as he knocked the glass back.
‘Douglas’ wife. She fell for Alex Dunn hook line and sinker. Talk of the regiment, it was. She left Douglas eventually and went to live in Canada with Dunn.’
‘When did Dunn die, and how?’
‘Eighteen sixty-eight, I think it was.’ The same year as Cardigan, thought Lestrade, if Lady Cardigan’s mental calculation had been correct. Coincidence? Perhaps. ‘A hunting accident, apparently. Shotgun. Very nasty. Of course, he was with the Thirty-third by then. God knows where they are stationed now.’
‘The Thirty-third?’ asked Lestrade.
‘Oh, what’s this new-fangled name for it? The Duke of Wellington’s Regiment, is it? I don’t know.’
‘And you think Douglas pulled the trigger?’
‘That was the rumour at the time. But I’m a charitable man, Solto. I prefer to think it was an accident. Of course, Rosa could tell you.’
‘Rosa Douglas is still alive?’
‘Yes, I think so. The last I heard she lived Warwickshire way. A village called Tysoe. But tell me, Solto, why are you chaps looking into all this now? It’s been years.’
‘The machinery of justice grinds slow,’ said Lestrade, proud of that piece of philosophy. ‘And you’re sure you didn’t know the name James Hodges?’
‘Solto.’ Chaplain Battye staggered to his feet. ‘There are times when I’m not quite sure of my own,’ and he fell back, snoring rapturously, on the bed.
IT WAS A NOISE LESTRADE had not often heard before. And never at five o’clock. It fitted in well with his dreams. A voluptuous woman was kneeling naked at the foot of his bed, breasts full and rising with desire, legs opening as he watched. When suddenly, for no reason that he could fathom, she brought two brass cymbals clanging on both sides of his head. He was standing upright, his forehead having collided with the ceiling, and his erection having crunched against the wall, when he woke up fully. Cymbals and siren were gone and in their stead the realisation that it was a bugle he was hearing.
He ripped aside the curtain to see a soldier, sickeningly smart in scarlet, blasting the reveille for all he was worth across the expanses of Laffan’s Plain.
Why? mused Lestrade as he subsided in his nightshirt, why at five o’clock? And why outside his window?
Breakfast consisted of toast and black coffee, the milk having failed to arrive as it was too early for the milk train. Lestrade endeavoured to stay awake. Was this not the man who had hunted the Tammanwool? Who had ridden to hounds with a murderous pack in the Struwwelpeter case? Who had flown almost single-handed in a balloon over the Pennines in search of his quarry in the Adair Affair? No, he thought, as he dropped coffee on his tie, probably not.
That morning he would make for Warwickshire again and perhaps revisit Lady Cardigan in the process. The plot, for such the novelists called it, was beginning to thicken, for such was the cliché they used. What would John Watson make of this? And Conan Doyle? Probably rather more money than he would by attempting to solve it.
First, he must drag his weary carcass to the station. The logistics of reaching Tysoe were complicated. He even began to toy with hiring a bicycle, but that was too hearty. Better stick to the safety of train and trap.
‘Inspector Lestrade.’ A voice behind him made him turn.
‘Yes.’ He was grateful to drop the Gladstone bag, feeling he could not impose on some woebegotten recruit to carry it for him. He saw a slim young man, perhaps twenty, standing before him in the uniform of an officer cadet from the Military College at nearby Sandhurst. The young man clicked his heels and saluted briskly, ‘My name is Churchill, sir. Winston Churchill. Would you accept a lift?’ And the cadet extended a hand to a waiting trap nearby.
Any port in a storm, thought Lestrade, mixing metaphors and Forces just a little. But as he suspected, there was an ulterior motive. As they lurched off across Laffan’s Plain, it became clear.
‘Actually, our meeting like this isn’t exactly chance.’
Here we go, thought Lestrade.
‘You see, I shall be twenty next birthday and I haven’t done anything with my life yet. The truth is, I can’t decide whether to become a field marshal or Home Secretary. Either way, I shall have to get a medal pretty soon or there’ll be no point at all. Some of the chaps around here were saying that you’re interested in Colonel Douglas and the Eleventh Hussars.’
‘That’s right,’ said Lestrade.
‘Well, look, if I’m going to become Home Secretary, I shall be giving orders to chaps like you, won’t I?’
‘In theory,’ Lestrade agreed.
‘So I thought I might tag along with you, sort of find out what you chappies do for a living. All right?’
‘No, Mr Churchill, I’m afraid it isn’t,’ and Lestrade pulled the horse up. ‘You see, I am engaged in a murder enquiry. And such things are always confidential.’
‘At least, let me buy you a drink. My local is only a few miles up the road. It won’t take long.’
‘I really ought . . .’
‘Nonsense,’ and the cadet cracked the whip and sent the horse cantering along the road to Sandhurst. They alighted at the White Swan a little before eleven and Churchill led the way to the tap room. After the merciless heat of Laffan’s Plain, the coolness of the deserted inn was joy itself. There was silence apart from the ticking of the grandfather clock and Lestrade took advantage of Churchill’s temporary absence to stretch his legs before the gaping darkness of the empty fireplace. Young Churchill’s driving was not as immaculate as it might have been and various parts of Lestrade were decidedly numb. The cadet returned with a ruddy-faced man in a white apron, carrying a tray with three pewter mugs, filled to the brim with local ale.
‘That’ll be eightpence ha’penny, please.’ The barman held out his hand to Lestrade.
‘I’m sorry, Inspector,’ said Churchill. ‘My allowance hasn’t arrived yet this month. Father is none too well at the moment.’
Reluctantly, Lestrade ferreted in his pocket for the cash. He found ninepence and said magnanimously, ‘Keep the change.’
The barman’s face registered his undying gratitude, but to Lestrade’s slight surprise he sat down and made it obvious who the third jar was for.
‘Allow me to introduce Mine Host,’ beamed Churchill. ‘Mr David Grantham, Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard.’
Mine Host mumbled something in his beer.
‘Show him your leg, Grantham,’ said Churchill.
Lestrade wondered what sort of young man they were taking at Sandhurst nowadays. The publican rolled up his trouser leg to reveal a livid white scar across his shin and ankle. He thought he had detected a limp as he had entered the room.
‘Now the wrist.’ A similar scar appeared.
‘Very nice,’ said Lestrade, on whom these obviously very ancient injuries were lost.
‘What made those, Grantham?’ asked Churchill, as though putting a forward child through its paces, a party-piece for doting grandparents.
‘A sabre, sir.’
‘And where did you get those scars, Grantham?’
‘At Balaclava, sir, a-serving of Her Majesty the Queen.’
‘And which regiment were you with, Grantham?’ Churchill noted with triumph Lestrade’s growing interest.
‘The Eleventh Prince Albert’s Own Hussars, sir.’
Churchill rested back in his chair, his victory complete. Lestrade flashed him a glance. ‘Remind me to have a word with the Queen,’ he said, ‘about your promotion to Home Secretary. Now, Mr Grantham, how about another drink?’
The story unfolded, haltingly, between beers, while ‘the girl’ to whom old Grantham constantly referred, manfully served the steady stream of off-duty soldiery in the other bar. Churchill, with what Lestrade soon realised was customary savvy, had placed a makeshift notice on the door saying ‘Closed’.
David Grantham had enlisted in the Eleventh Hussars in 1850. He had served in F Troop for the first three years, biting the tan with the rest o
f them, and more than once had felt the lash for slipshod appearance, at Hounslow and Brighton. One particular bastard he remembered, Sergeant-Major Loy Smith, a hard man who picked on people for no reason. Grantham had never been more grateful than when he had been transferred to C Troop, out of Loy Smith’s clutches. Then he heard the bastard sergeant-major had begun using a Welshman named Hope as his whipping boy. Grantham was circumspect about Dunn. He too remembered Dunn as a handsome man, casual, careless even, but all right for an officer. Of Colonel Douglas he remembered little – fair, courteous, not a hard man by the standard of the times. It was rumoured they didn’t get on. But that was of little interest to the common soldier. And it was forty years ago.
‘The girl’, a pretty slip of a thing who made eyes at young Churchill, brought them the umpteenth beer as Grantham switched his reminiscences to the surgeons of the regiment.
‘A right lot they were. Wilkins, Crosse, the others. Did a proper job on my leg. Why, that’s why I still limp today. Sabre wounds should have healed better than that. Doctors! They’re all the same.’
Lestrade could learn no more. Yes, Grantham had known Jim Hodges, but not well. He had had a reputation of being a joker and ex-private Grantham had no sense of humour whatever. He wasn’t sure he’d keep his present job for long. His customers found him morose, he said, taciturn even. He’d probably end his days in the workhouse.
‘I’m heartily sorry for you,’ said Lestrade with feeling.
It was on his way out that one of those ludicrous accidents that seemed only to happen to Sholto Lestrade happened. As he reached the door of the White Swan, a passing sergeant dropped his swagger-stick. It rolled under Lestrade’s feet and for a moment the inspector teetered on it like an acrobat at the circus. Then he collapsed backwards, jarring his back as he did so, spilling the contents of a spittoon over his jacket. Churchill, suppressing a fit of the giggles as best he could, helped him to his feet.
‘Are you all right, Inspector?’
‘Thank you, Mr Churchill. By the way, if when you retire at a grand old age from the post of Home Secretary or general or whatever it is you are going to be and you write your memoirs, publish one word about me ending up “head first in a spittoon” and I swear I’ll rise up from my grave and haunt you.’