by M. J. Trow
‘I wish I knew,’ said Lestrade. ‘Gregson’s always been a fanatic, but I can’t understand Frost backing him this way. I’d got him down for a shrewder man.’
‘What happens now?’ Beeson asked.
‘We work our way through the list. All the members of F Troop. I want to know everything about them. Right down to their inside legs.’
‘I don’t know, sir. It’s been forty years.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me you were with this outfit in the first place?’ Lestrade asked him.
‘I told you I’d known Joe Towers in the army. I didn’t think it was relevant beyond that. Anyway, sir, how did you think I got the name Beastie?’
‘Your surname, I always supposed.’
‘Nah,’ the ex-sergeant of police drawled. ‘I transferred to the Twelfth Lancers after the Crimea. Did a spell in India. “Bhisti” is the Hindoo name for a water-carrier. God knows why it stuck to me, but it did.’
‘All right. This is what we’ve got. The officers . . .’
‘I didn’t know them all, sir. You just didn’t talk to officers in them days. I don’t suppose you do now.’
‘I’ve got a sergeant named Charlo from the Yard still willing to speak to me. He got access to the War Office. He waited until lunch-hour, nobody much about, then claimed to be anxious to trace a missing relative. It worked a charm, really. God knows what secrets he might be able to uncover just for the asking. Makes you realise why Gregson is so insane. National security, and all that. Anyway, he came up with a few deaths. There’s no way of telling now whether they were natural or odd. Here goes,’ Lestrade read off the list, crossing out the deceased as he went, ‘Captain Edwin Adolphus Cook, died eighteen seventy-two. Lieutenant Alexander Dunn. Yes, well, I know about him. Died eighteen sixty-eight. Lieutenant Edward Harnett. I didn’t know he was in F Troop. Still alive. He’s helped on the case already. Lieutenant Roger Palmer. Remember him?’
‘Yes, Jowett saved his life in the Charge. Fair man, if I remember right, but you must remember I was only in F Troop for a few weeks.’
‘At the time of the Charge?’
‘No, I was in D Troop then. What’s the importance of F Troop?’
‘If I knew that, Beastie, I’d have our man. Palmer is a lieutenant-general now apparently. He’s got more property than you’ve made arrests – Ireland, Wales, Berkshire. I’d need time and the Yard behind me even to track him down. Lieutenant Harrington Trevelyan. Retired. Now residing in Fresno, California.’
‘Where’s that, sir?’
‘West of Pimlico, I think you’ll find, sergeant. Ah, now that’s interesting.’
‘Pimlico?’
‘No. “Poppy” isn’t here. No mention of Vansittart, so either he wasn’t with F Troop or he didn’t ride the Charge.’
‘That’s right, sir.’
‘Which?’
‘Both. He was in my troop and if I remember, he was at Scutari at the time.’
‘Scutari?’ Links were forging themselves in Lestrade’s addled brain.
‘The hospital base, sir. On the Black Sea.’
‘Yes, yes. I know. A little east of Pimlico. Was Miss Nightingale there then?’
‘I believe so, sir, towards the end of Lieutenant Vansittart’s time. He retired soon after, I believe.’
‘Funny she didn’t mention him. Still, I didn’t ask her directly.’
‘Funny he never married.’
Lestrade had heard that statement somewhere before.
‘Ah, now, two surgeons with F Troop. Henry Wilkin. He rode the Charge.’
‘Yes, sir, he did. He left the medical service the year after Balaclava. Always wanted to be a serving soldier.’
‘He died two years ago.’
‘Brave man. Should have got a VC in Hindia.’
‘Do you remember John Crosse?’
‘Not really, sir; except he runs the fund now.’
‘Fund?’
‘Yes, sir, for the survivors of the Light Brigade.’
‘Beastie, what a mine of information you are. How much is this fund? Who puts up the money?’
‘Well, I don’t rightly know, sir, except that Dr Crosse administers it.’
‘Have you ever had cause to claim, Beastie?’
Lestrade had touched the old man’s pride. ‘Love you no, sir. I’d crawl in the gutter first. I’ve never taken charity in my life. Too old to start now.’
Lestrade was racing ahead. ‘Don’t you see, Beastie? Money. Money gives us a motive. The first one I’ve got, anyway. Surgeon Crosse merits a visit. Let’s go on. Sergeant-Major George Loy Smith.’
‘Bastard, he was. Tough old soldier. Joe went in mortal fear of him, I remember.’
‘From what I’ve heard, you all did. He died in Bart’s, what . . . five years ago.’
‘Serves him right. I’ve never liked beefeaters.’
‘Is that what he became?’
‘Yers.’ Beeson spat his tobacco quid in the grate. ‘I seen him once at the Tower when I were on duty. Told me to push off or he’d knock my helmet off with his halberd. He never forgave or forgot anything; his sort never do.’
And so they worked on through the list of the dead, wringing Beeson’s memory for all it was worth on the living. It was dark when they had finished.
‘What do you think then, sir?’
‘We’ve got somebody who knows poisons. That points to a surgeon. If it’s somebody in F Troop, my money is on Crosse. He also holds sums of money, perhaps considerable sums. How he gains financially from the murders, I don’t know – yet. We’ve got somebody who can travel easily around the country, apparently at will. That points to someone with private means or at least no regular employment. But the fact that this somebody can get close to Mrs Lawrenson, slip her poisoned tobacco. Can also get unnoticed into a lighthouse from a foreign ship. Can wander around a country estate and smear poison on bramble hedges. We might just have a—’
‘A master of disguise,’ Beeson broke in. ‘I remember reading a story in the Strand Magazine about this man—’
‘Professor Moriarty?’
‘That’s right!’ Beeson was amazed. ‘How did you know, sir? Have you read the story too?’
‘No, I haven’t,’ sighed Lestrade. ‘Just a lucky guess. I don’t think we need to stoop to the mythology of the late Mr Holmes.’
‘But he could be an actor, sir, couldn’t he?’
‘Why do you say that?’ Lestrade thought he saw a spark of connection flashing round Beeson’s head.
‘One of the names on your list, sir. William Pennington.’
‘What about him?’
‘He’s an actor now, sir. I have heard him described as Mr Gladstone’s favourite tragedian.’
‘That William Pennington.’ Recognition dawned on Lestrade too. ‘Now, that is interesting, Beastie. Good man.’
‘There’s something else, sir. You mentioned a while ago that as he died, Henry Hope said “C-r-o”. Well, all right, that’s Crosse, obviously. But he also said “Kill”. Am I right?’
Lestrade nodded.
‘What did you take that to mean, sir?’
‘Well, that Crosse, if that’s who it is, had something to do with these deaths.’ Lestrade couldn’t accept that Beeson had slowed up that much.
‘Right. That’s what I took it to mean too. But what if it doesn’t? Your list has the name of Corporal John Kilvert. What if Hope was trying to say Kilvert?’
Lestrade sat in silence. Then he grabbed the list. ‘He’s still alive all right. The Mayor of Wednesbury.’
‘Where, sir?’
‘That’s north of Pimlico, Beastie.’
‘We’ve got three men, sir – Crosse, Kilvert and Pennington. Placing any bets?’
‘There are shorter odds on me staying free until the morning. Beastie, I want you to do something for me. Send a telegram, will you? I’ll write it down. I should have gone to the wedding of a friend of mine recently, but what with the way things are
> ‘I’m sure he’ll understand, sir. Oh, by the way. You’ll laugh at this.’
There wasn’t much Lestrade felt like laughing at.
‘I’ve agreed to sit for Lady Butler, the artist who does the military paintings. She’s doing one – a “Waterloo Roll-call” – and heard I was an ex-soldier. She knows Pennington too.’
‘Does she now?’ Lestrade was more professionally interested than amused at the prospect of Beastie in theatrical uniform seated on a wooden horse.
‘Oh, yes. He was the central figure in her Charge picture. Funny how people suddenly want to know all about the Light Brigade. But there’s somebody killing us. Even those who are already dying in workhouses are targets.’
‘When do you go for your sitting?’
Beastie consulted the letter. ‘Next Thursday, at ten.’
‘I’ll come with you if I can,’ and he slipped on his beard and moustache, glancing at Lady B’s address.
‘Where will you be in the meantime, sir? Er . . . in case anybody asks, like.’
Lestrade chuckled. ‘Wednesbury. It’s time I met Mayor Kilvert.’
‘You’ll meet him soon anyway, if you want to.’
Lestrade frowned.
‘The one place you’ll find us all together. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before – the Annual Reunion Dinner.’ Lestrade dropped his ringlets.
‘Beastie, you never cease to amaze me. When is this?’
‘The twenty-fifth of October, sir, of course. Balaclava Day. That was a day to remember.’
THEY MADE TUBES IN Wednesbury. And boilers. And iron plates. Lestrade guessed they very probably wouldn’t have a very large Jewish community so a rabbi, particularly one who habitually bumped into things, might attract too much attention. On the other hand, the papers now carried the information that Lestrade was posing as Inspector Athelney Jones, so he would be unwise to use that one. He decided instead to go one better. He arrived in Wednesbury as Chief Inspector Abberline, the man who made his name, about the only one who did, in the Ripper case of ‘88. Sergeant Charlo sent in to the Yard to say he was sick and caught the train with him. Lestrade was impressed by the man’s loyalty and the chances he took.
But they had arrived nearly too late.
A manservant told them that the Kilvert family were at church, attending a funeral. Mrs Kilvert had died the previous week. Lestrade and Charlo joined the mourners by the graveside at St Bartholomew’s Church. ‘Earth to earth, ashes to ashes . . .’ How often had Lestrade heard those words? He assessed the mourners. Solid, respectable, middle-class men and women. Dignitaries from the environs. All the brass of the Potteries. Staffordshire’s finest. As soon as was decent, Lestrade buttonholed the man with the mayoral chain, John Ashley Kilvert, formerly Eleventh Hussars.
‘Chief Inspector,’ the mayor shook his hand. ‘I’d no idea the Yard was to be called in.’
Lestrade did not know what he was talking about.
‘Oh, yes,’ he said.
‘Have you any news, then?’
‘No.’ Lestrade tried to sound vague at moments like these.
‘Shall we talk in my carriage? I’ve said my goodbyes to my wife already. She’ll not miss me for a moment.’ The mayor and the inspector strolled towards the black-draped brougham. ‘You know, I still can’t quite believe it. I can trace my family back to the Conqueror. Nine hundred years. And it all comes down to this in the end.’
Lestrade nodded in sympathy, desperately hoping for a clue from Kilvert.
‘I always wanted to be Mayor of Nottingham, you know. I’ll have to settle for Wednesbury now, I suppose. It’s a shame Alfreda won’t be here to share it with me.’
‘Alfreda?’
‘My wife, Chief Inspector. Surely the chief constable has filled you in?’
‘Not exactly.’ Here was Lestrade’s opening.
‘Oh, I see. Well, painful as this is, I suppose it has to be done. It was a week ago yesterday. Alfreda had a restless night. She doesn’t . . . didn’t sleep too well. Back trouble, you see. Well, it was all those crates of spirits she used to carry. We ran a pub in the old days. I worked for a wine and spirit merchant. Anyway, that day she was up and helped Emily – our maid – with the breakfast. I was about to sit down and eat, when a deputation from the Tube Makers’ Union arrived. I am a man of affairs, Chief Inspector – oh, that’s municipal, not extra-marital, by the way. Anyway, by the time I returned, Alfreda was complaining of stomach pains. As the morning progressed, they grew worse. She died at lunch-time, as the clock struck twelve.’ Kilvert steadied himself against a tree.
‘She was poisoned.’ Lestrade was after confirmation.
‘Nicotine, the coroner said. Her end was very painful.’
And prolonged, thought Lestrade. He knew that nicotine usually worked very quickly.
‘Her face swelled up . . .’ Kilvert’s voice drained away.
‘Mr Kilvert, I have called at a dreadful time for you, but circumstances dictate that I must be quick. Am I right in assuming that you served in F Troop, Eleventh Hussars in the Crimea?’
‘Well, yes, but—’
‘You knew men like Joe Towers, Bill Bentley, Richard Brown, Jim Hodges, Bill Lamb . . . ?’
‘Yes, I did, but—’
‘Did you know Henry Hope?’
‘Very well. Inspector, what has all this to do with the death of my wife?’
‘For the moment, sir, I will ask the questions, if you don’t mind.’ In his haste, Lestrade was descending to cliché. ‘You say your wife and the maid prepared breakfast?’
‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘What was it?’
‘Er . . . coffee, eggs, scrambled, I think, on toast.’
‘Is that your usual breakfast?’
‘It varies . . .’
‘Could the coroner say in what part of the breakfast the poison was contained?’
‘No, he could not. You must have read the report?’
‘Just double checking,’ Lestrade lied. ‘This maid, Emily, how long has she been with you?’
‘Nearly twelve years.’
‘Is she trustworthy?’
‘Totally. At any rate, she doesn’t go around poisoning her employer.’
‘Have there been any strangers at your home recently, say, within the last month?’
‘Good God, man, I don’t know. As I told you, I am a man of affairs. A municipality of this size doesn’t run itself, you know.’
‘I’m sure not.’
‘Chief Inspector, what has all this about the Eleventh to do with my wife’s death?’
Lestrade scanned the cemetery. There was no sign of a uniform. And no one he would immediately place in a plain-clothed category either, except Charlo, trying to look like a mourner and keep abreast of his guv’nor’s conversation.
‘Your wife’s death was an accident, Mr Kilvert. Or at least it was by the way.’
‘By the way? How dare you, sir!’
‘Don’t misunderstand me. You were the murderer’s target, not your wife. Were it not for the timely arrival of the Tube Makers’ Union, they would be laying you to rest today as well.’
Kilvert looked astounded. ‘Well, I know I have enemies on the Council, but this . . .’
‘I don’t think this is municipal murder, Mayor. You – or your wife rather, by accident – are but one link in a chain. A chain that runs right back to the Eleventh Hussars and the Crimea. The names I mentioned earlier – Towers, Bentley and the rest. All of them have died violently in the past months. What is the link? You were all in F Troop. You all rode in the Charge of the Light Brigade. Who wants to see you dead? Think!’
Lestrade relaxed his grip on Kilvert’s velvet lapel. The mayor was frowning, racking his brain. Then his frown vanished. He straightened. His face turned the colour of the ashes to which the vicar had referred. His eyes assumed a faraway, sightless look. ‘The golden dawn,’ he whispered. Lestrade searched the sky. It was mid-afternoon. It was drizzling.
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‘What?’
The mayor turned away, like a man possessed.
‘What did you say, Kilvert?’ Lestrade now doubted his ears.
‘Nothing,’ the mayor answered, dumbly. ‘Leave me, Chief Inspector Abberline, to mourn my wife.’
Charlo was at Lestrade’s side. ‘What is it, Inspector?’
‘I don’t know, Charlo. He said “the golden dawn”. What does that mean to you?’
Charlo sought carefully for the right words. ‘Nothing,’ he said.
THE BEARSKIN DID NOTHING for Ben Beeson. He sat on the arm of a sofa, head tilted to one side, hands resting on the rim of an aspidistra pot.
‘I know you were a cavalryman,’ Lady Butler was saying, ‘but I do hope you don’t mind posing as a guardsman for this one. Rabbi, do you like it?’
Lestrade had come as a rather unlikely friend of Beeson’s and a connoisseur of art. And he was now heartily regretting the whole thing. He pressed his nose against the canvas, the thick glasses delineating only the vaguest of outlines.
‘Delightful, delightful.’ Lestrade was lisping, hoping Her Ladyship had not had much regular conversation with Jews. Especially art-loving rabbis.
‘It’s to be called “The Dawn of Waterloo”,’ Lady Butler glowed, smearing the contents of the yellow ochre the length of her smock. ‘Or is this one “Steady the Drums and Fifes”?’
‘Foggy, was it?’ Lestrade continued, ‘the morning of Waterloo?’
‘Foggy?’ Lady B’s tone was a little too brittle to allow Lestrade to think he was still on the straight and narrow. ‘Oh, I see. My dear man, no, these are but the preliminary sketches. I shan’t use this canvas at all.’
‘How long will this take, mum?’ Beeson began to feel himself distinctly uncomfortable under the bearskin.
‘About three years,’ she said confidently. Beeson’s eyes crossed and he resigned himself to a long wait.
‘When did you begin to paint soldiers, my lady?’ Lestrade ingratiated, stopping short of actually rubbing his hands together.
‘Oh, let me see.’ She flicked charcoal effortlessly over the canvas. ‘It must have been eighteen seventy-two. Yes, that was it. I was watching some manoeuvres. General Butler’s influence, you see. I do so love the way soldiers move, don’t you?’