Last Nocturne

by M. J. Trow

  Wonderful things, rhododendron bushes. They rose to unprecedented heights if unchecked, produced a plethora of brightly painted blooms and, from time to time, concealed dead bodies. To be fair to Sergeant Simmons, he hadn’t actually found the last one – Constable McIndoe had – but Simmons was damned if he was going to let a rookie of the Scottish persuasion steal his thunder. After Clara Jenkins, however, things were a little different. Newshounds had arrived at the Cremorne in gigs, barouches, hansoms and cabriolets. Notepads had emerged from pockets, pencil stubs scurried across paper. Every now and then, there had been the flash of a camera and Fleet Street’s finest artists, when not caricaturing Lord Beaconsfield and Otto von Bismarck, were busy sketching trees and shrubs, jotting down notes like ‘Where the Dead Woman Lay’.

  Because of the press hoo-ha, there had been talk of locking the gates at night, but the League for the Right to Wander had threatened to glue themselves to railings if such draconian measures were introduced, so the Cremorne authorities had backed down. What had happened, however, was that Detective Constable Barnes, backed by no less an authority than Chief Inspector Dolly Williamson, had insisted that should, horror upon horrors, another victim appear, no one was to touch said body until a detective arrived; a detective with at least five years’ experience.

  So, when Simmons literally stumbled over the feet sticking out from under a rhododendron bush, he bit back the urge to investigate by himself, straightened up and shook his rattle high over his head. The noise was such that the dead woman herself might have got up to complain. As it was, a sash window overlooking the Gardens slid upward and an angry head poked out. ‘Oi. You! What d’you think you’re doing?’

  ‘Making sure that citizens like you can sleep safe in your beds, you bloody ingrate!’ and he rattled some more. The noise was added to by the familiar pounding of beat feet; not one, but two coppers coming at the gallop, truncheons at the ready, bullseyes’ beams darting in all directions.

  ‘What kept you, Mitchell?’ Simmons snapped. ‘I’ve been rattling here for minutes.’

  ‘Sorry, Sarge.’ Mitchell was humility itself.

  ‘Get yourself over to the station,’ the sergeant growled. ‘It’ll be raining soon, no doubt, and Mr Latimer will want to see this.’

  And the constable was gone.

  As it happened, Detective Sergeant Latimer, he of the necessary five years’ experience, was out on another case, so that nice Mr Barnes came back with Mitchell, apologizing profusely to Simmons for not having enough years under his belt. Even so, Barnes had grown up considerably since his encounter with Clara Jenkins, and he immediately asserted his authority on this case.

  ‘Well, haul her out, Mitchell and … you.’ He’d forgotten the other constable’s name. ‘Let’s see what we’ve got.’

  The men obliged, one at one ankle, the other at the other, and they slid the body out onto the grass. ‘Hold that light steady,’ Barnes said, and watched as the bullseye beam trailed up to the head and down again. The boy detective was no happier about being so close to death than he had been a week ago, but there were standards and he knew he needed to impress.

  ‘Height,’ he cleared his throat, ‘five foot nine. Hm, tall for a tart. Don’t write that down, Mitchell,’ he snapped. ‘Just the height. Blonde. Too much mascara.’ He peered at the heavy eyelids and the sightless eyes stared back at him. ‘Overdone the lipstick, too.’

  ‘Sir …’ Sergeant Simmons began, but Barnes raised a forefinger.

  ‘Not now, Simmons,’ he said, ‘I’m concentrating.’

  ‘I think …’

  ‘I’m sure you do,’ Barnes said, ‘but this is one for the detective branch, I’m afraid. Constable,’ he barked at the one who wasn’t Mitchell, ‘form a cordon or something around those bushes, will you? We don’t want members of the public trampling all over the place.’

  For the life of him, the one who wasn’t Mitchell couldn’t see how he could form a cordon all by himself with no rope of any kind, but he saluted and made himself scarce.

  ‘No signs of strangulation,’ Barnes said, checking the neck. ‘Neckline unruffled. No sign of … interference with the breasts.’

  ‘That’s because …’ Simmons was trying to make life easier for the detective, but Barnes wasn’t having any.

  ‘No blood.’ Barnes held up the fingers. ‘No broken nails, so perhaps the lady didn’t put up much of a fight. Aha!’ He clicked his fingers. ‘She knew her attacker. So, she was a lady of the night and he was a regular client. Mitchell,’ he glanced up at the man furiously writing in his notepad with the aid of the darting beam, ‘how can we prove that this was a lady of the night?’

  ‘Er …’ Mitchell wasn’t sure.

  ‘Detective Constable Barnes,’ Simmons tried to cut in.

  ‘Don’t worry, Sergeant,’ Barnes grinned, pride in his work growing by the second. ‘I’ve got this.’ He reached down and hauled up the victim’s skirts, sliding his hands up her right thigh. ‘We know that she was a lady of the night because she’s not wearing any … oh, my God!’ Barnes whipped his hand away and stood upright, shaking with disbelief.

  ‘Because,’ Simmons at last had a chance to say something, ‘this particular lady of the night is … was … a man.’ He held up a leather wallet. ‘As is obvious from the calling card I found in this, neatly tucked into the deceased’s waistband. Difficult to read in this light,’ he focused his bullseye on it, ‘ah, yes, here we go,’ and he read the name aloud. ‘Lieutenant Anstruther Peebles, Twenty-First Hussars.’

  The other two policemen looked at each other.

  ‘Now, of course,’ Simmons went on, ‘it may be that our “lady” here found or purloined the wallet of said Lieutenant Peebles along with the wad of cash it also contains. But I assume, sir, that your ejaculation of a moment ago when rummaging in the deceased’s folderols was evinced by the fact that she has rather unusual wedding tackle.’

  Barnes nodded, swallowing hard. ‘It’s a man,’ he said, ‘without any doubt.’

  ‘So,’ Simmons said, ‘all we need to do now is to discover why Lieutenant Anstruther Peebles is not as other officers of the Twenty-First Hussars. When we’ve done that, Mr Barnes, we may have our killer.’

  The policemen looked down at the wreck of a human being at their feet. Now, Anstruther Peebles was not merely dead to Willoughby Inverarity; he was dead to everybody.

  FIVE

  The 21st Hussars were the newest cavalry regiment in the British army. Grand and Batchelor went together to find Lieutenant Peebles, in Grand’s case to continue a conversation he had begun with Inverarity. The regiment’s insignia shone in burnished brass on the barracks gatepost, and under it some wag had daubed, in black paint, the unofficial motto of a regiment that had yet to see active service, ‘Thou shalt not kill’. Cruel, but not unjustified in the world of inter-regimental rivalry.

  The adjutant, all shoulder-chains and attitude, was unimpressed by the pair’s calling card.

  ‘May I ask why you wish to see Lieutenant Peebles?’ he said.

  ‘You may,’ Grand conceded, but went no further than that.

  ‘Is there a problem?’ Batchelor asked.

  ‘Indeed there is,’ the adjutant bridled. ‘I have to tell you, gentlemen, that Lieutenant Peebles is no longer on the regimental roll.’

  ‘Really?’ Grand was not too surprised to hear that. ‘Resigned his commission?’

  ‘Resigned his life,’ the adjutant said. ‘He’s dead.’

  Grand and Batchelor looked at each other. ‘Suicide?’ Batchelor queried.

  ‘Foul play,’ the adjutant said. ‘It’s all over the papers. I wonder you gentlemen, as’ – he read the card again – ‘enquiry agents … missed it.’

  Grand and Batchelor metaphorically kicked themselves. Of all mornings not to have read the newspapers, beautifully ironed as they always were. But the imperative to get on the trail of Anstruther Peebles had made them rush off without even a bite of toast. It was annoying to thin
k of the vital news still waiting, folded and immaculate, on their abandoned breakfast table.

  ‘What happened?’ Grand asked.

  ‘I am not at liberty to divulge anything, gentlemen. As I have already made clear to umpteen gentlemen of the press. Good morning.’

  Out on the pavement, Grand and Batchelor were at a loss. They were used to their plans for any day of the week going awry, but not normally by nine o’clock or thereabouts in the morning. Fleet Street seemed the next rational choice, but between where they stood and the newspaper capital lay the office, and so they decided to drop in. ‘A scene of unbelievable chaos’ was how Inverarity had described it and so they were ready for anything. It was not Miss Wolstenholme’s day today, so she at least would not be added to the mess, losing her temper and her will to live in equal measure. It was tempting to leave Alexander Martin to his own devices, but that seemed somehow not in the spirit of being caring employers. So they bent their path towards the Strand and were soon standing, open-mouthed, in the open doorway.

  The surprises had begun on the pavement. Someone had polished the brass plate by the door until it was almost blindingly bright in the spring sunshine. The letterbox and doorknob were similarly glowing, and the dust of a million passing cabs had been brushed off the panels of the door. But nothing could have prepared them for the scene inside the office.

  Along the wall facing the door were ranks of light oak drawers, small square ones to the left, larger, deeper ones to the right. Between the windows looking out onto the street, two desks, with two layers of glass-fronted bookcases above them, stood side by side, their flaps discreetly closed and a leather chair pulled up to each. Against the opposite wall, a desk bearing Miss Wolstenholme’s typewriting machine, decently sheathed in a fitted oilcloth cover, was otherwise clear, save for five pencils, sharpened and exactly the same length and aligned with the edge of the desk, alongside a notepad, turned back to a clean page, ready for notes to be taken.

  The mismatched Turkey rugs had gone and had been replaced by a precise square of coconut matting. Perfectly in line with its edges, in the middle of the room, stood a kneehole desk, with an open diary, a closed ledger and an inkwell its only adornment. Screwed neatly and in perfect symmetry on the front of the desk was a brass sign that read, ‘A. Martin, Assistant’. And behind the desk, was none other than A. Martin himself, slotting the last card into a drawer taken from the bank on the far wall. He looked up when he felt their eyes on him.

  ‘Mr Grand,’ he cried, with delight, ‘Mr Batchelor! How lovely to see you! Your housekeeper said you were out all day, but I didn’t realize that meant you would be coming in to the office!’

  ‘Um … no,’ Grand said, looking round and dreading his next account from Heal and Son of Tottenham Court Road. ‘We thought we would pop in, you know, just to see if you needed any help.’

  Martin’s beam could have lit a forest fire. ‘No, no, as you see, it is all done. Miss Wolstenholme was a great help.’

  Batchelor blessed the boy for his kindness. Miss Wolstenholme was many things, no doubt, but a great help was not an attribute they had yet experienced.

  Martin came out from behind his desk and took Grand by the elbow. ‘May I explain my methodology?’ he said, excitedly. ‘I have to say, both of you, that I have never been given carte blanche before. It was so invigorating to be able to plan a system from the ground up, as it were. I did have to get rid of some things – well, not get rid, as such. The caretaker of the building found me some space in the basement so if you want any of the old fittings, you will find them there.’

  Grand felt the wind leave his sails. Although he had to admit that the room looked a million times better, he was going to be a little sniffy about the desk of his great-uncle Dick having disappeared, which would have surprised Batchelor a good deal as they had bought it second-hand in Middlesex Street. It was no good letting the help think they could throw things out, willy-nilly.

  ‘So,’ Martin said, flinging out an arm. ‘Let me explain my raison d’être. I’ll start over here. Miss Wolstenholme’s desk is over here, as you can see. She has just one drawer in her desk – I don’t know whether you had noticed,’ he leaned in, conspiratorially, as if the woman might be hiding somewhere in the scrupulously neat room, ‘but she does tend to be a little untidy. The more drawers she has, the more rubbish she will accumulate. Hence, just the one.’ He smiled happily. ‘Actually, Heal and Son’s gave me a very good price on her desk, as one drawer is not common.’ He drummed a little tattoo on the typewriter’s desk and moved across the rooms to the two desks beside the window. ‘These are your desks,’ he said. ‘I know you shared one before, but I think it looks better for clients if you are seen to be both autonomous and discreet. Hence, the drop front which can be raised to conceal contents which might be confidential.’

  He dropped one flap with a flourish. Two inkwells sat squarely in the integral holder, one filled with red ink, one with blue. Above, recessed into the depths of the desk were a series of pigeonholes and two drawers, all empty and waiting. The middle row of pigeonholes was raised above the rest and, in the resulting vaulted space, a silver frame held a portrait of Lady Caroline Wentworth, smiling coquettishly over one shoulder.

  Grand was astonished. ‘Wherever did you get that from?’ he asked, amazed.

  ‘It was stuck to a file from a case just before Christmas last year. Mango chutney, I think it was.’

  ‘I don’t remember a case involving mango chutney,’ Batchelor remarked.

  ‘No, that’s not what I mean,’ Martin explained, making a mental note to self not to make any remarks that may be a little equivocal. Obviously, enquiry agents or not, these two were a little behind the door when the brains were being doled out and could never have coped with Greats at Oxford. ‘I mean, it was stuck with mango chutney.’

  Grand clicked his fingers. ‘I remember now,’ he said. ‘Mrs Rackstraw made us some goose curry, do you remember, to use up the leftovers.’

  Batchelor blanched. He did remember it. He had been belching curry for days – he had told the woman at the time that Brussels sprouts didn’t belong in a dish like that. The mango chutney had been the only way to get it down.

  ‘So,’ Martin said, to get the conversation back on track, ‘I cleaned it off and here it is. A very beautiful lady, Mr Grand, if I may say so.’

  Batchelor decided to take a bit of umbrage. ‘How did you know it didn’t belong in my desk?’ he said, archly.

  Martin blushed. ‘There was quite a … personal message on the back,’ he said. ‘So I naturally assumed …’ He looked anxiously at his employers. ‘If I have made a faux pas …’

  ‘Not at all,’ Grand said, clapping him on the shoulder. ‘It was a very thoughtful gesture.’

  ‘This,’ Martin said, flipping down the next desk lid, ‘is yours, Mr Batchelor. I have added a file there, as you can see, for your notes for your novel.’

  ‘How did …?’ Batchelor had started to speak before he realized it was pointless.

  ‘Notes inserted into the case file of the Duchess of Wolverhampton, as she liked to be known. You had her real name on the front, as you may remember.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ chuckled Batchelor, ‘I do remember that. One of the best con-women of the century, unless I miss my guess.’

  ‘Precisely.’ Martin waved a hand over his own desk. ‘This is in this position merely so I can deal with clients. If you would prefer …’

  ‘No, no, it’s all perfect where it is,’ Grand said. ‘But the drawers …’ He narrowed his eyes to count them. This was going to be really, really expensive, he knew. He hoped it would be worthwhile.

  Martin grinned again. He was so happy with his System that he knew his bosses would be too. ‘It’s very simple,’ he said. ‘The large drawers contain notes and invoices as discussed yesterday. They are not in any particular order …’

  Batchelor’s eyebrows nearly disappeared into his hair. He hadn’t expected that at all.

>   ‘… but they do all have a code number which is unique to their placement. So, taking the first drawer here, you will see that it is numbered 1.’ He pointed to the label, for the avoidance of doubt. ‘Inside, the sections are labelled in Roman numerals from front to back. Thus.’ He pulled out a file from the middle of the drawer which was labelled 1/VIII/1873. ‘The date is specific to the year in which the case was taken on. Inside the file, the contents are labelled with letters of the alphabet. So, in this one, you will see that the letter of instruction is now labelled 1/VIII/1873/a.’ He slotted the file back neatly into place. ‘And so on.’ He slid the drawer shut on runners as smooth as Messrs Harris Lebus could provide.

  Grand was puzzled. ‘But how does this help us find anything, if it is all random?’

  ‘Ah!’ Martin brought up his right forefinger with so much enthusiasm he nearly had his own eye out. ‘This is the beauty of my System. In these drawers here – designed for libraries, but, if I may say so, put to far better use here – I have the cases all in alphabetical order, but entered in as many places as may be required. To take one example, some years ago you investigated the sad passing of that wonderful author, Charles Dickens.’

  His bosses nodded. Wonderful was in the eye of the beholder, but in general terms, the description could stand.

  ‘But depending on how you think of the case, different people might think of looking up different words. In this case, I have filed it under Author, subset Dickens, Charles, second subset, Charles Dickens; Charles Dickens; Dickens, Charles; Gad’s Hill; Hill, Gad’s …’

  ‘I think I get the general gist,’ Batchelor said. ‘So, when you have found the card, it has the code on it and you can find it in the relevant drawer.’

  Martin clapped his hands. ‘Yes!’ he cried. ‘That’s it!’