by David Marcum
“I... that’s a good point,” Lestrade muttered. “But would that be credible in the courts? De Noon had already said that he couldn’t remember a thing, but he was still sure he killed the man! We can’t really ask him anything else at this point without bringing in the Witch of Endor!”
“Exactly.”
“This is doomed!” Lestrade complained. “You’d need an expert to look at a skull and recognise the face it once wore. That’s a rare talent.”
Barrett flipped a few pages further into Windsow’s case-book, read a few paragraphs, then grinned like a shark that had just discovered a particularly juicy tuna swimming in front of it.
“According to Inspector Windsow, Dr. Nowak’s closest friend, Dr. Caspar Goldwater, swore that he could identify the skull if it is found.”
Lestrade blinked. “That’s lucky... did he say why the doctor was so certain?”
“Not to me, but he was damned confident, and he said that to Windsow in private.”
“I’ll ask him.” Lestrade vowed and made a note. “Today, in point of fact.”
“After you do that,” said Barrett, “then we need to revisit the Nowak estate. We’ll need help with that, Inspector.”
“What do you suggest?” asked Lestrade.
Barrett’s shark-like grin widened, if such a thing were even possible. “We’ll bring in the Widow Walsh. She keeps an eye on Molesey Park, same as I.”
“Hang about - What did you just say?”
“It was our case, Inspector! Back in the day, when this was all fresh and new and still foul, we would go there at Inspector Windsow’s behest and watch. And spy. Then, when Davy was killed, Mrs. Walsh took over. We both just found ways to keep our business over by the Park.”
Lestrade found himself grinning, too. “So, this could work, then!”
“Indeed it could, Inspector. I have to go over there anyway, you see, on account of the clean eels. Got to have clean eels for a proper bowl of soup. That’s my reputation!”
Lestrade’s dark eyes narrowed with skepticism.
“Which justifies you walking your little cart out of the way and into Molesey Park, instead of paying a penny-per-mile for someone to cart them to you?”
“They ain’t my eels unless I’ve personally inspected them.”
“Fair enough,” said Lestrade smiled slightly, thinking of the late Sherlock Holmes, who would have appreciated Barrett’s logic.
“So, given that you’ve spent so much time on eel-finding in Molesey Park, have you found anything useful up to now? I know you haven’t been well and haven’t had much time to devote to it.”
Barrett shrugged. “I’ve learned some over these past years. Sundridge barely leaves the property at all, now that he’s retired. I know that.”
“And Mrs. Walsh? What does she know?”
“She knows to pay attention,” replied Barrett. “She still ekes out a living buying and selling scraps of tea, coffee, and tobacco. That carries her about the neighborhood quite a bit, and she sees a whole lot.”
Lestrade had heard enough.
“Let’s meet. Pass the word, please? Thursday, eight o’clock sharp. My house. I’ll have a joint for supper.”
“I’ll bring something too.” Barrett smiled, and Lestrade saw genuine gratitude in the man’s eyes. “My goodness, Inspector, it feels good to be able to say that again.”
Chapter IX
1891 or The Present, When Lestrade Hosts an Insightful Dinner
“ ‘Course I keep an eye out.”
The Widow was small, sturdy, and plain-spoken. After speaking with her for a time, Lestrade arrived at the conclusion that, had she been born a man, the Yard would have been grateful for her application.
That is, if she even wanted such a thing. The Widow Walsh would never forgive the Met for her husband’s death in the line of duty, but she condescended to speak to a few of his former brothers.
Lestrade and Barrett were about it, as far as she cared.
It was Lestrade’s house, but somehow Mrs. Walsh managed to take over the meeting and reign as Chair.
“The Park’s easy to get in to, and easy to leave. I do business with most of the houses. The men think they’re bein’ genteel by leaving that last bit of their cigars unsmoked. Reselling it’s worth the effort to walk there, though, no matter what the weather.”
She pushed out an aisle of discarded supper-plates and put up her tiny face-warmer pipe. The smoke had the air of Cuban Rum.
“And the tea-leaves,” she continued after a moment. “No one wants... well, they’re as wasteful with the leaves as they are the tobacco.”
“Same with eels.” Barrett nodded wisely.
“You buy used eels?”
“Shush, woman. You know that I go there to buy eels off the lads. They like to earn their own spending money as much as anyone, rich or poor. Nice, brackish water, don’t you see?”
“Second-hand eels, then, not precisely used?”
Lestrade smiled at the bickering.
“Between the two of you,” he said, “I daresay you know more about what goes on in Moseley Park than many of the people who live there.”
“Maybe so,” replied the Widow Walsh, “but my brain’s not the bigger for it.”
“Nonetheless,” said Lestrade, “I suspect that it’s going to be of great help to us. What can you tell us of Nowak’s estate specifically?”
“It’s much the same as the rest,” said the Widow Walsh. “’Cept for the old chapel, and for all the roses.”
“Which means...?”
“Regency-era countrified nonsense, really. What makes the estate is the pretty stone chapel - no bigger than a hiccup. ‘Twas a Catholic baptismal back in the day. Then the family converted to Protestantism, and when they did, the front became a gardener’s shed and the baptismal turned into a shallow well.”
“So, they needed the gardener’s shed and the well for the roses,” said Barrett.
“Right so,” said the Widow Walsh with a grin. “Them roses were brought over from Rome by his grandfather. They’re like a fancy painting, they are, and nearly as valuable as such. Dark red with petals like fine china. Brambles higher than your head, but for the side facing the road - that’s all privet because nobody wants to steal privet.”
“But some try,” said Lestrade.
“Some,” acknowledged the Widow Walsh. “But Sundridge, he has geese to guard the territory. Thieves and collectors who come from all over, wanting a rootling. He hates ‘em, he does. Refuses to sell any roots or clips. Claims that’s because he’s the steward of the property until Dr. Nowak’s conditions of the will are met and he’s properly buried!”
Lestrade pursed his lip. “He doesn’t keep dogs?”
“He doesn’t keep nothing that can’t feed itself. You never saw a stingier man in your life.”
“So how much do the thieves manage to get from him, then?”
The Widow chuckled. “Sundridge is hit by thieves so much, he can barely leave. They rob him blind the moment he’s gone. They steal the geese too. But he never reports it to the police.”
Lestrade shook his head. “I wonder why that is,” said he, sarcastically, and all three of them laughed shortly.
“The best part of this all,” said Barrett, “is that we know why he’s being robbed... and how. Some sly, shifty people have put secret signs down so anyone who knows the language knows everything about his habits.”
“Mmm-hmm,” said Lestrade. “Tramp signatures, eh? How wonderful that the two of you know how to read them.”
“Nothing wonderful about it, lad,” said the Widow Walsh. “Beefy Oliver was kind enough to give some lessons.”
“Beefy Oliver? Isn’t that-” Lestrade shot bolt upright in his chair. “I just ordered our Christmas ge
ese from that man!”
“And I’m sure he’ll deliver as promised!” Barrett guffawed and cracked his thigh with a slap of his palm. Mrs. Walsh snickered.
Lestrade buried his head in his hands. “I think I will definitely go over there for a look. If for nothing else, the geese.”
“I shouldn’t worry about breaking any laws, Inspector,” said Barrett. “Remember, he doesn’t report the thefts.”
Lestrade sat back up. “Because he swore no policeman would ever step foot on his property without his permission. It said that in Windsow’s case-book.”
“He did write that,” said Barrett. “And Sundridge means it.”
“So I’ve got to do this without raising the man’s suspicions.”
The Widow Walsh considered his words for a moment. “I might have an idea, Inspector, that could put you on the property and get you a guided tour, too, from the man himself!”
Lestrade and Barrett stared at her, their mouths open in astonishment.
“As it happens,” continued the Widow, “Sundridge’s got a miserable little housekeeper named Roseen. Poor thing lost her throat to infection as a pip. Dr. Nowak saved her life and she’s been there ever since. She won’t leave, keeps it all up. Sundridge considers her working there to be for her ‘room and board’, and she won’t contest him.” She tapped her temple with a brown finger. “I know her from the market. She’s a simple girl, but she’s not thick in the mind. If anyone knows about Sundridge and what he’s done, it’d be her.”
“So, she can get the Inspector inside the estate?” asked Barrett, hopefully.
“Not precisely the idea I had,” said the Widow Walsh, mysteriously, and then she told them her plan.
It was, Lestrade thought, really quite brilliant.
Chapter X
1891 or The Present, When Lestrade Becomes a Thief
“That won’t work, sur.”
Sundridge looked up from the wreckage that remained from a looted clump of roses, the leaves scattered along with the wayward feathers of the gander intended to guard it, but which had been taken instead.
He peered past the privet and to the dirty little tramp standing on the other side, just a little way along the outer fence, not far from the gate.
A gentleman didn’t stare, but this shack-a-back was the worst thing he’d ever seen in Molesey Park. His patches were falling off. The suit had been a funeral black, now spotted with blue where rain-drops had rinsed out the cheap black dye. His shoes were laced with different types of twine. His cap was slightly cleaner - stolen, no doubt. It bent and twisted in the stained hands, just under the odd little grin that Sundridge disliked on instinct.
“You are dangerously closer to trespassing,” said Sundridge, without preamble. “Have a care in what you say or I’ll send my dogs to you.”
“Ah, sur. That’s the problem. You don’t have dogs. The signs say so.”
“What nerve! I never posted such signs!”
“The signs of the road, sur. Marks left behind like men such as m’self. We who do wander, looking for a bit of sup for a lap o’work.”
Sundridge glowered beneath a fast-forming thundercloud of comprehension. He rose to his feet and staked from his butchered roses, walking-stick high. “Make sense or beggone!”
“Down there, sur.” A blackened finger pointed, guileless against the vulgarity.
Sundridge looked down, to a tiny white glyph chalked at the fence just above the tops of the grass blades. It made no sense to him - nor, he felt, would it if he looked at it from any direction.
“That’s a sign uv the road. It means ‘No dogs here’ and ‘Geese’ and ‘Rich profits, use caution’. There’s more o’ that like, all over th’ borders.”
Sundridge champed. He snarled. He’d heard of the secret code of thieves, but had never put much thought to it, nor did he ever think there was a reason behind the incessant thievings that had been his fate since taking on the duties of the Nowak Fortune.
Missing geese, roses lopped and sold on the streets, apple scrumpings and - Good Lord! - the mistletoe hunters and holly-and-ivy thieves at Christmas! All this time it had been a calculated siege!
“I’m no fool, you scoundrel. Why are you telling me this?”
“Well, it’s hardly fair, is it? Them that did this, they give us a bad name! We’re peaceful folk, not bullies!”
The puffed-up bragging of the little man nearly made the old barrister smile. He’d seen this sort of show in the courts.
“And I suppose you’ll help me out of charity?”
“Educatin’ you was the charity, sur. I c’n do something about this for a dinner. That’s all.”
The soot-smeared face pouted as a pipe emerged from a dirty sleeve. Snap. A plume of smoke was born.
“I’m no slugabed, sur. I’ve got work waitin’ at the docks. A bit of dinner would get me there faster.”
Sundridge didn’t want to give up any of his property or part with his food, but it would be less painful if he pretended this was legitimate business.
“And how much ‘dinner’?”
“Enough for this.” A lidded metal pail was hoisted from his rope belt.
Sundridge thought about it. “Give me that. Now, wait here while I give it the housekeeper. Don’t change any marks without me to watch.”
Chapter XI
1891 or The Present, When Sundridge Makes His First Mistake
Lestrade, in his guise as the tramp, mistrusted the smug look on Sundridge’s face when he came back. It looked like the one on a man who is about to play a fine joke on another.
Well, so what if he does, though Lestrade. I’m just here to look around...
“So I’m going to open the gate,” said Sundridge, arrogantly. “When I do, you’ll come in and you’ll show me all that you have to show me of these codes of the thieves who have been robbing me! Only when I’m satisfied that you’ve shown me everything will you get your bucket back, and your dinner.”
Lestrade shrugged. “Agreed.”
For the next hour, look around he did. Exhaustively.
It was unbelievable how many signs “sly, shifty and completely horrible people” had put on this tiny bit of land - God help whoever earned their grudges! When someone found ripe pickings, they were sure to spread the word.
Lestrade had worked in disguise many a night, and before his marriage he’d slept rough with many of the genuine tramps wandering for work. Sundridge’s lack of popularity, as well as the role the late De Noon had in Nowak’s death, was probably a powerful motive for this mischief.
With Lestrade’s help, Sundridge soon developed an eye for the signs left discreetly over the estate: A circle split with a diagonal line meant “Theft worth it” and showed up with alarming frequency. A row of X’s and O’s under a wavy line bragged of fresh water.
“Those beggars!” Sundridge swore. “They were trying to steal my water?”
Lestrade blinked and looked around, not seeing where any water could be stolen. He was tired enough that he didn’t have to pretend to be a little slow. Every new discovery created a fresh roar of the same outrage.
He gently rubbed out another rune, explaining to Sundridge that the symbol meant “Owner is out of the house at this time”, next to a clock-face set for nine o’clock, and a crescent.
“That means they know yer’out next Tuesday,” he told Sundridge. “Since that’s the last-quarter of the moon.”
“They’re spying on me!” Sundridge hissed. “I’ll set them to rights!”
“Eh, easier to fight fire with fire.” Lestrade shrugged again. “Put your own signs down.”
“My what?”
Lestrade knelt and drew in the mud of the path. “This means ‘Beware of dog’, and here’s ‘Bad food’, and ‘You will get arrested’.”<
br />
Sundridge’s canny little eyes slitted. “All those meanings in simple symbols!”
“Th’ language is meant to be put on fast, and sometimes while running!” Lestrade laughed.
“Right. Put those down. Where every mark was placed, you put those three down!”
They were walking around the little garden-shed-chapel when the wooden door kicked open by a small clog. A too-thin woman staggered out with her arms full of wet laundry.
“Oh, beggin’ yer pardon!” Lestrade stammered.
She adjusted the heavy laundry-tub in her arms, frowning slightly.
“Roseen!” Sundridge barked. “Hurry up with that! I told you to see to his dinner-pail!”
For a moment, Roseen locked eyes with Lestrade. She inclined her head slightly, which Sundridge missed, as he was still studying some of the hidden runes Lestrade had pointed out to him earlier.
She returned a few minutes later, carrying Lestrade’s pail.
He took it and was shocked at the weight of it, something in it was alive... and it moved! He yelped and stepped back, holding the pail as far from himself as he could.
“What is this, sur?”
“Oh, Roseen’s a half-wit. I told her to ‘fill it up with something’, and no doubt, she failed to take my meaning.”
Sundridge smiled with the evilest joy the Inspector had seen from any man in years.
“Still,” he went on, “we had an agreement, and I did put something in the dinner-pail.”
If anything, the smile grew more satanic.
“Now be off with you, you laggard, or you’ll feel my stick.”
Chapter XII
1891 or The Present, When a Soup is More Than a Soup
“That man is an abomination!”
Lestrade’s announcement was met with nods and sighs. The little detective slumped into the guest-chair and closed his eyes. “A dinner of live, raw eels! The nerve! I haven’t eaten all day! I suppose I’ve really gotten an authentic disguise now!”