Lestrade and the Dead Man's Hand

by M. J. Trow

  ‘Aubrey Beardsley?’ the Inspector asked.

  ‘The same,’ the young man bowed.

  ‘Inspector Lestrade, Scotland Yard.’

  ‘Ah, yes. Perfectly dreadful building,’ Beardsley said. ‘I was having breakfast. Would you like some coffee?’

  ‘No thank you, sir. I had my breakfast two hours ago.’

  ‘Yes, of course. I was up late working on some sketches.’

  ‘I’ve heard great things of your artwork, Mr Beardsley.’

  ‘How kind. Salomé, perhaps? La Morte d’Arthur? Not Bons Mots, surely?’

  ‘No, sir.’ Lestrade was at his iciest. ‘It was a gentleman called Georgina who gave me your name and address.’

  ‘Oh.’ Beardsley’s cadaverous grin faded. ‘It’s about poor David, isn’t it?’

  Lestrade sat in the chronically uncomfortable wicker chair Beardsley had offered him.

  ‘Poor David. He once said I had remarkable hands.’ He held them up for the Inspector’s inspection. ‘Do you think I have remarkable hands?’

  ‘Unbelievable,’ said Lestrade. ‘What was your relationship, Mr Beardsley, with David Appleyard?’

  ‘We were colleagues, Mr Lestrade,’ the artist said, sitting with one skeletal knee crossed over the other and coughing quietly into an outsize coffee cup. ‘He worked until the tragedy on the Yellow Book. God, it’s extraordinary. I can’t believe he’s dead.’

  ‘The . . . Yellow Book?’

  ‘Yes, it’s published by Messrs Dent and Company, publishers extraordinary. I am their art editor. David was a compositor.’

  ‘A . . . ?’

  ‘Compositor. He set up the type for the presses. Oh, a mechanical job, but a highly skilled one. One day I suppose it will all be done by electricity.’

  ‘So your relationship was purely professional?’

  ‘Of course. What did you expect?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ Lestrade said.

  ‘Look,’ Beardsley squinted at him, ‘do you mind?’ And he sprang from his chair like a ruptured gazelle, framing Lestrade’s face with his remarkable hands. ‘Do you mind if I sketch you?’

  ‘Well, I . . :

  ‘Oh, thanks. You have such strong features.’

  ‘Well, I . . .’

  ‘So . . . commanding. So powerful.’

  ‘Er . . . my lip isn’t normally out there.’

  ‘No, I appreciate that. Bastards these critics, aren’t they? So personally wounding.’

  He ferreted in a drawer and perched on the table’s edge, scattering the remnants of his toast. Then he crouched over a scribbling pad and made frenzied lines all over it. Lestrade tried to see, but was rebuked. ‘Please, Mr Lestrade. All in good time. All in good time.’

  ‘When did you see Mr Appleyard last?’

  ‘May.’

  ‘Not since then?’

  ‘No, I’ve been at Dieppe, staying with friends; Arthur Symons and a group of other artists and writers. I only got back last week.’

  ‘Did he have any enemies?’

  ‘Which of us has not, Mr Lestrade?’ Beardsley did not look up from his scribbling.

  ‘Anyone specific?’ Lestrade tried to narrow the field a little.

  Beardsley looked up, coughing a little. ‘He had what some might describe as a Bohemian lifestyle, Mr Lestrade. Such men court death as others court a lady. They are drawn like moths to a flame. And surely, his wings were burned.’

  He put down his pad, his chest heaving convulsively, his hand trembling.

  Lestrade had seen it before. His little sister, deathly pale under a thin coverlet in Pimlico, her golden hair matted to her head with the grip of the fever. ‘A glass of water, Mr Beardsley?’ he said softly.

  The artist shook his head. ‘Time enough for that, Mr Lestrade,’ he said. ‘I have work to do.’

  And he handed Lestrade the half-finished sketch. The face was fine. The living spit of the Inspector, complete with boater and moustache. But the body was a long, elegant, black version of Beardsley’s own, neither male nor female, like a human-turned-earthworm. ‘Er . . . remarkable,’ said Lestrade. ‘Just like your hands, in fact Mr Beardsley. Tell me, do you ever take the Underground?’

  ‘With these lungs?’ the artist croaked. ‘Ha, ha, Mr Lestrade.’ He fought for breath. ‘The doctors say I have two good years left, maybe three. If I went below ground, they’d rediagnose that to as many days. I’m a creature of the shade, Mr Lestrade. Damned to all eternity. I cannot stand the sun but I surely cannot abide the total dark.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Beardsley.’ The Inspector tipped his hat.

  ‘Will you catch him?’ the artist asked as he reached the door.

  Lestrade turned to the young man who would never have time to become great. ‘Oh yes,’ he said, ‘I’ll catch him.

  WALTER DEW HAD BOUGHT the lucky heather off the old crone who sold it at the corner of Old Bond Street and he lolled against the wall until Lestrade came out.

  ‘What’s that, guv’nor?’ he asked.

  ‘Nothing, Dew.’ Lestrade stuffed the Beardsley sketch into his pocket. ‘What brings you this far west?’

  ‘You do, sir. I’ve got to hand it to Russell, pains me though it does to admit it. He’ll make a good detective some day. Not that I’d let him hear me say it. They’d have to rip my tongue out first.’

  ‘Let’s pass over the cockney pleasantries, Walter. I’ve just met a young man who’s put a cloud over the sun.’

  ‘Ah, well, if it’s good news you’re after, I’m the bloke. Or rather Russell is.’

  ‘Yes, Walter?’ Lestrade stopped walking and turned to face his faithful lieutenant.

  ‘A bloke came in this morning, sir, claiming to be the brother of Mr Appleyard.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And he hasn’t got a brother. At least, not according to our information.’

  ‘So what happened?’

  ‘Russell arrested him.’

  ‘On what charge?’

  ‘Impersonating a relative.’

  ‘There’s no such charge, Walter.’

  ‘I know that, guv, and you know that. Unfortunately, Russell didn’t know that.’

  ‘Oh God!’

  ‘But fortunately, the bloke didn’t know it either. He’s from South Africa.’

  ‘South Africa? Did he say so?’

  ‘Yes. Russell asked him why he hadn’t come forward sooner. After all it’s been in the papers for nearly twenty-four hours now. All the information anybody could want. He said he’d forgotten procedures. He’d left England years ago as a lad and hadn’t long been back. Anyway, he talks funny.’

  ‘Does he now?’

  ‘And that’s not all, sir.’

  Lestrade hailed a hansom. ‘Better and better, Walter. Go on.’

  ‘Bromley recognized him.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Yes. And that’s not all.’

  ‘Walter.’ Lestrade swept into the cab. ‘Scotland Yard, driver. Step on it. Walter, my cup runneth over.’

  ‘I recognized him too.’

  ‘Aha. Now, don’t tell me. Let me guess.’ The hansom jolted forward. ‘He is none other than the father of Henrietta Fordingbridge and the husband of Emily Bellamy. Am I right?’

  ‘No, guv’nor.’

  Lestrade’s face fell.

  ‘But you’re close.’

  It rose again.

  ‘I reckon they’re brothers.’

  ‘Brothers?’ Lestrade frowned.

  ‘You see, they’re alike. But they’re not alike.’

  ‘Unless the others were in disguise.’

  ‘It’s possible,’ Dew admitted.

  ‘Does Abberline know about this other Appleyard?’

  ‘Not yet. But it’s only a matter of time.’

  ‘Who’s got him?’

  ‘Corkindale.’

  ‘Does he know about my suspension?’

  ‘Come on, guv. Herminius doesn’t know what day it is. No worries there.’

  �
��All right, Walter. Good man. Driver,’ Lestrade bashed the roof with his better hand, ‘side door, under the planes. Savvy?’

  IT WAS A TRICKY OPERATION certainly, but not beyond the wit of two intrepid policemen bent on nailing the bastard who had been terrorizing the Underground of a great city for the past six months. Dew kept a look-out, having paid the cab fare, in that Lestrade believed he must have inadvertently left his wallet at Beardsley’s, and the Inspector slunk into the shadows to the west of the building. It was true that various MPs and civil servants saw him do it but assumed it was a routine Yard training exercise and thought no more about it. One of the more crime-conscious of them did pop into the darkened portico to inquire whether Lestrade was a member of the Irish Republican Brotherhood and on being told he wasn’t, promptly went on his way.

  On the inner staircase, Dew went ahead, checking corridor after corridor, ducking behind lockers where necessary until they got to the basement that led to Corkindale’s domain.

  ‘Oh, Christ!’ the God-fearing Dew was heard to hiss. ‘Mr Abberline!’

  He was right. Cutting his customary swathe through coppers, the Chief Inspector of that name swept down the corridor towards them. Lestrade snatched up a saddle of the Mounted Branch that was in for repair work to the tree and raised it over his head.

  ‘Morning, sir,’ Dew called cheerfully as Abberline passed.

  ‘It’s afternoon, you nincompoop. Why wasn’t I told about the man in Corkindale’s cell?’

  ‘Didn’t Russell tell you, sir?’ Dew asked, outraged. ‘I’ll have him back to the troughs, so help me.’

  ‘I’ll do the troughing around here, Dew, thank you.’ Abberline had paused beyond the pair, trying to see under the dangling stirrup irons who the other one was. And no one is to speak to that man, do you understand? No one. Er . . .’

  ‘Very good, sir. If we need you, sir?’

  Abberline was already making for the stairs with a coterie of constables at his coat tails. ‘Penge,’ he snarled, ‘I’ll be in Penge. I’m getting pretty close to the flasher now.’

  When he’d gone, the sigh of relief from both Dew and Lestrade was audible.

  ‘Come on, Walter. So far, so good.’

  ‘Afternoon, Herminius,’ Dew said.

  ‘Hello, Walter,’ the ox grinned. Then he caught sight of Lestrade and saluted.

  ‘Corkindale,’ said Lestrade, ‘open up, there’s a good chap. I’d like to see the prisoner.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry, Mr Lestrade, sir. I can’t do that. Mr Abberline’s orders.’

  ‘No, no, Corkindale,’ Lestrade laughed. ‘That doesn’t apply to me and Walter.’

  ‘But you’re under suspension, Mr Lestrade, sir. You shouldn’t be here at all by right.’

  ‘Ha, ha.’ The grin froze on Lestrade’s face. ‘Excuse us,’ he said and turned aside, placing an avuncular arm on Dew’s shoulder. ‘Doesn’t know what day it is, eh, Dew? You do realize that Corkindale is that most feared of policemen, a powerful giant with the strength of ten and an honest streak a mile wide. If it now turns out that he has, against all probability, got a brain as well, we’re sunk. Unless . . .’

  ‘Unless, guv?’

  Lestrade’s index finger pierced the air. ‘Plan B.’ Dew reached into his trousers for his truncheon with a heavy sigh.

  ‘No, Dew,’ Lestrade caught the movement, ‘that’s Plan C. I said Plan B. Er . . . Corkindale. You’ll never guess who I met yesterday.’

  ‘No, sir,’ the Constable freely admitted, ‘I probably won’t.’

  ‘Your old teacher. Mrs Miniver, isn’t it?’

  ‘Get away. Her from up at the school?’

  ‘The self-same. She said to me, “How’s old Horatius getting on?”’

  ‘Herminius,’ Dew hissed from out of the corner of his mouth.

  ‘And then she asked after you, Herminius,’ Lestrade continued, withering Dew with a single basilisk stare.

  ‘How is she, sir?’ And Lestrade fancied he saw a small tear glisten in the Constable’s eye.

  ‘White-haired now, of course,’ Lestrade smiled fondly.

  ‘Yes. She was then,’ Corkindale remembered. ‘How’s her old trouble?’

  ‘Oh, well, you know. As well as can be expected.’

  ‘And her leg?’

  ‘Er . . . which one?’

  ‘The wooden one.’ Corkindale was surprised that Lestrade had to ask.

  ‘Oh, fine, Corkindale, fine. She made a special point of saying to me, however, that she hoped you were obeying your superiors, Corkindale, just like you used to. That whatever they asked you to do, you were to do it without question.’

  ‘Oh, yes sir. You tell her, when you see her again, I always do.’

  ‘I know you do, Corkindale.’ Lestrade patted him on the shoulder. ‘Now be a good fellow and open up the cell. I’d hate to tell Mrs Miniver that you hadn’t been obeying your superiors.’

  Mental anguish creased the Constable’s brow. Dew’s fingers strayed to his pocket again. He knew that Lestrade’s Plan B was played out. If the big bugger didn’t jump to it now, it would have to be Plan C and there would go, he’d wager, another broken truncheon.

  ‘Well, all right, then,’ Corkindale said slowly, hauling the keys out of his pocket at the end of a long chain. ‘Just for that dear, white-haired old lady,’ and he unlocked the door.

  In the doorway, Lestrade gripped Dew’s arm and flipped a coin, catching it expertly. ‘Well, Walter?’

  ‘Britannia,’ said Dew.

  Lestrade looked at the coin. ‘Britannia it is.’

  ‘Right.’ Dew was across the room in one bound. Lestrade closed the door with a slam and let his Constable’s nose scrape against that of the man sitting under the bare light. ‘Now then, sunshine, I’ve had a lousy day so far. The canteen was shut and I can’t find my favourite life-preserver, the one I usually use on blokes like you.’ He sat on the table and hauled the man upright by his tie. ‘So I don’t want any nonsense, all right? Who the bloody hell are you really and why are you pretending to be somebody you aren’t?’

  The prisoner looked totally undeterred. ‘I believe I have a right to a lawyer,’ he said in the clipped dialect of Pietermaritzburg.

  ‘Right? Right?’ barked Dew. ‘You’re a bloody foreigner, son, you are. You sound like a bloody . . . what is it?’

  ‘Kaffir,’ said Lestrade quietly, standing behind the prisoner.

  ‘Kaffir,’ Dew shouted. ‘That’s what you sound like.’

  ‘I am a British citizen,’ the prisoner said, ‘just like you.’

  ‘Oh, no, son,’ Dew screamed, ‘not like me. Not at all like me. You see, I don’t go around strangling women on the Underground.’

  ‘Neither do I,’ said the prisoner patiently. ‘I told the other officer . . .’

  ‘Never mind him. Chief Inspector Abberline is a vegetable. You’re talking to me now.’

  ‘I told the other officer that I have no knowledge of the circumstances surrounding the death of Mr Appleyard.’

  ‘But you claimed earlier you were his brother when my other colleague asked you.’

  ‘Well, we are all brothers, aren’t we? One way or another?’ Clearly the Afrikaner refused to be browbeaten.

  ‘You may be, mate,’ Dew snarled. ‘Now, I want to know what your bloody angle is. And you’re going to tell me if it takes all night. Got it?’ Dew thrust his truncheon horizontally under the South African’s neck. ‘Why do you want to view the corpse of some bloke you know nothing about? Got a thing about corpses, have you? Eh? Eh?’

  And he twisted the truncheon higher with each question.

  ‘Walter, Walter,’ Lestrade came forward and eased the oak from under the man’s chin, ‘we don’t want any of that. I’m sure this gentleman meant no harm. Look, why don’t you go and get us all a cup of tea while I have a chat with him. You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Mr . . . er . . . ?’

  A thump of the prisoner’s epiglottis was answer enough. Dew broke away with so
me reluctance and marched to the door. ‘Don’t think I’m finished with you yet, son!’ he roared and slammed the cell door behind him.

  ‘Cigar?’ Lestrade offered his second-best Havana.

  ‘No thanks,’ the South African said. ‘About my lawyer . . .’

  ‘Yes, of course. You are indeed entitled to one telegram. And afterwards, I’ll post it myself. But first,’ he pulled up a chair and sat facing the prisoner, ‘you see, I really have to satisfy my superiors – and there are some, believe it or believe it not – that you’re in the clear, Mr . . . er . . . ?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Don’t worry about Walter. He’s just a little over-zealous, that’s all. He can’t help it. His mother was frightened by a suspect, I think, while she was carrying him.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. He was three at the time. She dropped him on his head. He’s never been quite the same since.’

  The South African leaned forward so that the bulb from the bare gas light shone bright on his domed forehead and the auburn curls that crowned it. ‘I am familiar, sir, with the nice policeman, nasty policeman routine. Unfortunately, I am from Natal. I thought that your man Walter was the nice policeman. Believe me, by comparison with the South African Constabulary, he is.’

  ‘Oh,’ was all Lestrade could think of to say. And then, by way of a probe, ‘Mr . . . er . . . ?’

  ‘No name. No rank. No serial number. Until I get my lawyer, you get nothing.’

  And he folded his arms.

  Lestrade scraped back the chair, ‘Very well, Mr Appleyard, Mr Hudson, Mr Gooch, Mr Hackworth, Mr Fordingbridge, Mr Bellamy – I believe you have used all these names over the past months – I have no option but to accuse you of murder. My colleague will be back in a moment with the tea and he will formally charge you. I shall tell him you were not impressed before. Who knows, perhaps by now he will have found his life-preserver.’

  And he saw himself out, carrying a saddle over his head.

  ❖ 10 ❖

  S

  o Goron had missed his man. By the time the magistrates at Clerkenwell had let him out and the French ambassador had threatened to insert his tricolour up Lord Rosebery’s bottom in reprisal, Arizona John Burke had taken the skeleton crew of rough riders back to America with him, the Comte de la Warre among them. Now the Sûreté, it had to be said, was infinitely more generous with its expenses than Scotland Yard, where the old slate was minute, but even Goron balked at setting sail for the States. So he contented himself with a return trip to Soho where Chief Inspector Abberline took him on a tour of various nightspots. Then he caught another packet at Southampton and the next day sailed for home.