by Trow, M J
‘Sir?’
Lestrade paced the floor. He looked again at the young man before him. He stood, Lestrade guessed, at six-feet-four, broad, handsome even. His suit was crisp in grey check and his bowler perched neatly in the crook of his arm. Lestrade was temporarily lost for words. ‘Your name is Bandicoot?’
Bandicoot began to take just a pinch of umbrage. ‘Bandicoot is a well-established name in some parts of Somerset, Inspector. I, for example, have never met a Lestrade before.’
‘Well, you have now.’ Lestrade’s morning was not going well. Twice on his way in he had collided with the scaffolding still around New Scotland Yard which was in the final stages of being built. His tea resembled something one of the Reverend Wemyss’ cats might have done. And now this – a novice constable from a public school. Lestrade sat at his desk and crossed his ankles on the polished, uncluttered top.
‘How long have you been in the Force?’
‘A little under one year, sir.’
Lestrade looked wide-eyed in the direction of McNaghten’s glass-fronted door away down the corridor.
‘Have you ever seen a body?’
‘I’m not exactly a virgin, Inspector.’ Bandicoot found himself smirking, a little surprised by Lestrade’s question.
‘A dead body, idiot!’ Lestrade shot upright, bringing his hand down on the desk.
‘No, sir.’ Bandicoot’s smirk vanished and his eyes faced front.
‘What made you join H Division, Bandicoot?’ Lestrade’s tone was now patience itself. ‘No, don’t answer that. Why did you join the police?’
‘Well, sir, it’s rather silly really.’
Lestrade somehow knew it would be.
‘I joined the Officer Training Corps at Eton. A few chaps ragged me into believing it was the Police Officer Training Corps. It was three years before I found out otherwise and by then I’d rather set my heart on it. In the process I became something of a crack shot, a first-rate swordsman – and my military fortifications defy belief.’
‘I’m sure they do, Bandicoot, but, you see, we don’t have much call for a beau sabreur at Scotland Yard. Tell me, I always thought gentlemen wore top hats, especially Old Etonian gentlemen.’
‘Oh, we do, sir, but never before luncheon.’
Lestrade stood corrected.
‘Can you make tea?’ he asked.
‘Er … I think so. You use one of those kettle things, don’t you?’
Lestrade applauded with a slow, staccato handclap. ‘I’ve always found it helps. In my outer office you will find a constable. Ask him to show you how. And then, when you’ve made me a cup, I’ll show you what a filing cabinet looks like and we’ll start some real police work.’
Bandicoot was about to go, when Lestrade caught his arm. His stare down the corridor caused the younger man to freeze as well. An ample young woman in electric blue was bustling towards them. Lestrade flattened himself against the wall, then raced for the window and the fire escape.
‘Bandicoot,’ he hissed as he was departing, ‘convince Miss McNaghten with that Etonian charm of yours that I am away on a case for a few days, and I’ll make you the most famous detective in London.’
It was the beginning of the season and London was already full of weasel-eyed Mamas and blushing daughters; gauche, flat-footed youths and lecherous old men. After the severe winter that had passed, the fashionable areas of Belgravia and Mayfair came alive again in the endless round of balls and soirees. But this season was even more colourful than the last, for a new celebrity had arrived – the ex-slave Atlanta Washington. The press reported his every move. He had been made an honorary member of White’s and Crockford’s, had stayed at Sandringham with the Prince and Princess of Wales and was rumoured to be having an affair with all three of the Duchess of Blessington’s daughters as well as the Duchess herself. He was not without his critics, however, for there were many who shared their white American contemporaries’ views that an ‘uppity nigger’ had no place in polite white folks’ society. Washington revelled in the limelight. He wrote equally offensive replies to the offensive letters in The Times, and when spat upon in the street, proceeded to horsewhip the culprits in full view of lookers-on and at least four Metropolitan policemen, apparently cowed by the prospect of a wealthy, educated coon. When they at last moved in, Washington accompanied them willingly enough – in fact, led the way – to Cannon Row Police Station where he was bound over to keep the peace. Three men in particular hounded him – the three men whom Lestrade was called in to see in Battersea Park on a Wednesday morning early in June. The three men had two things in common – they were all dead and they were all covered from head to foot in black paint.
Their identity did not become apparent until the paint had been removed, and long before their cold corpses had been laid out for final examination by the Scotland Yard surgeon, their families were screaming out for revenge, or if that could not be arranged, justice. McNaghten was being pressurised from above. All three men came from eminently respectable families. Every effort must be made, no stone must be left unturned, etc. etc.. Lestrade had heard it all before, but he needed no exhortations. He had received no letter as yet but he didn’t need to wait. This was precisely the sort of bizarre behaviour he had come to expect. It was another in the series, all right, and the body count had now reached six.
‘Asphyxiation was certainly the cause of death, Lestrade,’ the surgeon told him. ‘These men had the pores of their skin filled with paint and it was that which killed them. Lungs alone won’t do it. The skin must breathe too.’
‘How long would it take?’
‘Hours, days possibly. You can see the marks on their ankles and wrists where they were tied. Ghastly way to go.’
‘They weren’t killed in Battersea Park, then?’
‘Oh, no. They were placed there, but they died somewhere else.’
Once again, Lestrade had his means. He lacked any notion of those other essentials of the detective’s art – opportunity and motive. He looked at the names of his victims on his desk. Their families and friends would run into hundreds. It was time to despatch constables, but constables had notoriously flat feet and lacked finesse. He could give Dew and Bandicoot the basics, but the serious questioning must once again come from him.
Bandicoot peered over Lestrade’s shoulder. ‘Edward Coke-Hythe!’ he shouted. Lestrade hurled the contents of his tea cup over his hand and rushed to the restroom as decorously as he could so as not to alert the whole of Scotland Yard to his accident. Bandicoot pursued him.
‘A little more care,’ hissed Lestrade, wincing as he ran his hand under the cold tap. The water suddenly stopped with a harsh, gurgling thump.
‘Damn this new plumbing,’ the inspector snapped. ‘Bandicoot, get me some bicarbonate of soda and hurry, man. I’m about to lose the skin off my hand.’
When the excitement was over, Lestrade placed his bandaged hand carefully on the desk. Dew brought them tea this time and Lestrade made sure Bandicoot was in front of him as he drank it. ‘Why,’ he began, much calmer now, ‘when reading over my shoulder, did you cry out the name of one of these victims?’
‘I know him, sir. Or, rather, I knew him. Edward Coke-Hythe. I was his fag at Eton. Capital sort of chap. Captain of Fives – and a Double First at Cambridge.’
‘Popular?’
‘Oh, rather, sir. Poor old Teddy. Dear, this will be a blow to his uncle.’
‘Uncle?’
‘Doctor John Watson.’
‘Watson? As in Watson of Baker Street?’
‘Yes. Do you know him?’
‘I know him. I have been an acquaintance of his associate, Sherlock Holmes, for some years.’
‘Ah, the Great Detective.’ Bandicoot beamed.
‘If you say so,’ replied Lestrade. ‘What about these others? William Spender and Arthur Fitz.’
‘Fitz what?’ asked Bandicoot jovially.
‘I’ll do the jokes, Constable,’ murmured Lestrade.
> ‘No, sir. Sorry. They’re not Etonians, or at least, they must have been years my senior if they were.’
Lestrade shook his head. ‘They were all in their twenties, healthy, strong young men. All right, Bandicoot. Time you won your spurs. If you knew Coke-Hythe, get round to his family – they have a town house in Portman Square. Be circumspect, but find out the deceased’s movements on or about last Tuesday. Contacts, friends, enemies. It’ll probably mean some shoe-leather before this case is over. Oh, and Bandicoot …’ the constable turned in the doorway, ‘it’s nearly luncheon. Don’t forget your topper!’
Lestrade took the Underground to Baker Street Station and a brisk walk to 221B. Outside he saw a wizened old flower seller, toothless, haggard, with iron-grey hair matted over an iron-grey face. ‘Pretty posies, sir?’ she squawked at him.
‘Really, Mr Holmes, what would I be doing with posies?’
The flower-seller stood up to his full six feet and threw the matted hair savagely on to the pavement. ‘Damn you, Lestrade, it took me nearly two hours to get that lot on.’
‘Sorry, Mr Holmes. Is the good doctor in?’
‘Who?’
‘Watson.’
‘I suppose so. Tell Mrs Hudson to put the kettle on, will you? I’ve sleuthed enough for one day.’ He set to, sorting out his merchandise, while Lestrade went in search of his quarry. Mrs Hudson, the housekeeper, dutifully scuttled away to do her master’s bidding. Watson was asleep over the newspaper in front of a roaring fire.
‘Doctor Watson.’ Lestrade cleared his throat. The doctor did not move. Again, ‘Doctor Watson.’ Louder still, ‘Watson.’ Then, in a stage whisper, ‘Your publishers are here.’ Watson leapt to his feet, newspapers flying over the carpet.
‘Damn you, Lestrade.’ It began to sound like the refrain from a phonograph. ‘That blighter Conan Doyle keeps publishing articles under my name and all you can do is make jokes at my expense. Can’t the law touch him?’
‘Whichever of you refers to me as “imbecile” and “ferret-faced” will discover what the law can do soon enough,’ Lestrade felt it his duty to remind him. ‘In the meantime, I fear there is more pressing business.’
Watson replaced himself on the armchair and the papers on his lap. ‘Ah, yes, my nephew. Dreadful, dreadful.’
‘My condolences, of course. What do you have for me?’
‘Not a great deal, Lestrade. We are not a close family. To tell you the truth, I hadn’t seen Edward for some years – not since his fifteenth birthday, in fact. Recently, of course, one has read various unfortunate things in the papers. This business of that black fellow, that slave johnnie. But I could have seen it coming.’
‘Oh?’
‘At Eton he was something of a hellion, I believe. His father threatened to cut him off, stop his allowance and so on, but incidents still occurred. There was some business with a tweenie and talk of a missing hundred pounds. I didn’t pry too deeply.’
‘Did your nephew have enemies, Doctor?’
‘Dozens, I should think. My family have a knack of annoying people, Inspector.’
‘You never spoke a truer word, Watson.’ Holmes entered with armfuls of flowers, wigs etc.
‘Good God, Holmes, you look damn silly in that frock,’ Watson chortled.
Mrs Hudson brought the tea. ‘Here, Holmes,’ Watson went on, ‘you’d better be mother. Ha ha.’ His laugh fell a little hollow in the face of Holmes’ cheerless scowl.
‘Look at this fire, Lestrade,’ he said. ‘Flaming June and Watson has a roaring fire.’
‘I’ve been in India, Holmes. I feel the cold more than somewhat.’
‘Who’s that, Doctor?’ asked Mrs Hudson, pausing at the door.
‘Get out, woman!’ shouted Holmes. ‘To what do we owe the honour, Lestrade?’
‘There’s no such phrase, Holmes,’ muttered Watson.
‘You’ve clearly been in India too long, Watson,’ snapped Holmes. ‘You’re beginning to confuse the Queen’s English with pure Hindoostani.’
‘Which brings me to my visit,’ interrupted Lestrade, to calm the tension of the atmosphere more than anything else. ‘The death of Doctor Watson’s nephew, Edward Coke-Hythe.’
‘Ah.’ Holmes sat down, stuffing the voluminous skirts between his knees and reaching, without taking his eyes off Lestrade, for his meerschaum. ‘I have a theory about that.’
Lestrade gritted his teeth. This wasn’t why he had come, but Holmes had been useful in the past and for all his irritability and elitism and short temper, Lestrade had a grudging soft spot for him. Holmes lit the pipe and the flame lit his lean, haunted features momentarily before they disappeared in a cloud of smoke.
‘Revenge.’ Holmes savoured the word. ‘It’s elementary, my dear Watson,’ he said to the good doctor’s quizzical look.
‘I thought you never said that, Mr Holmes,’ said Lestrade.
Holmes scowled. ‘We all have our off-days, Lestrade. This black fellow – what’s his name? Philadelphia?’
‘Washington.’
‘Bless you, Lestrade,’ Watson chipped in.
‘Yes. Well, Watson’s nephew publicly humiliated Washington – or tried to. Washington resented it and retaliated brilliantly. He killed him and his two cronies in a perfect poetic murder. He not only turned them black – thereby forcing his deformity on them – but he killed them with blackness. His blackness.’
‘Isn’t that a bit obvious, Holmes?’ Watson was speaking Lestrade’s thoughts.
‘No, no, Watson. You medical men, you’re so black and white.’
‘Oh, droll, Holmes, very droll,’ chortled Watson.
Holmes ignored him.
‘It’s a double bluff, Lestrade. Precisely because it would be so obvious, Washington knew he would be safe. It’s elementary, in fiction and in life. Take my word for it, Inspector. Washington’s your man.’
Lestrade looked at Watson. ‘In the absence of another motive, gentlemen, I may as well start there.’
Holmes opened Watson’s bag and pulled out a syringe. ‘Join me, Lestrade?’
‘No thanks, I don’t,’ the inspector answered.
Holmes disappeared into an adjoining room from which, shortly afterwards, emanated the most appalling noise of a bow on the strings of a violin.
‘I’ll see you out, Lestrade,’ said Watson. ‘Sorry I couldn’t be of much help.’
‘Not at all,’ Lestrade said. ‘Holmes has proved one thing to me.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Atlanta Washington is an innocent man.’
‘Oh, quite. He’s not well, you know.’
‘Washington?’
‘No. Holmes. One day, that habit of his will kill him.’
‘One day it will be against the law as well,’ mused Lestrade as Mrs Hudson gave him his hat. It would be a sad thing, Doctor, if the Great Detective were to die in prison, an incurable addict.’
Lestrade reached the street. Above him, a sash window flew up.
‘Lestrade,’ hissed a voice. Holmes peered out, violin gripped in his fist. ‘I must apologise for Watson. He hasn’t been well. He caught something in India. Never been the same since. You saw the symptoms. Giggling, sniping at me. He’s supposed to be a professional man, for God’s sake. Anyway, there it is. Sad, eh?’
‘Very,’ said Lestrade, tipped his hat and walked away.
He couldn’t leave Coke-Hythe’s family entirely to Bandicoot. Having given the young constable time to interview them, he took a cab to Portman Square, and in his most enigmatic, Scotland Yard manner, pursued his enquiries. Bandicoot had been surprisingly thorough. No doubt the Old School Tie had helped, but Lestrade went doggedly over the same ground, priding himself on his superior reading of facial expressions, casual gestures, but at the same time feeling that the metaphorical Blackheath Crammer Tie around his neck was decidedly inferior. Yes, Ned had been something of a lad. Never in trouble, Lestrade understood. No, he didn’t care for black people, but surely this was understanda
ble. After all, his cousin Randolph had succumbed to a native assegai during the Zulu War when Ned was at a very impressionable age. And this slave chappie was flaunting himself somewhat. But really, Ned had grown a little apart from his family of recent years. He seemed to spend most of his time in Cambridge. And so pausing only to throw together a few necessaries in a Gladstone bag, Lestrade caught the evening train.
Most of the students had in fact gone down for the summer vac. The air was clear and cool as the inspector wandered through the town, down Silver Street and Sidney Street in search of lodgings. He found a modest hotel near the college of his destination, Magdalene, and collapsed gratefully into bed.
He was up with the lark to hear cheery laughter in the punts below and the water wobble of timber in rowlocks. ‘Care for a dip?’ a red-faced man in a boater and blazer called up to him as Lestrade stuck his head out of the window in an attempt to focus.
‘It’s a little early for me,’ he managed, as cheerily as he could. As he washed and shaved, he heard the champagne corks pop and the sound of female laughter trickle over his window ledge. The town came to life with the ringing of bicycle bells and the clatter and jingle of dray horses.
Lestrade downed his hearty breakfast of bacon, eggs, toast and coffee and emerged into the morning sunlight. He felt out of place in his black serge and bowler amidst the stripes and straw and on a whim he entered Fosdick’s, the University outfitters and bought himself a blazer and a pair of flannels. He resisted the spats as being a little risqué for a man in his position and was not entitled, of course, to a college badge.
The Master of Magdalene greeted him on the steps of his college. He was a vast man, with flowing dundrearies which had gone out of fashion twenty years before and a mortar board which hid, Lestrade suspected, a totally bald head. He was helpful after his fashion and between showing Lestrade the river walk, the chapel and the three Van Dykes so generously benefacted to the college, explained that he had never really know Edward Coke-Hythe or his friends and he had liked them even less. He might perhaps try the Albino Club in Jesus Lane.
‘I am sorry, sir,’ said the man on the door of that august institution. ‘You are wearing a black tie. I cannot possibly allow entry to a man in a black tie.’