by Trow, M J
Guy’s Cliffe House was tall and oddly foreboding. It was set back from the water, swirling and spraying over the weir. In strong afternoon sun, Lestrade and the constable crossed the rickety wooden bridge. Their occasional bursts of conversation were drowned by the noise of the rushing water and the rank, stagnant smell near the mill. The inspector inspected the well. If there had been blood, it had been washed off by rain or water from the well. The area around it was hopelessly trampled with countless footprints – Mauleverer’s, Glover’s, a dozen or so policemen’s, newspapermen’s and doubtless sightseers’. And somewhere, Lestrade pondered, somewhere in the Warwickshire dust, the footprints of the murderer. Lestrade’s murderer. Lestrade’s man.
Louisa Ellcock was of little help. She was terrified that Lestrade would tell Mrs Mauleverer of her ‘secret’. Lestrade told her her secret was safe with him, that he had other fish to fry. She showed him gratefully into the drawing room. Mrs Mauleverer joined the officers of the law there.
‘Inspector Lestrade, ma’am, of Scotland Yard. This is Constable … er …’
The constable consulted his notebook. ‘Prothero, ma’am.’
‘Of the Warwickshire Constabulary,’ Lestrade completed the sentence for him.
Mrs Mauleverer urged them to be seated.
‘A distressing time, ma’am,’ commented Lestrade.
‘We can dispense with the solemn looks, Inspector Lestrade. I am naturally distressed at the sudden and ghastly death of a fellow human being. But the fact that that human being happened to be my husband is purely coincidental. Sherry?’
Lestrade glanced at Prothero. ‘You needn’t take this down, Constable. Wait with the horses.’ The constable left.
‘Mrs Mauleverer.’
‘Inspector.’ Mrs Mauleverer swept to her feet and poured some pale sherry for Lestrade. ‘You must think me very unfeeling.’
‘Not at all, ma’am. You have had a very trying time. May I ask you a few questions?’
‘I cannot tell you more than I have told the local police, Inspector.’
‘I have not yet consulted the local police, ma’am. The young constable is merely my guide around the neighbourhood.’
‘You don’t know Warwickshire then, Inspector?’
‘No, ma’am.’ Lestrade followed his hostess with his eyes. She walked away from him across the room. The sunlight fell on the dark green and gold of her velvet gown. It caught the lustrous black curls too, falling, no, cascading was the romantic word, over one shoulder. Mrs Mauleverer was a very beautiful woman, fine-boned, with dark, smouldering eyes that flashed in the pale, melancholy face.
‘My husband and I were married for three years, Inspector. He was twenty years my senior and had spent most of his life in Africa. He was an engineer of sorts. I first met him in London five years ago. He was suave, debonair, travelled. I had just been presented at Court and Mama was anxious for me to make a perfect match. I was a fool, Inspector. I didn’t have the courage to call a halt, to say no, this is not what I want. Women are slaves still. I felt it was my duty and I accepted when he proposed. It had not been easy for Mama. Papa had died some years before and at least Albert offered us financial security. Oh dear, this all sounds so mercenary.’
‘Not at all, ma’am.’
‘It didn’t last.’ Mrs Mauleverer began to pace the room, wringing her hands. Occasionally her dark eyes fell on Lestrade and hurriedly looked away. ‘Albert was attentive for a month, perhaps two and then he began spending more and more time away. Shooting weekends, card parties, always without me. Oh, I busied myself in the area. The poor are always with us, Inspector. I helped with charities and joined committees. I redecorated this house, this cheerless mausoleum Albert brought me to. It didn’t help. It didn’t fill the place of a husband.’
Lestrade sensed her sadness in the very shadows of the room.’
‘You were no doubt surprised, Inspector, when I did not appear to weep for my husband. You are no doubt surprised that I am not in mourning. But, you see, my husband died three years ago. I barely recognised the man they found in the well.’
There was a profound stillness between them. Lestrade mentally shook himself. He was thirty-eight years old, had been twenty years in the Force, fifteen of those with Scotland Yard. He’d known dozens, scores, possibly hundreds of bereft widows, yet none had affected him like this one. There was an honesty and a dignity about this woman that strangely touched him. In the silence his hard-bitten heart went out to her.
‘The day of the murder.’ He cleared his throat and blustered on. ‘Tell me about that.’
‘It was a day like any other.’ A pause, ‘No, not quite like any other.’ She began again. ‘It was the day someone murdered my husband. Tell me, Inspector. Is it wrong for me to want revenge – even revenge for the death of a man I did not love?’
‘I am not a judge and jury, ma’am.’
‘But you could be an executioner?’
‘If I had to kill a man in the course of my duty, ma’am. On occasions we are issued with firearms.’
‘I rose at half past eight. My husband had already gone out for the day. He had taken luncheon, in a knapsack, and his gun. He had apparently told Louisa, my maid, that he would not return before nightfall. I suppose it crossed my mind briefly that he had gone to Coventry to see … well, another woman. In the morning I busied myself with my correspondence. I heard distant shooting; it may have been Albert …’ Mrs Mauleverer suddenly started. ‘It may have been the shot that killed him. God. The well is only a few hundred yards away, Inspector, though we cannot see it from the house. In the afternoon I drove with Louisa into Leamington. I called at Warwick first and had tea with the Countess. It would have been about none o’clock when the police called with the news. There had been an accident. Albert was dead.’
‘You identified the body?’
‘Yes, at Leamington that night.’
Their eyes met in the evening sunshine. The look spoke of all the emptiness in the heart of Mrs Mauleverer. And perhaps too in the heart of Inspector Lestrade.
‘I can’t tell you any more,’ she said. ‘My husband was a hard ma, remote, silent. I have thought of who would wish him dead. I can think of no one who cared enough to pull the trigger. Isn’t that a tragic thought?’
Lestrade rose and put the empty glass on the table.
‘Thank you, ma’am. That cannot have been easy. I will take my leave of you.’
‘My name is Constance, Inspector. It has not been easy. But you have been kind.’
‘If I should need to contact you again …’
‘I had planned to spend a while with my mother in Camberwell after the funeral.’
‘If you would be so kind as to inform Scotland Yard of your London address …’
‘Of course.’
‘And Mrs Mauleverer … Constance … if I can one day be of help to you …’ and Lestrade took Mrs Mauleverer’s had and kissed it. She smiled.
As he crossed to the station can and motioned to Prothero to move the horse on, the lines from Struwwelpeter came again into his mind –
The poor man’s wife was drinking up
Her coffee in her coffee-cup;
The gun shot cup and saucer through;
‘Oh dear!’ she cried, ‘what shall I do?’
‘Watch what you’re doing with those infernal pins!’
Lestrade entered the trophy room of Stoneleigh Abbey to the sight of Lord Leigh being fitted for a new uniform. He stood with left arm raised while a pair of tailors buzzed around him, putting the finishing touches to his tunic.
‘This busby is ridiculous!’ he roared. ‘It’s too tight and too high. If I break into a canter it’ll fall off. Who the hell are you?’
‘Inspector Lestrade, My Lord. Scotland Yard.’
‘Oh.’ Lord Leigh recovered quickly. ‘Hamburger and Rogers, military tailors. Presumably you know who I am.’
‘May I speak to you in private, sir?’
‘Oh, very w
ell. Gentlemen, call again in a week – and make sure this tunic sits better, will you? I shall be a laughing stock at the Review.’
The tailors dismantled the elaborate silver and blue uniform until His Lordship stood in his scarlet combinations. Lestrade thought how uncomfortable they must be in this hot weather.
‘What is it, Lestrade?’ A valet appeared from nowhere and helped His Lordship into a silk smoking jacket. ‘I am a busy man.’
‘Quite so, My Lord. A body was found on your property at Guy’s Cliffe on Saturday last. Can you help me?’
‘No.
‘Let me put it another way. I have come a long way at the taxpayers’ expense to find out who killed a man. And perhaps to prevent that person from killing again.’
‘Hmmm.’ Lord Leigh poured himself a huge brandy. He did not offer one to Lestrade. ‘I knew Mauleverer, of course. Even offered him a commission in the Yeomanry once. He couldn’t have had a troop, of course. I mean, he was an outsider. But a Lieutenancy. I could have got him that. Anyway,’ Leigh swung onto a wooden frame on which a saddle rested, ‘he refused. I never cared for him after that.’
‘Did you kill him?’
Leigh sat bolt upright in the saddle. ‘Damn you, Lestrade. I shall talk to your superiors. Anyway, if I had killed him, I should have used a sabre.’ Leigh made a dramatic flourish with his right arm and returned gratefully to his brandy. ‘I didn’t dislike him enough to keep him off my land. The truth is he was a damned good shot – and a sportsman.’ Leigh suddenly changed his tack. ‘Anyway, what are you fellows doing about it? A murder takes place on a chap’s land and you have the nerve to come round here accusing me. If this is the best old Jack Lamp can do …’
‘Jack Lamp, My Lord?’
‘County’s Chief Constable. Blue Lamp, they call him.’
‘Original,’ grunted Lestrade. ‘No, My Lord, Chief Constable Lamp did not call me in. I have reason to believe that the murder of Albert Mauleverer is one of a series. It’s not him, it’s not your land. It’s not even Warwickshire. It’s just that it fits a pattern. That’s all.’
‘Do you Yard-wallahs always talk in riddles?’
‘Forget it, My Lord. You saw nothing suspicious yourself?’
Leigh shook his head.
‘And none of your people – servants or tenants – reported anything to you?’
‘Not a thing. Look, Lestrade, I don’t want to sound callous. Can I make a suggestion?’
Lestrade was grateful for the meagrest of straws.
‘Mauleverer’s wife. They didn’t get on, you know. Common knowledge. I think she did it.’
Lestrade felt himself going white. Constance Mauleverer had flashed into his mind throughout a restless night. He could not forget the pale, haunted face. For a moment he thought of forcing the brandy, glass and all, down Leigh’s throat. Then perhaps a quick backward flip over his saddle and frame. In the end he settled for a professional opinion.
‘A shotgun is not, in my experience, a woman’s weapon, My Lord. Poison, yes; dagger, perhaps; pocket pistol, at a pinch. But shotgun, never. I’ll see myself out.’
Lestrade stopped momentarily on his way to the door, which was miraculously opened by the vanishing valet. Leigh was prancing across the floor, posturing with a drawn sword.
‘Mark my words, Lestrade, cherchez la femme.’
Lestrade hated the quarterly inspectors’ meeting on the third floor. True, the new buildings had a polish and grandeur that Whitehall Place had lacked, but it was still the same in-fighting, the endless bitching about whose Division had managed the most arrests and endless exhortations from the Commissioner and McNaghten about greater care, more vigilance, good hard police procedure, with less money to do it with.
The first point on the agenda that dreary, drizzle August day was police pay.
‘A strike?’ McNaghten was gradually turning crimson from his cravat upwards.
‘That’s what they say.’ Athelney Jones sat back in the leather armchair. Lestrade looked at him across the room. Jones was a round man, florid and moustachioed, his black-braided inspector’s tunic straining across his paunch. He played with his thumbs, smug that he had efficiently landed the problem in McNaghten’s lap. The Head of the Criminal Investigation Department threw it back. ‘It’s your problem, Jones. When I was a constable we were glad of two guineas a week. Your men have pensions, free uniforms, sickness benefit, even jars of macassar. Tell them from me that I won’t have the Metropolitan Police a laughing stock. Look at this.’ He slapped a copy of Judy down on the desk. It showed a policeman staring blankly at huge fingerprints on a wall. ‘This kind of public scorn we can do without. Jones, if you hear the word “strike” again, you have my permission to flog the bounder who uttered it.’
Jones growled under his whiskers something about McNaghten not being human. McNaghten heard it, but chose to ignore it. ‘Well, Lestrade. Your case.’
Lestrade shifted the papers on his lap. He hated this. Especially now. Of course the others had unsolved or unsolvable cases. But this one he had already begun to take personally. It was an affront to his expertise, perhaps his whole career.
‘Seven murders,’ he said, leaping in at the deep end.
There were mumbles, the phrase repeated, the audible raising of eyebrows. McNaghten quietly tapped his pipe on the desk until the amount of tobacco cascading into his tea obliged him to stop. The noise abated of its own accord and Lestrade went on.
‘All of them perpetrated within the last six months, scattered almost the length and breadth of the country. All of them by person or persons unknown.’
‘Come on, Lestrade, you must have more than that.’ It was Abberline, newly promoted, from the corner.
Lestrade protested. ‘I feel this ought to be classified, sir. Remember the Ripper case.’
‘I do,’ snapped McNaghten, squirming at the memory of it. ‘That was an entirely different business. Please don’t bring it up again.’
‘You were saying, Lestrade.’ Abberline was persistent. The Superintendent was crisp in his light-blue suit and sniffed his gardenia ostentatiously. Lestrade’s look should have withered it and him on the spot. He contented himself with the realisation that promotion to the river police was no promotion at all. He must spend his time chasing foreign sailors and stinking dockers up and down the Ratcliff Highway.
‘What I have, gentlemen, is this.’ He ignored Gregson’s snort and went on. ‘The murders conform closely to a children’s book of cautionary tales called Struwwelpeter. If I had time I would itemise them.’
‘Spare us the quotations.’ Jones had regained his smugness.
‘Murder one. Struwwelpeter, or Shock-headed Peter himself. A middle-aged male found walled up, possibly alive, in Shanklin Chine, Isle of Wight. Still unidentified. Cause of death – asphyxia. Suspects …’ He dried.
‘Well?’ McNaghten prompted.
‘Alfred, Lord Tennyson.’ Howls of derisive laughter.
‘I thought he was dead, Lestrade,’ said Abberline.
‘He is certainly not sufficiently mobile for my purposes. But at the time he had access to the Chine out of season, when it was normally kept securely locked. Once I’d met him I was able to eliminate him from my enquiries. Subsequent enquiries produced no individuals. All I can say is that the murderer was someone who knew the Chine, had access to it and was probably a dab hand at cementing, by candlelight.’
More assorted snorts.
‘The more I dwell on the Chine murder, sir,’ he addressed McNaghten, ‘the more I believe the similarity to the Struwwelpeter stories was pure coincidence. It was widely reported in the papers. Anyone could have got hold of the idea.’
Abberline broke in. ‘This … er … Struwwelpeter. Who wrote it?’
‘A German doctor. Heinrich Hoffmann.’
‘Well, he’s your man. I’ve never trusted these krauts. Not since Sedan.’
Abberline had blundered nicely into that one. ‘I checked him, Superintendent. He rea
lly is dead – seventeen years ago.’
Abberline suddenly found something of great interest in the end of his pipe. Gregson was quietly sniggering.
‘The second murder. Victim – Lord Hurstmonceux.’
‘I thought that was a hunting accident,’ commented Jones.
‘The press deferred to the aristocracy. Lord Rosebery was a witness. Family scandal and all that.’
‘Are we in the business of hushing up murder?’ It was Jones’ question but the look on McNaghten’s face told him and everyone else that it was not his day. Lestrade remembered the Ripper File and smiled to himself.
‘I know the cause of death – and how the murder was committed. Other than that, I drew a blank.’
‘As usual,’ grunted Jones. McNaghten reprimanded him.
‘Murder three,’ Lestrade went on, his jaw flexing, ‘a seventeen-year old girl, Harriet Wemyss, burned to death at her father’s home at Wildboarclough, Cheshire. She burnt her clothes and person with a cigarette end. Her murderer knew she had a secret smoking habit.’
‘Tut,’ broke in Gregson. ‘The youth of today.’
‘I believe her murderer encouraged the habit for several weeks, having planned this all along. And for the first time we have an eye-witness description. That of a travelling salesman who came to the house on the day of the murder. The same travelling salesman who, I have reason to believe, was Harriet’s lover. He was described as a big man with a dark hat and muffler.’
‘Hardly conclusive,’ grunted Abberline.
‘Murder four. Or should I say, four, five and six. Three upper-middle-class layabouts – Edward Coke-Hythe, William Spender and Arthur Fitz. You may have come across them in the Gazette; they were bound over by the magistrate for baiting the visiting celebrity Atlanta Washington. I came across them in Battersea Park, painted with black enamel from head to foot.’
‘You questioned Washington, of course,’ said Abberline.
‘I did, sir, and decided he was in the clear.’