by Trow, M J
‘Indeed, ma’am,’ McNaghten butted in. ‘Criminal’s the word.’
The ladies huddled closer together, the furthest clutching her infant to her bosom.
‘I don’t believe we were addressing you, sir.’ The nearest woman was arch.
‘Forgive me, madam, I am not normally so discourteous, but you see, I am a policeman. Sir Melville McNaghten, Head of the Criminal Investigation Department.’ He tipped his hat with unusual malevolence. ‘And you are?’
The ladies hesitated. ‘I am Miss August and this is Mrs Miller,’ came the frosty answer. ‘Don’t tell me you’re going to arrest us?’
‘No, ma’am. I just feel that one good name deserves another. For your information, one of these victims was a policeman. And I’ve the best brains at my disposal tirelessly working around the clock to catch this man.’
The ladies were on their mettle. ‘Huh!’ It was Mrs Miller’s turn to sneer. ‘For all the success you’ve had my little Agatha could solve crimes more quickly than you.’
McNaghten snapped shut his paper and stood up. The ladies gasped, Mrs Miller burying little Agatha’s face in her shawl, but they were witnessing not a defeat exactly, more a tactical withdrawal. Anyway, it was McNaghten’s stop.
In his office, the Head of the Criminal Investigation Department twirled his moustache and smoothed down his cravat.
‘Tea,’ he bawled at Dew, ‘and Lestrade. Not necessarily in that order.’
‘I’m afraid the inspector is out, sir.’
‘Out?’ McNaghten was pacing the room. ‘His duty doesn’t end for …’ he checked his half-hunter ‘… another hour. Where’s he gone?’
‘I don’t know, sir.’ Dew had his fingers crossed behind his back.
McNaghten fretted and fumed. Then he rang the offices of the Evening Standard. The line was dreadful, crackling and erratic, the incessant click of the presses and his own stirring of the tea didn’t help. He ascertained from the editor that the reporter who had written the article was T. A. ‘Scoop’ Liesinsdad. ‘Foreigner, is he?’ grunted McNaghten. ‘Welsh,’ was the reply. ‘Thought so,’ rejoined McNaghten. Liesinsdad, or at least his voice, appeared on the other end of the telephone. Yes, he had been given the story personally, over the telephone, by a man. Yes. Yes. With a husky voice. But it could have been the line. There’s a lot of noise here, you know. McNaghten knew. Yes, it was true. Liesinsdad had no reason to doubt it. Could McNaghten comment? No, he could not. How had one man deluded the Yard for so long? And was it possible he was Jack the Ripper? McNaghten had had enough. ‘Stay there,’ he bellowed. ‘I’m sending constables round. If you’ve heard Agrippa’s voice, I want to talk to you face to face.’
As he hung up the receiver a thought occurred. Why not go himself? It could only be a matter of minutes before someone told the Commissioner that the press had the whole story. Tomorrow it would be in The Times and the Home Secretary would read it. Then the Prime Minister, then the Queen. Heads would roll, and the first to bounce in the gutter would be McNaghten’s. But, if he could move fast enough, pick this reporter’s brains for some minute but vital clue. If he could follow up this clue. Today … now … then he might just save himself. Damn the constables. He’d go himself.
Lestrade did not, despite what he told Bandicoot, go alone. He carried in the pocket of his Donegal the Apache knife and knuckleduster which he always carried when danger lurked. Besides, there were hundreds of people thronging through Argyle Street that crisp January evening. Upon the chatter and laughter, the bright expectant faces of the children and the smell of roasting chestnuts, the stars looked down.
‘How much?’ enquired Lestrade of the ticket man at the Corinthian Bazaar.
‘Yer pays yer money, guv’nor, yer takes yer choice. Move along now, there’s lots wants to get in.’
Lestrade produced the coins and found a seat. The ring was lit with sulphur and electricity. Everywhere was the smell of greasepaint and elephants. In the centre was an artificial lake, with a real tree in the middle of it and armfuls of imitation shrubbery around the edge. The band of the Grenadier Guards no less had been hired to play for the evening and all the tunes of glory were trotted out. Lestrade had not been to a circus for years, and it was an experience he had done his best to forget. The glitter and the dazzle made him forget, temporarily, why he was there. The clowns rolled about, spraying water over each other and throwing buckets of confetti at the crowd. Elephants danced and pirouetted, bespangled young men and women swanned through the air on their flying trapeze. Over it all were the roars and gasps of the crowd, as the foot slipped momentarily on the high wire, as the lions snarled and would not back away, as the dwarfs and giants and armless men and pig-faced ladies ambled in grotesque postures. There was even a touch of the Music Hall, the house roared along with the lyrics of a popular song, but it was a sudden memory, the music perhaps, that reminded Lestrade once more of Struwwelpeter. He knew the whole book off by heart, the whole stinking thing. And the last verse, the one yet to be acted out, he felt sure, on him –
Now look at him, silly fellow,
Up he flies
To the skies.
No one heard his screams and cries,
Through the clouds the rude wind bore him,
And his hat flew on before him …
‘Sir.’
Lestrade spun to his left, jarring his neck. It was Bandicoot, bending over him.
‘Siddown,’ yelled a man behind. A lady hit Bandicoot with her umbrella. He squatted awkwardly at Lestrade’s knee.
‘What in blazes are you doing here?’ Lestrade hissed at him. ‘I thought I gave instructions.’
‘I’m sorry, sir. I couldn’t stay away. If there’s a chance to get Agrippa, I want to be there.’
‘This is my collar, Bandicoot.’ Lestrade didn’t want this young man there. It was not something he’d dare admit, but he had a strange feeling that he would not come through tonight. He remembered the letter in his pocket. The one which served as a last will and testament. He had meant to post it outside the Corinthian, but the moment had gone.
‘Now you’re here, you can take this.’
‘What is it, sir?’
‘Even at Eton, Bandicoot, they must have told you what a letter looks like.’
‘Yes, sir, of course. But it’s addressed to the Commissioner.’
‘Very good, Bandicoot. You’re improving all the time.’
‘Do you wish me to deliver it personally, sir?’
‘Yes, but only in the event of my death.’
‘That settles it!’ Bandicoot stuffed the envelope into his pocket and forced himself down on to the floor. ‘I’m staying.’
‘Bandicoot,’ Lestrade’s voice had changed, ‘do you think I’d let a social misfit like you interfere tonight? I’ve spent ten months chasing Agrippa and this is the nearest I’ve come to catching him. The last thing I want is your great feet getting in the way. Now go home. That is an order. Ignore it and I’ll have you off the Force so fast you won’t be able to say “Dry Bobs”!’
Although he was amazed that Lestrade should know Eton terminology, Bandicoot was genuinely stung by the rebuke of his superior. He was, as Lestrade knew, a sensitive lump of a man at heart.
‘Very well, sir, but at least take this. It belonged to my father.’
‘The Evening Standard?’
‘No, sir, what is wrapped in it. I’m not a particularly Godly man, Inspector Lestrade, but I hope He’s with you tonight.’
‘You and me both, laddie. On your way.’
‘Siddown,’ yelled the man in the row behind again, but Bandicoot had gone into the shadows before the same umbrella could descend.
Lestrade looked down. Gleaming in the newspaper was a revolver. A beautifully chased pearl-handled Smith and Wesson, .44 calibre. He had seen drawings of guns like this at the Yard, but never in the flesh. On the barrel, in the half light, he read the inscription: To H.B. May you always have the last shot. How Lestrade echoed thos
e sentiments tonight.
Then Lestrade saw the headlines for the first time. Like Melville McNaghten, he couldn’t believe it. He dashed for the door and read the story with the aid of the bright lights in the foyer.
‘Are you feeling good-natured, dearie?’ An aging hag with rouge and bad breath fondled his arm.
‘Not now, I’m not,’ mused Lestrade, half to himself.
‘Perhaps I can interest you in something juicy, dearie. My niece has just come up from the country. Thirteen, she is.’
Lestrade came to. ‘Is that so, madam?’ he rounded on her. ‘Then you’d better send her back to the country, or I might start to remember Mr Labouchere’s Bill concerning the use of young virgins for illicit purposes.’
The prostitute gave up, flounced her feather boa and swung her backside into the night. ‘Suit yourself, dearie, she’s no virgin anyway.’
Lestrade’s brain was whirling. What he had dreaded for months had happened. Now it would be common knowledge. There would be panics, hysterics, witch-hunts. It would be the Ripper case all over again. He could just imagine it. Anyone who knew the Struwwelpeter rhyme would be under suspicion. Any tall tailor with scissors in his hand, any painter with a pot of black paint, any smoker with a box of lucifers. He and McNaghten could kiss goodbye to their jobs, of course. But then, he reflected, after tonight that wouldn’t matter, would it?
He heard the finale beginning. Clowns dressed as policemen, grossly fat and crimson-faced were chasing sea-lions around the lake. Inevitably, with the perfect timing of circus clowns, one by one they slipped and fell into the water, the sea-lions applauding with the crowd as they clambered out, only to slip back again. The band struck up and out of the centre of the lake a tableau arose, mermaids and sirens dressed in dazzling colours, topped by Britannia, resplendent in helmet and shield. Fireworks shot starward through an aperture in the skylight. The crowd roared and roared again. Then the band fell silent. Only a drum roll carried on. The crowd were hushed. To one side of the ring, a tall young man, glittering in spangles, climbed into a huge cannon. It was a new variation for a Hengler Circus, never seen in London before. All the handbills had carried the word ‘Human Cannonball’ and as soon as Lestrade saw it, he knew – ‘Flying Robert’. Wherever Agrippa was, he planned to put Lestrade in there, and the last tale of Struwwelpeter would be acted out. The drum roll heightened. The fuse was lit. The ringmaster was shouting the numbers, ‘One – two – three – fire!’ and simultaneously an explosion ripped through the hushed circus. The tall young man hurtled out, curled tight into a ball and splashed into the lake, inches short of the precariously balanced sea creatures. There was silence. Even the sea-lions sensed the tension of the moment and then an astonishing roar of relief and delight as the young man straightened up out of the water and took his place beside Britannia. Lestrade’s heart was in his mouth, as was the heart of every spectator there, but for different reasons.
Amid tumultuous applause, the parade of the animals began and the crowd, tired and happy, scattered for the exit. Lestrade sat there motionless, hands on his knees, the devastating newspaper on his lap. No one moved him on, no one approached him. Even when circus staff arrived to sweep the droppings and sprinkle fresh sawdust, they ignored him. Then he heard the main doors lock with a click and he was alone in the darkened circus. The moon and the stars lit the scene and what was colour and noise and life before was now silver-black and silent and dead. Lestrade stood up. He left his end seat and stepped down towards the deserted ring. His footsteps echoed in the vast emptiness of the Corinthian. He thought of cocking the revolver, but he might blow his foot off. What bothered him most was that his neck was so stiff from the gunshot blast. He could not move suddenly and that put him at a disadvantage.
Then he heard it, that low, whispering, guttural voice. ‘Down here, Inspector, by the lake.’ This was the voice that Harriet Wemyss had been wooed by, the voice that had coaxed old Isaac Prendergast, at least momentarily, out of his seclusion.
‘Agrippa?’ Lestrade faltered on the final step. He couldn’t see anything. ‘I presume the cannon is reserved for me.’
A chill, hollow laugh. ‘Flying Robert,’ the voice said.
Lestrade had pinpointed the voice. Its direction. Yes, there in the shadows. He was sure of it. A shaft of moonlight fell on to the buttons of a clown-policeman, grotesquely rotund in a hoop and braces. Lestrade stood in the open, with his legs apart, ready to roll either way if he had to. He levelled the Smith and Wesson and cocked it. Once … twice. He saw the hand rise to twirl the moustaches and fall to straighten the non-existent cravat.
‘Come into the open, Sir Melville, the game is over.’
‘How did you know it was me?’
‘I didn’t. Not until The Tors. That morning you came in as Father Christmas. You were wearing built-up shoes, weren’t you?’
‘Very observant, Inspector.’
‘The eye-witnesses who saw Agrippa all mention the bulk of the man. You are too small. But that disguise convinced me that you might be capable of others more convincing.’
‘And the voice?’
No one had moved yet.
‘Come out of the shadows.’ Lestrade’s palm began to sweat.
‘And the voice? What about the voice?’
‘It’s good. Madame Slopesski, the travelling salesman, all very professional.’
‘But did you know I could throw my voice, Sholto?’
‘What?’
‘You see, I’m not really here at all.’
The figure in the shadows raised something. It looked like a stick and it threw it at Lestrade. Instinctively, the inspector moved sideways, jerking his neck and firing simultaneously. There was a crash of splintering glass and a heavy object caught Lestrade round the ear. He lay stunned in the sawdust and by the time his consciousness had focussed on the gun lying some feet away, somebody else had picked it up.
‘Then, of course,’ the clown policeman bent over him, ‘then there are the eyes. Did none of your witnesses mention them? It is one of my failings, Sholto. I cannot bear to have my eyes covered or drops put in. My sight is not all that it should be. Have you spend these three years working with a man and you don’t know his eyes are grey? But mine, Sholto, are blue.’
The voice had changed. It was softer, warmer. The clown policeman swept off his helmet and let the long, dark hair cascade on to his shoulder. Lestrade blinked up in disbelief.
‘Arabella?’
She straightened and walked away from the recumbent form of the inspector. ‘What I suspect you never discovered, Sholto, with your appalling working class background, is that the original Agrippa was a German magician of the sixteenth century. I fancy I have produced more magic in these four years than he ever could.’
‘Why?’ Lestrade had struggled to his knees.
‘Clever little trick this, isn’t it?’ She indicated the broken glass. ‘It’s all done by mirrors, you know. By standing behind you and throwing my voice – well, Papa’s voice – I was able to steal quite a march on you, wasn’t I?’
Lestrade rose to one knee.
‘Stay where you are!’ Arabella’s voice was harsh, her meaning unmistakeable. ‘In all my murders, Sholto, I never gave my victims an even chance. After all, like Queen Elizabeth, I have only the body of a weak and feeble woman …’
Lestrade would have found some humour in that, had he not been staring down the muzzle of Bandicoot’s .44. ‘Pretty little gun,’ mused Arabella, following his gaze. ‘You didn’t draw this with Father’s permission, I’ll be bound.’
Lestrade’s one hope was to keep her talking, to play for time. ‘You know as well as I do he doesn’t know I’m here. The gun belongs to Constable Bandicoot.’
‘Ah, yes, sweet boy.’ Arabella smiled. ‘I toyed with making him one of my victims, to show you all how unsafe you were, how easy it was to strike into the very heart of the Yard itself, but Bandicoot was too endearing. Forbes took his place in my scheme of things.’
‘Tell me about your scheme of things,’ said Lestrade. He had hoped that someone would have heard the shot and the breaking glass. But it was as though Arabella could read his mind.
‘You’re playing for time, Sholto, you crafty old cove. Well, why not? You want a tedious run through all the Struwwelpeter victims?’
‘It would be interesting.’ Lestrade was collecting, as unobtrusively as he could, a handful of sawdust from behind him.
‘Very well, but first, I think we’ll tie your hands.’
Lestrade saw his chance, threw the sawdust in Arabella’s face and deflected the gun. What he did not know, however, was that the iron bar she had lobbed at him minutes before was still in her other hand. She brought this cracking down on Lestrade’s bandaged neck. He dropped as though poleaxed and was only barely conscious of her tying his wrists firmly behind his back. She hauled him with little effort into a sitting position, his back against the cannon.
‘To begin with …’ Arabella sat cross-legged in her enormous trousers opposite him. She produced a cigar from nowhere and lit it, passing it to Lestrade for one last smoke. She puffed rings into the air. ‘The Man in the Chine had nothing to do with it. Had it not been for the description the local papers carried, it would never have reminded me of Struwwelpeter in the first place. I don’t know who killed your labourer, or fisherman or whatever he was, but the whole bizarre thing was perfect. The long hair seemed an exact replica of Shock-Headed Peter himself. And the name stitched into the smock – unbelievable.