by M. J. Trow
Lestrade’s clearing of his throat brought Mortimer back to the reality of the situation, ‘Yes, well as I was sayin’ – John Guest. ’Ead of a cadet branch of the family. Owned the Yns-y-Bwl collery. ’E’s well out of that, min’.’
‘Why do you say that?’ Lestrade asked.
‘Trouble,’ Mortimer tapped the side of his not inconsiderable nose. ‘What they call nowadays “employer/employee relationships”. I dunno, when I was a boy, it was all master and servant. Then along comes ol’ Gladstone with his every man comin’ within the pale of the constitution . . .’
‘Aye,’ corroborated Williams.
‘I don’t think ’e was includin’ people like yew, Myrddin,’ the Inspector said.
‘Guest knew about this?’ Lestrade asked.
‘What, Gladstone?’
‘The bad feeling at his pit at . . . er . . .’
‘Yns-y-bwl,’ Mortimer found it for him ‘Oh, duw, aye. ’E caused most of it.’
‘How?’
‘Short wages, long hours, no compensation. Yew’d think there’d never been a Mines Act at all to listen to Sioni Guest for ’alf-an-hour.’
‘So you were the first policeman on the scene, Constable Williams?’
‘That’s right, sir. Ol’ Dai Evans come into the station last Thursday afternoon.’
‘What time was this?’ George was taking notes.
‘Well, now, the whistle ’ad gone for the middle shift, so it would ’ave been about three o’clock.’
‘What did he say?’ Lestrade asked.
‘Tol’ me ’e’d found a body. Or rather ’e tol’ me and Sergeant Owen. Sarge turns roun’ and says to me, “Myrddin, Dai ’ave found a body up at the quarry at Blaenllechau.” “Get away,” I says to ’im. “I’ll give the orders,” ’e says to me, so I turn roun’ an’ say . . .’
‘Yes, thank you,’ Lestrade raised his hand. ‘So when you got here, what?’
‘Well, on the way up I asked ol’ Dai ’ow come ’e was up the mountain by yer when ’e should ’ave been down Number Three.’
‘Number Three?’ Lestrade repeated.
‘Collery,’ explained Mortimer. ‘Number Three Pit. They’ve all got numbers, see. Like bein’ in the bloody police, innit?’
‘And what did he say?’ Lestrade asked.
‘Well, ’e may be a pervert, ol’ Dai, but ’e’s an honest one. ’E said ’e was spyin’ on this couple, see. ’E – the bloke now, not ol’ Dai – ’e ’ad ’is ’and up this girl’s frock; quite spring like wasn’t it, Inspector, last Thursday?’
‘Not bad,’ Mortimer remembered.
‘Anyhow, with the valleys being so crowded all the time, you’ve got to take yewer chance while you can. So what’s a bit of goose pimples by comparison with a bit of ’ow’s yewer gransha?’
‘And then?’ Lestrade was sitting on a damp Donegal, albeit someone else’s and he’d just put his hand squarely in some sheep currants. He sensed his patience was becoming an increasingly rare commodity.
‘Well, the bloke ’eard ’im – ol’ Dai now. So ’e oiks ’is arm out from the girl’s unmentionables an’ comes after Dai.’
‘And what does Dai do?’
George, ever the cultured policeman, thought she was Queen of Carthage, but he felt the bon mot inappropriate and licked his pencil stub instead.
‘Runs like buggery,’ Williams explained. ‘Loses the bloke somewhere up above and ’ides in ’ere. Nearly fell over Mr Guest. ’Ell of a shock for ’im, fair play.’
‘It’s foul play we’re talking about, Constable. Did you touch the body?’
‘Oh, aye,’ Williams said proudly. ‘I’m not squeamish. ’Ad two brothers killed at Tynnewydd. A bit o’ blood never ’urt nobody.’
‘Unless you’ve lost it,’ George commented.
‘Do you remember how he was lying?’
‘Er . . . oh, duw. On ’is back, was it? Or on ’is front? No, I tell yew a lie. It was on ’is side.’
‘He was dead, I suppose?’ Lestrade checked.
‘Oh, duw, aye,’ Williams confirmed, chewing the chinstrap of his helmet, ‘as a dado. Most of ’is ’ead ’ad gone yer at the back and ’is eyes were bulgin’.’
‘Did this bloke who was chasing Dai see the body?’
‘No.’
‘No,’ Mortimer said. ‘But Dai saw somethin’. Didne, Myrddin?’
The constable looked blank. ‘Did ’e, sir?’
‘Well, aye, mun,’ Mortimer reminded him. ‘As ol’ Dai come into the quarry, Mr Lestrade, ’e saw a bloke makin’ away over by there.’
‘Over by . . . where?’ Lestrade tried to follow the pointing finger.
‘Through that gap in the wall.’
‘Could he be our man?’ Lestrade asked.
‘Could be.’
‘Would Dai know him again?’ the Inspector asked his colleagues.
‘Dai wouldn’ know ’is own mother,’ Williams moaned. ‘Unless it’s cuddlin’ ’e can’t see it at all.’
‘But ’e did say that the bloke got tangled up in the barb wire, Myrddin, didne?’ Mortimer prompted.
‘Oh, duw, aye, sir. I’d forgotten that. Dai did say, Mr Lestrade, that the bloke got caught up in the barb wire.’
‘Over here?’ Lestrade staggered painfully to his feet and braved the biting wind again to reach the broken wall.
‘Aye, just by there.’
The eagle-eyed detective peered at the wire. There, caught on its murderous spikes, was a small, wet piece of blue cloth. ‘What do you make of this, George?’ he asked his sergeant.
George squinted closer. ‘Piece of blue cloth, guv,’ was his deduction. ‘Wet.’
‘Yes, thank you, George. Tell me, Constable Williams,’ the uniformed man had joined them by now, together with his inspector, ‘did you or any other constable pass through that gap?’
‘Through that gap, Inspector?’ Williams chuckled, patting his sizeable midriff. ‘Maybe twenty years ago.’
The Guest house was a huge Gothic pile, of the same Rhondda grey stone, faced and hewn to perfection, as the cottages that clustered below it on the hillside. The policemen were shown into a drawing-room full of men wearing black.
‘I am Inspector Lestrade,’ he introduced himself, ‘Scotland Yard. This is Sergeant George. These gentlemen,’ he waved vaguely in the direction of the local police, ‘I believe you know. Would I be right in assuming you are all Guests?’
‘No, mun, Mortimer whispered. ‘Some of ’em live yer.’
‘I am Ranulf Guest.’ A balding man with immaculate silver Dundrearies crossed the tiger skin run to Lestrade. ‘The man done to death was my eldest son. I want to see his murderer.’
‘So do I, Mr Guest,’ Lestrade said. ‘But I fear these things take time.’
‘Time, man?’ the eldest Guest bellowed. ‘We are all living on borrowed time, Lestrade. How long have you been here?’
Lestrade consulted his half hunter. ‘About four hours,’ he said.
‘Long enough. You, Mortimer . . . and you, Lestrade. Come with me.’
The old man took up a gnarled stick with a heavy end and tottered through an ante-room. The mourning family stayed where it was, eyeing George and Williams with something akin to contempt. The Welsh constable closed to the English sergeant. ‘It’s at times like these,’ he muttered, ‘I wish I was in ’afod keepin’ a fish shop.’
And George, though not remotely aware of where Hafod was, concurred.
A tall, square miner with shoulders like Davenports stood in the corner of the library, an ill-fitting collar constricting his neck and a cloth cap in his hand.
‘Mortimer,’ Guest said, ‘I think you know Will Dodd?’
‘Indeed I do,’ Mortimer’s eyes narrowed. ‘’E put two of my boys in the Infirmary last year.’
‘My pleasure, Mr Mortimer,’ the miner grinned.
‘Dodd, this is Inspector Lestrade, from Scotland Yard.’
‘Oh, a real Peeler,’ Dodd nodded at him.
They all sat down at his behest as the paterfamilias poured the drinks.
‘I think I should tell you, gentlemen, that Dodd here is not all he seems. He is what in my father’s day was called an agent provocateur.’
Lestrade and Mortimer looked at each other. Neither of them had expected a French Connection.
‘You know, Mortimer,’ the oldest Guest went on, clamping himself at last into a library chair, ‘if Dodd’s double existence were to become public, his life would not be worth a tinker’s damn.’
The Inspector nodded.
‘For that reason, I must swear you to secrecy. An agent provocateur is only useful if he is alive. Did you notice anything on your way in?’
Lestrade and Mortimer looked at each other again. The old man sighed and hobbled to the window. ‘Clear view of the drive,’ he grated, then limped to another. ‘You can see the stables from here.’
Indeed they could. As much as Lestrade appreciated the tour of the house, other matters were perhaps more pressing.
‘Mr Guest . . .’
The old man ignored him. ‘Up here, Lestrade,’ he pointed with his stick towards the adjoining wing. ‘What do you see?’
‘An adjoining wing,’ Lestrade observed, grateful now that he had attended that lecture on Architecture for Policemen.
‘On the roof, man,’ Guest snapped.
‘Er . . .’ Lestrade squinted in the gathering dark at the gargoyle. ‘Is that a wild man?’
‘Furious,’ commented Guest, ‘the wild man or wode house as they are called, of the Guests. But behind it, man, what do you see?’
Lestrade squinted again. ‘It looks like . . . another man. Not so wild this time.’
Mortimer squinted as well. ‘Bugger me,’ he muttered as he took in the dark blue uniform with the white facings, ‘it’s the Glamorgan Yeomanry.’
‘The Yeomanry?’ Lestrade repeated. ‘Devil of a place for annual exercises, Mr Guest.’
‘Annual exercises be buggered,’ Guest growled. ‘Captain Dance’s Cowbridge Troop are working for me.’
‘Working for you?’ Lestrade turned to his man. ‘In what capacity?’
Guest chuckled grimly. ‘Tell them, Dodd.’
The big miner placed his cap on the polished mahogany of the billiard table’s rim. ‘There’s a small war about to start, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘In the form of a deputation from the Yns-6-Bwl Collery. Is yewer clock right, Mr Guest?’
‘On the button,’ Guest glanced at his grandfather.
‘They’ll be yer in about ten minutes.’
‘I don’t see . . .’ Lestrade began.
‘I told yew,’ said Mortimer. ‘Employer/employee relations. I warned you, Mr Guest, I said there’d be trouble. ’Course, I didn’t reckon on Dodd yer.’
The miner grinned. ‘No one ever does, butty,’ he said.
‘Dodd’s information is that the man who killed my son is coming up here to talk about wages and hours.’
‘You know who it is?’ Lestrade asked.
‘I got a pretty shrewd idea,’ Dodd said.
‘Well, who?’ Mortimer asked.
‘“Happy” Lewis.’
‘Isaac Lewis? Never!’ Mortimer said.
‘Why “Never”, Mortimer?’ Guest turned on him.
‘Look, Mr Guest,’ the Inspector blustered a little. ‘I’ve known “Happy” since ’e was a boy. So, come to that, ’ave yew.’
‘You’ve known Will Dodd for a few years too,’ Guest reminded him. ‘And you had no idea he was working for me did you?’
‘Well, no, I . . .’
‘What evidence do you have’ Lestrade asked the miner provocateur, ‘against this man Lewis?’
‘’E ’ad it in for Mr Guest,’ Dodd told him. ‘For any Guest, in fact. ’E’s a Socialist, see.’
‘A what?’
‘A Socialist,’ Dodd repeated. ‘’E writes letters to William Morris.’
‘Scum of the earth,’ Guest snapped. ‘They’re trying to destroy the fabric of our society, Lestrade. I don’t know if you see it that clearly, cocooned in Whitehall, but down here in this Godforsaken hell, it’s obvious enough. Dammit, they’ll want the vote next.’
‘What are your plans, exactly?’ Lestrade asked, more aware than his host, clearly, of the Corrupt Practices Act.
Guest wandered to the door and threw it open. ‘Captain Dance,’ he thundered.
A young man with a monocle sauntered into the room, the shoulder chains and leek collar badges of the Glamorgan Yeomanry glistening on his tunic in the lamplight. He saluted casually.
‘What are your plans exactly?’ Guest asked him.
‘Er . . .’ the good captain hesitated.
‘It’s all right,’ Guest waved a hand at Lestrade. ‘He’s one of us.’
That came as something of a surprise to Lestrade, but he let it pass.
Captain Dance closed to the corner of the room and took an old sheet off a table. There stood a perfect scale model of the Guest house.
‘Here,’ his Oxford accent was like cut glass, ‘is a perfect model of the house. We are here,’ he pointed his swagger stick at the lower ground floor. ‘I have men here . . . here . . . and here to act as lookouts. At a given signal, the men from the stables, armed with carbines, will take up positions here . . . here . . . and here,’ the stick’s pointer flew hither and yon. ‘Once the targets are assembled in the drive . . .’
‘The targets?’ Lestrade wasn’t sure he’d heard.
‘Er . . . miners, aren’t they, Ranulf?’
‘Indeed they are, Gerontius.’
‘Well, once they’re assembled, we’ll close in from the rear with the horses.’
‘You’ve got horses?’
‘Well,’ Dance chuckled like a donkey on laughing gas, ‘we are the Yeomanry, Mr Lestrade Not good horse country, of course, the Valleys, but there it is. No, they’ll just be useful in keeping the blighters in the grounds. We’ll soon whisk them away behind the outer perimeter.’
‘The miners?’
‘Lord, no. The horses.’
‘Why?’
Dance blinked. He’d never consciously thought of Scotland Yard before. In fact, he’d barely heard the name. But now he knew why they’d been dubbed the Defective Department. ‘So that they don’t get hurt,’ he said. ‘You see,’ he crossed to the window, ‘if the horses were still in position, we couldn’t use this,’ and he swept another sheet off something in the bay.
Lestrade’s mouth fell open. So did Mortimer’s.
‘What is it?’ the Yard man found his voice first.
‘It’s a Nordenfeldt five barrel,’ Dance explained. ‘Better than the Gatling or the Gardner for my money. The five barrels of course are an experiment, but it’s looking good. The Central London Rangers at Dartford used one three years ago and from “order” to “halt”, reversing the gun, opening the limber, mounting the carriage-hopper and firing fifty rounds took twenty-two seconds. Extraordinary, really.’
‘I don’t believe it,’ Lestrade shook his head.
‘Oh, it’s perfectly true, old boy,’ Dance assured him. ‘I can even give you the name of the troop captain if you like.’
‘And how long will it take you to murder all those miners?’ Lestrade asked him.
‘Murder?’ Guest snarled. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. There’s an armed mob coming up that hill, Lestrade. All I’m doing is defending my property against it.’
‘It?’ Lestrade rounded on the old man. ‘I’ve faced many a mob in my time, Mr Guest, and it’s not an “it”; it’s a “them”. Men, with children and wives and mothers . . .’
Guest held up his hand. ‘Spare me the catalogue, Lestrade. I have a wife too and she was a mother. Until one of those bastards took that from her and caved in the head of my eldest son.’
‘That’s why I’m here,’ Lestrade said. ‘I’ll find your son’s murderer for you, Mr Guest, I pr
omise you . . .’
‘I’ve got my murderer,’ Guest said. ‘He’ll be coming over that hill any moment. Right into the mouth of this,’ and he slapped the gleaming steel of the Nordenfeldt, its muzzle nudging the leaded panes.
‘May I remind you,’ Lestrade said quietly, ‘that the use of private armies is illegal in this country.’
‘So is murder,’ Guest countered. ‘But it happens anyway. Oh, I’ve no doubt you chaps do your best, Lestrade, but it’s a poor best, a second best. No, the hangman’s rope is too chancy. To get Lewis to it, I’ll have to bypass an awful lot of bleeding hearts. Some social worker will point to his poverty-stricken background, his aged mother, his mewling and puking babies. They’ll find a doctor who’ll say he was brain-damaged falling out of his cradle. And that’s before some smart-arsed counsel has a go at justifiable homicide. This way is sure,’ he felt the cold steel again. ‘The only pity of it is, it’s too damn quick.’
There was a rap at the window. Dance threw it open and a soldier saluted briskly. ‘They’re coming, sir.’
‘How many?’ the captain asked.
‘Difficult to see in the dark, sir,’ the soldier said.
‘I haven’t time for a biology lesson, private.’ Dance snapped.
‘No, sir. Estimate over a hundred, sir.’
‘Right, tell Sergeant Harris will you, old chap. And do your tunic up. This is the Glamorgan Yeomanry.’
‘Yessir, very good, sir,’ and they heard the soldier’s boots crunch on the gravel.
‘This is madness,’ Lestrade said and strode for the door.
Instantly it was blocked by two Yeomen in bandoliers. They looked vaguely familiar.
‘Meet my “family”, Lestrade,’ Guest said. ‘Did you not notice, either, as you came in, that all my family seem rather of the male persuasion? This is no place for women and children. I am the only Guest here. Everyone else belongs to Captain Dance: correct, nephew?’
‘Indubitably, uncle,’ the captain clicked his heels. ‘Gentlemen,’ he said to the guards, ‘be so good as to entertain Messrs Lestrade and Mortimer, will you? Mr Guest and I have a little entertaining of our own to do.’
‘Bit like Number Two, this,’ Mortimer said.
‘Number Two?’ Lestrade wondered what the Inspector had put his hand in.