by M. J. Trow
‘Collery where I worked as a boy,’ the answer echoed. ‘Lucky, reely. I can see in the dark, see.’
‘That helps, does it?’
‘Well, it would if I could pick locks.’
‘Why?’
‘Because,’ Mortimer uncoiled his legs as far as he was able, ‘there’s a door over there. I’m prepared to bet it’s locked. Otherwise, there wouldn’t be much point in puttin’ us down yer, would there?’
‘What sort of lock is it?’ Lestrade asked, unable to see so much as a wall.
‘Druitt and Westerman, it says,’ Mortimer told him. ‘Droitwich.’
Lestrade was astonished. ‘You can read at this distance, in a totally dark cellar?’
Mortimer chuckled. ‘They don’t call me Cat’s Eyes Mortimer for nothin’, you know. In fact, I got to admit, they don’t call me Cat’s Eyes Mortimer at all, particly. It’s just that Mr Guest Senior called us in to advise on security. We recommended Druitt and Westerman – oh, the Treorchy branch, of course.’
‘Right, well, unless the Treorchy branch have a peculiar twist, I should be able to open that door in ninety-eight seconds.’
‘Duw, duw,’ it was Mortimer’s turn to be astonished. ‘Well, I never did.’
‘Probably not,’ sighed Lestrade, ‘which brings me to our first problem.’
‘What?’
‘Knots.’
‘Ah,’ Mortimer heaved again against the ropes that bound him to Lestrade. They sat on the coal-dust of the floor, lashed together with their hands clasped behind them like a rather unusual pair of bookends.
‘Roll to the left,’ Lestrade said.
‘Why?’
‘Just do it, Mortimer. Or you and I will be hearing the crash of gunfire upstairs and it’s not going to be a pretty sound.’
‘You don’t think ’e’ll go ahead with it, surely?’
‘Did you see his eyes?’ Lestrade asked. ‘Mad as a March Hare. I’ve seen it before. An old cove called Mullion got into the Arsenal at Woolwich when I was a sergeant. Grabbed a Gatling and threatened to blow half the workforce to Kingdom Come.’
‘What happened?’
‘I’ll tell you about it . . . some other time,’ he said. ‘Now, roll.’
Neither man had felt such sickening pains in all his life. Their mutual scream was drowned out by the crunch of miners’ boots on the gravel above as the men of Yns-y-Bwl moved forward, their coal-grimed faces lit by their flaming torches.
The door of the Guest house swung wide.
‘Is that yew, Mr Guest?’ a voice called. The rest were silent.
‘Who’s that?’ the old man demanded to know.
‘Isaac Lewis, Mr Guest. We’d like a word, sir, if yew don’t mind.’
‘A word, Lewis?’ Guest tottered towards him. ‘You didn’t spare my son. Why should I spare you a word?’
There were rumblings from the men at Lewis’s back. He tugged off his cap. ‘We were all very sorry about yewer boy, Mr Guest,’ the miner said. ‘But it don’t change things. We’ve taken all we can. There’s men yer behind me who’ve lost boys too – down the pit.’
‘Aye!’ A crescendo rose through the night.
‘Now we know the risks we take,’ Lewis said. ‘Every shift, every eight hours savage amusement, but Yns-y-Bwl is ridiclous, Mr Guest. It’s just not safe. Yewer breakin’ the law.’
‘So did you, Lewis,’ Guest stood a dozen yards from his man now, ‘when you took a pickaxe handle to my son.’
Lestrade felt the pain subside. ‘When I said “roll to the left”,’ he winced, ‘I meant my left. You went to the right.’
‘Oh, sorry,’ Mortimer moaned. ‘Tie a bloody good knot, min’, don’ they, the Yeomanry?’
‘All part of their training, I suppose,’ Lestrade said. ‘Now, after three – roll to your right.’
This time, both detectives went the same way and lay side by side in the black grit. There was much struggling from Lestrade and then a sigh of relief from them both and their arms burst apart.
‘Oh Duw, that’s better, aye,’ Mortimer rubbed his numbed wrists. ‘Natty-from-bonky, that. Metropolitan issue?’
Lestrade clicked the deadly blade back into the brass knuckles from whence he had released it to saw through the ropes that bound them. ‘No,’ he smiled, ‘a souvenir from Egypt – a companion of a mile.’
‘I can see it would be,’ said Mortimer. ‘I ’ave to make do with my size ’levens in the event of trouble, but they’re not much bloody good at cuttin’ ropes. There’s glad I am the Yeomanry didn’t search yew. Yew said something about a Druitt and Westerman?’
The crowd above began to sway. Guest tottered backwards, his face to them, his head erect, a rigid silhouette against the light from his own hall.
‘We just want to talk, Mr Guest,’ Lewis was saying.
There was the snick of a Lee-Enfield bolt and Captain Dance was at Guest’s shoulder.
The crowd stopped, the murmuring died down.
‘Who’s that with yew?’ Lewis asked.
‘Gerontius Dance,’ the captain called. ‘Glamorgan Yeomanry. And that gentleman behind you,’ he waved his swagger stick in the air, ‘is Sergeant Harris.’
From nowhere, a ring of horsemen with carbines cocked had formed a line at the rear. Harris edged his horse forward and the miners struggled backwards until they were a tiny knot in the centre, Yeomanry all round their flanks and rear and a Nordenfeldt machine gun in their faces.
‘What’s this?’ Lewis growled.
‘The end, you working class bastard,’ Dance trilled. ‘When I drop my cane, my men will open fire.’
‘Stop!’ Another English accent rent the air and two rather bedraggled-looking policemen in soaking Donegals staggered through the cordon of Yeomen and into the circus that Guest was running. How were they to know that the old man had had a new duck pond built since Mortimer’s last visit, around the back of the house? Lestrade was still spitting out duck weed as he ran. ‘You’re all under arrest.’
There was laughter from both sides.
‘Bugger off, Lestrade,’ Guest bellowed. ‘This is no business of yours.’
‘Now, wait a minute,’ Lestrade stood between the miners and the window where he knew the Nordenfeldt waited, cocked and deadly. ‘This is an industrial dispute. It’s not going to become a battlefield.’
‘That’s up to ’im, butty,’ Lewis shouted.
Lestrade turned to the braying miners. ‘Mr Lewis, is it?’
‘Aye.’
‘I am Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard. Do you know Inspector Mortimer?’ The Welsh detective had not taken his eyes off Dance.
‘Aye.’
‘It has been suggested to us, that you have information relating to the death of John Guest.’
‘Bollocks,’ Lewis assured him.
‘Perhaps, but Mr Mortimer would like to ask you a few questions.’
Lewis shrugged.
‘Do you have any objections to that?’
‘I s’pose not,’ Lewis said warily. ‘As long as that old bugger’s not involved.’
‘No, I assure you that Mr Guest will not be there.’
‘Lestrade,’ Guest thundered, ‘I shall count to three. If you and Mortimer aren’t out of the way by then, Dance here will open up on all of you. One . . .’
Lestrade hissed to Lewis, ‘Put your torches out. It’ll make it more difficult to see you.’
‘’Andier for blindin’ ’orses, though, innit?’ Lewis growled. ‘We didn’ come lookin’ for trouble, Mr Lestrade, but it seems we’ve found it, anyow.’
‘Stop,’ another English voice cried out, this time from among the miners themselves. Two men forced their way to the front. One was tall with an aquiline nose probing the cold night air under the colliery grime. The other shorter with a toothbrush moustache.
‘For God’s sake, Lestrade, get us out of this.’
‘Holmes?’ Lestrade peered through the coal black. ‘Watson?’
�
��Yes,’ Lewis frowned. ‘’Ow come yew know these blokes, Inspector? Ianto and Dewi.’
‘Ianto and . . . oh, I see. Er . . .’
‘Now, Look you boyo,’ Holmes attempted, ‘this is all going’ a bit far, indeed to goodness, innit, look you?’
‘Funniest bloody Valleys accent I’ve ever heard,’ Lewis said. ‘No wonder they didn’ say much. Sounds like Yns-y-Bwl with just a ’int of Madras.’
‘I think you’ll find that’s Baker Street,’ Lestrade said, ‘but perhaps now is not the time. Mr Holmes, Dr Watson, if you will play charades, you must expect to pay the odd forfeit. How are you at dodging machine-gun bullets?’
‘What?’ Holmes, Watson and Lewis chorused.
‘Second window from the door,’ Lestrade hissed without turning to face it. ‘There’s a Fordenneld gun in there, trained on us.’
‘Two,’ Guest bellowed.
‘Oh, bloody ’ell,’ Lewis wailed. ‘Sod this for a game of soldiers.’
‘Stand still!’ Lestrade yelled as the miners began to back. He grabbed Lewis by the collar and held him fast.
‘Stop!’ yet another English voice cried and the casement window crashed back. All eyes turned to it. There, behind the sights of the Nordenfeldt crouched a policeman in plain-clothes. But this time, the gun was trained on Captain Dance. ‘Mr Lestrade, sir, would you like to tell Captain Dance about my prowess with one of these?’
‘Sergeant George!’ Lestrade had never been so pleased to see his number two. ‘With pleasure,’ and he crossed to the good captain. ‘You see, it’s not only the Central London Rangers who’ve practised with . . . one of those. Scotland Yard has been involved in trials too – all very hush-hush of course. Sergeant George here holds the Police Medal for marksmanship.’
‘Huh!’ Dance was contemptuous.
Lestrade closed to him, looking at him levelly. ‘And he’s particularly crack when he’s cross,’ he muttered. ‘So if I were you, I wouldn’t make George cross.’
The silence was audible. It was Guest who broke it, ‘Gerry, you lily-livered shit. Give the order to your men.’
‘Uncle . . .’ clearly Dance’s nerve had gone.
‘If you don’t, I will!’ Guest bellowed, raising his stick on high.
It was Inspector Mortimer who felled him, a particularly gratuitous left hook that sent the old man sailing backwards across his polished hall to collide gracefully with an aspidistra at the far end.
‘Duw,’ he cradled his knuckles, ‘I’ve been wanting’ to do that these years, aye.’
‘Right,’ Lestrade was in command. ‘You Yeomen, drop your carbines. Now!’
One by one the weapons clattered to the ground.
‘You men at the back, dismount and unbuckle your swords from your saddles.’
No one moved.
‘Tell them, Dance,’ Lestrade snapped.
‘Do as he says,’ Dance had not taken his eyes off George’s trigger finger.
One by one, led by Sergeant Harris, the troopers obeyed.
‘Mr Lewis,’ Lestrade said, ‘would you be so kind as to ask your men to escort these soldiers out of the village? On no account are they to mount until . . . where would you say?’
‘Llantrisant,’ Lewis grinned. ‘It’ll be dinner time tomorrow by then.’
There was laughter from the miners who jeered at the Yeomen before lining the road to the house with their torches. Other torches, like fireflies, were approaching up the hill, accompanied by the tramp of running feet.
‘That’ll be Constable Williams and the Glamorgan Constabulary.’ George had heard it too.
‘Oh, there’s proud!’ beamed Mortimer. ‘Well done, lads. Look lively.’ And he marched off to take charge of them.
‘Not exactly the cavalry,’ said Lestrade, ‘but it’ll do. Mr Lewis, could we have a word inside?’
‘Lestrade?’
‘Mr Holmes.’
‘Look . . . er . . . I know we shouldn’t exactly be here, but Watson and I are working on a case.’
‘The Guest case?’
‘Possibly,’ Holmes bridled.
‘Come off it, Holmes. We owe Lestrade here our lives – again. The least you can do is tell him what we know.’
‘Which is?’ Lestrade turned to them.
Holmes led the Inspector a little way off. ‘The man Lewis had a motive.’
‘It sounds as though they all did,’ Lestrade told him, ‘the way the late Guest ran his mine.’
‘More than that. Lewis has protested before. The last time he tried it, Guest had him beaten up. Supervised the whole thing personally.’
‘Witnesses?’
‘We have their names,’ Holmes told him.
‘Thank you, Mr Holmes,’ Lestrade said. ‘Leave your address with Inspector Mortimer, will you?’
‘Ah well, now that our cover is blown, so to speak, I’m afraid we’ll have to leave Number 16 Hafodyrydynys Street. I’m not sure we’ll be welcome with Mrs Leyshon now.’
‘Just as well,’ mumbled Watson. ‘We’ve discovered that her Welsh Rarebit isn’t as rare as all that.’
‘Well, wherever you stay,’ Lestrade said. ‘I’d be grateful, gentlemen, if you’d leave all this to the professionals.’
‘Oh, quite, quite.’ For a man who’d nearly been machine-gunned, Watson could be pretty ingratiating.
Lestrade watched as Mortimer supervised the removal of the Cowbridge Troop. He turned to Captain Dance. ‘As soon as Mortimer is free,’ he said, ‘he’ll be arresting you for disturbing the peace, possibly even attempted murder. Can I trust you to wait in the library?’
Dance straightened. ‘You have my word as an officer of the Glamorgan Yeomanry,’ he said.
‘Yes,’ Lestrade was impressed. ‘You’d better see to your uncle. Whichever asylum he ends up in, the staff there won’t thank us if his jaw’s dislocated.’
The Inspector turned to the sergeant, gently easing the muzzle of the Nordenfeldt away from his chest. ‘George,’ he shook the man’s hand, ‘that was almost inspired. What happened to you and Williams?’
‘Well, guv,’ the sergeant grinned, ‘they locked us in the attic shortly after you and Mr Mortimer left. I thought it was funny, all the Guest mourners being young and blokes an’ all. When they started taking off their black togs and buckling on their bandoliers, I sensed all was not well.’
‘Then?’
‘Well, Williams had a brainwave. He used his belt-buckle to lever the window and we climbed down the wisteria at the back. Bit hairy up on the leads, mind you.’
‘Almost as hairy as in the duck pond. What did you do next?’
‘We know we had to get help. God knows what these buggers had got planned – they’re all mad, y’know. Williams scarpered to get the lads from Pant-y-Grdl nick and I started shuftying through the house. When I popped my head in here, I couldn’t believe it. A bloody great machine gun. There were three blokes, two of ’em soldiers guarding it, so it was the old one, two.’
‘Police Manual, page sixty-one?’ Lestrade knew it well. ‘Fisticuffs against Felons?’
‘That and the poker,’ George beamed, glancing at the three bodies draped around the room.
‘Inspired,’ said Lestrade in awe. ‘But, tell me, all joking apart, where on earth did you learn to fire one of these?’
‘Fire it?’ George turned a little pale. ‘How d’you mean, guv, fire it?’
❖6❖
‘W
ell, duw, duw,’ Inspector Mortimer sat in what passed for his office in the police station at Pant-y-Grdl. Constable Williams was being mother.
‘Teisan lap, Mr Lestrade?’ he asked, handing round the cake.
The Yard man glanced down. ‘No,’ he said, ‘I always sit this way.’
‘There’s a thing, innit?’ Mortimer said. ‘I’d welcome yewer observations, Mr Lestrade.’
‘I’d welcome some myself,’ Lestrade told him. ‘What news on Ranulf Guest?’
‘Oh, he’s in the Parc, now.’
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br /> ‘The Park?’
‘Parc Willt. The local asylum for the Incurably Deranged. His family ’ave ’ad ’im committed, apparently.’
‘I’d ’ave signed the papers myself,’ Williams said through a mouthful of bun.
‘I never thanked you, constable,’ Lestrade said, ‘for the timely arrival of the Constabulary.’
‘Oh, that’s all right, Mr Lestrade,’ Williams said. ‘We are, after all, ’ere to serve.’
‘Captain Dance will lose ’is troop, of course,’ Mortimer chewed. ‘So, really, after that bit of nastiness up at the ’ouse, we’re no further forward at all.’
‘I wouldn’t say that.’ George had been silent for a while.
All eyes turned to him. ‘Are you going to enlighten us, sergeant?’ Lestrade asked.
‘I went for a walk this morning, guv,’ he said. ‘A little bit after breakfast while you were interrogating Lewis.’
‘And?’
‘I went up to the murder scene, guv, to the quarry.’
‘We’re all riveted, George,’ Lestrade yawned.
The sergeant passed his guv’nor a piece of paper.
‘Notepad sheet, Metropolitan Police for the use of,’ Lestrade correctly identified it. ‘Don’t tell me you found this up there?’
‘No, sir, it’s one of mine. It’s what’s on it I think you’ll find interesting.’
Lestrade uncrumpled it and his eyes widened. ‘Where was this?’ he asked.
‘On a stone face, chalked up,’ George said. ‘Roughly in a line with where the body must have lain. I sketched it exactly as it appeared. It’s a verbatim drawing.’
‘Inspector.’ Lestrade passed it to Mortimer. ‘Seen this before?’
‘No, I don’t think so,’ the Glamorgan detective frowned. ‘Looks like a maze or somethin’. What is it?’
Lestrade shrugged. ‘A maze or something,’ he said. ‘But the point is that that design, or something very like it, has been found near two other bodies George and I are investigating.
‘Well, duw, duw,’ Mortimer shook his head, ‘there’s a coincidence, innit?’
‘Coincidence be damned,’ said Lestrade. ‘This all follows a pattern.’
‘Aye,’ said Williams, looking at George’s sketch. ‘Like a sort of . . . square dance.’