by M. J. Trow
‘You know, Gladdy, that the Prince Imperial is a Buonaparte. He has the blood of genius coursing through his veins. Oh, a different genius from my own, of course. More of the military type. He received his baptism of fire at Saarbruck against the Prussians. But he longs to taste steel again – the roar of musketry, the lines of bayonets . . .’
‘Beaconsfieldism!’ bellowed Gladstone.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Beaconsfieldsim,’ he repeated. ‘It’s my wee little word for military adventuring, Lord Beaconsfield. Rather akin to piracy.’
‘Now, now, Gladdy,’ Disraeli waved his ringed fingers to placate his old enemy, ‘I have every confidence in Bartle Frere . . .’
‘As you had every confidence in Lord Chelmsford, no doubt,’ the Leader of the Opposition snapped, ‘and his defeat at Isandlwhana is the most disastrous in recent history. As for Bartle Frere, the sooner you stop appointing people with silly names to the Foreign Office . . .’
‘The Zulu attacked our forces,’ Disraeli explained.
‘The Zulu are a fine and magnificent people,’ Gladstone had found his underdog again. ‘King Cetewayo is worthy to hold court at Windsor itself.’
‘I say, steady on,’ Cambridge broke in, but the cold eyes of the two greatest politicians of their day stopped him dead.
‘They merely responded to Chelmsford’s presence,’ Gladstone swept on, his blood up. ‘A presence spearheaded by the 17th Lancers, I believe. The 17th Duke of Cambridge’s Own Lancers. Your regiment, Your Royal Highness.’
‘Er . . . is it? Er . . . are they? Oh, yes. Yes. I’ll have a word with Colonel . . . Thing.’
‘We are discussing Lieutenant Thing at the moment,’ Gladstone reminded him, ‘to be precise, Lieutenant Napoleon Eugene Louis Buonaparte, Royal Artillery seconded. You know what this is, Disraeli, don’t you?’ He leaned forward, his eyes smouldering.
‘No, Gladstone,’ Disraeli leaned forward too, ‘but I’m sure you’ll tell me.’
‘It’s murder.’
‘It is?’ Disraeli blinked.
‘The Prince hasn’t any of his own natives to kill, now that, for the moment, all is quiet on the Algerian Front, and so he’s asked if he can come over to kill a few of ours. And you’ve let him. I call that murder.’
‘And I call it international diplomacy,’ Disraeli thundered, his goatee wagging, his brows beetling. ‘And as long as I’m this side of this desk, and you’re over there, that’s how it’ll stay. Was there anything else?’
Only the shaking of Cambridge’s medals broke the silence. Gladstone smiled, stood up, bowed to the two men and crossed to the door.
‘I shall watch the Prince Imperial’s adventures with interest,’ he said. He looked beyond Disraeli to the window and the bleak weather outside. ‘Snow in the wind,’ he said. ‘I’ll give you a year, Lord Beaconsfield. Then we’ll see who’s on which side of the desk. Don’t get too comfy, will you?’ And he left.
Cambridge crumpled like a bag of sugar, mopping his bald brow with his gauntlet-cuffs. ‘Good God,’ he mumbled, ‘that man is terrifying.’
Disraeli dismissed him with a flutter of rings. ‘Lukewarm,’ he said. ‘Usually after a visit from old Gladeye, the walls are awash with blood.’
‘What shall we do?’ Cambridge flustered. ‘What shall we do?’
‘Get a grip on yourself, man,’ Disraeli ordered. ‘The first thing we do is to thank whatever God we pray to that Gladstone’s spies are clearly not aware of the Prince’s little disappearing act this morning. They think he’s in Zululand. That’s all to the good. Gives us a breather, already. How long will it – would it – have taken him to get there?’
‘Er . . . three weeks, if the engines don’t pack up.’
‘Three weeks. That makes it 24 March,’ he rang the bell cord and a rather downhearted, but still pompous, flunkey appeared in hat, coat and bag.
‘You rang, my lord?’
‘Take that expression off your face, Thatcher – and that coat off your back. Who’s that hack on the party payroll? Writes, for want of a better word, on the Graphic?’
‘Andrew Burns, sir,’ a glimmer of relief flitted across the strong features of the flunkey.
‘Right. Get him here. Now. You’ll find him at the Waysgoose in Fleet Street. You’d better brief him in advance. He’ll need time to assimilate the situation. He is to take ship from the Port of London today and paddle like Hell to Natal Colony, having put in at the Cape to buy a huge supply of pencils and a cholera belt. There he will report on every breath the Prince Imperial takes. Got it?
‘Every word, sir.’
‘If His Highness breaks wind, I want to read about it in the Graphic three or four days later. Understand? We’ll tackle the Association Against Rabelaisian Sentences in Editions as and when they cause a rumpus. Well, don’t just stand there, Thatcher; you’re supposed to be one of us.’
‘Very good, sir,’ and the flunkey was gone, delighted to be reinstated.
‘But, Lord Beaconsfield . . . the Prince Imperial has not gone to Natal.’
Disraeli sighed and closed his rococo eyelids. ‘Oy vay,’ he whispered, ‘you know that, Your Royal Highness. I know that. Probably the Prince Imperial knows that. We can safely add Thatcher to that small and happy band – the man has a degree in listening at keyholes. And by eleven o’clock, journalist Burns of the Graphic will know it too. But Gladstone, the Queen, the Empress of the French and the great British public? They are as ignorant as shit. And that is how I’d like it to stay. Tell me, you must have had a man with the little abortion. An aide or something?’
‘Yes, indeed. Captain Jaheel Carey, 98th Foot. He’s a good man. Passed the Staff College.’
‘Yes, I did that once,’ Disraeli was unimpressed, ‘on a whistle-stop tour of the Home Counties. I have also been known to pass water. This Carey is clearly an idiot.’
‘Oh, yes,’ Cambridge changed front. ‘I’ll have him cashiered.’
‘No,’ Disraeli was thinking aloud, ‘that’s too easy.’
‘You’re right, of course, Lord Beaconsfield. I’ll have him shot as well, although of course, we’ll have to make it look like an accident – Martini-Henry jamming or something like that.’
‘All in good time,’ the Prime Minister said. ‘Heads can roll later in as much abundance as we think fit. In the meantime, get this Carey out of his uniform and on to the road. It is his job to find the Prince Imperial at all costs, before he does something daft and attention-seeking.’
‘But, how . . .?’
‘How,’ glowered Disraeli, ‘is not a question worthy of an Englishman. It does not exist, any more than the Irish Question does. The little abortion was last seen on a train tooting its way through Kent. That’s where Carey’s task starts. And he’d better make a better job of it than he has so far. The problem of course is that the man speaks six languages, including English, like a native and as for his appearance, he is Mister Average. If he chooses to become incognito, we’re all buggered. This Carey, presumably, knows him well?’
‘Er . . . no. Only met him half an hour earlier. Shouldn’t we call in the police, Prime Minister? Scotland Yard?’
Disraeli shuddered. ‘Two years ago, Your Royal Highness, the bowels of the Yard were ripped open in the Trial of the Detectives, exposing a number of Yard officers as guilty of corruption the likes of which would cause steam to pour forth from the ears of Mr Gladstone and his ilk. We haven’t come very far from the Thief-takers, have we really? It’s well known that the Yard runs on the policy of this new – and I shudder to note, French – system of Mr Howard Vincent; the CID. Do you know what that stands for?’
‘Er . . . no,’ Cambridge was the first to admit.
‘Corruption, Incompetence and Drunkenness. Rather than hand this wretched business over to the Yard, I’d consider becoming a Liberal.’
Cambridge’s mouth gaped open.
‘Well, there you are,’ Disraeli said. ‘Now, if you don’t mind buggering
off, Your Royal Highness, I have two wars to run and your Cousin’s horse is running in the two thirty. Good morning.’
The body lay in the morning mist, the chest ripped open to the sky. Black-feathered rooks cawed and flapped, pecking suddenly at clothes and flesh. Two of them, braver, more tenacious than the rest, ripped harder and flew to the high elms, each with its dripping trophy – the right eye and the left.
❖2❖
T
he reptile lay across the armchair, its long tail sliding from side to side across the carpet. Other than that, there was no movement in its green and brown body. Only its eye swivelled to take in the view. And the view was blocked by an extraordinary sight. A man with skin the colour of parchment, the eyes sad and dark-circled, the moustache like a tropical caterpillar of frightening proportions. The hair was carefully macassared, the parting central, highly unfashionable at this end of the ‘70s. He was wearing a Donegal, the collar of which he had unbuttoned against the roaring intensity of the open fire. He was bending down, peering at the lizard, when a voice broke the sanctity of the moment.
‘Lestrade!’
The man jerked upright and the reptile’s hackles rose, only to fall again at the approach of its master.
‘What are you doing there? You are aware that there is a law against carnal relations with Iguana Tuberculata – 6th of William IV, I think.’
‘I . . .’
The master had swept the cold-blooded thing into his arms and it rolled on its side, toes pawing the air in slow motion paroxysm of delight. ‘Was the horrid man hurting you, Ignatius?’ and he ran a finger the length of the creature’s belly. ‘Sergeant Abernethy in Accounts says they purr, you know, but what with his short sight and his tragic lack of a brain, I think he’s thinking of another animal entirely. No, Iggie,’ he rubbed noses with the reptile, ‘it’s not time for w-a-l-k-i-i-e-s yet. Do you mind, Lestrade,’ he pushed the man aside, ‘you’re blocking Ignatius’ view of the fire. The Central American climate, you see, is vastly different from our own.’
He laid the beast down gently on the armchair again and threw it an apple. Then a thought occurred. ‘You don’t have any Mexican blood in you, Lestrade?’ he asked, scrutinizing the dark features.
‘I don’t believe so, sir.’
‘Just as well,’ Sir said. ‘Mexicans eat them, you know,’ his voice had fallen to a whisper, ‘and their eggs. Their flesh is white and delicate, apparently.’
‘Mexicans?’
‘Iguanae, Lestrade. Oh dear, this doesn’t bode too well.’
‘What doesn’t, sir?’
‘I’ve got to put you to work with a new Inspector this morning, sergeant. And you don’t know what day it is.’
‘It’s Thursday, sir,’ Lestrade was at pains to establish his integrity and professionalism.
‘How old are you, Lestrade?’ the master peered at him from behind his opulent desk. ‘Forty-three? Forty-four?’
The Detective Sergeant bridled. ‘I have recently celebrated my twenty-fifth birthday, sir.’
‘Good God. Really?’ Sir looked askance. ‘Nothing much to celebrate there, I wouldn’t have thought. Well, there it is.’
A powerful pair of knuckles rapped on the glass-panelled door.
‘Come!’ Sir bellowed.
A tall man, a little older than Lestrade, swept in wearing an astrakhan coat and topper.
‘Ah, Inspector Hastings Heneage, may I introduce Sergeant Sholto Lestrade, your number two.’
‘Enchanté,’ the Inspector smiled, shaking his man’s hand firmly, ‘Now, don’t tell me . . . er . . . Eton.’
‘Mr Poulson’s Academy for the Sons of Nearly Respectable Gentlefolk, Blackheath, sir,’ Lestrade said.
‘Oh, really,’ Heneage’s face fell. ‘Good God!’ he suddenly recoiled in horror, ‘Director, there’s a . . . thing . . . on your armchair.’ He twirled a gold-topped cane upright with both hands. ‘I’ll get it.’
‘Heneage!’ the Director screamed, but it was too late. Ignatius had clearly learned the dictum of Frederick the Great – an iguana awaiting attack will be cashiered – and he went for the Inspector in no small way, gripping his gonads with powerful jaws. Heneage’s eyes crossed and cane and man toppled to the carpet, the reptile rolling with them both.
‘Heel, Ignatius!’ the Director commanded. Nothing. The beast did not move, clearly finding his current mouthful far more succulent than a heel. The Director shook his head. ‘He’s quite inoffensive usually – apart from the smell, I mean – but get him roused . . .’
Lestrade shuffled uncomfortably, ‘Oughtn’t we to . . . rescue the Inspector, sir. Perhaps if I . . .’ and he bravely put out a tentative toe, steel-shod as it was.
‘No, no,’ the Director tapped his leg away, ‘Iggie will let go in an hour or so. It doesn’t look as though the Inspector is going anywhere.’ He checked his eyelids. ‘Out like a light. I’m not sure I like that in an Inspector of Scotland Yard. Well, Lestrade, to cases. Sit down, man. I’ll have to brief you alone. You can pass the word to the Inspector when he comes to.’
‘Very good, sir,’ and Lestrade sat gingerly on the upright chair as far away as he could from the beast and its kill.
‘How long have we known each other, Lestrade?’ the Director asked.
‘Er . . . nearly two years, sir.’
‘Quite. The Trial of the Detectives, wasn’t it? You grassed on Palmer, Druscovitch and Co.’
‘I was asked to report by Mr Williamson, sir,’ Lestrade corrected him, ‘and I didn’t enjoy doing it.’
‘Quite, quite. I know, Lestrade, I know. There’s honour among coppers. But they were bastards, sergeant. Gave the whole Force a bad name. Their removal marked the end of one era and the start of another. As the Attorney-General said, the Scotland Yard scandal came as a thunderclap to the community and spread over England the greatest possible alarm.’
‘Did it, sir?’
‘Of course, it did, Lestrade. If the Attorney-General says so, then it certainly did. Which is where Inspector Heneage comes in. His credentials – despite a certain lack of understanding of tuberculata – are impeccable. Harrow, Balliol, First Class Honours in Jurisprudence.’
To Lestrade, prudence seemed the last thing that Heneage had a degree in, but it wasn’t his place to say so. ‘Which Division is he from, sir?’ he asked.
‘Division?’ the Director frowned. ‘Oh, no, Lestrade. Mr Heneage has no divisional experience.’
‘Another Force, then?’
‘No.’
‘But . . .’
‘It’s an experiment, Lestrade,’ the Director said. ‘To add tone to what would otherwise be a vulgar brawl. We need a few nobs on the Force. Mr Heneage is a gentleman,’ he closed to Lestrade, ‘His father was school with Palmerston.’
‘Oh, good,’ said Lestrade without smiling. ‘Mr Vincent,’ he leaned forward too, ‘are you telling me that this man is already an Inspector and he has no police experience whatever?’
Vincent sat back in his chair, tutting by the firelight. ‘Tsk, Lestrade – and again I say, tsk – that is the politics of envy. You haven’t read any Marx, have you?’
‘I’ve had a few black ones against me in my time, sir. I’m not anxious to gain more.’
‘Ah, yes.’ Vincent’s eyes narrowed above the aquiline nose, between the large, drooping ears and even further above the monstrous moustache that totally eclipsed his mouth. ‘Your career. Let me see,’ he opened a ledger on his desk. ‘A slim volume. Police Constable, City Force, 1873. Detective Constable, H Division, Metropolitan Police, 1875. Detective Sergeant, attached Headquarters, 1877. Your rise has been that rare phenomenon – meteorically unspectacular.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘The point is this, Lestrade. You know Detective Inspector Blake?’
‘Yessir.’
‘Of marginally greater intellect than a turnip. Inspector Bryden?’
‘Yessir.’
‘Likewise. Chief Inspector O’Donne
ll?’
‘Indeed.’
‘Can’t – and I don’t want this noised abroad, Lestrade – tie his own bootlaces.’
Lestrade blinked and glanced down to check on his.
‘A disastrous lack of the old grey matter,’ Vincent tapped his temple. ‘We just aren’t attracting men of the right calibre. All the bright ones – like Palmer, Druscovitch et al – are bent. The honest ones are no doubt straight as pokers, but they have similar intellects to those household implements. Heneage there has a huge intelligence quotient.’
They looked down, the Director of Criminal Investigation and the Detective Sergeant, at the elegant, astrakhan-covered heap on the floor. Ignatius showed no signs of relinquishing his prey, but rolled an eyelid at Vincent.
‘Look at him,’ the Director smiled indulgently, ‘like the cat that’s got the cream. Your role in all this, Lestrade,’ he sat upright, ‘is to provide experience. You’ve pounded the beat where Heneage has not. You know what it is to wear the helmet, to twirl the rattle. You know a tipstaff from a set of handcuffs. With your streetwise qualities and brilliance, you’ll knock ’em dead in Ilkley.’
‘Where, sir?’ Lestrade’s eyebrows rose.
Vincent sighed. ‘Well, there you are. Heneage would know instinctively where that is.’
‘Where?’ Inspector Heneage asked squeakily, walking a little gingerly along C corridor.
‘Ilkley, sir,’ Lestrade told him, supporting his guv’nor’s tottering bulk. ‘It’s a spa in the West Riding of Yorkshire, on the River Wharfe, near Bradford.’
‘Good God. And there’s been a murder there, you say? Well, well. How do we get there?’
‘By train, sir.’
‘Train? Oh, marvellous. I love trains. How long are we going for?’
‘That depends, sir.’
‘Does it? Oh, yes, of course. On inquiries, I suppose. Right. Only I need to tell my man how many shirts to pack. Any ideas? What do you tell your man?’
‘I don’t have a man, sir.’
‘Really? Good Lord. My dear fellow, how ever do you manage?’