Lestrade and the Sawdust Ring

by M. J. Trow

  ‘Ah, yes,’ Heneage remembered, ‘we have exchanged telegrams. Tell us, Miss Clare, um . . . about the deceased . . .?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘No,’ Heneage shifted a little uneasily, ‘I’ll rephrase that, shall I? Um . . . tell us about the deceased.’

  She drew herself up, her bosom heaving against the frothy bodice of her day dress.

  ‘Finest Arabica,’ the Maitre d’ arrived at that moment with a silver tray. There was a delay as he fiddled and fussed, arranging doilies and whipping out of napkins.

  ‘Thank you, my man,’ said Heneage, ‘Now be a good fellow and toddle off, would you? Miss Clare and we are not to be disturbed.’

  ‘Very good, sir,’ the Maitre d’ said, his nose at the horizontal with umbrage.

  ‘Shall I be mother, sir?’ Lestrade asked.

  It didn’t seem at all likely to Inspector Heneage.

  ‘No, no, sergeant,’ Miss Clare took the pot, ‘this is woman’s work. I wouldn’t expect to drive a coach and four.’

  Neither would Lestrade. Not without killing someone, anyway.

  ‘You were asking me about William,’ she said, her eyes full but her hand steady. ‘We were to be married, you know.’

  ‘Congratulations,’ said Heneage said solemnly, though it seemed less than appropriate and he could have kicked himself.

  ‘We were staying at Harrogate for the waters, Miss Rudding and I. William was on leave.’

  ‘Miss Rudding?’ Lestrade asked.

  ‘My companion, sergeant. Jane Rudding. My parents went of the diphtheria some years ago – although it is something of a family joke that my father went rather than see Mr Disraeli at Number Ten.’

  ‘Understandable, Miss Clare,’ Heneage nodded.

  ‘Since then Jane and I have been inseparable.’

  ‘Where is she now?’ Lestrade asked, seeing no one at Miss Clare’s elbow.

  ‘Lying down.’

  ‘The shock?’ Heneage asked.

  ‘The water,’ Miss Clare said. ‘You were wise to decline it.’

  ‘Kill or cure,’ smiled Heneage. ‘Oh, I do apologize. Rather tasteless.’

  ‘Rather like the water,’ said the lady, ‘but I suspect that Monsieur Pasteur would be horrified at what he found in it. Jane was here, ironically, for the nervous tension. The water seems to have cured that, but has given her chalybeate tummy.’

  ‘You said that your intended was on leave, Miss?’ Lestrade asked, anxious to make some headway before the quartet returned.

  ‘Yes, my fiancé was a Lieutenant in the Artillery, Mr Lestrade. He was staying in room 31, here at the Gascoine.’

  ‘And you and Miss Rudding?’

  ‘Have adjacent rooms on the floor below, 25 and 26.’

  ‘How long had you been here when disaster struck like a bolt from the blue?’ Heneage asked.

  ‘Four days.’

  ‘Um. Right. Well, I think that will be all, Miss Clare. Once again, please accept . . .’

  ‘Er . . . just a couple of things, sir,’ Lestrade chipped in. ‘Do you know who found the body?’

  ‘No, sergeant.’

  ‘Was anything taken, from the body, I mean?’

  ‘I don’t believe so.’

  ‘Where was the body found?’

  She stood up suddenly, Heneage rising with her. ‘I believe it was on the edge of a park called the Stray. I’m sorry, gentlemen. I thought I could . . . perhaps another day?’ And she swept from the room, the Maitre d’ holding the door open, before rushing to hang the ‘Dining Room Open’ signs on the front of the building.

  ‘Well, really, Lestrade,’ Heneage sat down heavily, ‘that was appalling.’

  ‘A little odd, certainly,’ the sergeant agreed.

  ‘What was?’

  ‘Miss Clare not wearing mourning like that. A coffee-coloured day dress two days after the man she is to marry is found butchered . . .’

  ‘I was referring to your badgering,’ Heneage snapped. ‘That sort of thing may be suitable for some East End rough, but to a lady of some refinement, such as Miss Clare . . . Do you realize you used the word ‘body’ three times in as many sentences?’

  ‘Did I?’ Lestrade asked.

  ‘Such a word has connotations, Lestrade. Apart from the grisly aspects to which it apports here, there is a gravely sexual innuendo.’

  ‘There is?’ Lestrade had lost all contact with his conversation, but he looked around on the carpet wondering who could have dropped it.

  ‘In future, sergeant, I will ask the questions. It’s luncheon time. Lisbon has booked us into the Royal.’ He slammed down his cup. ‘At least there, I expect they serve a decent cup of coffee, Arabica or no. You will do what you seem to enjoy – view the deceased, the scene of the crime and whatever else detectives do and report back to me. When Miss Clare is feeling better, I will question her again. And I will do it alone. Understand?’

  ‘Perfectly, sir,’ said Lestrade.

  Harrogate was larger than Ilkley. And more opulent. As such, it boasted its own mortuary. And its mortuary attendant was full time, not sharing his dubious skills with those of boiler-stoking. He even had his own teeth. Only his leg was someone else’s – of excellently carved mahogany. His own hapless limp had fallen victim to a Sikh tulwar in the second war against those beastly but determined fellows.

  He dragged the timber around the slabs of the floor. ‘Now, where did I put ’im?’ He hauled up a tarpaulin, ‘Nay, that’s old granny Westerby. Bit of a to-do at the moment as t’ who’s goin’ t’ bury ’er – t’Westerbys or t’parish. T’workhouse were ’er second ’ome.’ He tried another. ‘Nay, that’s Dan McLivett. Look at that.’ Lestrade would rather not. ‘’Ung like a bloody dray ’orse. There’s many a ’arrogate lass ’ad sight o’ that over t’years. Nasty thing, syphilis. It must be ’im over ‘ere, then.’

  It was. What was left of William Lyle, Lieutenant, Royal Artillery, lay pale and dead on the last slab in the green, windowless room. A handsome face, with neat military moustache, stared sightlessly up at Lestrade in the yellow green of the gas-jets. At least the eyes were still there, once cornflower blue, and the face was unmarked. Across the muscular chest however, the same tell-tale cross that had carved the marker of Louis Eylau below the Cow Rock at Ilkley. Lestrade used his switchblade again. The same angle. The same cause of death. Whoever it was who had killed these men, he was a craftsman.

  ‘Inspector Heneage?’ a voice made him turn.

  ‘Lestrade,’ he said, ‘sergeant.’

  ‘Ah,’ a middle-aged man with a still boyish face and falling blond hair shuffled into the gloom. ‘Inspector Bottomley, Harrogate Constabulary. I was expecting a Mr Heneage.’

  ‘He’s been detained, sir,’ Lestrade lied. ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to make do with me.’

  ‘Now, don’t do yourself down, my dear fellow. I was a sergeant myself once. My, you’ve got a few in today, Potter,’ he said to the attendant.

  ‘Nay, lad, ’tis nothin’ t’ Chillianwallah. T’usual, Mr Bottomley?’

  ‘Why not?’ the Inspector asked rhetorically. ‘Hot toddie, sergeant? The sun’s over the yardarm.’

  Considering that Lestrade had not seen the sun since they arrived in the county, he had to take Bottomley’s word for that.

  ‘Well, I’m glad you fellows could get over, actually. I don’t think we’ve had a murder in Harrogate since 1832. And that was the Reform Bill Riots, so it’s understandable. What do you make of it?’

  ‘Where was the body found, sir?’

  ‘Sir? Oh, no, sergeant. One professional to another, eh? You can call me Nobby.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ Lestrade said, sensing a need to feel his back against something solid, ‘but it’s Metropolitan policy.’

  ‘Oh, quite. Quite,’ Bottomley nodded, ‘Very . . . sound, I’m sure. Nice-looking man, though, wasn’t he?’ He peered through his pince-nez at the corpse. ‘Very nice.’

  ‘I’ve seen this before,’ Lestrade
said.

  Bottomley looked at him, ‘Well, you would,’ he said, ‘man of the world as no doubt you are. When I was last in Villiers Street . . .’

  ‘No, sir. I mean the wounds. These cuts.’

  ‘Really?’ Bottomley perched himself on a stool nearby, ‘Ooh, I just can’t get comfy. Where?’

  ‘On the corpse of a Frenchman in Ilkley.’

  ‘Ooh, I read about that in the Harrogate Organ. A piece they’d clearly pinched from the Ilkley Advertiser, if I’m any judge of local hackery. Not best pleased, the Mayor of Ilkley, I shouldn’t think. We’re bigger here, of course, more established as a Watering Place.’ He licked his finger and slicked down an eyebrow. ‘My back is broad,’ he said. ‘We can take a little salacious press-mongering. And don’t they monger, those chappies from the Press?’

  Potter clacked over the flagstones with two steaming mugs.

  ‘Here’s looking at you, tyke,’ the Inspector raised the cup that cheers.

  Lestrade sampled the brew. Cocoa with more than a hint of brandy. It laced his moustache until Bottomley flicked it off for him. ‘So, what’s your theory?’ the Yorkshireman asked.

  The sergeant shrugged. ‘Damned if I’ve got one.’ Lestrade found a stool and angled it safely in the corner. ‘Two men. One known. The other not. Both in their twenties, one with a pulverized face. Both died by slashes to their body caused by . . . what? A large knife?’

  ‘Hm. That’s what I thought.’

  ‘Sword,’ said Potter, mopping the floor around their feet.

  ‘What, chuck?’ said Bottomley.

  ‘T’were a sword what killed him.’

  ‘How do you know?’ Lestrade asked.

  ‘I’ve used a few in my time,’ Potter stood upright. ‘T’weren’t no picnic at Chillianwallah, I can tell yer.’

  ‘What kind of sword?’ Lestrade asked.

  ‘Three-bar hilt,’ Potter dragged his leg behind the mop again.

  ‘Isn’t that a cavalry sword?’

  ‘Aye. ’Appen,’ agreed Potter. ‘I served near eight year wi’ 14th Light Dragoons. ’Ad one of them bastards on my ’ip every bloody day.’

  Presuming the man referred to a sword rather than a 14th Light Dragoon, Lestrade asked, ‘How can you be sure it’s specifically a three-bar hilt?’

  ‘Look ’ere,’ Potter staggered back to the cadaver, ‘just the width. Too wide for t’tulwar. Too narrow for t’oneysuckle ’ilt the ’Eavies carry. And I’ll tell yer summat else.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘’T were a foreigner what done it.’

  ‘Now, Potter . . .’ Bottomley wagged a finger.

  ‘What makes you say that?’ Lestrade persisted.

  ‘Any cavalryman in our army uses t’cuts, in t’Manual, like. Them cuts aren’t in t’Manual. Not in any Manual I’ve ever read, any road up.’

  ‘What sort of foreigner?’ Lestrade said and was rather surprised to see Bottomley cover his face with his hand.

  ‘Nigger,’ growled Potter, his wooden leg rattling on the flagstones. ‘Sikh, I shouldn’t wonder. They ’ad my leg, y’know, Mr Bottomley,’ he screamed.

  ‘Aye, chuck, I know,’ the Inspector patted the attendant. ‘Look, why don’t you get a bit of fresh air? They’re open by now.’

  He pressed a warm coin into Potter’s clammy hand.

  ‘What’s a bloke goin’ t’ do wi’out ’is leg?’ Potter wondered, clumping away to the steps.

  ‘I’m sorry about that, sergeant,’ the Inspector said, patting the man’s knee. ‘I didn’t have time to interrupt your train of thought. Every death in Harrogate over the last thirty years Potter has laid at the door of Duleep Singh or some other dusky heathen. He hasn’t realized they’ve been utterly loyal to us now since 1856. And how any of them could have sent the influenza or the flash flooding of the Tewitt Well back in ’71, I have no idea. I’m afraid he’s sold you a bit of a pup, cluely speaking.’

  ‘You think he’s wrong about the sword?’

  ‘I think he’s wrong about the foreigner. Do you want to see his clothes?’

  ‘Snappy dresser, is he, Potter?’

  ‘No, no,’ chuckled Bottomley, ‘not the mortuary attendant. The deceased.’

  He led the way – and Lestrade was glad he did – to a broom cupboard at the back. Several brooms fell out on him as he opened the door, but beyond them, hanging against the back wall, was a ripped tunic.

  ‘Undress frock,’ said Bottomley, ‘Serge. Top quality, mind you. No rubbish. But not that lovely Melton of full dress. Give me no nap for preference every time.’

  Lestrade examined the garment. Diagonally below the scarlet collar, the dark blue was stiff with blood. ‘Odd,’ he muttered.

  ‘What, chuck?’ Bottomley was replacing the brooms.

  ‘I understand that Lieutenant Lyle was on leave.’

  ‘So he was.’

  ‘Wearing his regimentals?’

  ‘Oh, yes, I see what you mean. Still, he p’raps didn’t want to get his civvies dirty, what with the elephants and everything.’

  ‘Elephants?’ Lestrade wondered if the conversation had returned to the Sikhs again.

  ‘Why, yes. That’s why we think he was there that morning. On the Stray. That’s where Sanger’s circus was camped. He’d told Miss Clare that he hadn’t seen a circus since he was a boy.’

  ‘Were they performing here?’ Lestrade asked.

  ‘No, it’s not the season yet. But they’re limbering up, taking on hands and so on. It’s funny, one of Harrogate’s most respected citizens up and joined one last year. Chartered accountant he was.’

  ‘Oh, it’s the razzle-dazzle, I expect,’ Lestrade said.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. There’s precious little razzle-dazzle in an accountant’s office. It’s not like being an actuary. Now that really is a walk on the wild side.’

  ‘Who found the body, sir?’ Lestrade asked.

  ‘Jem Butternaite, old Mr Wedderburn’s head gardener.’

  ‘Mr Wedderburn?’

  ‘Aye. Local squire, you might say. Wedderburn House is just off the Stray. The rhododendrons are an absolute picture in the summer. Do you like flowers, Sergeant? I’m a petunia man, myself.’

  Lestrade didn’t doubt it. ‘Well, sir,’ he grinned, ‘in a busy life . . .’

  Bottomley raised both hands, ‘Oh, I know, chuck. I know. Not enough hours in the day. We found this in his pocket.’ He passed Lestrade a locket, edged in gold. Around the rim, the legend ran, ‘To my darling, on our engagement, November 1878. Emily.’ And on the glass face beyond it, a sweep of chestnut hair.

  ‘Emily?’ Lestrade said.

  ‘Emily Clare,’ Bottomley explained, ‘the dead man’s fiancée. Have you talked to her yet?’

  Lestrade looked again at the dark hair. ‘Apparently not,’ he said.

  The management, it was true, weren’t totally in approval of Detective Sergeant Lestrade rummaging through the room of a deceased guest. In fact, so much so that they told him he couldn’t. Inspector Heneage would have to get permission from Inspector Bottomley, who in turn would have to approach the Chief Constable, who, being of an Evangelistic nature, would have to ask God. Far easier for Lestrade to shrug, then wander down the relevant corridor at the Gascoine before daylight left the room and loiter outside number 31. While loitering, his brass-knuckled switchblade just happened to click into the lock and he slipped inside.

  As he had hoped, Miss Clare had not taken possession of her fiancé’s things, so the wardrobe still contained his tunic and japan-boxed helmet. Lestrade ran his finger over the bullion cuff and the velvet-blue of the sleeve. Bottomley was right – there was a certain something about handling Melton. But it was what lay against the back of the wardrobe that held his gaze. It was a three-bar hilt cavalry sword. He slid the weapon from its scabbard and noted the etching on the blade – ‘W.L.’ on one side and ‘Royal Artillery’ with lightning flashes and the Queen’s – God Bless Her – cypher. So, the artillery also carried the thr
ee-bar hilt. Of course, had he attended the Sharp Objects That Cause Death lecture back at the Yard last month, Lestrade might have known that all along. He checked the blade’s edge for signs of caked blood. Nothing. Either this was not the murder weapon or it had been wiped meticulously clean.

  Still, he had a hypothesis to test. He placed the scabbard on the table in the gathering gloom and turned to face the ottoman. Remembering (however vaguely) his Cutlass Drill For Riots learned as a uniformed constable, he bent both knees, offered point and scythed downwards to his left. A diagonal gash sent clouds of horsehair into the air. Bringing the blade up to head protect, he hacked backwards, slicing diagonally from left to right. The thud and rip sent more stuffing skywards and he was left with the same cross that had ripped the life out of the two men. The same, but not quite. Now, police cutlass drill, he knew, was based on the same military manual to which old Potter had referred. Lestrade had executed the cuts of the British Army, more or less – and they were not quite the same as the wounds on the chests of the deceased. Was Potter right, then? Was some foreigner using a different manual? Or was it merely Lestrade’s lack of expertise and the relatively unyielding qualities of the ottoman?

  Perhaps if he tried again . . .

  ‘Stop!’ an outraged voice screamed behind him. Lestrade’s blade hurtled downwards, causing him to stumble as it fell and it brought a rush of crimson to his left thigh. ‘What is the meaning of this?’

  Lestrade had seen irate hotel managers before, most recently in the Case of the Irate Hotel Manager in Rickmansworth, but never one whose face had gone quite so purple.

  ‘It’s all right,’ Lestrade dropped the sword on the bed and began surreptitiously tying his handkerchief above his knee to act as a tourniquet to staunch the blood. ‘I’m a policeman.’

  ‘I know that perfectly well,’ snapped the manager, ‘and I told you not ten minutes ago to keep clear of this room. Now I find you destroying the furniture. Your superior shall hear of this.’

  ‘I have no doubt of it,’ Lestrade winced, tying the knot as tightly as he could. ‘In the meantime, I would like a few minutes with these ladies.’

  Behind the sturdy frame of the manager, as appalled as he was, stood two demure young ladies, one blonde in a coffee coloured day dress, the other dark in full mourning.