The Adventures of Inspector Lestrade (13 page)

‘You were saying, Lestrade.’ Abberline was persistent. The Superintendent was crisp in his light-blue suit and sniffed his gardenia ostentatiously. Lestrade’s look should have withered it and him on the spot. He contented himself with the realisation that promotion to the river police was no promotion at all. He must spend his time chasing foreign sailors and stinking dockers up and down the Ratcliff Highway.

‘What I have, gentlemen, is this.’ He ignored Gregson’s snort and went on. ‘The murders conform closely to a children’s book of cautionary tales called
Struwwelpeter
. If I had time I would itemise them.’

‘Spare us the quotations.’ Jones had regained his smugness.

‘Murder one.
Struwwelpeter,
or
Shock-headed Peter
himself. A middle-aged male found walled up, possibly alive, in Shanklin Chine, Isle of Wight. Still unidentified. Cause of death – asphyxia. Suspects …’ He dried.

‘Well?’ McNaghten prompted.

‘Alfred, Lord Tennyson.’ Howls of derisive laughter.

‘I thought he was dead, Lestrade,’ said Abberline.

‘He is certainly not sufficiently mobile for my purposes. But at the time he had access to the Chine out of season, when it was normally kept securely locked. Once I’d met him I was able to eliminate him from my enquiries. Subsequent enquiries produced no individuals. All I can say is that the murderer was someone who knew the Chine, had access to it and was probably a dab hand at cementing, by candlelight.’

More assorted snorts.

‘The more I dwell on the Chine murder, sir,’ he addressed McNaghten, ‘the more I believe the similarity to the
Struwwelpeter
stories was pure coincidence. It was widely reported in the papers. Anyone could have got hold of the idea.’

Abberline broke in. ‘This … er …
Struwwelpeter
. Who wrote it?’

‘A German doctor. Heinrich Hoffmann.’

‘Well, he’s your man. I’ve never trusted these krauts. Not since Sedan.’

Abberline had blundered nicely into that one. ‘I checked him, Superintendent. He really is dead – seventeen years ago.’

Abberline suddenly found something of great interest in the end of his pipe. Gregson was quietly sniggering.

‘The second murder. Victim – Lord Hurstmonceux.’

‘I thought that was a hunting accident,’ commented Jones.

‘The press deferred to the aristocracy. Lord Rosebery was a witness. Family scandal and all that.’

‘Are we in the business of hushing up murder?’ It was Jones’ question but the look on McNaghten’s face told him and everyone else that it was not his day. Lestrade remembered the Ripper File and smiled to himself.

‘I know the cause of death – and how the murder was committed. Other than that, I drew a blank.’

‘As usual,’ grunted Jones. McNaghten reprimanded him.

‘Murder three,’ Lestrade went on, his jaw flexing, ‘a seventeen-year old girl, Harriet Wemyss, burned to death at her father’s home at Wildboarclough, Cheshire. She burnt her clothes and person with a cigarette end. Her murderer knew she had a secret smoking habit.’

‘Tut,’ broke in Gregson. ‘The youth of today.’

‘I believe her murderer encouraged the habit for several weeks, having planned this all along. And for the first time we have an eye-witness description. That of a travelling salesman who came to the house on the day of the murder. The same travelling salesman who, I have reason to believe, was Harriet’s lover. He was described as a big man with a dark hat and muffler.’

‘Hardly conclusive,’ grunted Abberline.

‘Murder four. Or should I say, four, five and six. Three upper-middle-class layabouts – Edward Coke-Hythe, William Spender and Arthur Fitz. You may have come across them in the
Gazette
; they were bound over by the magistrate for baiting the visiting celebrity Atlanta Washington. I came across them in Battersea Park, painted with black enamel from head to foot.’

‘You questioned Washington, of course,’ said Abberline.

‘I did, sir, and decided he was in the clear.’

‘Other suspects?’

Lestrade hesitated. ‘I traced the paint to the studio of Mr Lawrence Alma-Tadema’ (he’d got it right again) ‘the artist.’

‘Lawrie?’ McNaghten broke in. ‘You didn’t tell me that.’

‘He’s hardly a suspect in the conventional sense, sit. He told me the stuff had been stolen from him.’

‘Well, of course,’ agreed Jones.

‘Certainly not,’ snapped McNaghten. ‘Lawrence Alma-Tadema is a very great friend of mine. Why, at one time or another, he has painted all of my family. It is only modesty which forbids me hanging his portrait of myself and my lady wife over the mantelpiece.’

Jones shifted awkwardly in his seat. Today he was very definitely under the weather.

‘It was at this point that I saw the connection between the letters. After each murder, or set of murders, I had been receiving, here at the Yard, unsigned mourning letters in the form of verse, each verse relating to the specific murder committed. All of them from
Struwwelpeter
.’

There was a silence. ‘You mean,’ – Abberline was the first to break it – ‘some maniac is going round the country, finding victims to order just to fit in with a kiddies’ rhyme? Fantastic! Stuff and nonsense!’

‘The facts speak for themselves,’ was Lestrade’s levelling answer. ‘The final murder occurred three weeks ago. A certain Albert Mauleverer, a resident of Warwickshire, found shot with a twelve-bore down a well near Guy’s Cliffe, in that county.’

‘Who does all the murders in the book?’ asked Gregson.

‘Not all of them result in death. What they have in common is that they are moral or cautionary tales – not to play with matches, not to bait blacks or be cruel to animals and so on. In most of them, the perpetrator survives. In the Inky Boys story, the victims are turned black by a tall magician named Agrippa.’

‘No, I’m sorry,’ persisted Abberline. ‘I just can’t accept it.’

‘You can’t ignore it either,’ said McNaghten. ‘The fact is that so far the murders have fitted the book like a glove. It’s uncanny. Funny,’ he mused, to think that stories I used to read to my children should be taken so literally, used in such a sinister way.’

‘What concerns me, sir, is the future. We are all of us, in this room, concerned with the prevention as well as the detection of crime. If the murderer runs true to form, there are five more to come. How are we to prevent it?’

McNaghten rested back in his chair. ‘That’s quite simple, Lestrade. Catch yourself a murderer.’

Ball of Lightning

The season was nearly at an end. Lestrade should have taken a holiday late in August, but he could not. He had asked McNaghten for more men. At all costs he must keep the lid on things before the national press began to see the connection which was now all too apparent to the Yard. McNaghten could spare him two constables and a young, impressive detective-sergeant, John Forbes. Lestrade had to admit the man was smart, eager and resourceful – a sort of Bandicoot with a brain. He was too arrogant, too opinionated. Five years on the Force and rapid promotion under Gregson had given him airs and graces. Lestrade preferred well-tried police methods, documents filed in shoe-boxes, the banal joviality of Bandicoot and the doe-like loyalty of Dew.

‘I think we’re dealing with terrorists, sir. Take my word for it. Anarchy is at the heart of this.’

‘How long have you been under Gregson?’

‘That’s a malicious rumour, I … Oh, I see.’ Forbes grinned rather painfully. ‘I have served in the Special Irish Branch for three years.’

‘And do you see terrorists under
every
bed?’

‘That’s not fair, sir. And if Inspector Gregson were here …’

‘I would show him the door,’ Lestrade finished the sentence for him. ‘Tobias Gregson was never this much of a pain in the arse when he was with A division. He’s become obsessive.’

‘With respect, sir,’ Bandicoot raised his curly head from a mountain of paper, ‘the sergeant may have a point.’

Lestrade glared at his newest recruit through slitted eyes. ‘All right, Forbes, and make it convincing. It’ll need to be to persuade me we’re looking for Irishmen and Russian sympathisers, bent double under the weight of their bombs.’

He slowly lit a cigar, pointing to the kettle as Dew entered the room under yet another pile of paper.

‘Motive – anarchy,’ Forbes began. ‘To embarrass the British police. To cause such uproar in the peace-keeping forces of the nation that the people would rise up and overthrow the existing order. It’s happening in Europe, as we speak.’

‘Looking around me,’ Lestrade commented, drawing slowly on the cigar, ‘I believe I was the only senior officer present at Bloody Sunday in 1887. I didn’t see any Anarchists, Forbes. I saw starving women and children, people in rags and dirt. Dockers who worked one day a month. Girls who had been selling their bodies from the time they were eight. Women who hadn’t seen a bed for weeks. I also saw the truncheons of the police, Forbes, and the bayonets of the Grenadier Guards. Don’t talk to me about Anarchists.’

‘They’re scum … sir.’

‘I don’t like you, Forbes. I don’t like ambitious policemen who get where they’re going by climbing over people. I’ve listened to your theory and it smells. Until you can show me evidence and a suspect based on the facts of the case, keep your opinions to yourself.’ He flicked his ash down Forbes’ waistcoat. The younger man leapt to his feet, brushing himself down. He made for the door. ‘And if you want to put in for a transfer back to Special Branch, remember to fill in the forms in triplicate.’

Lestrade caught the broad grin on the faces of Dew and Bandicoot as Forbes disappeared.

‘Gentlemen, to work.’

It was the night of the Police Ball. A starry night, pink with the glow of the fires of the metropolis. It was the end of September, cool after a week of rain. Lestrade was late. Lestrade disliked unpunctuality, but he disliked the annual Police Ball even more. This year the Commissioner had excelled himself. The venue was the elite Metropole, shimmering with its polished glass and candelabra, the four ballrooms heavy with opulence and dazzling with chandeliers. He had also excelled himself, in Lestrade’s opinion, in stupidity, by insisting that this be a fancy dress occasion. Lestrade, therefore, felt particularly ridiculous in his Harlequin outfit, but nonetheless hurt when he counted three others in the foyer alone. He hoped that the mask would conceal his embarrassment and hopefully his identity as well, but in the latter, alas, he was mistaken.

‘Good evening, sir.’ It was Bandicoot, burnt cork from head to foot, with a grass skirt and assegai.

‘Bit tasteless after the Inky Boys, isn’t it?’ Lestrade snatched a passing glass of champagne.

‘Sorry, sir, I hadn’t thought of that.’

‘No matter, with the exception of McNaghten, you and I will be the only ones to grasp the significance. Who’s here?’

‘Well, sir, I’ve just met an old school chum of mine, Ferdy Rothschild.’

‘I didn’t ask for a Burke’s Peerage,’ Lestrade snapped. Oh dear, he thought to himself, he was taking this evening worse than he thought he would. ‘From the Force, man.’

‘Ah, well, Inspector Gregson, of course – over there – I think he’s supposed to be Charles the Second, but he really hasn’t the presence for it.’

‘No,’ murmured Lestrade. ‘More like Nell Gwynne.’

‘But I do like Inspector Jones’ Julius Caesar. He’s already tripped over his toga twice tonight.’

‘After a few more of those he’ll fall over his shadow.’

‘Evening, Lestrade. Good God, who’s this?’ Superintendent Abberline breathed champagne over the native gentleman.

‘Good evening. This is Constable Bandicoot, my assistant.’

‘Constable?’ Abberline shepherded Lestrade away. ‘Look here, old man, one doesn’t want to pull rank at all, but a constable at the Ball. It isn’t done. Have him wait with your horses.’

‘I don’t have any horses,’ Lestrade replied. ‘And, anyway, he is an Old Etonian.’

Abberline paused. His artfully painted clown’s eyebrow disappeared under his orange hair. ‘Ah, well, I suppose … Well, keep him out of the way. I hear we’re expecting a Very Important Guest tonight.’

‘Mrs Abberline?’ Lestrade suggested archly, glancing in the direction of the ravishing young creature now in flirtatious conversation with Bandicoot. Abberline spluttered on his champagne. ‘Where? Oh, I see, er … This is my … er … niece, Miss Hartlepool.’

‘Ma’am.’ Lestrade gave a stiff unHarlequinlike bow and Abberline whisked the girl away. ‘Hah, ha, keep your wits about you, Bandicoot. Tonight could be more fun that I thought.’

Lestrade and Bandicoot began to work their way through the vast buffet supper, the inspector tending to follow the lead of the younger man in the hope that Bandicoot’s breeding would enable him to make sense of the obscure French terms and to identify the multifarious delights on the table. Lestrade was happy enough with the cooked meats and roasts and even vaguely recognised escargot, but there were things there in aspic he’d only seen on mortuary slabs. Surprisingly, it was all beautifully edible.

He was just moving out of earshot of the Cannon Row and District Band when he noticed the McNaghten entourage enter by the far door. The redoubtable Miss McNaghten, eldest of his boss’s crew, was with them and Lestrade felt the usual impulse to bolt for the terrace. But he had fled from her in Bandicoot’s presence before – time to stand his ground. And, as a trombone slide whizzed past his ear, to face the music.

‘Inspector Lestrade, isn’t it?’

Lestrade recognized the public voice and the apparent distance.

‘Ah, Miss McNaghten. I’m surprised you knew me in the mask.’

By now the daughter of the Head of the Criminal Investigation Department was close to him. ‘Sholto, my dear, I’d know you anywhere. Oh, you poor darling, what happened to your face?’

‘Oh, I walked into a plate-glass window in Cambridge.’

‘Tut, tut. And what where you doing there, chasing blue-stockings?’

‘You know there is no one in my life but you, Arabella.’

For a moment, a hint of sadness flickered across Miss McNaghten’s face, then the public face was visible again. ‘You cad, Sholto. I don’t believe a word of it.’ She flipped him roundly with her fan. It would have broken the jaw of a weaker man. ‘Shall we dance? I love the gallop.’

‘Has no one ever told you, gentlemen are supposed to ask ladies to dance?’

‘I haven’t all night, Sholto, dearest. It’s nearly half past nine. Besides, I’m nearly twenty eight. Mama tells all her friends I’m on the shelf. Time I rectified that. How do you like my Marie Antoinette?’

‘Where am I supposed to be looking?’

‘Oh, you naughty man. Keep your mind on the job. Which reminds me, what are you working on?’

‘Arabella, you know I can’t –‘ he was whisked away by a gawky girl he recognised as old Inspector Beck’s youngest. She was having great difficulty galloping in her mermaid’s tail and also in keeping her long wig plaits stuck to her breasts, covered in pink body-stocking though they were … ‘– divulge anything of that nature,’ he called as Arabella swept past him in a glitter of sequins and lace. Lestrade had to admit that the redoubtable Arabella McNaghten did look surprisingly ravishing. Perhaps it was the white powdered wig, the low-cut bodice, the incandescence of the light. Or perhaps it was merely the champagne.

‘Oh, come, Sholto, don’t disappoint me. You know Papa doesn’t tell me a thing. Is it murder?’

‘Arabella, I’m not at liberty to …’

‘Oh, Sholto, that’s what I love most about you, your sense of duty. Not to mention that fetching little moustache.’

It was Lestrade’s turn to tap Miss McNaghten’s hand away before new partners swept them apart. The dance at last came to an end and Lestrade seized the opportunity to palm his boss’s daughter off on Bandicoot. After all, they had met and Bandicoot was rather more Arabella’s size. The lozenge inspector deftly extricated himself and rather furtively slid around a marble pillar and out of sight.

‘I still think we’re looking for international terrorists, sir.’ Sergeant Forbes tried to look casual in the orange hair of an orang-utan. ‘Mind you, if their game is to embarrass the police, they need only to turn up here tonight and take a few photographs.’

‘That’s the Commissioner for you,’ commented Lestrade. ‘And you’re still wrong. I’m thinking of working on a new tack now.’

‘May I know?’

Lestrade checked that the coast was clear as though he were about to burgle a house.

‘If you wanted to murder someone, Forbes, how would you do it?’

‘Well, I’d … I haven’t been long in homicide, sir. I’d need time to think.’

‘Come on, man, this isn’t a board examination. Try a method.’

‘Poison,’ said Forbes.

‘Too easily traced. Where would you buy it? How much? What type?’

Forbes looked flustered.

‘No, Forbes. Poison is risky. Long range, I’ll grant you. Ah, good evening, Doctor Cream.’ Lestrade raised his glass to a medical acquaintance who was waltzing nearby. ‘Where did he find
her
?’ he muttered to Forbes. ‘A Hyde Park girl is ever I’ve seen one.’

‘Riff-raff,’ was Forbes’ stereotypical comment.

‘It give you an alibi,’ Lestrade went on. ‘Administer some poison in Winchester, you could be in Dundee before it worked. But it’s too hit and miss. Too risky by far.’

‘Gun, then. A shot through the head.’

‘At point blank range, yes. Any further away and you might miss. But at point blank range, chances are you’d be covered in your victim’s blood. And what about the noise? If you killed your man in a house, there would be other occupants, neighbours, itinerant pedlars with your luck. Always assuming you owned or had access to firearms, of course.’

‘Well, I don’t know,’ Forbes snapped. He had the distinct impression he was being baited.

‘Keep your fur on, Forbes. There is no safe way to murder. But there is a pattern. A poisoner always poisons. Goodnight, Doctor Cream,’ he called. ‘Take William Palmer, the Rugeley poisoner in the ’50s.’

‘A little before my time,’ said Forbes smugly.

‘And mine, Forbes, and mine,’ Lestrade was at pains to point out to him. ‘But the
Struwwelpeter
murderer has killed several times and with the exception of three identical methods in the Inky Boys case, because the plot, as it were, called for it, we have death by asphyxia, walling up alive; death by burning; death by asphyxia, but by the totally different method of painting the skin; death by training a pack of hounds; and death by shotgun. Not necessarily in that order.’

‘I am aware, sir. What is your point?’

‘That chummy is damned clever, very versatile and … and this is where my thinking is really taking me – that our man is intent on killing
one
victim. Someone he wants dead, out of his way, for reasons or reason unknown. The others are red herrings, deliberately to put us off the scent.’