Brigade: The Further Adventures of Inspector Lestrade (21 page)

‘Did he serve in the Crimea?’ asked Lestrade.

‘Oh yes. There were five of us. And Gloag, the vet.’

‘May I have the names of the others?’ Lestrade whipped out his trusty notepad.

‘Er … oh, God … Wilkin. Henry Wilkin.’ Lestrade knew he was dead. ‘Malcolm Ancell. He died at Kadikoy in ‘fifty-five.’

Lestrade wrote the name anyway.

‘Ormsby Miller. Funnily enough, I read about him only the other day. He’s high sheriff for Galway now.’ Crosse tapped with his rattan cane on the headstone. ‘And poor old Crowley here.’

‘You said he was a patient of yours

‘Yes, on and off for nearly twenty years. More or less since I’ve been here.’

‘Did he … er … live in?’

‘Towards the end, yes. He was … not fit to be by himself.’

‘And the golden dawn?’

‘It was some sort of organisation, I think. He always spoke of it in awe, but never in detail. I don’t hold with this hypnosis nonsense, Chief Inspector. My patients only tell me what they want to tell me.’

‘An organisation,’ mused Lestrade. He had sensed conspiracy all along. Every since he had been rattling across Norfolk with Bradstreet after the Bentley investigation. The pieces of the jigsaw were starting to fit.

‘The odd thing about Crowley,’ Crosse went on, ‘was that he rode the Charge of the Light Brigade. So did Wilkin, mind. But he longed for action. Wrong temperament for a doctor, really. I never took Crowley for that type, but still. He was captured by the Russians. We thought he was dead. Then, oh, years later, he turned up in England. That would be about eighteen-seventy. He’d lost his memory. With care and the love of a good woman we nursed him back to health.’

‘Why is he buried here?’

‘This was the nearest he had to a home recently. His wife died some years ago.’

‘We were speaking of Henry Hope earlier,’ said Lestrade. ‘He died last month. I was with him. He said two things I couldn’t understand. “Kill” and “Cro …” I took “Kill” to mean John Kilvert, also of the Eleventh. And “Cro …” I took to be you, but what if I was wrong? What if Hope was referring to Crowley? And why should he want to kill him?’

Crosse’s mood changed suddenly. ‘Chief Inspector, I have given you all the help I can. As you saw earlier, I have patients to treat. Go through that door. It will take you to the street. Goodbye.’

‘One more thing.’ Lestrade stopped him. ‘The names you mentioned, your fellow surgeons of the Eleventh. I recognised all those names. Except one. Why should someone have removed Crowley’s name from the muster-roll?’

‘I really couldn’t say, Chief Inspector,’ and he vanished through the archway.

Lestrade looked down at the grave. He crouched, sifting the marble chippings with his hand. For a while he ruminated on the transient nature of man. Then he opened the door and walked into the street.

Except that it wasn’t the street. Instead, he found himself standing in a long dark corridor. After the sun in the courtyard, the darkness was total. He must have taken the wrong door. He turned, but the door was shut tight. He rattled the lock. It did not give. He heard something behind him. A rasping sigh. He was not alone. He turned to face the darkness, feeling the lock in the small of his back. As his eyes accustomed themselves to the dark, he made out figures, rising up from benches on both sides of the corridor. He heard the rattle and slither of chains.

‘Who’s there?’ he called.

A mocking laugh answered him. Then another.

‘Nobody here,’ a hollow voice said. ‘Nobody at all.’ He felt hard steel jam into his throat and a powerful force spun him round and down. He was on his knees facing the door, a steel chain round his neck.

A ragged figure with mad, staring eyes appeared before him, giggling hysterically. In the darkness, Lestrade saw his predicament. There were five figures, perhaps six, with enough chain between them to armour all the ironclads in the Navy. The pressure on Lestrade’s throat grew greater and in a moment of inspiration – or was it panic? – he fought his way upright and gasped out the opening words of a ditty which might have some effect on these lunatics.

‘We’re the soldiers of the Queen, my lads …’

And one by one, they took up the chorus. A mumble at first, but Lestrade stood to attention, his hands pinned to his sides, unable to reach for his trusty brass knuckles, singing for all he was worth. It wasn’t exactly Marie Lloyd; after all, Lestrade’s voice had never been trained and he did have iron links wrapped around his throat. The mumble rose to a crescendo and one by one the sad ex-soldiers, stirred by their memories, came to attention and the grip relaxed on his neck.

They were still singing and he was by no means sure how many verses there were to go before they became bored and returned to their previous amusement. As it was, he was already at the ‘la, la, la’ stage. So he bolted forward, the chain bruising his neck as he lunged and threw himself bodily at the door. It gave under his weight and he rolled into the sunshine. Behind him he was aware of a whip cracking and cries of ‘Get back’. By the time he had knelt upright, the door was back in place and all trace of his would-be attackers was gone. Suddenly, he was aware of a pair of blue uniform trousers inches from his head, above a pair of large, black hobnailed boots. He didn’t really have to look up to know he was in the presence of a constable of the Metropolitan Police. The voice confirmed it.

‘Hello, hello, hello.’

Balaclava Revisited

They detained Lestrade for an hour or two at Bow Street where he gave his name as Chief Inspector Abberline. ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ the constable had said, as though it were quite permissible for chief inspectors of the Yard to be found, bruised and with a dislocated shoulder, on Chelsea pavements. ‘I didn’t recognise you.’

I’m not surprised, thought Lestrade; but thank God for the lack of observation of the copper on his beat. He had spent a further couple of hours being generally made to feel a lot less comfortable by a doctor and nurses at St Thomas’s Hospital. The doctor, it is true, found Lestrade’s injuries a trifle inconsistent with being run over by a dray, which was the injured man’s story. But then Lestrade reasoned, he had to keep his stories to police and medical authorities the same or awkward questions might be asked. In any case, who would have believed him had he said he had narrowly escaped a beating in a dark corridor full of homicidal lunatics and had damaged himself in a bid to escape? No, the runaway dray it had to be.

‘Good God, sir, you look terrible,’ was Ben Beeson’s comment as Lestrade walked stiffly over his portal. ‘How’s the other fella?’

‘Chained to a wall in Chelsea,’ Lestrade croaked, edging to a chair. ‘How I got to Croydon, I shall never know.’

‘What happened?’

And the whole story came out.

Beeson sat motionless, with his hands clasped around a mug of steaming tea. Lestrade’s hands did likewise around his.

‘So you’ve got him,’ said Beeson. ‘You’ve avenged Joe Towers.’

‘Not yet,’ said Lestrade. ‘Surgeon Crosse is still at large. Anyway, I don’t think it’s quite as simple as that.’

‘I don’t follow you, sir.’

‘Whatever the golden dawn is, Beastie, it’s made up of more than one man. John Kilvert, Bram Stoker, John Crosse, they all spoke of it as being something evil. Something. Not someone. Actually, John Kilvert didn’t talk about it at all, but he was a frightened man. The golden dawn isn’t just Crowley. Besides, when Joe died, Crowley had been in his grave a week. I checked. What do you remember about him, this Crowley?’

‘Not much. He joined the regiment late. We were already at Balaclava, I seem to remember. He kept to hisself, mostly. Then he rode the Charge and didn’t answer the roll-call.’

‘Crosse thought it odd that he should have ridden in the Charge at all. Why?’

‘Well, medical men usually keep to the rear in action, sir, waiting to pick up the pieces afterwards, so to speak. But Surgeon Wilkin rode the Charge. No reason why Crowley shouldn’t. Good God!’

‘What’s the matter?’ asked Lestrade.

‘Oh, it’s nothing probably. Only I’ve just remembered it. You bringing up Crowley again after all these years. It was the morning of the Charge. I was sitting my horse with old John Buckton. He was in F Troop, come to think of it. Strange you didn’t mention him on your list.’

‘Somebody got to that list, Beastie. Crowley’s name wasn’t on it either.’

‘Well, anyway, John was going to tell me somethin’ about Crowley. Somethin’ I’d never have believed, ’e said.’

‘What?’ Lestrade threatened to dislocate his shoulder all over again.

‘I dunno.’

Lestrade flopped back in the chair.

‘That’s when the galloper came with the orders and we all had to shift.’

‘This Buckton. Is he still alive?’

‘I dunno. I last saw him at the Annual Dinner three years ago.’

‘Will he be at this one, do you think?’

‘It’s possible. I haven’t been since ‘ninety.’

‘You said you could get me in,’ said Lestrade.

The ex-sergeant’s face fell. ‘I may have been a little hasty there, sir. The dinner is for members of the Light Brigade only.’

Lestrade fell silent. Painfully, he got to his feet and paced the kitchen. The sight of his arm in its sling in the kitchen mirror made him turn.

‘Beastie, do you think I resemble, in the remotest sense, Joe Towers?’

Beeson got up and walked over to him. Lestrade saw the old copper’s disbelieving face in the mirror.

‘Not even in the remotest sense, sir,’ he said.

‘Come on, Beastie. In a bad light, old men’s eyes. Most of them won’t have seen him for years, will they?’

‘No, I suppose not,’ Beeson said. ‘In fact, Joe hadn’t been to a Dinner since the first, back in ‘seventy-five. But you’re …’

‘Yes, I know. Thirty years younger! But with some of this,’ he held up a greasy stick, ‘I might just get away with it.’

‘What’s that, sir?’

‘A spot of five and nine, Beastie. Theatrical make-up. I used it as Rabbi Izzlebit. And when I was at the Lyceum recently, I liberated a little more. A man never knows when a little discreet make-up is going to come in handy.’

Beeson took the inspector’s word for it.

‘What’s the date?’ Lestrade asked.

‘Er … the twenty-third, I think.’

‘That gives us two days before the dinner.’

‘That’s right, sir. It’s the day after tomorrow.’

‘Right, Beastie, I’ve got to get there. To get in amongst your old mess mates of the Light Brigade. To talk to John Buckton, if he’s there. The answer’s there somewhere, damn it. Mind if I get my head down until then, for old times’ sake?’

‘Lord love you, sir. You only got into all this on my account. I owe you that at least.’

Lestrade settled into the chair again, nursing his aching arm. ‘Beastie, have a butcher’s out of that window, will you? I’ve had the strangest feeling since I left the Lyceum that I’ve been followed.’

‘Perhaps they want their make-up back,’ grunted the ex-copper, flicking aside the nets. ‘Wait a minute.’ Lestrade struggled upright. ‘There is somebody there. Youngish bloke, dark hair, wearing a grey overcoat.

By the time Lestrade got to the window the figure had vanished.

‘Shall I go after him, sir?’

‘No, Beastie. Let him go. Whoever it was, I daresay we’ll see him again.’

‘You’re going to the dinner, sir?’ Charlo’s consumptive croak was worse than ever. ‘Is that wise?’

‘Good God, man.’ Lestrade was past all that. ‘There comes a time when wisdom follows other things. Like survival. There’s a maniac trying to kill what’s left of F Troop, Sergeant.’

‘And he’s trying to kill you, sir. The breakfast at the Grand? The Chelsea incident? I’ve got to admit, sir. I wish you’d give it up.’

‘But we’re so close, Hector. After all these months, we’re nearly there. Would you have me stop now?’

Charlo leaned back in his chair. ‘I can’t help any more, Inspector. My doctor says I must rest. Have a long break. I’ve seen Frost. He’s given me a month’s leave.’ He extended a hand.

Lestrade rose painfully and took it.

‘Hector,’ he said. ‘You’ve risked a lot for me. I want you to know – whatever happens – I appreciate it.’

October 25th, a Wednesday, dawned hard and cold.

‘What were you doing thirty-nine years ago this morning, Beastie?’ Lestrade asked.

Beeson fell silent for a moment, doing some mental arithmetic. Only his frown, his silently moving lips and his wildly twitching fingers bore witness to the exertion it was causing. He smiled at the end of his calculations. ‘Shivering,’ he said. ‘We’d stood to since five o’clock. Saddled and waiting. My fingers were so numb I could barely work the leather. I remember we had no breakfast. Some of the officers had boiled eggs. We didn’t even get our rum ration that day. Wait a minute,’ and he dashed into another room. Back he came with an old uniform of the 11th Hussars, the colours still bright, the yellow cord still intact on the jacket and the brass buttons shining.

‘I gave mine up when I transferred to the lancers,’ he said. ‘This was Joe’s. I don’t think he’d mind if you wore it tonight. Not if it helps get his killer, anyhow.’

‘Thanks, Ben.’ Lestrade smiled.

‘Chances are you’ll get into it. Oh, and this,’ and he pulled out a small box. ‘Joe always kept it polished. As I have kept mine,’ and he flicked the lid to show a silver medal with a pale blue ribbon and on it the clasps for Sebastopol, Inkerman and Balaclava.

So Lestrade began another subterfuge. In the past weeks he had been Athelney Jones, Chief Inspector Abberline, the Rabbi Izzlebit. He was fast forgetting his real name. And now he was Joseph Towers, deceased, former private, 11th Prince Albert’s Own Hussars.

The two men walked slowly into St James’s Restaurant a little after seven o’clock. Beeson looked as smart as his police pension would allow in formal grey suit and bowler hat, his Crimean medal sported proudly on his lapel. Lestrade was wearing the braided jacket and crimson overalls of Joe Towers. They were just a little snug. His hair, beneath the crimson forage cap, had been clipped short on top and greyed with powder and greasepaint. Lestrade had etched in wrinkles and lines where he could, ignoring Beeson’s constant clicks of the tongue and shakings of the head. He would have to do.

The foyer was already full of old men getting plastered. What was still a sacred trust to many of them was also an excuse for a knees-up, although it was very debatable how far up any of these knees would come. Lestrade counted twenty-five, including Beeson. He was one of five in uniform, although he couldn’t help noticing that the others had been let out considerably here and there to accommodate advancing years and advancing girths. And patched here and there with the passage of time. Only medals and eyes were bright. And hearts were great.

He was relieved there was nobody else in the 11th uniform. If his limited knowledge served him correctly, one was from the 17th Lancers, two more from the 4th Light Dragoons as they then were and one from the 8th Hussars. It suddenly dawned on him, however, that had any of his co-banqueteers been in his ‘old’ regimentals Lestrade would have been able to avoid them so as to avert any awkward questions about his miraculous change in appearance. As it was, any one of the bowler- or top-hatted gentlemen might suddenly say ‘Who the hell are you?’

‘Who the hell are you?’ The bombshell burst behind him. He opened his mouth to attempt an answer.

‘Ben Beeson, Eleventh Hussars,’ his companion answered.

‘Of course,’ beamed the other man. ‘I didn’t recognise you. You’ve put on some weight. Job Allwood, Thirteenth Lights.’

‘How are you?’ Beeson returned the handshake. ‘Er … you remember Joe Towers?’

‘Yes, of course,’ beamed Allwood. ‘Good to see you again, Joe. My God, can you still get into your old uniform? The years have been kind.’

Let’s hope they go on being so, thought Lestrade.

‘Well, well.’ Beeson moved on like a shield before the doubly vulnerable Lestrade. ‘Jim Glanister. How are you Jim?’

‘Not bad,’ slurped the other, the left corner of his lip dragging to reveal a row of brown, uneven teeth. ‘I can’t complain.’

‘Remember Joe Towers, F Troop?’

‘Oh, yes.’ Glanister was having serious salivary problems as he shook Lestrade’s hand. ‘That’s funny, I remembered you being taller.’

‘I haven’t been well,’ ventured Lestrade.

‘You don’t look well, either,’ another man chipped in.

Lestrade turned to face John Kilvert, socially superior as always in his astrakhan collar. Kilvert’s smile vanished.

‘Haven’t we met recently …?’ he said. Lestrade glanced at Beeson for support. None was forthcoming.

‘Not since the Crimea,’ said Lestrade, hoping he had said the right thing.

‘Oh,’ was Kilvert’s limp and dissatisfied rejoinder. And the gong sounded to summon them to dinner. It was a fine spread. Roast goose with all the trimmings. Unfortunately, Lestrade found himself next to Glanister and spent most of the meal watching items of food miss the old man’s mouth altogether, slithering down his left arm.

‘Pistol ball at point-blank range,’ Beeson whispered in Lestrade’s other ear, as though to explain Glanister’s problems.

‘Time heals all wounds,’ Glanister said at some point during the conversation. Not very well, thought Lestrade, flicking cream off his sleeve.

‘Gentlemen, pray silence for the regimental tunes,’ a major-domo barked from a corner. The good-natured banter stopped as one by one the regiments’ marches played. As the band struck up, knots of men stood here and there at the sound of their own regiment’s calls. Beeson tugged Lestrade to his feet at the commencement of ‘Coburg’, the slow march of the 11th. Lestrade hoped his delayed reaction was explained by his age and his recent fall.