Brigade: The Further Adventures of Inspector Lestrade (23 page)

‘I will, and we’ll watch out for cousin Aleister.’

And the Bounder died in Lestrade’s arms.

‘Beastie.’ Lestrade folded the man’s arms across his chest and closed his lids. ‘The police will be here any minute. Inspector Gregson’s body is a few yards from here. Tell them what you know. And tell them that I shall be calling in to the Yard as soon as I can. General, thank you for your sword.’

And he handed it back.

‘Glad it was of service, Private … er … Inspector,’ said Wood.

‘Sir,’ Beeson joined Lestrade, ‘I wish you’d let me come with you.’

‘No, Beastie. There’s only room for one in that corridor.’

‘I thought you might say that, sir, so,’ and he produced an obsolete pistol, Lancer pattern, 1842. ‘This belonged to George Loy Smith,’ he said. ‘The old bastard was hard enough on F Troop while he was alive. Let him strike a blow for them now he’s dead.’

Lestrade took the weapon.

‘And remember,’ said Beeson, ‘that’s cap and ball. You’ve got one shot in the breech already. Miss with that and you’re a dead man.’

‘This is a devil of a time to call, Bradstreet.’ Nimrod Frost was less than chipper. ‘God, man, it’s the early hours.’ He looked like Wee Willie Winkie, well, Willie Winkie anyway, standing in his hall in nightshirt and cap, holding aloft a candle. ‘Go to bed, Richards. It’s only one of my officers with a bad sense of timing. You’re out of breath, man,’ he rounded on Bradstreet, ‘and you know I don’t like calls at home at any time. Go to bed, Wilhelmina,’ he roared to the apparition on the stairs. ‘There’s nothing wrong.’ He ushered Bradstreet into the study. ‘Or is there?’

‘It’s Inspector Gregson, sir. He’s dead.’

‘Good God.’ Frost sat down heavily on the chesterfield.

‘But that’s not the worst of it. Lestrade killed him.’

‘Lestrade?’ Frost was on his feet again.

‘I knew the man was suspended from duty, sir, but frankly …’

‘Yes?’

‘Well, I worked with him, sir. Frankly, I thought Inspector Gregson was overhasty … It’s not my place to say, sir.’

Frost whirled round the furniture, brain and fingers fidgeting wildly. He stopped before Bradstreet’s tie-knot.

‘What’s your view of conspiracies, Bradstreet?’

‘Life is one big conspiracy in the Special Branch, sir.’

‘Yes.’ Frost scrutinised him closely. ‘Yes, I suppose it is. You were Gregson’s right-hand man, weren’t you?’

‘I worked with him, sir, yes.’ Bradstreet was beginning to smell a rat. It was not every day that inspectors of the Yard tried to kill each other.

‘Well, get back to the scene of the crime, Bradstreet. I’m going to the Yard. I’ll want a full report tomorrow. Er … later this morning.’

Bradstreet departed. Frost saw him to the door and summoned a figure from the shadows.

‘Follow him, Constable. I want to know exactly where he goes.’

Lestrade took a hansom in the street, dodging the coppers running to the scene of Gregson’s death and swarming into St James’s Restaurant. He’d given the cabbie strict instructions and with cries of ‘I’ll lose me licence for sure,’ he hurtled through the makeshift cordon of policemen who, as Lestrade knew they would, broke at the last minute to avoid impact.

The Royal Hospital was in darkness and silent. The inmates were in their beds now. Except one. Lestrade crossed the frontage, past the Chilianwalla Memorial, past the silent cannon, mouths gaping to the night sky. His hand rested on the pistol butt, jutting awkwardly from his barrel sash. The front door was locked. Never mind, always worth a try. He circled the main block, trying first one door, then another. At last one gave under his weight and he was inside. A faint light flickered on the wall at the far side of a large hall. He recognised this. He had been taken this way on his last visit. For a man in cavalry boots, he moved like a cat. But when he began to count his lives, he decided to leave that analogy alone.

Up the twisting staircase, past the dormitories of snoring soldiers. The sky, blue against the blackness of the window-frames, lit his movements. Now and then the moon scudded into view, to vanish again in her shyness. Perhaps there were lovers out there somewhere, arm in arm and heart in heart, Lestrade thought. Then, reaching for the studded door, he remembered, and dashed back to the window. It wasn’t a
full
moon, was it?

The padded door opened noiselessly. There was no one at this time of night to work the grille. Across another moonlit hall, below the silent standards. Past Crosse’s door.

Lestrade stopped. There was a light in his office. Faint. An oil lamp, he guessed, trying to remember whether there was one on the desk or not. He cocked the pistol. Well, Sergeant-Major Loy Smith, let’s hope you kept your gun in good order. And let’s hope Beastie has since. And Lestrade crashed through the door, flinging it wide on its hinges. Crosse leapt upright behind the desk, rattan cane poised in his hand.

‘Put it down, Doctor.’ Lestrade’s voice was firm, the pistol aimed at the old man’s head. ‘Or I’ll kill you where you stand.’

‘Abberline.’ Crosse threw the cane onto the desk. ‘I hoped it might be you.’

‘Not Abberline, Doctor. Lestrade. Inspector Sholto Lestrade.’ He tugged off the forage cap. He had all but forgotten it was still on his head.

‘I … don’t understand,’ said Crosse.

‘Never mind that. Where is he?’

‘Who?’

‘Doctor, I was nearly beaten to death by your maniacs, almost given poisoned coffee to drink, and shot at, all in the space of three days. I am not at my best at the moment. Now, once again and for the last time, where is Oliver Crowley?’

‘Upstairs. Second door on the left. Lestrade, he’s armed.

‘And dangerous. Yes, I know that, Doctor.’

‘Lestrade.’ Crosse crumpled into his chair. ‘Let me explain. I owe you that much at least. Don’t worry, he’s not going anywhere. He’s waiting for you. Up there.’

‘Quick then, man.’

‘I panicked the other day. I have been working in this living hell for twenty years, Inspector. Twenty years of trying to give men back their sanity while somehow hanging onto mine. In that time, in all that lonely time, I made one mistake. I let a man escape. A dangerous man. Oliver Crowley. He was my patient too, like his father. I didn’t tell you that. As a boy he seemed normal; oh, a little quiet, perhaps, a little solitary; not like Jacob, the younger brother. Oliver was born shortly after Donald had sailed for the Crimea. He wanted to go in for medicine and to join the army, just like his father. Well, why not? Perfectly laudable profession. But he began to take after his father in other ways. He joined the Golden Dawn – and as God is my judge I know no more about that. He became moody, unpredictable. The same curse that fell on his father also fell on him. I tried to persuade his mother, while she was alive, to talk him into coming here, as an in-patient. He wouldn’t do that, but he did visit his father now and again, sometimes staying for days at a time. Occasionally, he would talk to me. It was working; we were getting somewhere. And then

‘Then?’

‘His father died. He became inconsolable. Irrational. He had to be admitted as an in-patient after all. But he said he had things to do. His father’s work, he said. One night, he overpowered his orderly and fled.’

‘And you did nothing?’

‘If you mean did I report it? No. I paid the orderly to keep his mouth shut. Crowley had a private room. Few people saw him anyway. It was easy.’

‘And the killings? Did you know about them?’

‘No.’ Crosse buried his head in his hands. ‘God in heaven, no. But I couldn’t find him. He had vanished without trace. I knew Jacob was looking, but it seemed hopeless. When you came, three days ago, pressing me about the Golden Dawn, I knew it was all over. Unless … unless I could silence you somehow. I didn’t mean those inmates to kill you. Just rough you up a little. Frighten you ….’ A pause. ‘What happens now?’

‘Now I’m going upstairs. Whether I come down or not remains to be seen. Either way, Doctor, you can reckon on a well-earned retirement. Where you spend it depends on me, doesn’t it?’

Crosse slumped head down on the desk, a broken man, as Lestrade turned for the stairs. The second door, Crosse had said, on the left. Lestrade steadied the pistol in his hand. He had no idea what lay behind that door, but he knew that if the room was in darkness, he would present a perfect target silhouetted against the faint light in the hallway. He could of course wait for daylight, but by that time Crowley could be down the drainpipe and away.

He dithered for an instant, then threw his less painful shoulder at the door. It swung open, crashed back, the noise simultaneous with two pistol shots. Plaster rained down on his head. The room was in darkness as he kicked the door shut again. Crowley’s eyes were more acclimatised to the total blackness than his, but unless the man were totally blind, the angle of the shots which had hit the plaster meant he was on the floor. That was where Lestrade was too, face down behind a sofa. He still held the horse pistol, still cherished his single shot. He had to make it a good one.

‘Hello, Inspector.’ The voice was hollow, mocking, unreal. ‘I wondered when it would come to this.’

‘Give yourself up, Oliver. You haven’t a chance.’

‘Oh, but you’re wrong, Inspector. You see, I haven’t finished my holy mission yet. John Kilvert. John Buckton. When they’re dead, all those my father cursed will be gone. The prophesy of the Golden Dawn will be fulfilled.’

‘You know I can’t let you do that, Oliver.’ Lestrade was working his way on knees and elbows to the right of the sofa. Two more flashes and crashes. The wood from the sofa splintered in Lestrade’s cheek. Either that was luck, or Crowley’s aim was improving.

‘I know exactly where you are, Inspector,’ the mocking voice went on, ‘and don’t bother to count the shots. I have an arsenal with me here. And you have one bullet.’

The Devil, thought Lestrade. How did he know that?

‘You have violated the Golden Dawn, Inspector.’ Crowley’s voice was rising. ‘For that you must die.’

‘Gregson’s dead.’ Lestrade tried to rattle Crowley, distract him just for long enough to squeeze off a shot.

‘He knew the risks. As we all do. But the Power, Lestrade. It is worth daring all for the Power.’

Lestrade bobbed up, trying to bring his right arm with him. Crowley blasted again, once, and the bullet hit the wall an inch or so above the inspector’s head.

‘Gregson kept me informed about your enquiries and unwittingly poor Jacob did too, in stumbling so ineptly about all over the country. But the best informant of course was … Hector Charlo.’ The voice was transformed at the mention of the name into an asthmatic rattle. There was a livid flash of light as Crowley lit a torch above his head. Lestrade fired wildly, the ball lodging somewhere in the ceiling.

‘Charlo,’ the inspector repeated dumbly. Before him in the flickering flame light was the sergeant of the same name, sitting cross-legged on the floor, dangling with magician’s robes and wearing the horns of a goat.

‘Crowley,’ the magician roared in reply. ‘And you didn’t have a clue, Lestrade, did you? As feeble, loyal Charlo tramped around with you, following when you thought he was flat on his back. You fed all the information I needed. You poor bastard.’ Crowley’s pistol was pointing at Lestrade’s head.

The inspector tried desperately to keep the conversation going.

‘So it was your ship at Cromer lighthouse?’

‘Yes. That fisherman nearly did for me, there. Only he didn’t get the name quite right. Aurora Aurosus - Latin for the Golden Dawn. If he’d remembered it correctly and if you’d checked it, you’d have solved this months ago.’

‘Or you’d have killed me months ago?’ Lestrade was scanning the room, trying to find something to use as a weapon. He still held Loy Smith’s empty pistol in his hand, but knew he couldn’t throw it faster than Crowley’s bullet. Nor would he be as lucky again as he had been with Gregson.

‘And that’s why you wore the muffler at Ladybower? In case those labourers recognised you?’

‘I’d been there the day before. But you know what these clods are, Lestrade. They wouldn’t have recognised me again if I’d been wearing these robes in broad daylight. Yes, it was risky to smear those hedges. But I’d watched Hodges for days. It was likely he’d scratch himself on them at some point. It’s a wonder no one else did.’

‘What if someone else had?’

‘Do you suppose the Golden Dawn cares for human life, Lestrade? Any life? Yours will come as cheap as the rest.’ The flames crackled and spat on the pole gripped in Crowley’s right hand.

‘Clever of you to get into the workhouse like that.’ Lestrade tried the old ploy of flattery, as he slowly uncoiled himself into a position to try something at least. ‘But you made one mistake.’

‘Not the disguise. Letitia Lawrenson was as unnoticing as the rest.’

‘No, not the disguise. The name. Oh, Corfield is a clever enough pun. But you’d already used it, hadn’t you? You see, I’d heard it before. I told you I had. Only I couldn’t remember where. Now I do. When we first met, when you were unable to go with me to Cromer – unable because you had sailed there ahead of me and didn’t want to risk being recognised – you sent me a doctor’s note. It was forged, of course. Written by yourself, as a doctor. And you signed it Corfield.’

Crowley’s eyes blazed. He laughed, deep, booming. ‘Yes, that was stupid. But it doesn’t really matter now, does it?’

Lestrade saw him cock the pistol.

‘But to kill your own brother …’ Lestrade blurted.

‘Yes, poor Jacob. The silly meddling boy kept writing you letters. I, of course, as the devoted, efficient Charlo, kept intercepting them. It was all too easy. You see, poor Jacob did not know about my other existence at the Yard. And there are higher loyalties, Lestrade. I have many brothers in the Golden Dawn. But you got one thing wrong, Inspector, when you suspected way back that the solution might lie with the Dunn-Douglas ménage. You were wrong about the shape. It wasn’t a triangle, Inspector, eternal or otherwise. It was … a pentangle.’

Crowley plunged the torch downwards to reveal for a split second a five-pointed star marked on the floor with black powder. The star exploded into a sheet of livid flame, and in its centre Crowley rose up like a great beast, arms outstretched. The flames engulfed him, shattering the windows with the blast and Lestrade was somersaulted to the door. Desperately, he tried to reach Crowley, but the magician had gone, disintegrating in the terrible heat and dense acrid smoke.