The Adventures of Inspector Lestrade (22 page)

‘Sholto!’ It was Arabella, looming large and comfortable out of the dusk. She gave Lestrade a peck on his frozen cheek. ‘You darling man, you’re quite numb. Come in. Papa’s expecting you.’

After hours in a draughty coach and on the road with silent or surly fellow travellers, Lestrade had about lost the use of his tongue, but a brandy and a crackling log fire soon revived him.

‘I know it’s Christmas, Lestrade,’ McNaghten poured them both another drink, ‘but I brought you here for a purpose. Tomorrow, my other guests will be arriving. There’ll be no time to talk to you then. Tonight, I want you to forget that I’m your superior. I want to talk to you man to man. The
Struwwelpeter
case. Do you have a suspect?’

‘Several,’ said Lestrade.

‘Come on then, man. Let’s have it.’ Even in his dressing gown and smoking cap, McNaghten straightened the ever-present cravat.

‘As you know, sir …’ Lestrade began.

‘Ah, no, Sholto. Man to man, remember. Sir
Melville
…’

Lestrade twitched his moustache at the unbridled generosity of that.

‘At first I suspected Lawrence Alma-Tadema,’ right again, ‘the artist.’

‘Poppycock … Sholto.’

‘As you implied … Sir Melville. You are of course quite right. I put some men on him.’

‘Really, Lestrade. Lawrence is a family friend.’

‘Even so, sir, I could leave no stone unturned.’

‘Very well.’

‘He had a perfect alibi for the next two crimes. He is not Agrippa.’

‘Quite.’

‘But there is a connection. The black enamel that killed the Inky Boys did come from his studio, I’m sure of that.’

‘How does it help?’

‘I don’t know … yet.’

‘Go on.’

‘Then it occurred to me that Agrippa might be killing red herrings. Multiple murders to disguise his
one
actual target.’

‘Risky,’ mused McNaghten, but both he and Lestrade knew that it had been a prime suspicion in the Ripper case.

‘But worth it. The question is, which is the real crime? My men and I have taken nearly two hundred depositions, Sir Melville. Perhaps somewhere in that two hundred is the man we are looking for.;

‘Or perhaps not.’

‘I then reasoned that Mrs Mauleverer was the murderer. She was related to both Albert Mauleverer and one of the Inky Boys, but that I rejected.’

‘Why?’

‘It’s not a woman’s crime, Sir Melville. Physical strength was required in almost all the murders. Constance Mauleverer is a small woman. It would have been beyond her.’

‘What of Conan Doyle?’

‘Ah, yes. I suspected him and Doctor John Watson of a double act. Their motives I could not guess at, but the fact that there were two of them explained Agrippa’s rapid and effortless disappearance. One killed while the other kept watch and covered tracks.’

Again, unknown to each other, both men thought of the Ripper case.

‘Again, I had them both watched. Their alibis are sound. And I know John Watson. Bad writer he may be, mediocre doctor he may be, but he is no murderer.’

‘So where does that leave us?’

‘The Tors, Sir Melville, Christmas, 1891.’

‘What? Oh, yes, I see. No more suspects?’

‘Agrippa is elusive but he is not superhuman. We know some things about him. First, he is a big man, about six foot tall, heavy and powerful. He is a master of disguise, able to play a passionate lover as in the case of Harriet Wemyss, an aeronautical enthusiast in the case of John Torquil.’ And Madame Slopesski in the case of Isaac Prendergast, Lestrade added silently to himself. He could not bring himself still to admit to his superior, now suddenly his ‘equal’, that he had once been in the same room with Agrippa. ‘We know he has a warped sense of humour, using the children’s verse,
Shock-Headed Peter
, as a pattern for his crimes. And one other thing – Agrippa is a snob.’

‘A snob, Sholto?’

‘Look at his victims. Where is the costermonger, fishwife, cordwainer, flower-girl? Every one of his victims was well-to-do, genteel, rich.’

‘What about Peter himself?’

‘Ah, yes. I’m coming to the conclusion that Peter, whoever he was, was not one of Agrippa’s victims.’

‘Not?’

‘No. The story of finding the body in Shanklin Chine was widely covered by most papers. Anybody could have read it, been reminded irresistibly of
Struwwelpeter
and gone to his grisly work.’

McNaghten sat down by the fire. ‘What happens,’ he asked Lestrade, when the rhymes end? Isn’t there one to go?’

Lestrade nodded. ‘Flying Robert,’ he said.

‘Will we see an end then, Lestrade? Will we see an end?’

The Valley of the Rocks lies on the edge of Exmoor. Blackmore’s Exmoor, the Exmoor of the wild Doones of Badgeworthy, who had terrorised the moor in the seventeenth century. It was also the Exmoor of The Chains, near Brendon Two Gates, where a man might drown in the clawing, sucking mud if he took one wrong step. The Valley was hardly the spot for a walk in winter, but Lestrade had agreed to accompany Arabella; he felt a little out of place as the massive McNaghten clan and friends began to arrive the next morning and Arabella had promised to break his arm if he refused. Even Lestrade felt the atmosphere. The sea was chiselled into steel-coloured ridges below him and it was unnerving to be higher than the gulls on those narrow ledges. Here and there sheep and goats clustered close to the rock for shelter. Lestrade kept as far as he was able in the lee of Miss McNaghten.

‘Stand here, Sholto,’ she called above the wind.

Lestrade stood opposite her in a whistling gap in the rocks.

‘Look around you,’ she said. ‘We are standing in the White Lady.’

‘Oh?’

‘If you look at these rocks from the Valley road, this cleft is in the shape of a lady, outlined against the sky. Legend has it that if a girl stands with her lover in this spot, they shall be joined for ever.’ Her hands reached out for his. He kept them firmly in his pockets. The silent pleading face turned to a smile as she turned out of the wind. ‘Sholto, you’ve let me down. Again.’

‘Arabella, there must be dozens of young men beating a path to your door. Why me? I can’t rival all this – a house in the country, servants.’

‘I don’t want all this, Sholto.’ She took his arm and pressed herself into his Donegal. ‘Let’s go home. Papa will be fretting.’

‘Doesn’t he trust me with his favourite daughter?’

‘Oh, yes, Sholto. But he doesn’t trust me with his favourite detective.’

Somehow, Lestrade battled through the evening. Few people spoke to him. But in a way he was glad of that. He retired early and was in bed and asleep long before midnight. It must have been three or four and a raw, cold morning when he felt a body, a live on, sneak into his bed. He wasn’t used to four-posters and completely misjudged the distance between it and the ground so that he fell heavily and hurt his shoulder.

‘Sholto, don’t be ridiculous. You’ll wake the whole house.’

‘Arabella,’ Lestrade hissed. ‘What the devil are you doing here?’

‘Get back into bed and I’ll show you,’ drooled the voice in the darkness.

‘Good God, woman, have you no finer feelings? And in your mother’s house.’

‘Yes, and with my father’s right hand man.’ She leaned over and tugged at his night shirt.

‘It’s nice of you to accord me that title, but I think you exaggerate. Anyway, you’re missing my point.’

‘Oh, I hope not.’ And she heaved him into bed.

For once in his life, Sholto Lestrade laid his scruples aside. Arabella McNaghten was quite attractive in an odd sort of way. And it was dark. And it was Christmas. He put all thoughts of McNaghten Senior and of Constance Mauleverer out of his mind and rolled, a little coyly, into the arms of Arabella.

‘Merry Christmas!’ The noise boomed through the house. There were clashings and hurrying. Lestrade sat bolt upright as a scarlet-and-white-clad Sir Melville swept into his bedroom. In a blind panic, Lestrade turned from right to left looking for Arabella. He thought in a split second of the feeblest of excuses – she had found the wrong room. The bed was so big he hadn’t realised she was there. She had fainted, and he had taken … Oh, no, that sounded dreadful, but in the event, she wasn’t there.

‘Merry Christmas, Sholto.’ Father McNaghten shoved a huge Havana into Lestrade’s open mouth. ‘Yes, I know. It’s a shock. And it’s not something I’d care for you to relate at the Yard, but it’s something of a family tradition at The Tors.’ And he scuttled off to distribute his other goodies to his other guests.

Lestrade somersaulted off the bed, landing on the same shoulder, of course, and peered beneath the gloom of the coverlet. An elegant chamber pot, but no Arabella. Behind the curtains? No. The wardrobe? Only his one good suit.

There was a knock on the door to interrupt his search. It was the maid with his morning hot water and shaving tackle. In the corridor, Arabella swept past in a flurry of silk. ‘Good Morning, Inspector. Merry Christmas.’

It had been a long time since Lestrade had known a family Christmas. The glittering tree, the gaily wrapped presents, the chattering and squeals of children. Luncheon was splendid – goose, chicken, pheasant, dumplings, a light wine and seemingly endless claret. After the meal, during which Lestrade was bored to death by Arabella’s deaf grandmamma, who persisted with her reminiscences of her holidays in Hastings, charades was the order of the day. Lestrade grinned icily throughout the lame performances, but he had to admit secretly that he quite enjoyed himself. Arabella was busy with the children for most of the day and that night Lestrade locked his door and slept more soundly.

The Feast of Stephen was celebrated with rough shooting. McNaghten enlisted the aid of local beaters and Lestrade was given a twelve-bore. As he crooked it in his arm, he thought of Alfred Mauleverer. And he was still thinking of him when the explosion ripped through his cap and collar. He felt the sting in his cheek and ear, which spun him round. He lay floundering awkwardly in a ditch. At first he thought he was dead, but the frozen bracken sticking in his ear convinced him otherwise. Next he thought his own gun had gone off and how stupid he would feel trying to explain that. Before he could realise anything else, he was being peered at by blue, anxious faces wreathed in icy breath. Hands lifted him out and onto a blanket. There were shouts, dogs barking and he passed out.

He awoke to the chime of the great-grandfather clock downstairs. He heard eight chimes, but he suspected it was later. He moved his right arm. Still there, still intact. And felt the crisp, clean bandage round his throat. He hauled himself upright. The room. The Tors. He was alive.

‘My dear chap …’ McNaghten swept in, brushing his wife and daughter back out of the room. ‘How do you feel?’

‘Would it be too much of a cliché, sir, to ask what happened?’ He’d already answered his own cliché – Where am I?

‘Damnedest thing,’ flustered McNaghten. ‘My gun went off. I’d just loaded the thing and was bringing it up when I stumbled on a tussock and it went off. I could have killed you, Sholto.’

Lestrade mumbled that it didn’t matter. All in a day’s shoot, etc. etc.

‘Doctor says you’ve a clean wound. Your hat and coat stopped most of it and you’ll make up the loss of blood in no time. Feel up to some broth, old chap?’

Lestrade felt more up to some broth than the old chap routine. He felt even more embarrassed at being in this situation now that he was confined to bed. He stood it, the fussing of the McNaghtens, for one more day and then, despite their protestations, he struggled into his bloody Donegal and hailed a cab for the station.

Lestrade read it – the mourning letter. Posted on Christmas Eve. London postmark.

‘In the book, of course,’ Bandicoot was musing intelligently (Lestrade surmised that Santa must have brought him a brain for Christmas), ‘Johnny is nearly drowned. Falls into a river carrying a writing case. Agrippa must be slipping.’

‘Agrippa’s done a pretty good job so far,’ answered Lestrade, settling into his chair as gently as he could without moving his head. ‘He’s entitled to a little lapse now and again.’

‘May I venture an observation, sir?’

Lestrade nodded.

‘I think you have quite a soft spot for Agrippa. Oh, it’s grudging all right, but a soft spot nevertheless.’

‘I do admire his planning, I’ll admit. But it’ll give me great satisfaction to see his neck stretched.’

‘Tell me, sir, what happens when Flying Robert is dead? Will that be the end of Agrippa?’

Lestrade looked at him levelly. ‘You have my word,’ he said, ‘that Flying Robert will not die, not unless Agrippa goes with him.’

Bandicoot chuckled awkwardly. ‘Forgive me, sir, but how do you intend to protect all the Roberts in Britain?’

‘I don’t have to, Bandicoot. I only have to protect one.’

It was the first day of the New Year, 1892. The old Queen entered the fifty-sixth year of her reign. The constable entered the front door of the Yard to collide sharply with a grubby-faced street urchin on his way out.

‘Now then, now then,’ growled Dew, looking enormous above the lad. ‘You’re in a hurry, sonny.’

‘I don’ wanna be seen round ’ere, do I?’ squawked the boy, trying to struggle free. ‘I’d never live it down.’

‘Why are you here, then?’ asked Dew.

‘Hold him, Constable.’ Sergeant Dixon, crimson and sweating, came tumbling along the corridor. ‘The little bleeder was hanging around the front desk. I’ve been chasin’ him all over the building.’

‘No need, mister. I was only deliverin’ a note.’

‘Note?’ asked Dew.

‘Iss on the desk. I was puttin’ it there when ’e come chargin’ up.’ The urchin jabbed a revolting thumb in Dixon’s direction.