The Adventures of Inspector Lestrade (24 page)

Then he heard it, that low, whispering, guttural voice. ‘Down here, Inspector, by the lake.’ This was the voice that Harriet Wemyss had been wooed by, the voice that had coaxed old Isaac Prendergast, at least momentarily, out of his seclusion.

‘Agrippa?’ Lestrade faltered on the final step. He couldn’t see anything. ‘I presume the cannon is reserved for me.’

A chill, hollow laugh. ‘Flying Robert,’ the voice said.

Lestrade had pinpointed the voice. Its direction. Yes, there in the shadows. He was sure of it. A shaft of moonlight fell on to the buttons of a clown-policeman, grotesquely rotund in a hoop and braces. Lestrade stood in the open, with his legs apart, ready to roll either way if he had to. He levelled the Smith and Wesson and cocked it. Once … twice. He saw the hand rise to twirl the moustaches and fall to straighten the non-existent cravat.

‘Come into the open, Sir Melville, the game is over.’

‘How did you know it was me?’

‘I didn’t. Not until The Tors. That morning you came in as Father Christmas. You were wearing built-up shoes, weren’t you?’

‘Very observant, Inspector.’

‘The eye-witnesses who saw Agrippa all mention the bulk of the man. You are too small. But that disguise convinced me that you might be capable of others more convincing.’

‘And the voice?’

No one had moved yet.

‘Come out of the shadows.’ Lestrade’s palm began to sweat.

‘And the voice? What about the voice?’

‘It’s good. Madame Slopesski, the travelling salesman, all very professional.’

‘But did you know I could throw my voice, Sholto?’

‘What?’

‘You see, I’m not really here at all.’

The figure in the shadows raised something. It looked like a stick and it threw it at Lestrade. Instinctively, the inspector moved sideways, jerking his neck and firing simultaneously. There was a crash of splintering glass and a heavy object caught Lestrade round the ear. He lay stunned in the sawdust and by the time his consciousness had focussed on the gun lying some feet away, somebody else had picked it up.

‘Then, of course,’ the clown policeman bent over him, ‘then there are the eyes. Did none of your witnesses mention them? It is one of my failings, Sholto. I cannot bear to have my eyes covered or drops put in. My sight is not all that it should be. Have you spend these
three years
working with a man and you don’t know his eyes are grey? But mine, Sholto, are blue.’

The voice had changed. It was softer, warmer. The clown policeman swept off his helmet and let the long, dark hair cascade on to his shoulder. Lestrade blinked up in disbelief.

‘Arabella?’

She straightened and walked away from the recumbent form of the inspector. ‘What I suspect you never discovered, Sholto, with your appalling working class background, is that the original Agrippa was a German magician of the sixteenth century. I fancy I have produced more magic in these four years than he ever could.’

‘Why?’ Lestrade had struggled to his knees.

‘Clever little trick this, isn’t it?’ She indicated the broken glass. ‘It’s all done by mirrors, you know. By standing behind you and throwing my voice – well, Papa’s voice – I was able to steal quite a march on you, wasn’t I?’

Lestrade rose to one knee.

‘Stay where you are!’ Arabella’s voice was harsh, her meaning unmistakeable. ‘In all my murders, Sholto, I never gave my victims an even chance. After all, like Queen Elizabeth, I have only the body of a weak and feeble woman …’

Lestrade would have found some humour in that, had he not been staring down the muzzle of Bandicoot’s .44. ‘Pretty little gun,’ mused Arabella, following his gaze. ‘You didn’t draw this with Father’s permission, I’ll be bound.’

Lestrade’s one hope was to keep her talking, to play for time. ‘You know as well as I do he doesn’t know I’m here. The gun belongs to Constable Bandicoot.’

‘Ah, yes, sweet boy.’ Arabella smiled. ‘I toyed with making him one of my victims, to show you all how unsafe you were, how easy it was to strike into the very heart of the Yard itself, but Bandicoot was too endearing. Forbes took his place in my scheme of things.’

‘Tell me about your scheme of things,’ said Lestrade. He had hoped that someone would have heard the shot and the breaking glass. But it was as though Arabella could read his mind.

‘You’re playing for time, Sholto, you crafty old cove. Well, why not? You want a tedious run through all the
Struwwelpeter
victims?’

‘It would be interesting.’ Lestrade was collecting, as unobtrusively as he could, a handful of sawdust from behind him.

‘Very well, but first, I think we’ll tie your hands.’

Lestrade saw his chance, threw the sawdust in Arabella’s face and deflected the gun. What he did not know, however, was that the iron bar she had lobbed at him minutes before was still in her other hand. She brought this cracking down on Lestrade’s bandaged neck. He dropped as though poleaxed and was only barely conscious of her tying his wrists firmly behind his back. She hauled him with little effort into a sitting position, his back against the cannon.

‘To begin with …’ Arabella sat cross-legged in her enormous trousers opposite him. She produced a cigar from nowhere and lit it, passing it to Lestrade for one last smoke. She puffed rings into the air. ‘The Man in the Chine had nothing to do with it. Had it not been for the description the local papers carried, it would never have reminded me of
Struwwelpeter
in the first place. I don’t know who killed your labourer, or fisherman or whatever he was, but the whole bizarre thing was perfect. The long hair seemed an exact replica of Shock-Headed Peter himself. And the name stitched into the smock – unbelievable.

‘And the regimental lace of the Thirteenth Hussars?’

Arabella laughed. ‘God knows, but it was the first of many delightful red herrings. Papa, of course, kept me informed.’

‘Of course. Which is why I thought he was our man.’

‘Shame on you, Sholto Lestrade. To think such things of your superior.’ Arabella clicked her tongue.

‘Tell me about Freddie Hurstmonceux. How
did
you do it?’

‘Ah, yes, that was difficult. It’s so useful, knowing so many people in so many walks of life. Papa has many contacts. One of them is … well, his name doesn’t matter, after all he is an accessory to murder. He is Master of the Pytchley Hunt and knows more about dogs than you do about flat feet. Well, I bet him, to cut a long story short, a hundred pounds that he couldn’t train a dog to go berserk at the mention of one word.’

Lestrade smiled to himself that his assumptions had been correct. ‘The word being harrow?’

‘Exactly. The old school of the Master of the Pytchley. We both laughed at that, but I already had my target – Lord Freddie, a thoroughly detestable pig of a man – and my means. I met Freddie through this intermediary and used all my wiles to make him buy a new hunting pack – the one with the lead hound, Tray, who’d been taught to kill at the mention of a word. The rest of the pack would follow suit if he led. The most difficult thing was getting the harrow into position. It was all rather hit and miss of course; four earlier hunts had gone the wrong way. Even I can’t control foxes, Sholto.’

‘You amaze me,’ said Lestrade. ‘What about Harriet?’

‘Yes, I didn’t like doing that one. She was a very stupid girl, but I felt a certain sympathy for her. It was also riskier than Hurstmonceux. I had to be seen in public, as a man. Luckily, poor Harriet didn’t know one end of a man from another. I played her along with secret rendezvous, flowers etc. and of course, I taught her to smoke.’ Arabella blew more rings skyward.

‘Of course,’ said Lestrade.

‘It was simple to get into the house and pour petroleum spirit into the lavatory. Oh, sorry, Sholto, Chapel of Ease – I didn’t mean to offend your sensibilities.’

Lestrade found himself smiling.

‘It was beginning to get embarrassing. The silly little dolt talked of marriage. It was all rather sick. After all, Her Majesty has said that such unnatural acts do not go on between women.’

‘What about the Inky Boys?’ asked Lestrade.

‘Ah, well, the visit of Atlanta Washington had been planned for months. It fitted well, but the actual method of murder was tricky. I wasn’t sure it would work. I spent hours poring over Papa’s chemistry books and the Yard library. In the end I took a chance. I selected my trio of racists and invited them to a secret rendezvous in upper rooms in James Street. I drugged them, tied them up, painted them in black enamel …’

‘Which you stole from Lawrence Alma-Tadema’s studio?’

‘Yes. I thought Papa would give the game away there, when he told you he knew the artist. I was the sitter who cancelled my appointment at the last moment so that I would have a chance to go to St John’s Woods anyway and steal the paint. But you didn’t get the point, dear Sholto, did you?’

‘How did you get the bodies to the Park?’

‘The same way I just overpowered you, Sholto. A combination of cunning and brute force. It was risky, of course – but there are many drivers and hauliers carrying bundles in the early hours. No one asked questions. The hire of the van was simple enough.

‘And Tall Agrippa appeared for the first time in a mourning letter. Tell me, Papa’s typewriter?’

‘At the Yard, actually. I typed most of them together, feet away from your own office, Sholto.’

‘Albert Mauleverer?’

‘He was a non-event. The most difficult thing in the provincial murders, especially Macclesfield and Warwick, was getting away from the family for long enough. Luckily, we have dozens of distant aunts who do not contact us much. I was supposedly visiting them. I invariably wore a male disguise at hotels so that there should be no awkward questions about a woman travelling alone. Of course, I didn’t bargain for you falling for Mrs Mauleverer.’

‘Did I?’

Arabella’s tone changed. ‘Oh, Sholto, I loved you. If you had shown the slightest interest … well, none of this would have happened.’

‘Why Forbes?’

Arabella had nearly finished her cigar and Lestrade was anxious to keep her going.

‘Conrad is the name in the
Struwwelpeter
rhymes. I couldn’t find one. Anyway, I disliked Forbes intensely. He had an arrogance above his station. I got him, shall we say, interested in me at the Commissioner’s Ball. Then I sent him that farcical note, as I did you; it never fails.’

‘Was it a hat pin?’

‘It was. Cutting the thumbs off was more difficult than you’d imagine. Ruined my dressmaking scissors.’

‘And Augustus?’

‘Ah, yes, old Prendergast. I was staying – or rather, wasn’t – with another fictional aunt in Kent. As with Conrad it proved impossible to find an Augustus, so I selected this tyrannical old codger. Reprehensible, wasn’t it, to tie him up out of reach of food like that. Even I had qualms. But then, I didn’t have to find the corpse.’

‘Why did you risk Madame Slopesski?’

‘I don’t know. Vanity, I suppose. I suggested to Papa he encourage the séance idea. I wanted to confront you, to be as close as we are now and to watch your reaction. I must admit, when I realised Frank Podmore was there, and I guessed he would know the real Slopesski, my heart sank. I think that was probably the most awkward moment of my life.’

‘What about fidgety Philip?’

‘Ah, yes, the unsavoury Mr Faye. I didn’t like him at all. I’d met him through the Queensburys. Friends of friends of friends, actually. He was physically very weak. I pretended to be enamoured of the ass, then pinned him down with my ample bosom and suffocated him with a sheet. John Torquil called for more ingenuity, but you know, Sholto, how I rise to a challenge. I played myself with him, risky but fun, but as he pointed out a woman aviator would be absurd, so again, male garb. I joined the aeronauts and awaited my chance. He would keep giggling to himself about the subterfuge. Pity, really, I think Maxim’s machine might actually have flown if it hadn’t been for my tinkering.’

‘Why did your father invite me to The Tors?’

‘My idea.’ Arabella threw the cigar butt into the sawdust. ‘A woman is only a woman, Sholto, but a good cigar is a smoke. Come on.’ She hauled him upright. ‘I was determined to seduce you before … tonight.’

‘What about the shotgun blast? I thought it was Sir Melville’s deliberate attempt to kill me.’

Arabella chuckled. ‘One of life’s little accidents, Sholto. It would have been ironic, wouldn’t it, if Papa had robbed me of “Flying Robert”? I’m sure you can manage the steps with your hands tied.’

‘I’m not going in there, Arabella.’

She raised and cocked the revolver. ‘Sholto, I have packed enough explosives into that breech to blow it and you apart. That way, at least death will be instantaneous. But there are five shots left in this revolver. That way, death can be very slow.’

Lestrade summed up his predicament in a second and reluctantly climbed inside the cannon’s mouth. He slid down until his knees were against the circular wall. Above him, all he could see was the stars, crisp and twinkling through the glass night. The last verse of
Struwwelpeter
whirled through his brain –

‘How did you get the use of this place?’ Lestrade’s voice was echoing in its death chamber. Arabella was busy with the fuse.

‘Charlie Hengler is a law-abiding soul,’ she answered. ‘And he doesn’t know Papa. I came to see him yesterday claiming that I, Melville McNaghten, had an undercover job to do of the gravest importance. International espionage, no less. I needed to take part in the show as a clown and to have the theatre to myself at the end of the show. Oh, don’t worry, Sholto, we shan’t be disturbed.’

‘One last thing.’ Lestrade was still hopeful, the eternal optimist.

‘What’s that, Sholto?’ Arabella struck her match.