The Adventures of Inspector Lestrade (10 page)

‘May we talk in private, sir?’

The artist took leave of the admiring circle around him, took two drinks from a passing tray and thrust one at Lestrade. They walked through a cloud of white peacocks on to a broad terrace and into the vast sunlit studio itself. An enormous canvas rested on three easels in the centre of the room. Partially draped, it was an ancient scene, classical and grand.

‘Do you like it?’ the artist asked, and grinned.

‘Indeed,’ said Lestrade, hoping he would not be lured into a conversation on the merits of gouache or the traps of chiaroscuro.

‘So do I.’ Alma-Tadema replenished his own and Lestrade’s glasses with the finest claret cup Lestrade had ever tasted. ‘Tell me something; I thought you police-chappies never drank on duty.’

‘Most of us don’t, sir. But if I may say so, most of us don’t get offered claret of this vintage.’

‘My dear … er … Inspector, is it? Not only have you a discerning eye for art, but you are also a connoisseur of the vine. A lucky day for me indeed.’

‘I hope so, sir.’ Lestrade produced a tin from his pocket. ‘Be so good as to have a look at the contents of this.’

Alma-Tadema opened, sniffed, peered closely through the pince-nez, placed an exquisitely manicured finger in and licked it. ‘Enamel,’ he said. ‘Black enamel. Aspinall’s probably.’

‘Is enamel paint unusual, Mr Ala-Tameda?’

‘Indeed it is. It’s not readily available yet and of course quite unsuitable for canvas. But the French are using it a lot on their blasted bits and pieces.’

‘Don’t you like the New Art, Mr Mala-Teda?’

‘Oh, in its way, it’s all right, but you can’t build an Underground Station that looks like a peacock. There isn’t enough of the classical in art nowadays. Not like the Romans,’ he said, waving in the direction of his canvas. ‘You know where you are with Romans.’

‘You said Aspinall’s enamel?’

‘Yes, that is the firm that produces it.’ Alma-Tadema buried himself in a bureau. ‘It’s deuced expensive; even I only have …’ He stopped. Lestrade crossed the room to him.

‘Something the matter, sir?’

‘They’ve gone. Six pots of Aspinall’s black enamel. Gone.’

‘When did you last see your enamel?’

Alma-Tadema chewed his thumb. ‘Well, let’s see, it must have been – Tuesday last, or Monday.’

‘It may be crucial, sir.’

‘Yes, yes of course, Inspector. Monday, week before last. I’m certain it was Monday because I had one of my sitters cancel at short notice. I was not too displeased. I hate painting portraits. Give me Romans every time.’

There was a pause.

‘Inspector, may I ask why you came to me with this paint?’

‘My chief recommended you, sir, as a prominent man in paint-consistency.’

The artist laughed. ‘Well, I’m flattered. But what is this in connection with?’

‘You don’t read the newspapers, Mr Alma-Mater?’

‘Only the art reviews, I’m afraid. Shockingly narrow of me, isn’t it?’

‘Had you read the headlines, sir, over the past ten days, you would know that three young men were found dead in Battersea Park. Each one had been painted black from head to foot. It was that very act of painting which killed them.’

‘Good God!’ Alma-Tadema sat down with astonishment. ‘But that’s incredible.’

‘What is more incredible, sir, is that the paint seems to have come from your studio.’

Realisation began to dawn on the artist.

‘I see,’ he said, the smile leaving his face for the first time that day. ‘So you came to me for expert technical advice and I end up as a suspect.’

‘Not such a lucky day for you after all then, Mr Alda-Tamer?’

‘Indeed, no,’ replied the artist.

‘Who has access to this studio?’

‘Oh, almost anyone. It’s locked at night, of course and only the butler and I have keys, but during the day it’s always open. Unless I have a finished canvas. The place is always full of people. You saw for yourself. It’s open house. My hospitality is renowned, I blush to admit.’

Lestrade walked to the glass doors. ‘I am sure you have no plans to leave Town, sir, but please contact the Yard if you do.’

‘Yes, of course, Inspector. I am only too anxious to clear this matter up.’

‘May I suggest you take better precautions, sir? This little piece, now…’ and he indicated the Roman canvas, ‘what might that be worth?’

‘I have been offered eight thousand for that one.’

It was Lestrade’s turn to be astonished. It was more money than he would make in a lifetime, if he continued straight.

‘Pounds?’

Alma-Tadema guffawed heartily. ‘Don’t be unrealistic, Inspector … guineas.’

The family of Spender had aristocratic connections, but they themselves lived in a tawdry house in a tawdry suburb in Notting Hill. They were more anxious for blood than the Coke-Hythes and had been infinitely less polite. With his customary ease, Lestrade was able to defend himself and the Yard against the oft-heard cry from the deceased’s grandfather in the corner: ‘What are you fellows doing about it?’ A combination of wheedling and bluff on Lestrade’s part provided all he was ever likely to know about the late William Alphonse Spender. He was twenty-four, single, without a post (‘job’ was far too common a word for the Spenders) and kept unfortunate company. No one in the family seemed really upset to see him go; no one in the family seemed very surprised that he had met so ‘sticky’ an end. If only they hadn’t sent him to Harrow in the first place, this would never have happened. Still, it was probably for the best. No, William had no real aversion to blacks, it was just that he enjoyed tormenting people. Coke-Hythe was obviously the instigator of the recent notoriety. But it was such a minor incident. Only the radical press would be so common as to blow it up out of all proportion. Enemies? Well, even the family conceded that William was an unlovely lad, but they could think of no one, no real individual, who stood out. Except of course for that ghastly black person. He had a motive. Why hadn’t he been arrested?

Arthur Fitz had no immediate family. His parents had died in an avalanche some years before while visiting Switzerland and the boy had been bounced around various distant aunts who ended up cursing themselves for not being distant enough. It was this very distance which gave them an air of guilt. They had failed the boy. The least they could do now was to ensure that his murderer was brought to book. But Arthur spent most of his time in clubland, in disreputable company and his various aunts suspected that he was very horribly in debt.

Clubland proved chilly and unhelpful. Lestrade tackled some – Arts, Army and Navy, Crockford’s. Bandicoot tacked others – White’s Boodle’s, Naval and Military. Dew held the horses. Their collective enquiries yielded almost nothing. A lot of shoe-leather worn, a lot of frosty silence, a lot of angry letters about police intrusion to McNaghten and the Commissioner. Lestrade’s reputation began to sink in the mire of accusation and inefficiency. It was turning, slowly but surely, into a nightmare.

Lestrade was shown into the expensive suite of rooms occupied for the past four months by Atlanta Washington, the ex-slave. The inspector had not really known what to expect. Before him stood a handsome, dapper man about his own age, immaculately groomed with a rose in his button-hole. On each arm he wore an incredibly beautiful white girl, one of whom Lestrade thought he recognised as a former courtesan belonging to Lord Panmure.

‘You sure took your time.’ The Negro grinned, displaying a row of pearly white teeth. ‘Honeys, run along now, Atlanta wants to talk to de man.’ He swung his body across the floor, as though to an imaginary tune, shooing the protesting girls out of the door in a flurry of feathers and furs.

‘Well, now, Inspector honey, to what do I owe de pleasure?’

‘I am pursuing a murder enquiry.’

‘Right on. Why don’t you siddown dere an’ I’ll have some mint julep sent right up, y’hear.’

Lestrade sat.

‘I hope you won’t take long. I’s expectin’ ma hominy grits in a liddle while an’ I sure hates to be kept waitin’.’

‘Atlanta Washington,’ Lestrade stood up again, ‘I arrest you in the name of the law. You are not obliged to say anything, but anything you do say will be taken down …’

‘Now, hold it, man,’ the Negro interrupted. He looked squarely at Lestrade for a moment, ‘Aw, shit.’ He pulled off his elaborate thick, curly hair to reveal a much less impressive balding pate underneath. Next, he unhooked his immaculate false teeth to reveal a few scattered brownish ones beneath.

‘All right, Mr Lestrade, the show’s over.’ Even the phoney plantation accent had gone. ‘What am I charged with?’

Lestrade sat down, triumphant. ‘You’re not,’ he said. ‘But I had to get through that barrier somehow.’

Washington grinned. ‘You’re smart and no mistake.’

‘Why do you do it?’ asked Lestrade.

‘What, the lingo? The teeth? The rug?’

Lestrade nodded.

‘It’s a long story, Inspector.’

‘Take your time, sir.’

‘My father was Booker T. Washington, a slave. Maybe you read his book,
Up From Slavery
?’

Lestrade had not.

‘Well, I was born a slave, like he was. Momma used to wash the Massa’s cloths on the plantation – Georgia. Poppa was what they call in the States an “uppity nigger”, but like all Negroes, he knew how to hide it. The lingo I was just using – and not fooling you with – is plantation jive. You see, the way to stay out of trouble and to stay alive is to act dumb, to play Sambo. Jig around a lot, roll your eyes and talk …’ and he broke into it again, ‘like de whities expec’ a Sambo tuh talk. That way,’ he said, lapsing back, ‘you don’t get noticed. When the Lincoln soldiers came in ’65 we were all told we were free. I was lucky. I went North with Poppa and learned what freedom really meant. It meant the brothers living like pigs in Harlem while the white folks get the jobs and the handouts. You know how many black police there are in the great United States? How many black doctors, lawyers, judges, teachers? None, Inspector, none. Even the nigger minstrels on the stage are whities blacked up with burnt cork. That’s the freedom Lincoln gave us. And the killed him for it. So I decided to hit back. Poppa wrote his book and got famous – and rich. So I became a celebrity – an educated nigger. Popular? No, I’m not. Whities hate me ’cos I’m black. But they’re fascinated, too. They can’t keep away because they’re afraid of me. They’re afraid that one day all my kind are going to be smart and sassie and it scares the shit out of them. So, it’s all a front, Inspector. The hair, the pearly teeth, the jive, it’s what people expect. And who am I to let them down?’ A pause. ‘Tell me, do you think my secret is safe with you?’

‘Did you kill those men?’

‘Hell, no. I may be a coon, Inspector. I may be an ornery bastard. But I’ve never killed a man and I couldn’t start now. Yes, I horse-whipped a couple a couple of weeks ago when the insults and the spittle came on a little too strong. But that’s it, as far as it goes.’

‘Do you know the studio of Lawrence Alma-Tadema?’ Lestrade surprised himself by getting it right.

‘If he’s the photographer fella in Piccadilly, yeah.’

‘What can you tell me about Aspinall’s enamel?’

Washington looked blank. ‘Nothing.’

Lestrade got up. He was impressed by the man’s sincerity.

‘Mr Washington, when are you leaving the country?’

The ex-slave put back his teeth and refitted his wig. ‘Why, any day now, suh, fo’ sure.’

Lestrade nodded his approval of that.

‘What’s gettin’ you, man? Jus’ ’cos some Massas in de cole, cole groun’.’

‘I am wondering,’ said Lestrade, ‘how many more there are going to be.’

This time, the by now inevitable letter was a long time coming. Lestrade mechanically traced, as far as he was able, the last day in the lives of the three dead men. They knew a lot of people, were usually, though not always, in the public gaze and the contacts all drew blanks. The common factor in their lives, their tenuous friendship based on a love of the limelight and of devilry, produced nothing that was concrete. No leads, no suspects. But, then, the letter came.

A longer verse than usual, mused Lestrade, and more of a story, perhaps. No extra clues in letter-head or paper type or print, but there was something else – a signature.

‘What do you know about Agrippa?’ he threw at Bandicoot, who had just come in with an armful of written statements.

‘Which one?’

‘All of them,’ answered the inspector, annoyed to find that his lieutenant seemed to have such knowledge at his fingertips.

‘Well, there was Marcus Vipsanius Agrippa, the Roman General. If my Classics serve me correctly, he commanded Octavian’s fleet at the Battle of Actium in 31 BC.’

‘Did he like Negroes?’