The Adventures of Inspector Lestrade (14 page)

‘Good God, Inspector.’ Forbes swigged his drink. ‘But if that is so, which is which?’

‘That,’ said Lestrade, exchanging his empty glass for a full one, ‘is what we shall endeavour to find out. Tomorrow morning, you and I are going to start requestioning the next of kin of the victims. I shall start with Mrs Mauleverer.’

‘Any reason?’ asked Forbes archly.

Lestrade looked at him with disdain. ‘She has better legs than Alma-Tadema.’ He’d got it right again. It must be the champagne.

In another corner of the ballroom, much later, Lestrade propped himself up against a handy rail. He had had just a little too much of the bubbly and Melville McNaghten’s banal conversation was sending him gradually to sleep. Only the gold braid on the Commissioner’s shoulder kept winking at him in the candlelight, keeping him awake.

‘Arabella must be such a comfort to you, Lady McNaghten,’ some faceless boot-licker was saying.

‘Indeed she is,’ crowed Mama, ‘but she’s a dutiful niece too. She’s always visiting her aunts and uncles. It’s one of the duties – and blessings – of a large family. It’s so nice to see you dancing together, you young things.’

A nudge in Lestrade’s shoulder informed him that Lady McNaghten was talking to him.

‘Enchanted, ma’am,’ he said, raising his glass a little faintly, appalled to realise that Arabella’s mother had seen them together, perhaps even, horror of horrors, ‘linked their names romantically’, as such mothers always do. Luckily for Lestrade, the band suddenly struck up the National Anthem.

‘He’s here,’ the Commissioner was heard to cry, flinging his wife to a lackey and making a beeline for the main staircase. Those who were seated, rose and it dawned, with differing degrees of sobriety, on all of them who the surprise guest of honour was. In fact, there were eight of them, but the two at the head were the best known. The first was a balding, bearded man with poppy eyes, his immense girth somehow tucked into the elaborate dress of a colonel of the 10
^th
Hussars. It was ‘Bertie’, the Prince of Wales. Behind him, younger, taller, slimmer with a long neck and thin moustache, but the same uniform and poppy eyes, stood his son, Prince Albert Victor Christian Edward, the Duke of Clarence.

‘Good God,’ Lestrade hissed to himself, ‘they’ve let him out.’

‘No ceremony, no ceremony,’ the Prince was saying. ‘Sorry, gentlemen, to come unannounced. And indeed, out of costume. Another beastly regimental dinner. Couldn’t turn up at the Mess in a Guy Fawkes suit, what?’

The assembly shook with laughter at the inane remark. Lestrade caught McNaghten’s face as he watched the Duke of Clarence, every move registering itself. In that immense room, in that august gathering, only two men knew the significance. The name of Eddy, the heir presumptive to the throne, the Duke of Clarence, old ‘Collars and Cuffs’, was not just associated with homosexual brothels in Cleveland Street. His name should also have been on McNaghten’s Ripper File. McNaghten knew it. Lestrade knew it. Eddy rarely appeared in public, but here he was in the middle of Scotland Yard’s finest. There was a horrible irony.

Lestrade relaxed a little as Eddy was introduced to various dignitaries. He appeared to be normal, polite, suave, if a little stupid. Lestrade chuckled as Eddy was introduced to McNaghten himself and he watched the Head of the Criminal Investigation Department straighten out his cravat, which, by virtue of his suit of armour, he wasn’t wearing. His gauntlets rattled ridiculously on his beaver and he escaped into the refuge of the Dashing White Sergeant with the nearest woman.

‘Remember, Eddy,’ Lestrade heard the Prince say as he joined in the revels, alcohol having lightened his lead feet, ‘the Tenth don’t dance.’

‘Quite so, Father.’ Eddy sulked in a corner for the rest of the evening.

The storm arose when Lestrade had been out on the terrace for some minutes. The night air was cool and there was no rain at first. He puffed gratefully at his cigar and rubbed his nose where the mask had been chafing. Now and then, a flash of lightning lit the terrace and the shrubbery beyond. He caught the wandering forms of patrolling constables. All was well, all was calm. But he had a murderer on his hands. And so far, all efforts to catch him had failed.

‘Oh, ho, Harlequin.’ Lestrade spun round. A large bearded officer of the Hussars emerged into the lightning flash.

‘Your Royal Highness.’ Lestrade bowed.

‘Glorious night,’ said the Prince. ‘Rain soon, I shouldn’t wonder.’

‘Quite so, sir.’

‘Who are you?’

‘Inspector Sholto Lestrade, Your Highness, Scotland Yard.’

‘Ah, one of McNaghten’s detectives, eh?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Good. Good. Got a light?’

‘One thing Hussar uniforms and Harlequin costumes have in common, sir, is that they have no pockets. I got my cigar from a subordinate.’

‘Quite right,’ roared the Prince. ‘That’s where I got mine from too.’

‘Would it be presumptuous of me, sir?’ Lestrade offered his cigar.

‘No. Damned civil. I’ve been longing for a smoke for hours.’ The Prince of Wales puffed heartily on his own cigar, pressed end to end with Lestrade’s. He blew rings into the air with undying gratitude. ‘Mama – that’s the Queen, you know – doesn’t really approve of my smoking. Silly, isn’t it, Inspector? I’m fifty years old and I still care what my mother thinks. Do you have a mother?’

‘It happens to us all, sir.’

‘Yes, yes, quite. Now tell me, I have a taste for the lurid. What case are you working on at the moment?’

‘I’m sorry, sir, I cannot divulge, even to the heir to the throne …’

‘Oh, balderdash, Lestrade. I know about Freddie Hurstmonceux, and a little bird tells me there were others in the series, as it were. It’s not generally known that I am something of a sleuth myself. Perhaps I can help.’

Lestrade began to feel uneasy. The bushes below him were illuminated with lightning. ‘May I ask the source of your information, sir?’

‘Freddie Hurstmonceux from Rosebery. The business rattled him a great deal. He’s sweating in Mama giving him a Garter, you know. He’s prepared to do a lot of talking at the moment – in the right quarter, you understand.’

‘And the others?’

‘So there are others?’

Lestrade realised he had been caught out. ‘Very clever, Your Royal Highness.’

The Prince chuckled. ‘Yes, I thought so. No, actually, I wasn’t … what’s the phrase … fishing. You’re not telling me anything, merely confirming it. I’m afraid I can’t tell you any more. It would be betraying a confidence.’

‘Then you understand, sir, that I must be equally discreet.’

‘Oh, you disappoint me, Inspector. A man without a mother must be a totally free agent.’

Before Lestrade could answer, they were joined on the terrace by a bevy of officers from the Tenth.

‘I hope you’re not checking up on me, gentlemen,’ grumbled the Prince. The company dutifully chuckled. ‘Onslaught.’ He summoned a young lieutenant to his side. ‘Inspector Lestrade, this is Henry Onslow, my son’s ADC. He has allowed my boy to escape him. The least he can do is get you a drink. I have detained you long enough.’

Lestrade was grateful for the escape clause and returned with the lieutenant to the main ballroom. It seemed of little moment to the Prince that Eddy had given his watchdog the slip, but to Lestrade, it meant more. It meant more still when he saw his quarry in earnest conversation with a shapely raven-haired beauty at the far corner of the room. His arm was resting firmly against a pillar as if blocking her line of escape into the room. Two other things quickened Lestrade’s step as he snatched a passing champagne glass and made for the couple. One was that the young lady was Constance Mauleverer, the other was that McNaghten had good reason to believe the man was Jack the Ripper. It was irrational, perhaps, of Lestrade to behave as he did, chivalrous to the point of folly. First he shoulder-barged the Duke of Clarence with something more than necessary force and then he poured champagne over his jacket with a scarcely concealed tip.

‘Dolt!’ The Duke was not pleased.

‘My apologies, sir. Your gold lace blinded me.’

‘Liar!’ The volume was such that guests in their finery stopped waltzing to stare at the ugly scene developing.

‘Mrs Mauleverer, isn’t it?’ Lestrade was attempting to change the subject. She smiled as the inspector kissed her hand. He was jerked upright by a strong right hand. For a split second Lestrade glanced at the gloved fingers on his sleeve. If McNaghten was right, either of those hands had the power of life and death. The large eyes bulged and flashed. ‘You have insulted me, Harlequin. Choose your weapons.’

‘My dear Duke,’ Mrs Mauleverer intervened. ‘I am sure Inspector Lestrade meant no harm.’

Clarence checked himself a little. ‘Inspector. So you’re a policeman.’

‘Most of us are, sir. This is a police ball.’

‘And my father and I are guests of honour.’

‘Well, your father is.’

‘Damn you, Lestrade. You’ve insulted me again.’

By now three or four officers of the Tenth had joined them. ‘I will have satisfaction.’ This was delivered at such a pitch that the band began to waver. When Clarence’s left hand snaked out and caught Lestrade across the face, it stopped altogether. ‘My second will call on you.’

Lestrade recovered his composure, although Mrs Mauleverer pressed his arm in a silent plea for restraint. ‘If you are challenging me to a duel, sir, you are some decades too late. Duelling has been illegal in this country since Thornton and Ashford.’

Simultaneously, the silence was broken by two shouts, both harsh and guttural, both acutely embarrassed. One, from the Prince of Wales, ‘Eddy!’ The other, from McNaghten, ‘Lestrade!’ Both men reached the quarrelsome pair simultaneously. ‘Lestrade, you will apologise to His Highness immediately.’

‘I already have,’ said Lestrade, unperturbed.

‘Eddy, it is time we were away.’ The Prince and his entourage bustled Clarence towards the door, Eddy scowling and muttering the while. The band struck up the National Anthem discordantly. McNaghten whisked Lestrade into an ante-chamber and proceeded to lecture him on the need for protocol and not upsetting Royalty.

One of the many witnesses to the scene, Sergeant Forbes, was chuckling helplessly in a corner. Bandicoot was straight-faced and sober.

‘Come on, Constable. Your inspector’s had it. He’s cooked his goose good and proper.’

‘I don’t care for your homespun smugness, Sergeant. The inspector always has his reasons.’

‘Oh, good God, Bandicoot. I didn’t think they made sycophantic policemen any more. If you want a
real
boss, go to Gregson, transfer to Special Branch.’

‘I’m happy with Lestrade.’

‘You’ll never learn, will you? Waiter …’ Forbes snapped his fingers and helped himself. As the ballroom returned to normal, Forbes spotted another target for his razor wit.

‘Isn’t that Sherlock Holmes?’

‘I believe it is the Great Detective.’

Forbes looked heavenward. ‘God, Bandicoot, there you go again. Toadying.’

‘Steady, Sergeant. That’s a little harsh.’

‘Look at them. Holmes and Watson, like a bloody music-hall double act.’

‘Excuse me, Sergeant Forbes, I think I’d prefer the conversation of the double act.’ Bandicoot crossed the floor to Holmes, decked out like an Egyptian Pharaoh. Watson had discarded the gorilla mask by this time as it was too difficult to get the champagne past the rubber lips.

‘Hello, Banders, old boy. Didn’t think you’d be here,’ said Watson. ‘Holmes, have you met Harry Bandicoot? Old Etonian, friend of my nephew, Edward.’

‘Ah, yes.’ Holmes suddenly came alive. ‘The Atlanta Washington case. I read in what Fleet Street laughingly calls the newspapers that your Lord and Master, Lestrade, let him go.’

‘I believe that was because he was innocent, Mr Holmes.’

Holmes shook his black wig tragically. ‘What a pity. There seems to be no improvement in these Scotland Yard fellows. But then,’ he said archly to Watson, ‘he is a friend of
your
family.’

‘I wanted to ask you, sir, if I may, about the …’

‘Watson will answer any questions. I don’t discuss my cases in public. God, Watson, why ever did I allow you to talk me into coming to this charade? I feel ridiculous.’

‘Oh, I don’t know, Holmes. It’s difficult to tell you from Rameses himself.’

Holmes flicked up his flowing robes and swept majestically towards the ante-rooms. ‘Bring your bag, Watson.’

The doctor’s normally jovial moustaches drooped somewhat. He patted Bandicoot on the arm and followed the Great Detective. The constable saw Lestrade cross the hall in the opposite direction.

‘You’ll need a second, Inspector,’ he said, intercepting him.

Lestrade looked at him hard. ‘You don’t imagine I’m going to fight that royal buffoon, do you?’

‘If you were an Etonian, sir, you’d have no choice.’

‘Where’s Mrs Mauleverer?’ asked Lestrade.

‘I haven’t seen her, sir. But Sergeant Forbes seems to be … er … looking after Miss McNaghten for you.’

Forbes was standing embarrassingly near the daughter of the Head of the Criminal Investigation Department. She seemed not to be displeased by it. ‘Are you going to barge into him too?’

Lestrade flashed anger at Bandicoot. It had not been his night. ‘Miss McNaghten can take care of herself.’ And he moved to the door. A gloved hand caught his arm. ‘Sholto.’ It was Constance Mauleverer. Lestrade glanced behind him. Both Forbes and Arabella McNaghten had noticed. Bandicoot tactfully faded into the background.

‘Sholto, what’s happening? You can’t fight the heir to the throne, especially over me. Why did you insult him?’

‘I can’t tell you, Constance.’

‘You won’t go through with it?’

‘Of course not. Constance … I didn’t think I’d see you again. Especially here.’

‘I came with my uncle, John Watson.’

‘Watson? Doctor Watson?’

‘Yes, do you know him?’

Lestrade laughed. ‘Indeed. Don’t you read the rubbish that he and Conan Doyle cook up between them? One day I’ll sue them both.’

‘
You
are in Uncle John’s short stories?’

‘Some of them. Dear lady, I am cut to the quick. Not that my “appearances” are very flattering. Mr McNaghten is far from pleased that Scotland Yard detectives are held to ridicule and scorn.’