The Adventures of Inspector Lestrade (25 page)

‘Why? Why?’

‘Have you heard of Sigmund Freud, Sholto?’

‘Is that a penny dreadful?’

‘No, my dear.’ She smiled acidly, looking up at the smooth painted sides of the cannon. ‘Mr Freud is a psychologist. His wife Martha and I were at school together. We keep in constant touch. His theory is that all little girls at some point want to be little boys. Penis envy, he calls it – oh, there, I’ve shocked you again.’ She clicked her tongue derisively. ‘Willy envy, is that better? Well, I suppose I’m the classic case. Ever since I can remember, I wanted to be a policeman, to join the Force, to be what Papa was. I couldn’t do that, Sholto. Society wouldn’t have it. But what I could do is to beat you all at your own game. All you men. With your cigars and your arrogance and your hypocrisy. I have killed ten people, Sholto, tonight will make it eleven. And you didn’t have a clue. I left plenty, God knows, and the nearest you got was my father. And you’re about the best of them, Sholto. Oh, and by the way …’ She applied her match, slow burning, to the fuse. It flashed and crackled. She stepped back. ‘… the Ripper File I stole for you, an eternity ago …’

‘What about it?’ Lestrade could hear the fuse as well. His heart was thumping.

‘There was one name missing from the last page, Sholto. The name of Arabella McNaghten.’

‘You … you are Jack the Ripper?’

‘An earlier, more amateur attempt, my dear boy. Rather ironic they should put Papa on the case at the end, wasn’t it? Still, from tomorrow, Papa’s job will be up for sale to the highest bidder. As will yours, but you won’t be there to see it.’ She lingered below the cannon for a few seconds. ‘Goodbye, Sholto. I loved you once.’

Lestrade was still muttering in the echoing chamber. But Arabella was striding up the steps to the exit.

‘Miss McNaghten.’ A voice made her turn. A tall, square figure stood to her left in the next aisle. She drew the revolver and was levelling it when a shot rang out. Arabella McNaghten jerked back, eyes staring in disbelief, dark crimson spreading over the police tunic. She crashed heavily down the steps. The tall figure dashed from the pall of smoke his gun had left and scrabbled frantically for the fuse. It had an inch or a little less to go when he put it out.

‘Bandicoot?’ Lestrade’s voice had a strange maniacal quality about it.

‘Sir?’

‘Bandicoot, Bandicoot, wherefore art thou, Bandicoot?’

‘Are you all right, sir?’ The blond, curly head appeared anxiously in the cannon’s mouth.

‘Yes, Bandicoot. It’s just my appalling working-class background. Get me out of this.’

The constable helped the inspector out and untied his hands.

‘Arabella?’ asked Lestrade.

‘I’m afraid I had to kill Miss McNaghten, sir.’ Bandicoot looked decidedly shaken. ‘I didn’t tell you that my father had a brace of these things.’ He brandished the other gold-chased revolver. He straightened. ‘Sorry I disobeyed orders, sir … and came back.’

Lestrade looked at him. ‘Tonight, Bandicoot, I looked death in the face. Thanks to you, I’ve got to do that all over again.’

They crossed to where the body lay, face down in the sawdust. Lestrade knelt down and turned her over. He looked at the pale face, still streaked with makeup and looked at the blood on his fingers. ‘You’re wrong, Bandicoot.’ He closed her eyes. ‘You didn’t kill her. Agrippa did.’

‘Sir?’

‘Give me a hand.’

Together they carried Arabella to the cannon and loaded her in. ‘Now, get back.’ Bandicoot dashed for the tiers of seats as Lestrade lit the fuse. He had just time to reach the edge of the ring when the explosion ripped up and out, smashing the plate glass roof and sending debris in all directions, splashing into the lake and knocking over the tree.

Lestrade and Bandicoot were into the night air and away as the crackling flames behind them brought shouts and cries for water.

‘I don’t understand, sir,’ said Bandicoot.

Lestrade stopped and faced him. ‘You don’t have to, Bandicoot. The world must know. Sir Melville must know, that Arabella McNaghten was the final victim of Agrippa, the long, red-legged scissor man. We never caught him, Bandicoot. He lives on, the walks the streets of London yet. Oh, people will panic for a while. There’ll be demands for resignations.’ They walked on. ‘But you’re safe and perhaps I am too. In time, people will forget. We’ll make the right noises and pursue our enquiries, but you and I’ll know it’s all over.’

‘Why, sir? Why did you put her in that thing?’

‘Because … because I’ve got too much respect for a man to tell him his daughter is a monster. His favourite child an evil fiend without pity or remorse. Her death will finish him as it is, man. The least you and I can do is to leave him his memories.’

Lestrade was right. The story that Arabella had given the
Evening Standard
the day before appeared in
The Times
and all the other dailies the next morning. For a while, people panicked. There was a cry for heads and Sir Melville McNaghten, a broken man at the news of his favourite daughter’s death, offered his. He retired in the summer to The Tors, where he lived on for several years with his other children and his memories. Walter Dew became an inspector eventually and achieved undying fame as the man who arrested Dr Crippen – by long-distance wireless. Harry Bandicoot left the Metropolitan Police the following year, married a rich widow and they lived happily ever after. Constance Mauleverer vanished. No one saw her again.

And Sholto Lestrade himself? Ah, well, that is another story.

About the Author

M J Trow is a crime writer, historian and biographer who for many years doubled as a history teacher. Now retired, he is the author of three successful crime fiction series – Lestrade, Maxwell and Kit Marlowe, the latest written in collaboration with his wife.

He lives in the Isle of Wight, and as well as writing lectures on cruise ships has appeared many times on television in historical and crime documentaries.