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  Lestrade and the Guardian Angel

  The Inspector Lestrade Series – Book Seven

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Lestrade and the Guardian Angel | The Inspector Lestrade Series – Book Seven

  M. J. TROW

  Caveat lectorum – Let the Reader Beware! | From Police Constable to Political Correctness

  ❖ Alpha ❖

  ❖ Odd | Fellowes ❖

  ❖The Trouble With Harry❖

  ❖ Victim of the Witch ❖

  ❖ Jenny ❖

  ❖ A Horseman Riding By ❖

  ❖The Wheel of Misfortune❖

  ❖ Up, Up and Away ❖

  ❖ Bus Stop ❖

  ❖ Number Thirteen, | Parabola Road ❖

  ❖ Omega ❖

  ❖ The Sawdust Ring ❖ | 1879 | ‘In the circus, nothing is what it seems ...’

  ❖ The Sign of Nine ❖ | 1886 | ‘Hello, hello, hello ...’ | ‘Hello, hello, hello ...’ | ‘Hello, hello, hello ...’

  ❖ The Ripper ❖ | 1888 | ‘Oh, have you seen the Devil ...?’

  ❖ The Adventures of Inspector Lestrade ❖ | 1891 | ‘Such as these shall never look | At this pretty picture book.’

  ❖ Brigade ❖ | 1893 | ‘And we leave to the streets and the workhouse the charge of the Light Brigade.’

  ❖ The Dead Man’s Hand ❖ | 1895 | ‘There was no 9.38 from Penge.’

  ❖ The Guardian Angel ❖ | 1897/8 | ‘And a naughty boy was he ...’

  ❖ The Hallowed House ❖ | 1901 | ‘Quid omnes tangit, ab omnibus approbetur.’*

  ❖ The Gift of the Prince ❖ | 1903 | ‘Lang may your lum reek, Lestrade.’

  ❖ The Mirror of Murder ❖ | 1906 | Beyond the mountains of the moon ...

  ❖ The Deadly Game ❖ | 1908 | ‘The Games a-foot’

  ❖ The Leviathan ❖ | 1910 | ‘To our wives and sweethearts – may they never meet!’

  ❖ The Brother of Death ❖

  ❖ Lestrade and the Devil’s Own ❖

  ❖ The Magpie ❖ | 1920 | ‘There was a Front; | But damn’d if we knew where!’

  ❖ Lestrade and the Kiss of Horus ❖ | 1922 | ‘Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!’

  ❖ Lestrade and the Giant Rat of Sumatra ❖ | 1935 | ‘So, Sholto, let me and you be wipers | Of scores out with all men, especially pipers!’

  ❖ The World of Inspector Lestrade ❖

  Lestrade and the Guardian Angel

  The Inspector Lestrade Series – Book Seven

  M. J. TROW

  Copyright © 2021 M. J. Trow.

  ISBN 978-1-913762-84-1

  First published in 1990.

  This edition published in 2021 by BLKDOG Publishing.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission of the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Cover art by Andy Johnson.

  All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  www.blkdogpublishing.com

  Caveat lectorum – Let the Reader Beware!

  From Police Constable to Political Correctness

  In 1891, the year in which The Adventures of Inspector Lestrade is set, Thomas Hardy had his Tess of the d’Urbervilles published in serial form by The Graphic, one of the country’s leading magazines. The editor was not happy with certain scenes which he felt would upset Hardy’s genteel readership. In one instance, when Angel Clare has to carry Tess over a minor flood, Hardy had to write in a handy wheelbarrow so that Tess and Angel had no bodily contact. When it came to Tess’s seduction by the dastardly Alec d’Urberville, the pair go into a wood and a series of dots follows ...

  Even with all this whitewash, reviews of the revised version were mixed and it was many years before some of the Grundyisms* were restored to their original glory and Tess of the D’Urbervilles was established as another masterpiece of one of Britain’s greatest writers.

  In the Lestrade series, I hope I have not offended anyone, but the job of an historical novelist – and of an historian – is to try to portray an accurate impression of the time, not some politically correct Utopian idyll which is not only fake news, but which bores the pants off the reader. Politicians routinely apologize for the past – historical novelists don’t. we have different views from the Victorians, who in turn had different views from the Jacobeans, who in turn ... you get the point. When the eighteenth century playwright/actor Colley Cibber rewrote Shakespeare – for example, giving King Lear a happy ending! – no doubt he thought he was doing the right thing. He wasn’t.

  That said, I don’t think that a reader today will find much that is offensive in the Lestrade series. So, read on and enjoy.

  *From Mrs Grundy, a priggish character in Thomas Morton’s play Speed the Plough, 1798.

  Reviews for the Lestrade Series

  ‘THIS IS LESTRADE THE intelligent, the intuitive bright light of law and order in a wicked Victorian world.’

  Punch

  ‘A wickedly funny treat.’

  Stephen Walsh, Oxford Times

  ‘... M.J. Trow proves emphatically that crime and comedy can mix.’

  Val McDermid Manchester Evening News

  ‘Good enough to make a grown man weep.’

  Yorkshire Post

  ‘Splendidly shaken cocktail of Victorian fact and fiction ... Witty, literate and great fun.’

  Marcel Berlins, The Times

  ‘One of the funniest in a very funny series ... lovely lunacy.’

  Mike Ripley, Daily Telegraph

  ‘High-spirited period rag with the Yard’s despised flatfoot wiping the great Sherlock’s eye ...’

  Christopher Wordsworth, Observer

  ‘Barrowloads of nineteenth century history ... If you like your humour chirpy, you’ll find this sings.’

  H.R.F Keating, Daily Telegraph

  ‘Richly humorous, Lestrade has quickly become one of fiction’s favourite detectives.’

  Yorkshire Evening Post

  ‘No one, no one at all, writes like Trow.’

  Yorkshire Post

  ❖ Alpha ❖

  ❖ Odd Fellowes ❖

  ❖The Trouble With Harry❖

  ❖ Victim of the Witch ❖

  ❖ Jenny ❖

  ❖ A Horseman Riding By ❖

  ❖The Wheel of Misfortune❖

  ❖ Up, Up and Away ❖

  ❖ Bus Stop ❖

  ❖ Number Thirteen, Parabola Road ❖

  ❖ Omega ❖

  The past is the only dead thing that smells sweet.

  Early One Morning, Edward Thomas

  ❖ Alpha ❖

  H

  arry Bandicoot straightened himself with a groan, leaning gratefully on the scythe. To his right and left, his tenants toiled under the August sun, leather-gaitered and steel-sickled to mow down the golden corn. Across the field the reaper clanked and rattled on its furrow, the great black horses lifting their iron hoofs as one, straining sinew and shoulder. Bandicoot caught the nearest rein, throwing the scythe to a labourer, and hauled himself on to the harvester.

  ‘Warm work, sir,’ the driver called, passing him a jug. Bandicoot nodded, swigging gratefully. His eyes crossed
as it reached those parts other jugs could not and the driver noticed.

  ‘It’s the Missus’s,’ he explained.

  ‘Yes, I thought it must be,’ scowled Bandicoot, and remembering his upbringing and his status, ‘Good brew, Jack, good brew. Give my compliments to the Missus.’

  Jack grinned broadly, tugging on his forelock, and cracked the horses into the furrow again.

  ‘Rider comin’, Mr Bandicoot,’ a young voice called. The squire looked up to the top of the harvester, shielding his eyes from the glare of the sun. ‘From the ’All, I’d say.’

  He looked across in the direction of the pointing finger and saw a horseman galloping across the meadow and clashing through the stream.

  ‘Can you make out who it is, Jem?’ Bandicoot asked the boy.

  ‘It do look like Tom Wyatt,’ the boy called back, cupping his hands to shout over the grinding of the machine.

  Bandicoot climbed still higher so that he stood beside the driver and saw that young Jem was right. The groom was lashing Bandicoot’s bay for all he was worth and was standing in the stirrups as he took the crest of the hill and burst through the corn.

  ‘You’ll flatten it, you bloody idiot!’ Jack bellowed, but Bandicoot’s hand on his shoulder quietened him.

  ‘You know Tom better than that, Jack,’ the squire said. ‘He’ll have his reasons.’

  Wyatt was yelling now, plunging through the harvest field and waving hysterically. He drew rein within inches of the plodding blacks who threw up their heads and looked at him.

  ‘You look flushed, Tom,’ Bandicoot greeted him, taking in the groom’s open waistcoat and matted hair. ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘It’s Mrs Bandicoot, sir,’ Wyatt gasped, kicking himself free of the stirrups. ‘She’s started.’

  ‘Started what?’

  There was a silence in which all eyes turned to the squire. Jack, the driver, tugged on the squire’s belt with one hand and began to light his pipe with the other. ‘Whelping, sir,’ he whispered, ‘beggin’ your pardon an’ all.’

  ‘Good God! She’s three weeks early!’ Bandicoot stood bolt upright like a recently castrated calf and leapt in one fluid movement into the saddle of the bay. It was as well it had been recently vacated by the groom.

  ‘Carry on, Jack,’ Bandicoot shouted, and drove his heels into the animal’s flanks, crashing back through the devastation caused by the groom.

  ‘That I will, sir,’ Jack chuckled and threw his jug down to Tom Wyatt. The groom pulled off the stopper.

  ‘Your Missus’s?’ he asked.

  Jack nodded, and the groom replaced the stopper.

  SQUIRE BANDICOOT HURTLED through the stream, his legs straight in the stirrups, his head low to miss the branches. The two miles felt like twenty as he thrashed the bay’s neck with his reins. The animal swerved on the gravel and then he was weaving between the gnarled old trees of the orchard, ducking and bobbing. The swans flapped noisily from the lake as his hoof beats frightened them and he saw a flurry of activity on the terrace ahead. Another groom caught the lathered, snorting bay as Bandicoot leapt from its back, running like the Old Etonian he was up the slope.

  ‘Oh, sir,’ wailed the hysterical girl on the terrace as he arrived.

  ‘What is it, Maisie?’ He held her heaving shoulders and attempted to sound calm.

  ‘It’s bad news, sir,’ she sobbed.

  Bandicoot stared at the tearful eyes and the red, throbbing nose.

  ‘What? What?’ he shouted.

  ‘It’s Grizzle. She’s . . . she’s dead,’ and the maid sank to her knees, sobbing uncontrollably.

  Bandicoot looked helplessly around him. It was something he had been doing now for more than thirty years. He was quite accomplished at it. It was with exquisite relief he welcomed the arrival of Miss Balsam, as gnarled as any of the trees he had just ridden past and a little riper, to boot.

  ‘Tsk, girl,’ she snarled at the maid, who bobbed up, curtsied to the squire and left, wailing.

  ‘Grizzle? What’s happening, Nanny Balsam?’

  ‘Grizzle?’ Miss Balsam repeated. ‘Oh, that tiresome child. I think she must be referring to the frog of the same name.’

  ‘A frog, Miss Balsam?’ Bandicoot couldn’t understand it. Everyone had been sane when he left the Hall that morning. What could have happened since?

  ‘A pet, I understand.’ Miss Balsam was shepherding the squire to a chair on the terrace. ‘Cook accidentally trod on it this morning. I am, as you know, trained in resuscitation, but I fear I drew the line at Rana ternporaria. Had it been Rana esculenta, of course . . .’

  ‘Miss Balsam!’ Bandicoot was near to breaking point. ‘Letitia . . .’

  ‘. . . is doing very nicely without you, thank you very much,’ and she pushed him bodily into the wicker. ‘Men!’ She clicked her tongue.

  ‘Has she . . . ? Is she . . . ? I must go to her!’ He stood up.

  ‘Never!’ Miss Balsam’s five foot one bowled over Squire Bandicoot’s six foot two with all the force of her sensibilities and her sex. ‘What goes on in that room,’ she wagged her finger at the leaded window above, ‘is no business of yours.’ Then calmer, ‘You’ve done your part. Now let Lettie do hers.’

  She patted his bewildered curls. ‘You need an amontillado,’ and she swept indoors.

  Bandicoot fumbled for his hunter. ‘Half-past three,’ he said aloud, and began to pace the terrace. He looked up at the window to see shadows and reflections flitter this way and that. He heard no sound inside but the occasional roar of Miss Balsam. ‘Towels!’ interspersed with ‘Hot water!’

  ‘Beggin’ your pardon, sir.’ A voice caused Bandicoot to spin round to see the red-nosed Maisie standing with a glass of sherry wine on a tray of Bandicoot silver. ‘Your armadillo, sir,’ she sniffed.

  ‘My . . . ? Oh, I see. Thank you, Maisie . . . and I’m very sorry about your frog.’

  The tray clashed loudly on the terrace and the maid hauled up her petticoats and rushed away howling.

  An iron-grey head poked itself through the leaded panes. ‘Be quiet down there!’

  Bandicoot sat down and sipped his sherry as quietly as he knew how. With all his other worries, the last thing he wanted was to cross Miss Balsam now. He watched the sunshine ripple on the waters of the lake and old Wiggins trailing the far bank with his nets, trawling for pike. One of them would get him, one of these days, and old Wiggins would take his place in the trophy room of Bandicoot Hall, framed and glazed with the rest. The swans had come back now, gliding in on silent wings to ruffle the still surface of the water. From the reeds to his left, Grizzle’s relatives kept up their watery lament, throaty organs swelling in the afternoon stillness.

  Then he heard an alien sound and it took him a while to place it. It was a slap, of skin on skin, followed by a cry, sharp, surprised, indignant. It wasn’t little Emma, whose six-month noise had a more worldly tone to it. Bandicoot dropped his glass and dashed through the French windows, tearing back the heavy velvet, hurtling across his study and through the hall. Servants appeared from nowhere, anxiously peering after the Master, as he bounded up the stairs three at a time. There was a second slap as he reached the landing and another appalled noise joined the first. But Bandicoot did not hear it. Only his own heart thumped and banged in his ears. Raised to the scrum and the Wall Game, the Old Etonian lowered his shoulder for the charge. No footling time wasting with the niceties of door handles for him. Time was of the essence. And he knew that it and something else waits for no man.

  In the event, Miss Balsam obligingly opened the doors for him so all Bandicoot had to do was to trip neatly over Joris, the cat, and catch his nose a sharp one on the bedstead.

  ‘Harry!’ Letitia looked at him in some alarm, blood trickling over his lips and all.

  ‘Letitia!’ he shouted back and saw, flanking his pink, radiant wife, two other heads, smaller, wrinkled like little old men.

  ‘Harry,’ she said, ‘I’d like you to meet Ivo,’ she
lifted the little old man on her right arm, ‘and Rupert,’ she lifted the little old man on her left arm.

  Bandicoot stood there.

  ‘Like this, Mr Bandicoot,’ said Miss Balsam, placing the squire’s arms just so, ‘hold them like this.’

  He took first one little wrapped bundle, then the other.

  ‘Hello, old man,’ he said to Ivo, ‘Hello,’ to Rupert.

  They both looked at him blearily, each with one eye open. Letitia beamed proudly. ‘Before you take them to see the horses, Harry,’ she said, ‘could I hold them for a while?’

  ‘Oh, my darling, of course,’ and he very carefully handed them back. He was about to assert himself as Master of the House and kick out the roomful of women, when he turned and saw they had gone. All save Miss Balsam, who handed him a cigar. ‘Noisome things, of course,’ she smiled, ‘but fitting at times like these,’ and she hurried away, dabbing her eyes. On the landing, Miss Balsam rested against the double doors, her work done. How many babies, she wondered, had she helped into the world? And why, oh why, did they not stay as innocent as the little boys inside?

  Bandicoot sat gingerly on the counterpane. ‘My dearest,’ he said, ‘how are you?’

  ‘Fine, Harry,’ she smiled, looking lovingly at her three men.

  He smoothed her cheek. ‘It’s funny,’ he said. ‘All the way up here from the fields, all I could think of was Sarah Lestrade and poor old Sholto. What if, I thought. What if?’

  Letitia caught for a moment the eyes wet with tears. ‘Harry Bandicoot!’ she said sharply. ‘Floreat Etona. We loved Sarah. And we love Sholto. And most of all we love their little Emma. But we have our own children now. They’ll grow together. Emma and the boys. Brothers for her. A sister for them.’

  ‘You’re right,’ he smiled, sniffing hard. Then, springing to his feet, ‘I must send Sholto a telegram.’

  ‘In a moment, Mr Bandicoot,’ she said softly.

  He knelt again, resting his head on her breasts between the boys. ‘In a moment, Mrs Bandicoot . . .’