Lestrade and the Magpie Read online

  A cherubic young constable opened the door to his knock and Hutchings announced himself. He followed the lad, of his own age, through a tight corridor, floor to ceiling with yellowed paper.

  ‘A gentleman to see you, Mr Blevvins,’ the constable said.

  ‘Right, Green.’

  ‘Er ... that’s Greeno, sir,’ the young detective coughed.

  Blevvins scowled up at him. ‘Is it?’ he grunted disapprovingly. ‘That’s a bloody dago name, isn’t it?’

  ‘Er ...’

  ‘Never mind. You can’t help being born the wrong side of the Channel. Who are you?’ He focused his dark, dead eyes on the newspaperman.

  ‘Hutchings. Daily Mirror.’ He extended a hand.

  ‘Oh, the gutter press. If it’s the “Violin Case” I can’t comment.’

  ‘No, Inspector. It’s not that.’

  ‘Ah,’ the detective’s face fell several degrees, ‘then let me assure you I don’t know anyone by the name of Miss Tawse of 33 Abednego Street, East Thirteen and if she says I do, she’s a bloody liar.’

  ‘It’s about Superintendent Lestrade,’ Hutchings told him.

  ‘Lestrade?’ Blevvins frowned. ‘Never heard of him.’

  ‘Inspector Kane said this used to be his office.’

  ‘Did he now?’ Blevvins growled. ‘What name again?’

  ‘Lestrade.’

  ‘Can you spell that?’

  ‘Of course,’ Hutchings assured him. ‘I’m a journalist.’

  Blevvins narrowed his eyes and cracked his knuckles as he leaned forward. ‘Have you got a dog, Mr ... er ... Hitchin?’

  ‘Er ... yes,’ Hutchings confided, though a little bewildered by the question.

  ‘Is it muzzled?’

  ‘Muzzled?’ Hutchings repeated. ‘Why, no. No, it isn’t.’

  ‘Green!’ Blevvins roared. The young constable nearly of that name returned at the double.

  ‘Yessir!’

  ‘This gentleman is the proprietor of an unmuzzled dog. As such he constitutes a rabies threat. You look as though you could do with a few decent collars, lad. I want you to accompany Mr Hutchings here to wherever he hangs out, arrest him and impound his dog. You can kick it too, if you like.’

  ‘Wait a minute ...’ Hutchings protested, ‘the rabies scare is over.’

  ‘Over?’ Blevvins loomed to his full five feet nine. ‘Over? It will never be over for us, newspaperman. This is Scotland Yard. We never sleep. The bloody government might want to build a tunnel under the bloody Channel, but that doesn’t mean some of us haven’t got our heads screwed on. And as for giving women the vote, well ...’

  ‘I’m not sure you can do this, Mr Blevvins,’ Hutchings wriggled as much as he could in Greeno’s armlock.

  ‘Watch me, son,’ the inspector grinned. ‘Just you bloody watch me.’

  ‘I suppose this means no story on Lestrade,’ Hutchings shouted as he hurtled through the door.

  ‘Lestrade’s dead,’ Blevvins told him, ‘I shouldn’t wonder. If you ask me, the old bastard’s been dead for years, only nobody noticed.’

  ‘Well, thank you for all your help and co-operation, Inspector,’ Hutchings yelled.

  ‘Not at all,’ Blevvins bawled back, ‘glad to be of service.’ He spun back to another constable, sitting open-mouthed by the door.

  ‘You didn’t see that visitor then, did you, Cherrill?’

  ‘What visitor was that, sir?’

  Blevvins sneered, ‘You’ll go far. Now, get me Miss Tawse of Abednego Street on the blower and be quick about it. Or else you’ll end up in Fingerprints for the rest of your natural.’

  ‘Yessir. Very good, sir.’

  ALL THAT WAS LEFT OF Sholto Joseph Lestrade lay among the dried flowers. His face, that old yellowed one with the scars, was serene and composed, the eyes closed in peace. His arms were crossed over his chest and he looked far younger than his six and a half decades. Peace. Peace at last.

  ‘Sholto!’

  The voice burst on him like a dream.

  ‘Get up. You look as though you’re dead!’

  He sat bolt upright. ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Nearly half past four.’

  His eyes became acclimatized to the drawing-room. Then he was convulsed by sneezing and fell back into the innermost recesses of the armchair.

  Fanny Lestrade put her sewing down on her lap. Their eyes met across a crowded, still-Edwardian room full of photographs and Clarice Cliff. He saw her eyebrows rise. ‘That’s the fourth time today,’ she said softly. ‘I’ll take the flowers away.’

  ‘It’s not the flowers,’ he said. ‘I haven’t been right since I was sprayed by that idiot on the 36 bus on the way to Peckham.’

  ‘Darling, that was six months ago,’ she told him, ‘and it did save you from catching the flu.’

  ‘That’s only what the disinfectant people said. We only have their word for that.’

  ‘Sholto Lestrade,’ she scolded him, ‘you old cynic! I was reading only the other day how the death rate has exceeded the birth rate for the first time since records began. That’s the flu for you – the plague of the Spanish lady.’

  ‘I’ve never forgiven them for the Armada.’ He straightened in his chair again, ‘Where’s Gideon?’

  ‘Sleeping, dearest. His afternoon nap.’

  ‘Fanny, I don’t want to be an old stick-in-the-mud, but when exactly is he leaving? He popped in for tea and toast in November and he’s still here. It’s a new decade, for God’s sake.’

  ‘We’ve plenty of room, Sholto,’ she said. ‘You don’t begrudge him surely? He’s a harmless old man with nowhere to go. We’re all he’s got. As soon as I saw his teeth chattering as he stood on the doorstep that afternoon, I couldn’t turn him away.’

  ‘But they were in his hand at the time, Fanny.’

  ‘That’s not the point,’ she said. ‘He’s family, Sholto.’

  ‘Just as well,’ Lestrade muttered.

  She looked at him. ‘You miss it, don’t you?’ she said.

  ‘What?’

  She snorted, ‘“What?” he says. Scotland Yard, of course. The cut and thrust. The cases. The chases.’

  ‘The piles. The paperwork. No, I don’t ... Well, perhaps a bit.’

  ‘Why, Sholto?’ She crossed to him and perched on the arm of his chair.

  ‘Fanny, my hand,’ he hissed and she stood up sharply while he retrieved the crushed limb and nursed his tarsals.

  ‘Sorry, darling. Why did you resign?’

  ‘You know perfectly well. The strike.’

  ‘Mutiny, you called it. You had no sympathy with striking policemen. Load of Bolshevists you called them. At least I think that’s what you said.’

  ‘It wasn’t them.’ He held her hand. ‘It was Edward Henry.’

  ‘The policeman’s policeman.’

  He nodded. ‘He went like a lamb to the slaughter. The Great British Public don’t pay their policemen a living wage and when they complain about it, that same public wants heads. Anybody’s will do.’

  ‘But why yours?’

  ‘When they sacked Henry, I couldn’t believe it. I went straight to the Home Secretary and offered my resignation ... Just my luck the old bastard accepted it. Tom would have understood.’

  She put her arm around his neck and kissed him. ‘You and my father,’ she said, shaking her head and clicking her tongue. ‘What a pair.’

  ‘Besides,’ he held her at arm’s length, ‘I’m sixty-five going on four hundred. Old policemen never die. They just resign. I’d have gone in ’14 if it hadn’t been for the War.’

  ‘Didn’t you say that when the Boer War broke out?’

  ‘Probably,’ he chuckled.

  ‘And don’t let me hear you going on about how old you are. You don’t look a day over sixty-eight!’

  He threw a cushion at her and wandered to the cabinet to help himself to a brandy. ‘What’s this?’ He took a letter from the mantelpiece.

  She looked up from
the sewing to which she had returned. ‘Oh, it came in the afternoon post. Since Emma’s coming home tomorrow, I didn’t think it worth sending it on. Sholto, what are you doing?’

  He had ripped the envelope. ‘Needs must when the devil drives,’ he said.

  ‘What? Sholto, have a heart. Emma may be your daughter, but you can’t go round opening her mail. It may be private.’

  Fanny Lestrade would not have thought of doing such a thing. She had never known Emma’s mother, Lestrade’s first wife, and she would never presume to take her place. She watched as his face darkened. ‘It is,’ he said.

  ‘What is it?’ She crossed to the fireplace where he stood.

  ‘You didn’t recognize the handwriting?’

  ‘No, I ...’

  ‘It’s from Paul,’ he said, ‘Paul Dacres.’

  Instinctively, her hand went to her mouth. Then she rationalized it. ‘Oh, backdated, you mean? From the War Office?’

  He shook his head, ‘No,’ he said, ‘It’s not backdated. It was written ... two days ago. No address. He wants her to meet him.’

  ‘My God.’ Fanny Lestrade sat down abruptly. And rose just as suddenly. ‘Sholto, this is wonderful! Wonderful! Oh, what shall we do? Shall I ring her? At the Bandicoots’?’ She scuttled round in a circle, sewing flying everywhere.

  ‘No,’ his voice was firm, then lighter, ‘no, don’t do that.’

  ‘Oh, silly,’ she slapped his shoulder, ‘Emma won’t mind that you opened her letter. She’ll understand. Oh, heavens, I can’t believe it.’

  ‘Neither can I,’ said Lestrade. ‘That’s why I don’t want you to ring her. There’s something fishy about this.’

  ‘Sholto Lestrade,’ she said, ‘let it go. You’re not a policeman now. I’m an ex-policeman’s wife and a policeman’s daughter. I have a nose for these things too. It’s just a miracle, that’s all. But it’s not unique. Old Mrs Hill’s boy, Cheviot, was listed missing and he turned up.’

  ‘He was a vegetable, wasn’t he?’

  ‘Well, yes ... but he wasn’t very bright when he got his call-up, dear. There are miracles and miracles.’

  Lestrade kept shaking his head. ‘There’s nothing miraculous about this,’ he told her.

  ‘What does it say?’

  He showed her the letter. She slipped the spectacles from their chain around her neck and read.

  ‘He wants to meet her. Tomorrow. Good Lord, that doesn’t give her much time. Where is this?’

  ‘Just off the Edgware Road.’

  ‘We’ll have to tell her, Sholto. She can catch an earlier train and be at Paddington by lunchtime ...’

  ‘No,’ said Lestrade, ‘I’ll go.’

  ‘You?’ She let the glasses slip from her nose.

  ‘Me.’ He took the letter from her and popped it back into the envelope.

  ‘Darling,’ she coaxed, ‘I know Emma is all the world to you, but they were engaged to be married. If this is anybody’s business, it’s hers.’ She looked at the sad eyes, the knotted brow. She knew that look. It never failed to frighten her. And she never failed to take it seriously.

  ‘There’s something you don’t know,’ he said.

  She sat down, the safest place when one of her husband’s revelations was due; and she waited.

  He paced the tiger skin, tripping over the bulging glass eyes as he always did. ‘When I heard the news about Paul, I made some inquiries.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I couldn’t bear Emma’s face,’ he said by way of explanation. ‘You remember how brave she was. It was after that that she worked in munitions and drove that tram.’

  ‘And the poor dear still hasn’t got the vote.’

  ‘There’s no justice,’ he tutted, ‘I learned that a long time ago.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Fanny asked. ‘Made some inquiries?’

  ‘Winston Churchill was at the War Office, if you remember.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘Well, I thought; no sense in keeping a cabinet minister and barking yourself.’

  ‘What did you find out?’

  ‘A hell of a lot about Lord Kitchener, but that’s another story.’

  ‘Sholto!’ she roared, infuriated when he hedged.

  ‘What did the official telegram say?’

  She shut her eyes tight. ‘I can remember it clearly,’ she said. ‘“Dear Madam, We regret to inform you that Captain Paul Dacres, gazetted Royal Flying Corps, has gone missing, believed killed in action. Bapaume. January 1917. Captain Dacres was a gallant officer and will be missed. We share with you your loss.” It was signed by Churchill himself, wasn’t it?’

  Lestrade nodded. ‘So I went to the War Office. Churchill and I go back a long way. He was a cadet at Sandhurst when I first knew him. I used to wear a bowler and Donegal in those days.’

  ‘Sholto,’ she pointed out, ‘you still do. What did you find out?’

  ‘Fanny,’ he placed his hands on her shoulders, ‘I want you to promise me this will go no further. It would break Emma’s heart.’

  She pursed her lips at him, hurt that he had not confided already. It was a look he knew. A look he trusted.

  ‘After he spent that Christmas with us, he went back to Bapaume, to the aerodrome there.’

  ‘That’s right. We had that letter from his squadron leader, didn’t we? Or rather Emma did.’

  ‘Which said he’d gone up in a formation and they ran into some Hun at seven thousand feet.’

  ‘Yes. And in the mêlée, Paul’s plane was lost. Disappeared into some woods.’

  ‘That’s where the official line and my inquiries part company,’ Lestrade told her, staring into the leaping flames. ‘You see, there was no action the morning Paul disappeared.’

  ‘No?’

  He shook his head. ‘He just took up a plane – it wasn’t even his apparently – and flew towards the German lines.’

  ‘Why?’

  Lestrade shrugged. ‘You’re better at men than I am,’ he said. ‘You tell me.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said disapprovingly.

  ‘No, I mean, moods, behaviour. When Paul was with us that Christmas, did you notice anything odd about him? His manner, I mean?’

  She frowned for a moment. ‘Ah, you mean shell-shock?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Sholto,’ she suddenly froze, ‘you’re not telling me that Paul intended to commit suicide?’

  ‘Men did in the trenches,’ Lestrade said.

  ‘But Paul wasn’t in the trenches. He told us what fun it all was ...’ She caught the look in his eyes. ‘He didn’t mean that, did he?’

  Lestrade shook his head. ‘I don’t know whose benefit that was for,’ he said. ‘I wasn’t fooled. I know now you weren’t. And certainly not Emma. She least of all.’

  ‘Perhaps he was trying to delude himself,’ Fanny said.

  He smiled, ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘But they never found his plane. Or his body. Did they?’

  ‘His plane, yes. Days later, there was an attack by the Flying Corps. They spotted Paul’s plane in a field. One of them went down to have a look.’

  ‘And?’

  Lestrade shrugged again. ‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘No damage. No fuel. No pilot.’

  ‘So ...?’

  ‘So Paul flew as far as he could on the petrol he had and landed. Then he just walked away.’

  ‘Why?’

  Lestrade knelt down on one knee, the slightly better one. ‘Isn’t it obvious, Fanny? He deserted. God alone knows what pressure he was under.’

  ‘Sholto. This is 1920. We’re all a bit past the white feather era, you know.’

  ‘We may be, Fanny,’ he struggled to his feet, ‘but the Great British Public aren’t. In an odd sort of way, I’m not sure Emma is. Everything is black and white when you’re young. When you’re old ... older ... there are just shades of grey. I can just imagine it – it’s like that poster really. “What did my fiancé do in the War, Daddy?” He ran away, dear. While thousands of ot
her poor bastards stood up to their waists in water and took it, your fiancé just got up and left. Like an aviator’s excuse-me.’

  ‘Sholto,’ she held his hand, ‘you’re not that bitter.’

  ‘I’m not,’ he agreed. ‘But this country’s grown up in the past few years. It’s not the cosy world we once knew, Fanny. I don’t want Emma to have to live with that. Better she shouldn’t know.’

  There was a silence.

  ‘But she’ll have to, now,’ she said.

  Lestrade crossed to the window. ‘Perhaps,’ he said, looking out to where the long winter night came rolling in beyond the cedars, ‘but not yet. Not just yet.’

  ‘Sholto,’ she rested her head on his shoulder, ‘she’s a woman grown now. Not your little girl any more. You can’t always be a buffer for her.’

  ‘Can’t I?’ he said, turning with a smile. ‘I thought that was what fathers were for.’

  She smiled back at the eyes, twinkling in the firelight and the oil-lamp’s glow. ‘I expect you’ll be gone for a while. I’ll get Madison to pack you a bag.’

  He kissed her forehead. ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘Oh, and Fanny.’

  She turned at the drawing-room door.

  ‘Tell Madison to put the brass knuckles in my Donegal, would you?’

  For the briefest of moments, a frown flew across her face. Then she was smiling again. She hadn’t had that feeling for months, not since Sir George Cave had accepted her husband’s resignation. Now she had it again. That old, silly feeling. The one she’d had every time he had gone out of the door. The one that told her that this time, he might not come back.

  He slipped the letter into his pocket and quaffed the last of the brandy.

  2

  L

  estrade caught a tram for the last leg of his journey and then found the dingy Cedar Hotel in Connaught Street. Here the glamour and opulence of the ragtime West End fell away and in the tiny cul-de-sac before the Victorian villas of Maida Vale came into view, he pushed open the door.

  A jaunty young man lolled at the counter, ignoring Lestrade entirely.

  Lestrade brought the flat of his hand down sharply on the bell.

  ‘All right, granddad,’ the clerk said. ‘Keep yer ’air on. Rooms are three and six a night. Without breakfast. If yer want a bath, the nearest ones are in Castle Street. Bring yer own towel. Oh, and I wouldn’t bend over if I was you. Even at your age.’