Free Brigade: The Further Adventures of Inspector Lestrade by M. J. Trow Page B

The older man hurled his tobacco plug around his mouth and spat it with unerring accuracy into a spittoon some yards away.
    ‘The death of William Bentley.’
    A murmur and a rumble this time. If Lestrade had been asked to swear on oath what had been said, he would have been bound to say it sounded like ‘rhubarb’.
    ‘What be that to do wi’ us?’ one of the younger Tuddenhams asked.
    ‘Stow it,’ snapped Tuddenham the Elder; then, fixing his beady eye on Lestrade, ‘What be that to do wi’ us?’
    ‘Mr Bentley was murdered.’
    Another ripple of rhubarb.
    ‘Ay, we’d heard that. So?’
    ‘So, how did you kill him?’ Lestrade always tried the direct approach with the lower orders. It wasted less time, and there was less chance of a charge of wrongful arrest.
    The murmur ran to positive allotments of rhubarb.
    ‘What be you accusing us of?’ another Tuddenham asked.
    ‘Murder,’ said Lestrade.
    ‘And how are we supposed to have done it?’ the eldest Tuddenham enquired.
    ‘You tell me,’ goaded Lestrade.
    ‘Better yet,’ snarled the biggest Tuddenham. ‘I’ll show you.’ And he lunged at Lestrade with both massive hands outstretched.
    It was one of those pieces of pure poetry of which inspectors of Scotland Yard are occasionally capable in moments of stress and which would be talked about in Cromer for years to come. Lestrade brought up both forearms simultaneously, spread-eagling his opponent’s arms so that Tuddenham’s chin crunched down on the table, narrowly missing the shell of Lestrade’s crab. As he landed, Lestrade brought both his fists together on Tuddenham’s temples, which would have been painful enough had they been fists, but in his left hand, Lestrade still held the pewter mug and in his right the brass knuckle-duster without which he never ventured far. The assaulted Tuddenham knelt on the flagstones with his tousled head in Lestrade’s supper, groaning. Apart from that, the tap room was silent and Lestrade had not left his seat.
    After what seemed like an eternity, the other two Tuddenham children broke forward, but Papa restrained them, forcing them back with his scarred, burly arms.
    The tension was broken.
    ‘That’s Matthew,’ he said, pointing to the prostrate Tuddenham. ‘This be Luke, this be Mark,’ pointing to the other sons. ‘I be John.’
    ‘I thought you might be,’ said Lestrade. ‘Landlord.’ A figure answering that description appeared from behind the bar. ‘A pint of your best ale for the Messrs Tuddenham – and some butter for the head of this one.’
    Lestrade proffered a chair to John Tuddenham and as he took it, slowly, uncertainly, the whole tap room unfroze and returned to life. The fiddle struck up, even the fire crackled anew. The Tuddenham boys carried off their fallen brother like some tragic hero in a play.
    ‘Did ’im good, that,’ mused Tuddenham senior over his pint. ‘I ’ope ’e didn’t spoil your supper, sir.’
    Lestrade shook his head. The new-found submission he could do without. ‘Now,’ he said, ‘about Bill Bentley.’
    ‘I’m not sorry ’e’s gone. I won’t say that I am. Whatever else I am, I bain’t be no ’ypocrit.’
    ‘I’ve heard of your feud. That’s what brought me to you. What caused it?’
    ‘That’s no secret.’ Tuddenham gazed obviously into the abyss of his tankard and continued only when Lestrade had signalled mine host to refill it. ‘When ’e first come ’ere – upstart ’e were. From Yorkshire. What did ’e know of the sea? Landlubber, ’e were. We don’t cotton to strangers here. Saving your pardon. We don’t mix wi’ them Lunnuners wi’ their airs and graces.’
    ‘The feud,’ Lestrade reminded him.
    ‘Oh, ar. Well, ’e accused us Tuddenhams o’ wrecking. I be a fisherman, Inspector. All me life. Man and boy. And my father before me. Why, there’s been no wrecking on this coast for years. Not since I … not for years.’
    ‘So you hated each other.’
    ‘We did.’