Free The Adventures of Inspector Lestrade by M J Trow Page B

The same untraceable postmark, the same untraceable typewriter. The same untraceable verse.
    It almost makes me cry to tell
    What foolish Harriet befell.
    Mama and nurse went out one day
    And left her all alone at play …
    And see! Oh! What a dreadful thing!
    The fire has caught her apron-string;
    Her apron burns, her arms, her hair;
    She burns all over, everywhere …
    Lestrade slammed his fist on the desk. He was being played with. This was a game of cat and mouse and he didn’t care for it. Three murders, scattered over the country. Bizarre, vicious. What were the links? The common factors? Poetry of a sort, sent to the Yard. Sent to him. Lestrade had come to regard whoever was out there doing these thing as a personal enemy. This was a duel of wits and so far, Lestrade had come off second-best.

Three of Spades
    ‘I do think Dew will do, sir,’ Lestrade was saying.
    ‘That’s easy for you to say, Lestrade,’ McNaghten was answering, ‘but this new chap is damned clever. His references are excellent. Dew is all right, but he’ll never amount to anything. No finesse. No style.’
    ‘But Eton, sir? A copper from Eton?’
    ‘Oh, I know it’s not the usual recruiting source, but you mustn’t be an inverted snob, Lestrade. He may not have had the advantages of the Blackheath crammer, but you mustn’t hold that against him.’
    ‘I’ll try not to hold anything against him,’ said Lestrade reaching the door.
    ‘Bandicoot?’ repeated Lestrade.
    ‘Yes, sir.’
    ‘You can’t be serious.’
    ‘Sir?’
    Lestrade paced the floor. He looked again at the young man before him. He stood, Lestrade guessed, at six-feet-four, broad, handsome even. His suit was crisp in grey check and his bowler perched neatly in the crook of his arm. Lestrade was temporarily lost for words. ‘Your name is Bandicoot?’
    Bandicoot began to take just a pinch of umbrage. ‘Bandicoot is a well-established name in some parts of Somerset, Inspector. I, for example, have never met a Lestrade before.’
    ‘Well, you have now.’ Lestrade’s morning was not going well. Twice on his way in he had collided with the scaffolding still around New Scotland Yard which was in the final stages of being built. His tea resembled something one of the Reverend Wemyss’ cats might have done. And now this – a novice constable from a public school. Lestrade sat at his desk and crossed his ankles on the polished, uncluttered top.
    ‘How long have you been in the Force?’
    ‘A little under one year, sir.’
    Lestrade looked wide-eyed in the direction of McNaghten’s glass-fronted door away down the corridor.
    ‘Have you ever seen a body?’
    ‘I’m not exactly a virgin, Inspector.’ Bandicoot found himself smirking, a little surprised by Lestrade’s question.
    ‘A
dead
body, idiot!’ Lestrade shot upright, bringing his hand down on the desk.
    ‘No, sir.’ Bandicoot’s smirk vanished and his eyes faced front.
    ‘What made you join H Division, Bandicoot?’ Lestrade’s tone was now patience itself. ‘No, don’t answer that. Why did you join the police?’
    ‘Well, sir, it’s rather silly really.’
    Lestrade somehow knew it would be.
    ‘I joined the Officer Training Corps at Eton. A few chaps ragged me into believing it was the Police Officer Training Corps. It was three years before I found out otherwise and by then I’d rather set my heart on it. In the process I became something of a crack shot, a first-rate swordsman – and my military fortifications defy belief.’
    ‘I’m sure they do, Bandicoot, but, you see, we don’t have much call for a
beau sabreur
at Scotland Yard. Tell me, I always thought gentlemen wore top hats, especially Old Etonian gentlemen.’
    ‘Oh, we do, sir, but never before luncheon.’
    Lestrade stood corrected.
    ‘Can you make tea?’ he asked.
    ‘Er … I think so. You use one of those kettle things, don’t you?’
    Lestrade applauded with a slow, staccato handclap. ‘I’ve always found it helps. In