Lestrade and the Brother of Death by M. J. Trow

Author:M. J. Trow
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: BLKDOG Publishing
Published: 2022-01-07T16:00:00+00:00

‘SO YOU WERE TWENTY-four before you lost your virginity, eh, Superintendent?’ Fleming giggled.

‘I thought you’d gone to sleep,’ grunted Lestrade. ‘And what I did with Gertie Clinker in the wee small hours thirty-three years ago is no concern of yours, Doctor.’ He caught the twinkle in Fleming’s eye. ‘Let’s just say she had the knack of making men out of constables.’

‘What happened to the detectives? Meiklejohn and Palmer?’ Fleming asked.

‘They went down. Hard. Two years’ hard, to be exact. Druscovich was sent by Williamson over to Rotterdam to get Benson. Benson and Kurr stood trial in April – fraud and forgery. They got twenty years between them.’

‘Ah, and they blabbed at the trial. Put the finger on your Yard colleagues, eh?’

‘It worries me when doctors of today are conversant with underworld slang, Mr Fleming, but in fact you’re wrong. Nothing came out at the trial. But a month or so later Benson sang like a canary. With that evidence, and mine against Palmer and Meiklejohn, it was a foregone conclusion. But there was more to it.’

‘Oh?’

‘A few days after the trial of the detectives, I received a letter. It was unsigned, but it carried a single line: “Eight for the Eight Bold Rangers”.’

‘What was the significance of that? I don’t follow.’

‘Neither did I. Except that in those days policemen patrolling the parks were called Rangers sometimes. Endlessly moving on park women and vagabonds.’

‘Who sent the letter?’

Lestrade threw up his hands. ‘To this day, I don’t know. When I walked from the courtroom a man came up to me and said: “Sergeant Lestrade, can I have a word with you?”’

‘Who was that?’

‘I didn’t know. I told him it wasn’t “sergeant”, but “constable”. Constable Lestrade. He shook his head and asked if I knew what the initials CID stood for . . .’

‘And did you?’

Lestrade chuckled. ‘Not at the time. No one did. Except the man outside the court. His name was Howard Vincent, and he said he hadn’t made a mistake about my rank. He was the new director of criminal investigations. He had a job for me. For many men like me.’

‘You must have felt pleased with yourself,’ smiled Fleming.

‘Pleased?’ Lestrade looked at him through withering eyes. ‘No, Doctor, I felt sick. Sick and ashamed.’

‘But Meiklejohn, Palmer and the others were guilty men, Lestrade. They deserved all they got.’

‘Yes,’ Lestrade remembered. ‘That’s what Palmer had said about Valentine Baker.’

‘Who?’

‘Nothing. Yes, I thought they were guilty then. Now, after all these years, I’m not so sure.’

‘What happened to Palmer?’

‘After his two years’ hard? I don’t know. Benson was released eventually. He stumbled from fraud to fraud, a marked man and never so successful again. He topped himself one day in prison by jumping off a roof.’

‘Well, there we are,’ mused Fleming.

Lestrade chuckled, remembering Abrahams’s sentiments years earlier. ‘Palmer by name and palmer by nature,’ he said. His smile vanished. ‘Then the murders started.’

‘Murders?’ Fleming’s ears pricked up.

‘Yes. What I haven’t told you is that the letter, the one with the Eight Bold Rangers, was one of a number.

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