Lestrade and the Guardian Angel by M. J. Trow

Author:M. J. Trow
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: BLKDOG Publishing
Published: 2021-04-16T16:00:00+00:00

WINTER WAS COMING ON as Lestrade travelled south. There were delays at Peterborough due to railworks, but they gave him time to think. Captain William Hellerslyke, late of the Yorkshire Hussars, had a reputation as a womanizer. There was probably a trail of broken hearts and broken promises all over the Ridings. But one of them had gone astray. Victoria Hardinge had fallen pregnant – what a silly phrase, he thought again, as he had every time it crossed his mind – and when the balance of her mind was disturbed, through unrequited love, she had thrown herself into the foaming waters of Aysgarth Falls. Revenge, then, as the motive? But who was this Coquette who left him the poisoned chocolates? And were Coquette and Perameles the same person? Or two? He was still pondering this as the train pulled in, snorting and squealing, to Euston. And the last person he expected to see was Walter Dew.

‘Dew.’ Lestrade threw his Gladstone to the constable as he alighted on Platform Four. ‘You’re the last person I expected to see. As the late Mr Holmes used to say, apparently ad mausoleum, “What’s afoot?”’

‘It’s funny you should say that, guv’nor. There’s a gentleman here who’s anxious to meet you.’

‘How did you know when to expect me?’ Lestrade asked.

‘I didn’t. Skinner, Lilley and I have been waiting for every train in our rest time for the past two days.’

‘Nobly done, Walter.’ Lestrade approved enterprise. When it came from Dew, he was rather unnerved by it, but he approved nonetheless.

‘Across the road, sir.’ The Yard men emerged into the raw fog of a November London. ‘In the cafe.’

Lestrade saw behind the ornate plate glass a face he thought he knew. He sat down at the table in front of it. ‘Dr Watson.’ He shook the man’s hand. ‘It’s been a long time.’

‘I hate to say it, Lestrade, but it’s good to see you.’

‘Two teas, miss,’ Lestrade ordered, observing that Watson still had his. ‘This man’s paying.’ He pointed to Dew, who began to thrust his arm into his trousers. ‘Not now, Walter,’ Lestrade reminded him, ‘there are ladies present. Now, doctor, what can I do for you?’

John Watson was a solid, respectable man, the wrong side of forty-seven. He had been the confidant of the late and legendary Sherlock Holmes, whose exploits were, as Lestrade and Watson spoke, being embroidered and indeed invented by Watson’s co-author, another quack by the name of Conan Doyle – Conan the Barbarian as one reviewer had called him. Watson was worried.

‘It is not generally known,’ he confided to Lestrade, ‘that I belong to a club of bicyclists. We call ourselves the Wheel of Fortune.’

‘Very colourful, doctor.’ Lestrade tapped Dew’s wrist. The man was slurping his tea again.

‘Well, to cut short a long story . . .’ Watson must have been worried. This was not his usual style at all. ‘One of our number has died in rather mysterious circumstances.’

‘Go on,’ said Lestrade.

‘It was last Sunday. My Poor Law practice was very slack, so I left Dr Wyatt in charge.

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