The Adventures of Inspector Lestrade by M J Trow Page A

questioning must once again come from him.
    Bandicoot peered over Lestrade’s shoulder. ‘Edward Coke-Hythe!’ he shouted. Lestrade hurled the contents of his tea cup over his hand and rushed to the restroom as decorously as he could so as not to alert the whole of Scotland Yard to his accident. Bandicoot pursued him.
    ‘A
little
more care,’ hissed Lestrade, wincing as he ran his hand under the cold tap. The water suddenly stopped with a harsh, gurgling thump.
    ‘Damn this new plumbing,’ the inspector snapped. ‘Bandicoot, get me some bicarbonate of soda and hurry, man. I’m about to lose the skin off my hand.’
    When the excitement was over, Lestrade placed his bandaged hand carefully on the desk. Dew brought them tea this time and Lestrade made sure Bandicoot was in front of him as he drank it. ‘Why,’ he began, much calmer now, ‘when reading over my shoulder, did you cry out the name of one of these victims?’
    ‘I know him, sir. Or, rather, I knew him. Edward Coke-Hythe. I was his fag at Eton. Capital sort of chap. Captain of Fives – and a Double First at Cambridge.’
    ‘Popular?’
    ‘Oh, rather, sir. Poor old Teddy. Dear, this will be a blow to his uncle.’
    ‘Uncle?’
    ‘Doctor John Watson.’
    ‘Watson? As in Watson of Baker Street?’
    ‘Yes. Do you know him?’
    ‘I know him. I have been an acquaintance of his associate, Sherlock Holmes, for some years.’
    ‘Ah, the Great Detective.’ Bandicoot beamed.
    ‘If you say so,’ replied Lestrade. ‘What about these others? William Spender and Arthur Fitz.’
    ‘Fitz what?’ asked Bandicoot jovially.
    ‘I’ll do the jokes, Constable,’ murmured Lestrade.
    ‘No, sir. Sorry. They’re not Etonians, or at least, they must have been years my senior if they were.’
    Lestrade shook his head. ‘They were all in their twenties, healthy, strong young men. All right, Bandicoot. Time you won your spurs. If you knew Coke-Hythe, get round to his family – they have a town house in Portman Square. Be circumspect, but find out the deceased’s movements on or about last Tuesday. Contacts, friends, enemies. It’ll probably mean some shoe-leather before this case is over. Oh, and Bandicoot …’ the constable turned in the doorway, ‘it’s nearly luncheon. Don’t forget your topper!’
    Lestrade took the Underground to Baker Street Station and a brisk walk to 221B. Outside he saw a wizened old flower seller, toothless, haggard, with iron-grey hair matted over an iron-grey face. ‘Pretty posies, sir?’ she squawked at him.
    ‘Really, Mr Holmes, what would I be doing with posies?’
    The flower-seller stood up to his full six feet and threw the matted hair savagely on to the pavement. ‘Damn you, Lestrade, it took me nearly two hours to get that lot on.’
    ‘Sorry, Mr Holmes. Is the good doctor in?’
    ‘Who?’
    ‘Watson.’
    ‘I suppose so. Tell Mrs Hudson to put the kettle on, will you? I’ve sleuthed enough for one day.’ He set to, sorting out his merchandise, while Lestrade went in search of his quarry. Mrs Hudson, the housekeeper, dutifully scuttled away to do her master’s bidding. Watson was asleep over the newspaper in front of a roaring fire.
    ‘Doctor Watson.’ Lestrade cleared his throat. The doctor did not move. Again, ‘Doctor Watson.’ Louder still, ‘Watson.’ Then, in a stage whisper, ‘Your publishers are here.’ Watson leapt to his feet, newspapers flying over the carpet.
    ‘Damn you, Lestrade.’ It began to sound like the refrain from a phonograph. ‘That blighter Conan Doyle keeps publishing articles under my name and all you can do is make jokes at my expense. Can’t the law touch him?’
    ‘Whichever of you refers to me as “imbecile” and “ferret-faced” will discover what the law can do soon enough,’ Lestrade felt it his duty to remind him. ‘In the meantime, I fear there is more pressing business.’
    Watson replaced himself on the armchair and the papers on his lap. ‘Ah, yes, my