The Adventures of Inspector Lestrade by M J Trow Page B

nephew. Dreadful, dreadful.’
    ‘My condolences, of course. What do you have for me?’
    ‘Not a great deal, Lestrade. We are not a close family. To tell you the truth, I hadn’t seen Edward for some years – not since his fifteenth birthday, in fact. Recently, of course, one has read various unfortunate things in the papers. This business of that black fellow, that slave johnnie. But I could have seen it coming.’
    ‘Oh?’
    ‘At Eton he was something of a hellion, I believe. His father threatened to cut him off, stop his allowance and so on, but incidents still occurred. There was some business with a tweenie and talk of a missing hundred pounds. I didn’t pry too deeply.’
    ‘Did your nephew have enemies, Doctor?’
    ‘Dozens, I should think. My family have a knack of annoying people, Inspector.’
    ‘You never spoke a truer word, Watson.’ Holmes entered with armfuls of flowers, wigs etc.
    ‘Good God, Holmes, you look damn silly in that frock,’ Watson chortled.
    Mrs Hudson brought the tea. ‘Here, Holmes,’ Watson went on, ‘you’d better be mother. Ha ha.’ His laugh fell a little hollow in the face of Holmes’ cheerless scowl.
    ‘Look at this fire, Lestrade,’ he said. ‘Flaming June and Watson has a roaring fire.’
    ‘I’ve been in India, Holmes. I feel the cold more than somewhat.’
    ‘Who’s that, Doctor?’ asked Mrs Hudson, pausing at the door.
    ‘Get out, woman!’ shouted Holmes. ‘To what do we owe the honour, Lestrade?’
    ‘There’s no such phrase, Holmes,’ muttered Watson.
    ‘You’ve clearly been in India too long, Watson,’ snapped Holmes. ‘You’re beginning to confuse the Queen’s English with pure Hindoostani.’
    ‘Which brings me to my visit,’ interrupted Lestrade, to calm the tension of the atmosphere more than anything else. ‘The death of Doctor Watson’s nephew, Edward Coke-Hythe.’
    ‘Ah.’ Holmes sat down, stuffing the voluminous skirts between his knees and reaching, without taking his eyes off Lestrade, for his meerschaum. ‘I have a theory about that.’
    Lestrade gritted his teeth. This wasn’t why he had come, but Holmes had been useful in the past and for all his irritability and elitism and short temper, Lestrade had a grudging soft spot for him. Holmes lit the pipe and the flame lit his lean, haunted features momentarily before they disappeared in a cloud of smoke.
    ‘Revenge.’ Holmes savoured the word. ‘It’s elementary, my dear Watson,’ he said to the good doctor’s quizzical look.
    ‘I thought you never said that, Mr Holmes,’ said Lestrade.
    Holmes scowled. ‘We all have our off-days, Lestrade. This black fellow – what’s his name? Philadelphia?’
    ‘Washington.’
    ‘Bless you, Lestrade,’ Watson chipped in.
    ‘Yes. Well, Watson’s nephew publicly humiliated Washington – or tried to. Washington resented it and retaliated brilliantly. He killed him and his two cronies in a perfect poetic murder. He not only turned them black – thereby forcing his deformity on them – but he killed them with blackness. His blackness.’
    ‘Isn’t that a bit obvious, Holmes?’ Watson was speaking Lestrade’s thoughts.
    ‘No, no, Watson. You medical men, you’re so black and white.’
    ‘Oh, droll, Holmes, very droll,’ chortled Watson.
    Holmes ignored him.
    ‘It’s a double bluff, Lestrade. Precisely because it
would
be so obvious, Washington knew he would be safe. It’s elementary, in fiction and in life. Take my word for it, Inspector. Washington’s your man.’
    Lestrade looked at Watson. ‘In the absence of another motive, gentlemen, I may as well start there.’
    Holmes opened Watson’s bag and pulled out a syringe. ‘Join me, Lestrade?’
    ‘No thanks, I don’t,’ the inspector answered.
    Holmes disappeared into an adjoining room from which, shortly afterwards, emanated the most appalling noise of a bow on the strings of a violin.
    ‘I’ll see you out, Lestrade,’ said Watson. ‘Sorry I couldn’t