‘Harry, Harry,’ the Home Secretary said softly. ‘I remember teaching you to shoot that at Bandicoot Hall. Do you remember? In the cherry orchard there? I even remember what it says on the barrel – it’s engraved on them both – “To H. B. May You Always Have The Last Shot”.’

  Harry wanted to shout, to scream, to blow off the bald head of the unflinching, principled idiot who stood before him. But he was Harry Bandicoot, Old Etonian and friend of Home Secretaries. McKenna’s commutation to life elicited under duress would be meaningless. And anyway, Harry Bandicoot couldn’t live with himself. He flung the revolver down on the bed, where it bounced harmlessly.

  ‘Harry.’ McKenna reached up and put his arm around his old boyhood chum. ‘Take your pistol. Take your deeds and go home. You’ve done all you can. You’ve risked imprisonment coming here tonight. Breaking and entering is an offence, you know. Not to mention pointing loaded revolvers at Home Secretaries. And up on the leads there, you probably risked your life as well. Now be a good chap and leave by the door, there’s a sensible fellow.’

  ‘Don’t patronize me, Reggie,’ Harry growled. ‘You were my last chance. There’s a man sitting in a tiny cell in Pentonville tonight and although he’d never show it, he’s scared to death. And he’s going to die in two days’ time. That man and his daughter mean all the world to me ... And there isn’t a damn thing I can do about it.’

  He picked up his gun and slipped it into his pocket. He filed away his deeds and share certificates. He looked sadly into the face of Reginald McKenna and he saw himself out.

  The Home Secretary returned to his red dispatch cases and adjusting his glasses, wrote on the bottom of Fanny Lestrade’s plea for clemency in the case of her husband – ‘I can see no reason why the law should not take its course.’

  13

  L

  etitia had wanted to help. To be there. To do something. But Harry had told her the best service she could render the Lestrades now was to be with Fanny. Fanny wanted to see Sholto. Every day. Every minute. But the cold, sad walls of Pentonville kept her out. She walked the cherry orchard with Letitia, she looked into the dark, memory-filled waters of the lake. She saw him running to her, swinging her round, kissing her. She heard his laughter and felt his warmth beside her in her empty bed.

  Harry didn’t sleep, either. Harry went to the Yard.

  ‘I’ve been expecting you.’ Inspector John Kane looked up – and up – at the earnest face in front of him.

  ‘You have?’

  ‘It’s not many Inspectors of the Metropolitan Police who get phone calls from the Home Secretary. You have friends in high places, Harry.’

  ‘Not friendly enough, unfortunately, John,’ Bandicoot said. ‘What did he say?’

  ‘Just two words.’ Kane was still bemused by it. ‘Help Bandicoot.’

  Harry smiled. Old Reggie hadn’t abandoned Sholto after all. ‘Where do we start?’ he asked.

  Kane slid a shoe-box across the desk to Bandicoot, then a second, then a third, then a fourth.

  ‘What’s this?’

  ‘The evidence.’ Kane sighed. ‘Or rather part of it. The rest I’ll have to get up from the basement. Close your mouth, Harry, you didn’t think this would be easy, did you?’

  ‘I’ve read the trial transcript.’ Harry scraped back the chair and huddled with Kane over his desk. ‘Isn’t that enough?’

  Kane leaned back, chuckling.

  ‘Damn it, man!’ Bandicoot thumped the desk. ‘You arrested him in the first place.’

  ‘I did what I had to do.’ Kane thumped it back. ‘I want you to understand something, Harry. I love that man as much as you do. Everything I know, everything I do, everything I am, I owe to Sholto Lestrade. But what I am is a copper – he taught me that. We found damning evidence, evidence that pointed at him. Do you think he would have hesitated if the shoe had been on the other foot? If I’d been in the frame – or you? Because if you do, you don’t know Lestrade very well!’ Kane relented. ‘As a matter of fact, I damned well nearly didn’t go through with it.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I nearly burned the letters we found at the Phlebotomist’s Arms. I’d even struck the match. But something – conscience? – made me blow it out.’

  ‘All right, all right.’ Harry leaned back in the cluttered office. ‘Look, John, I’m not very good at this. Logic and all that. Deduction. I became a copper by mistake a long time ago and I wasn’t here for long. But this much I do know. If something niggles, if something smells, then you worry it. You tease it and you wrestle with it and you finally sort it out.’

  John Kane had never heard so many metaphors in one sentence in his life, but he wouldn’t dream of telling Harry Bandicoot that. They were like drowning sailors clinging to a piece of wreckage, a piece of wreckage that was the truth, tiny and isolated in a sea of lies and hatred and indifference.

  ‘So where do we start?’ Harry looked blanker than ever.

  ‘All right,’ said Kane. He jerked suddenly to his feet and wrenched open the door. ‘Jenkins, no calls. No interruptions. I’m out, savvy? On a case and you don’t know when I’ll be back.’

  ‘Right you are, guv,’ Jenkins said.

  ‘Yes.’ Kane closed the door and stared into the glowing coals. ‘But not this time, I fancy.’ He turned to Bandicoot. ‘First principles.’ He spun his chair around and straddled it. ‘What do we know about the guv’nor’s involvement with Millicent Millichip?’

  ‘She died in front of him.’ Bandicoot was starting to count on his fingers. This was a bad sign.

  ‘Stabbed to death with a chiv which might have been his, but equally might not. A chiv he lost.’

  ‘Lost?’ Bandicoot repeated.

  ‘Yes. He claimed that Fanny had lost it somewhere at home.’

  ‘Is that significant?’

  ‘It might be,’ Kane said. ‘If that knife was the murder weapon and the guv’nor was guilty, he’d want to lose it, wouldn’t he?’

  ‘Then why find it again?’ Bandicoot asked.

  Kane stroked his impressive chin. ‘Because the moment had passed. Months had gone by since Mrs Millichip died and he felt safe. I told him the case was shelved – he could afford to relax.’

  ‘John!’ Bandicoot thundered. ‘The last thing Sholto needs now is a devil’s advocate. He’s had the devil against him since the case began. Where are the letters, the ones Sholto supposedly wrote to Mrs Millichip?’

  Kane fumbled through one of the shoe-boxes. ‘Here,’ he said. ‘Two of them.’

  ‘No prints, I suppose.’ Bandicoot asked.

  ‘Clean as a whistle.’

  ‘Interesting.’ Bandicoot took in the scrawl. It certainly looked like Lestrade’s hand.

  ‘What is?’

  ‘That Sholto wrote wearing gloves.’

  ‘Standard blackmailer’s or poison pen letter writer’s precaution these days.’ Kane shrugged. ‘Even your stupidest felon has heard of fingerprints.’

  ‘Is that why Mrs Millichip wore gloves, then, because she was a felon and knew the letter was from her blackmail victim?’

  Kane blinked. That thought had never occurred to him.

  ‘You mean ...?’

  ‘I mean, John.’ Harry was getting carried away now. ‘Why aren’t Millicent Millichip’s dabs all over these letters?’

  ‘My God!’ Kane just sat there.

  ‘When did you find them?’

  ‘Last month,’ Kane said. ‘When we searched.’

  ‘You only got round to searching last month?’ Bandicoot was incredulous.

  ‘Ah, that was the third search.’

  ‘The third? Is that usual?’

  ‘Well, no,’ Kane bluffed. ‘We normally hope to find something conclusive the first time.’

  ‘But you didn’t.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And the second time?’

  ‘The money. Nearly three thousand in notes. And the devil’s calling card.’

  ‘But no letters.’

  ‘Er ... no.’

  ‘Where did you find the money and the card?’

  ‘Under the floorboards in the snug,’ Kane told him.

  ‘And where did you find the letters?’

  ‘Um ... the same place.’ A cold, clammy realization was dawning on Inspector John Kane.

  Bandicoot leaned back, never once taking his eyes off Kane. ‘Who told you to search for the third time?’ he asked.

  ‘The Solicitor-General,’ Kane told him. ‘Rufus Isaacs. It was his suggestion.’

  ‘The man who is now the Lord Chief Justice,’ Bandicoot mused.

  ‘Indeed.’ Kane nodded, for a moment losing his grip, doubting himself. ‘No, wait. Wait. The guv’nor was so vague about where he was going in Oxford Street the day Millichip died. He was altogether travelling in the wrong direction.’

  ‘Of course he was.’ Bandicoot threw his hands in the air. ‘This is Sholto Lestrade we’re talking about. Dear as he is to me, I wouldn’t trust him to take me across the road. He couldn’t see his hand in front of his face that day. He was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.’

  ‘He was that,’ Kane conceded. ‘I tried to tell Isaacs at the trial that Millichip was linked to the other victims. She’d worked for Robert Peel at one time and she saw George Griffin, old Worsthorne’s son, throw himself into the Thames. The irony was that the guv’nor and I were working on the same case.’

  ‘So.’ Bandicoot’s face was a study in effort as he tried to work it all out. ‘Whoever killed Mrs Millichip doubled back along Oxford Street to hit Robert Peel at Hyde Park Corner?’

  ‘The other way round,’ Kane told him. ‘Peel died first. Our man, almost certainly wearing a policeman’s uniform, drove his Mephisto at Peel and killed him. But he realized he’d been spotted, even in a pea-souper, by a witness.’

  ‘Allardyce.’

  ‘Exactly. So just to make sure, he dumped the car around the corner somewhere, leaving his motoring clothes, his goggles and so on, there. Then he happened to stroll past as the beat copper – for two reasons – to make sure Peel was dead and to make sure Allardyce hadn’t seen anything.’

  ‘That took some nerve.’ Bandicoot nodded.

  ‘Oh, chummie isn’t short of that,’ Kane said. ‘Unless ...’

  ‘Unless?’

  Kane was on his feet with a light in his eye like St Paul must have had on the Damascus Road. ‘What day is it, Harry?’

  ‘Er ... December 21st,’ Bandicoot said. ‘Thursday.’

  ‘Thursday!’ Kane clicked his fingers. ‘Got your motor outside?’

  ‘I’ve got the Panhard, yes. Why?’

  ‘Because,’ said Kane, grabbing his hat and muffler, ‘it’s a lovely day for a little spin to Orange Street.’

  THE MAN THEY SOUGHT was not at Orange Street, but his light o’illicit love was.

  ‘Where is he?’ John Kane loomed over Jessica Fry, who had first been coy, then tried to file her nails and finally resorted to whistling ‘Dixie’. It was only when John Kane threatened to arrest her, complete with force-feeding tube whether she ate or not, for attempted murder, that she helped the police with their inquiries.

  ‘Brooklands,’ she said quickly. ‘It’s the Christmas race meeting. Selwyn Edge, you know, the racing driver, is writing his memoirs.’

  HARRY’S FOOT WAS TO the floor as the Panhard-Levassor roared its way out of London. It was nudging fifty past Roehampton, nearly sixty as he screamed around Richmond Park. The coppers’ speed trap at the Star and Garter absolutely failed to stop him and three bewildered bobbies could only stand scratching their heads at the audacity of the maniac who’d just crashed through their barriers, leaving two of their number sprawling in a particularly soggy hayrick.

  In the back of the car, Jessica Fry clung on for dear life, her eyes shut most of the time as Surrey hurtled by. The Panhard’s radiator was belching steam by the time they got to the gates of Brooklands and the three of them abandoned it by the roadside and dashed through the milling crowds sauntering in for the third and final race of the day. There were feathered hats and silk toppers everywhere, interspersed with alien-looking men in leather duster coats with fur gauntlets and goggles that reflected the weak December sunshine. They’d put up a huge Christmas tree, covered in car headlamps that flashed on and off and the Surrey Regiment in their winter greatcoats were thumping out all the Christmas tunes to the delight of young and old alike.

  ‘Where would he be?’ Kane was shouting above the din, dragging the hapless Jessica behind him, past the milling crowds.

  ‘He’s driving,’ she shouted back, ‘in the third race. Wants to see how Mr Edge does it.’

  ‘The pits are over there!’ Bandicoot roared and took off through the throng. Kane found a patrolling constable, flashed his warrant card and parked Miss Fry with him, with strict instructions not to let her out of his sight.

  But there was no sign of their man at the pits, merely mechanics tinkering and tuning in their greasy overalls and ceaselessly tweaking the underparts of the Peugeots, Singers, Mercedes and Delages that coughed and rattled on the concrete start.

  ‘The Mephisto!’ Kane shouted to one of the mechanics. ‘Is a Mephisto driving in this race?’

  ‘Yes!’ the man yelled back, cupping his mouth with his hands to make himself heard. ‘Number 14.’

  ‘I thought it would be,’ Kane bellowed. ‘Who’s driving?’

  ‘Fryer’

  ‘Where is it?’

  ‘In the shed still. Engine trouble.’

  Kane was no slouch, but Harry had sprinted for Eton and he reached the huge double doors first. He and Kane hauled them open and there before them stood a sleek, black, killing machine, its front nearside wing showing signs of repair, its headlights staring like mad, terrible eyes. The driver, crouching over the bonnet, stood up. He was in leather from head to foot, his goggles blanking out his face. A mechanic’s head popped up from the other side and another from underneath.

  ‘We’re doing our best,’ one of them said. ‘Another five minutes. That’s all we ask.’

  ‘Thank you, gentlemen,’ the driver said. ‘I can manage now.’

  ‘But, Mr Fryer ...’ one of them began.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said again, his voice echoing around the vaults of the garage.

  The mechanics looked at each other and wandered away, muttering.

  ‘Mr Fryer,’ Kane said. ‘Or should I say Mr Allardyce? It’s good to see you back on your feet, sir. I had no idea you drove.’

  ‘A motor car is essential these days, gentlemen, isn’t it?’

  ‘It is if you’re short of a murder weapon, certainly,’ Kane said.

  ‘Who is this gentleman, Inspector Kane?’ Allardyce asked. ‘I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.’

  ‘My name is Harry Bandicoot. And the pleasure’s all mine.’ And he took a stride forward, his fists clenched. No one, least of all Harry, was ready for what happened next. The leather coat parted and Allardyce’s right hand was holding a revolver. The gun crashed once and Harry lurched sideways, losing his balance as the bullet smashed his shoulder.

  ‘Stand still!’ Allardyce roared as Kane knelt to help him. ‘And don’t worry. No one will come to investigate that shot. Not at Brooklands, where backfiring is like the ticking of a clock. You’re Lestrade’s friend, the major with the North Somerset Yeomanry. Brave of you to fling yourself on Kitchener like that. I could have squeezed off a second shot.’

  ‘But you weren’t aiming at Kitchener, were you?’ Kane straightened. Right now, he’d kill for Lestrade’s knife and knuckles, the ones old Waverley was lovingly polishing ready for inclusion in his Black Museum. All he had was his regulation ebony truncheon. It was no match for Allardyce and his bullets.

  ‘No, I wasn’t,’ Allardyce told him, climbing on the Mephisto’s running board and adjusting the ignition. ‘But I did toy with it for a moment. Well, when you’ve got a gun in your hand and a bastard in your sights, why not? And now,’ his snigger sounded hollow in the cavernous gloom of the shed, ‘I’ve got two bastards in my sights. Before I kill you, though, humour me a little. How did you get on to me, with dear old Superintendent Lestrade about to take his last short stroll?’

  ‘One case,’ Kane told him. He was standing behind Bandicoot now, wondering how badly he was hurt, whether he’d be capable of anything. ‘That’s what I never fully appreciated. Lestrade and I were working on the same case and yet we went our separate ways. What threw me – threw us both – was that you killed twice on the same day. That pea-souper last January. I’ve always thought it of course. Ideal opportunity, fog. Why the police uniform?’

  ‘Insurance,’ Allardyce said. ‘Oh, I was a relative novice in those days. I’d only killed twice before and never with a car. I wasn’t sure how easy it would be. Oh, I could knock Robert Peel down, of course, but could I actually kill him? I needed to be sure.’

  ‘And then, of course,’ Kane said, ‘you gave the game away. You fell for that oldest of sins, Mr Allardyce, the sin of pride. You had to announce yourself, didn’t you? How many days did you wait there, I wonder, at Marble Arch, for Lestrade to turn up? But when he did, you were in your element, weren’t you? You invented the policeman because you’d hired the uniform. You even invented a ridiculous name, knowing we’d check, knowing there’d be no Alexander Smith in F Division. You’d be laughing all the way to the bank, wouldn’t you? Knowing that we blockheads on the Force had fallen for it. And that’s what all this has been about, hasn’t it? Money and arrogance.’

  Kane saw Harry try to rise.

  ‘Don’t move!’ Allardyce’s hand was rock steady, the muzzle of the revolver in a straight line with Bandicoot’s head.

  ‘Of course,’ Kane kept talking, his throat bricky dry, his hands like lead, but the tone was calm and matter-of-fact, ‘you made one very bad mistake.’

  ‘Really?’ Allardyce yawned ostentatiously. ‘What was that?’

 

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