The Adventures of Inspector Lestrade by M J Trow

anything else. Swallow crossed to the window and looked out across the sweep of the lawn to the church. ‘I advised ’em against it. I said we could handle it. I said we didn’t need t’Yard.’ Fearing he had been
too
blunt, he turned to Lestrade. ‘Nothing personal, of course.’
    Lestrade waved the insult aside. ‘We all follow orders, Inspector,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid this thing may be bigger than both of us.’
    ‘Meaning?’ Swallow had missed the cliché.
    ‘I can’t be sure yet.’
    Swallow thumped a framed photograph of a teenaged girl down on the mantelpiece near Lestrade’s head. ‘Harriet Elizabeth Wemyss. Aged seventeen. Burned to death.’
    ‘So I gather.’ Lestrade perused the photograph. A singularly plain girl, hair parted in the centre. Very old-fashioned. Probably the living spit of her mother. Dead spit now, he supposed. Better not pursue that. Rather unpleasant.
    ‘I saw no damage as I came in,’ chanced Lestrade.
    ‘Nay, you wouldn’t. This were no ordinary house fire. If it were, d’you think we’d send for t’Yard?’
    ‘Your theory, then?’
    Swallow was less sure of himself. ‘Look, y’d better come and see for yoursen. The Reverend ain’t home yet awhile. He won’t mind.’
    Lestrade was surprised to see Swallow apparently showing signs of sentiment or at least respect. He followed the burly policeman up the broad staircase, past the stained glass and
The Light of the World
. The body, what was left of it, lay on a bed in a room at the end of the passage. It was barely recognisable as human form, much less the girl in the photograph.
    ‘I ’ope you’ve got a strong stomach, Lestrade,’ grunted Swallow. ‘They’ll be taking her away t’Congleton later today. If y’ want to examine the body, y’d best do it now.’
    ‘Who certified the death?’
    ‘T’local doctor. Chap called Marsden.’
    ‘Cause of death?’
    Swallow looked askance at Lestrade. Is this t’Yard? he thought to himself. The man’s some kind of cretin.
    ‘Burning,’ he answered.
    Lestrade looked at the neck, or where the neck should have been. Strangulation would be impossible to detect. He looked at the rest of the body, charred and shrivelled. Perhaps a coroner could find something on that wreck, though he’d have to be a damned good one. But Lestrade couldn’t. He must assume that burning it was.
    ‘Tell me what happened,’ he said.
    ‘Can we go back t’drawing room?’ Swallow looked surprisingly green. Lestrade followed him down the stairs. At the bottom the Reverend Wemyss met them on his way in through the front door. Within seconds he was knee deep in cats. Introductions were brief and to the point. The Vicar carried two of his favourite animals through into the drawing room. A third cat had twined its way round Lestrade’s neck. Wemyss stopped in his tracks.
    ‘Mrs Drum!’ he barked.
    The housekeeper bustled in amid the rustling of skirts. The Vicar rounded on her as cats flew in all directions. ‘You’ve had a fire in here!’
    Mrs Drum dissolved into instant tears. ‘I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t think. We had guests …’
    ‘Guests!’ The Vicar was purple. Mrs Drum indicated Lestrade. ‘I have forbidden any fires in this house, Mrs Drum. You will take your notice.’
    The housekeeper exited among floods of tears. Wemyss visibly calmed himself down and instructed the officers of the law to sit.
    ‘Please forgive me, gentlemen. As you can imagine, this is something of a trying time for us all.’
    ‘Of course, Mr Wemyss,’ said Lestrade. ‘It is my painful duty, however, to ask you some questions.’
    ‘Quite so, Inspector. But first, would you like some tea?’
    ‘Thank you, sir.’
    The Vicar pulled a bell cord, then settled back to fondle his cats. A maidservant swept in, curtsied and stood motionless. ‘Tea, Hannah,’ then, as an afterthought, ‘No, wait. I have said no fires. We will have lemonade.’
    Lemonade on top of a long, cold journey was not