The Adventures of Inspector Lestrade by M J Trow Page B

has to be a rational explanation. My daughter’s body was found upstairs on the landing. There were no fires in the upstairs rooms. It was rather warm for May.’
    Lestrade winced as he wondered what a cold May must be like.
    ‘I shall examine the scene of death again a little later, sir,’ he said, ‘but first I would like to talk to your wife, Mr Wemyss.’
    ‘I’m afraid that won’t be possible, Inspector. You see, my wife is distraught. She is staying with her sister in Congleton. I must insist that she is not disturbed. Our doctor has warned that it would be unwise in her mental state.’
    Lestrade glanced at Swallow for confirmation. The bluff Cheshire policeman nodded gravely. He had presumably seen Mrs Wemyss, Lestrade conjectured. Her testimony would be unhelpful.
    ‘Then I must speak to Miss Spink.’
    ‘Of course. I shall send her to you at once.’
    But Wemyss had not reached the door when a silently weeping Mrs Drum appeared. ‘I’m on my way, sir,’ she managed between sobs, indicating a valise in her hand. ‘Beddoes will send my trunk on. In the meantime …’ At this point, coherent words failed her completely, and she merely indicated the entrance of visitors by a wave of her hand, clutching a copious white handkerchief.
    ‘Very well.’ Wemyss remained unaffected by the woman’s distraught state. ‘Do not look to me for a reference, Mrs Drum. Your action today obliterates your former unblemished record. My dear Watts.’
    Wemyss shook the hand of the new arrival, a handsome man in his mid-fifties, Lestrade guessed, sharply dressed and distinguished. Behind him minced a small auburn-haired man with the narrowest, most sloping shoulders and largest head Lestrade had ever seen. With him, Wemyss was more reserved. ‘Swinburne,’ and a stiff nod of the head was all he received. The little man nodded in turn.
    ‘My dear Hector, how positively dreadful. We came as soon as we heard. Swinburne hasn’t been well. How is poor Dorothea taking it?’
    ‘Badly, I’m afraid. You can imagine what a shock it must have been – finding poor Harriet like that. She’s with her sister in Congleton.’
    ‘Harriet?’ asked the newcomer.
    Everyone looked at him rather oddly.
    ‘No, Dorothea.’
    ‘Ah, of course.’
    Introductions were perfunctory. ‘Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard, Inspector Swallow of the Cheshire Constabulary, my dear friend Watts-Dunton, the poet. And Mr Swinburne.’
    Wemyss led his friend, the poet, to the door, the latter commiserating with him as he went. The door slammed shut and Mr Swinburne stood before it, rather spare and out of place. Lestrade took Swallow aside and asked him to find Miss Spink. He then tackled the little man.
    ‘Algernon Charles Swinburne?’
    The little man spun round as if he had been slapped. ‘It’s a lie. I wasn’t there.’ And then, more calmly, ‘Oh, forgive me, Inspector. I forgot myself.’
    Algernon Charles Swinburne, the poet?’
    ‘I have that honour, sir.’
    ‘Do you recognise the style of this, sir?’ Lestrade pulled from his pocket copies of the doggerel connected with the last two murders on his mind. He suspected that this one, bizarre and tragic, may be a third, but couldn’t be sure yet.
    ‘They’re not mine,’ said Swinburne. ‘They’re probably Browning’s.’
    Lestrade’s professional ears pricked up. Swinburne knew something. ‘Indeed?’
    Swinburne relaxed a little now and sat on the settee. He reached in his pocket for a hip flask and uncorked it. ‘Oh,’ he paused, eyes pleading pathetically, ‘you won’t tell Watts-Dunton, will you? He thinks I’ve given it up.’
    Lestrade waved aside the possibility.
    ‘This Mr Browning. Would you happen to know where he is?’
    ‘Westminster Abbey.’
    ‘Poet’s Corner?’
    Swinburne nodded.
    ‘You would assume that these verses were written recently?’
    ‘Beats me!’ Swinburne said and chuckled to himself. ‘Browning’s been dead these two