house. My hospitality is renowned, I blush to admit.’
Lestrade walked to the glass doors. ‘I am sure you have no plans to leave Town, sir, but please contact the Yard if you do.’
‘Yes, of course, Inspector. I am only too anxious to clear this matter up.’
‘May I suggest you take better precautions, sir? This little piece, now…’ and he indicated the Roman canvas, ‘what might that be worth?’
‘I have been offered eight thousand for that one.’
It was Lestrade’s turn to be astonished. It was more money than he would make in a lifetime, if he continued straight.
‘Pounds?’
Alma-Tadema guffawed heartily. ‘Don’t be unrealistic, Inspector … guineas.’
The family of Spender had aristocratic connections, but they themselves lived in a tawdry house in a tawdry suburb in Notting Hill. They were more anxious for blood than the Coke-Hythes and had been infinitely less polite. With his customary ease, Lestrade was able to defend himself and the Yard against the oft-heard cry from the deceased’s grandfather in the corner: ‘What are you fellows doing about it?’ A combination of wheedling and bluff on Lestrade’s part provided all he was ever likely to know about the late William Alphonse Spender. He was twenty-four, single, without a post (‘job’ was far too common a word for the Spenders) and kept unfortunate company. No one in the family seemed really upset to see him go; no one in the family seemed very surprised that he had met so ‘sticky’ an end. If only they hadn’t sent him to Harrow in the first place, this would never have happened. Still, it was probably for the best. No, William had no real aversion to blacks, it was just that he enjoyed tormenting people. Coke-Hythe was obviously the instigator of the recent notoriety. But it was such a minor incident. Only the radical press would be so common as to blow it up out of all proportion. Enemies? Well, even the family conceded that William was an unlovely lad, but they could think of no one, no real individual, who stood out. Except of course for that ghastly black person. He had a motive. Why hadn’t he been arrested?
Arthur Fitz had no immediate family. His parents had died in an avalanche some years before while visiting Switzerland and the boy had been bounced around various distant aunts who ended up cursing themselves for not being distant enough. It was this very distance which gave them an air of guilt. They had failed the boy. The least they could do now was to ensure that his murderer was brought to book. But Arthur spent most of his time in clubland, in disreputable company and his various aunts suspected that he was very horribly in debt.
Clubland proved chilly and unhelpful. Lestrade tackled some – Arts, Army and Navy, Crockford’s. Bandicoot tacked others – White’s Boodle’s, Naval and Military. Dew held the horses. Their collective enquiries yielded almost nothing. A lot of shoe-leather worn, a lot of frosty silence, a lot of angry letters about police intrusion to McNaghten and the Commissioner. Lestrade’s reputation began to sink in the mire of accusation and inefficiency. It was turning, slowly but surely, into a nightmare.
Lestrade was shown into the expensive suite of rooms occupied for the past four months by Atlanta Washington, the ex-slave. The inspector had not really known what to expect. Before him stood a handsome, dapper man about his own age, immaculately groomed with a rose in his button-hole. On each arm he wore an incredibly beautiful white girl, one of whom Lestrade thought he recognised as a former courtesan belonging to Lord Panmure.
‘You sure took your time.’ The Negro grinned, displaying a row of pearly white teeth. ‘Honeys, run along now, Atlanta wants to talk to de man.’ He swung his body across the floor, as though to an imaginary tune, shooing the protesting girls out of the door in a flurry of feathers and furs.
‘Well, now, Inspector honey, to what do I owe de
Lestrade walked to the glass doors. ‘I am sure you have no plans to leave Town, sir, but please contact the Yard if you do.’
‘Yes, of course, Inspector. I am only too anxious to clear this matter up.’
‘May I suggest you take better precautions, sir? This little piece, now…’ and he indicated the Roman canvas, ‘what might that be worth?’
‘I have been offered eight thousand for that one.’
It was Lestrade’s turn to be astonished. It was more money than he would make in a lifetime, if he continued straight.
‘Pounds?’
Alma-Tadema guffawed heartily. ‘Don’t be unrealistic, Inspector … guineas.’
The family of Spender had aristocratic connections, but they themselves lived in a tawdry house in a tawdry suburb in Notting Hill. They were more anxious for blood than the Coke-Hythes and had been infinitely less polite. With his customary ease, Lestrade was able to defend himself and the Yard against the oft-heard cry from the deceased’s grandfather in the corner: ‘What are you fellows doing about it?’ A combination of wheedling and bluff on Lestrade’s part provided all he was ever likely to know about the late William Alphonse Spender. He was twenty-four, single, without a post (‘job’ was far too common a word for the Spenders) and kept unfortunate company. No one in the family seemed really upset to see him go; no one in the family seemed very surprised that he had met so ‘sticky’ an end. If only they hadn’t sent him to Harrow in the first place, this would never have happened. Still, it was probably for the best. No, William had no real aversion to blacks, it was just that he enjoyed tormenting people. Coke-Hythe was obviously the instigator of the recent notoriety. But it was such a minor incident. Only the radical press would be so common as to blow it up out of all proportion. Enemies? Well, even the family conceded that William was an unlovely lad, but they could think of no one, no real individual, who stood out. Except of course for that ghastly black person. He had a motive. Why hadn’t he been arrested?
Arthur Fitz had no immediate family. His parents had died in an avalanche some years before while visiting Switzerland and the boy had been bounced around various distant aunts who ended up cursing themselves for not being distant enough. It was this very distance which gave them an air of guilt. They had failed the boy. The least they could do now was to ensure that his murderer was brought to book. But Arthur spent most of his time in clubland, in disreputable company and his various aunts suspected that he was very horribly in debt.
Clubland proved chilly and unhelpful. Lestrade tackled some – Arts, Army and Navy, Crockford’s. Bandicoot tacked others – White’s Boodle’s, Naval and Military. Dew held the horses. Their collective enquiries yielded almost nothing. A lot of shoe-leather worn, a lot of frosty silence, a lot of angry letters about police intrusion to McNaghten and the Commissioner. Lestrade’s reputation began to sink in the mire of accusation and inefficiency. It was turning, slowly but surely, into a nightmare.
Lestrade was shown into the expensive suite of rooms occupied for the past four months by Atlanta Washington, the ex-slave. The inspector had not really known what to expect. Before him stood a handsome, dapper man about his own age, immaculately groomed with a rose in his button-hole. On each arm he wore an incredibly beautiful white girl, one of whom Lestrade thought he recognised as a former courtesan belonging to Lord Panmure.
‘You sure took your time.’ The Negro grinned, displaying a row of pearly white teeth. ‘Honeys, run along now, Atlanta wants to talk to de man.’ He swung his body across the floor, as though to an imaginary tune, shooing the protesting girls out of the door in a flurry of feathers and furs.
‘Well, now, Inspector honey, to what do I owe de
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