The Adventures of Inspector Lestrade Read Online Free PDF Page B

returned to the subject of the body.
    ‘Foxhounds did that?’ he said incredulously.
    Cattermole sat back in his chair. ‘Impossible to believe? I saw it, Lestrade. They went for his throat. He had no chance at all.’
    ‘Forgive me, sir. I don’t mean to be in any way awkward. But this is accidental death. A quirk of nature in the breasts of vicious beasts.’ He congratulated himself on having got that out in one breath. And then, perhaps a little pompously, ‘I am from the C.I.D., sir, the Detective Branch.’
    Cattermole stood up sharply. ‘Inspector –’ his face was dark – ‘I could have called in the village bobby, but I didn’t want huge feet trampling over the last vestiges of what was once a great family. That is why I contacted McNaghten. God knows I had no time for Freddie. He’s dead and damned to all eternity. But there,’ he pointed dramatically to the massive portrait over the empty fireplace, ‘is the fourth Baron Hurstmonceux – and a better man never drew breath.’ Henry Cattermole was of the old school, honest and loyal. ‘Friendships forged at Eton and Quetta don’t die, Inspector.’ The inspector took his word for it. ‘It’s for his sake I sent for the Yard. No fuss, no scandal, you understand?’
    ‘Perfectly, sir.’
    ‘Poor Georgie. Freddie was his only son. The bastard killed him.’
    ‘Would that be on our files, sir?’
    ‘Oh, not literally, Lestrade. He didn’t actually put a revolver to his head. But with his … ways … he might just as well have done.’ Cattermole gazed long at the portrait. Then, ‘Come with me, Inspector.’
    The two men left the house by the vine-covered south wing and crossed the velvet lawns to the stables. Beyond the main buildings here, where the hunters and thoroughbreds steamed after their exercise, they came to the kennels. Lestrade was not taken with dogs. One or two of his superiors were keen on the use of bloodhounds, but they always seemed to urinate on him whenever he had been involved with them. He often wondered whether it was anything personal or whether it was somewhere he had been. In a yard, thirty or forty foxhounds, smart in black, tan and white, licked and snuffled. Lestrade was glad there was no growl, no howl. Not wishing to let Sir Henry believe he was afraid of these curs, he extended a sure hand, praying that it didn’t shake. A heavy jowled dog, perhaps older, certainly darker than the rest, buried its nose in his palm. Lestrade ruffled its ears. ‘Good boy, good boy.’
    ‘Do you notice anything about these dogs?’ Cattermole asked.
    Lestrade hated being put on the spot in this way. Give him a burgled tenement, a done bank or even a forged fiver and he was on home ground. But hunting and shooting weekends and country houses were somebody else’s patch. He checked the obvious – leg at each corner. None of the dogs had tried to pee on him yet.
    ‘You mean …’ Long years in the force had given him the slow amble, developed to the point which would give his questioner time to chip in.
    ‘Apart from the blood.’
    Lestrade whipped back his hand and hoped that the gesture hadn’t been too sudden. He hadn’t in fact seen the blood – until now. But there it was, dark and caked around many mouths. Human blood. Hurstmonceux blood.
    ‘They’re so docile,’ Cattermole went on, ‘you wouldn’t think that six hours or so ago they tore a man apart, would you?’
    Lestrade shuffled backwards as far as protocol would allow.
    ‘That one by you,’ Cattermole pointed at the dog which Lestrade had been patting. ‘That’s Tray, the lead hound. He would have gone for Freddie first. Rosebery said it had him by the throat.’
    Lestrade was grateful for the fresh air. Across the courtyard, still in his hunting pinks strode Archibald Philip Primrose, 5 th Earl of Rosebery. He was an anxious-looking forty-four.
    ‘Ah, Rosebery. This is Inspector Lestrade – of Scotland Yard.’
    ‘Oh, God.’ Rosebery caught the