Death on a Pale Horse - By Donald Thomas Page 0,54

recognised the figure by the porter’s desk as our Scotland Yard acquaintance Inspector Lestrade. He and Tobias Gregson were the two whom Sherlock Holmes had described to me as the best of a bad lot in the Criminal Investigation Division. The inspector turned to see who had infiltrated the lobby behind his back. His eyebrows lifted as he recognised us.

“Mr. Holmes? Dr. Watson? You don’t tell me you have some interest in this case, sir? The Carlyle Mansions Murder, as they’re already calling it in the newspaper offices.”

My heart almost stopped. I wondered with a shock which of our acquaintances might be dead. Surely not Samuel Dordona? Sherlock Holmes smiled.

“Are they calling it that?” he asked the inspector. “Are they really calling it that? Our interest will depend in the first place, Lestrade, upon the identity of the corpse. It has an identity, I presume?”

The detective dropped his voice, as if to keep the porter out of the conversation.

“Not yet, Mr. Holmes. To tell you the truth, we’d give something to know the answer to that, sir. Just at present, unfortunately, the dead man chooses to remain anonymous. From all the evidence upon him, he seems to have come here on his own with his pockets empty. Unless he was robbed down to his last halfpenny and bus ticket. Believe that if you like.”

“But the case is still murder, is it not? An officer of your repute would not be here for less than that.”

Lestrade became whimsical at our expense.

“It’s murder right enough, sir. Unless you fancy he might have shot himself through the head and then hidden the gun to aggravate the Criminal Investigation Department. Unfortunately, our Sir Melville Macnaghten has not arrived yet. The Commissioner has a Home Office Committee this morning in connection with the Irish explosions. Apologies for absence are not acceptable. Most insistent Sir Melville Mac was that the investigation must not start without him. So, Mr. Holmes, nothing has been touched yet except by the police surgeon to examine the body. Who knows whether this unfortunate fellow might not be one of your friends?”

“A corpse without a name,” said Holmes, deeply sympathetic.

“Most of ’em start that way, sir.”

“And yet someone with a name must have hired the rooms that he now occupies.”

I interrupted them.

“I have an interest in the Reverend Samuel Dordona,” I said confidently, “as a client.”

Lestrade’s mouth twisted in a humorous grimace. “So you may have, doctor. But for all I know—or care—no such person as Mr. Dordona exists.”

“Was he not the tenant of number 49? If not, who was?”

“Not your Mr. Dordona, doctor.”

The inspector turned, still talking, and led the way to the stairs.

“According to the account books and the porter, the tenants are the Evangelical Overseas Medical Mission,” he said cheerfully over his shoulder, “an organisation which according to our best information never came near the place and probably never existed.”

I followed Holmes as he took the shallow granite stairs of the building easily, two at a time. The dusty light filtered through a glass dome above. We came to the landing of the fourth floor with its shabby patterned carpet, a parched fern in a terra-cotta pot and two upright wicker chairs. A uniformed sergeant, lounging on the post of a doorway painted chocolate brown, pulled himself up smartly as the inspector’s head appeared above floor-level. The brass number on the door confirmed this as 49 Carlyle Mansions. Lestrade tapped smartly on its panel and the door was opened by a plain-clothes constable.

“Thank you, Constable Nichols, we’ll manage for ourselves now. Keep your eye on the porter and his desk. See he talks to no one about the case. Make a note of anyone who comes or goes.”

The inspector continued his commentary as he closed the door behind us.

“The dead man was found this morning, Mr. Holmes, between eight and nine. Before we could get here, that hell’s-gate porter downstairs went out and sold the story straight to the stop press of the Standard for half a sovereign. It’ll be all over the newsboys’ placards before we can get a start. They’ll have it up in print within the hour and on the streets in good time for the afternoon editions. No details, of course, but then it’s the headlines that sell newspapers.”

He drew back so that we might view the shabby interior of the room.

“Police surgeon’s gone. We had Dr. Littlejohn as usual in this area. Bullet wound to the head. He won’t know much more until after