You Buy Bones (22 page)

(Gregson was always happy to remind his rival that this guaranteed him the ‘honour and satisfaction' of being the first on the Chief's Special List - a blessedly short and depressing tally of cases no one was expected to solve in a thousand years).

Thus, despite Bradstreet's success in getting the pre-arranged warrant and the approved search, they were crippled at the restricted time. It was hoped in the strongest possible language that they would find their answers at Dr. Parker's northern residence within 48 hours of arrival in Edinburgh.

They'd sent their pre-planned ciphered wire to MacDonald and took up the lodgings he'd arranged for them. It was a quietly reserved inn directly across the street from Parker's address (‘pure coincidence, but handy,' he'd said). At the moment, they were more grateful that it gave them the time to wash off the layers of English soot that had collected on their persons during the trip.

Inspector Alec Macdonald was that most unusual creature: a completely
fair-haired, fair-skinned child of the Hebrides. His mind for detail was enviable, as well as his ability to draw those details together to come up with a scenario. Everyone knew he was doing the work of two men on a regular basis but he never once lost his good-hearted cheer and willingness to help.

Which was just as well, Gregson had remarked once with great jealousy, for the man had the ability (either from sheer physical presence or from personality), to siphon all but the most minimal amounts of oxygen out of a room once he entered it. Combine that with an enviable Aberdonian education, and you had a fearsome package inside a frame that was more bone than flesh, and more brain than muscle.

Edinburgh was one of his many hats; he had family in the city and that gave him an easy excuse for being here in the off-hours, sipping tea on the bench and chatting away the idleness. He was planning a transfer to London in a few months or by the end of next year, depending on the health of his father; Scotland wanted him to go as a good example they could be proud of, not to mention a reminder that Scotland was an asset to British justice.

MacDonald listened intelligently around the obstacles of scrubbing and quick bites of food and asked pointed questions about policy and research; he was fascinated at the intricate details of the case and confessed he was curious to see if the rumours about Parker were true.

“Seems like you'd have a better chance spying at the back.” The tall man offered at last. “Especially if there's dark doings. Should I try to see if there's a better address?”

“We're already
here
.” Bradstreet didn't have to remind the others that extra expenditure meant extra censure from the Office. Nothing stifled initiative as quickly as the ice-cold prospect of having a case thrown completely out the window by someone sniffing ‘abuse of privilege.'

“Watson's signalling us by cigarette. He can't really signal us as a gentleman from the Back Door.” Lestrade grabbed up the last bit of toast from his tray, checked to make sure it wasn't contaminated by Bradstreet's sprinkle of sugar, and chewed away.

“Huh, you're right. This is going to be a snorter, isn't it?”

“One of these days, you're going to wear out that word.” Bradstreet grumbled.

“I'll just have to buy another ‘un.” MacDonald didn't turn a hair.

“Or find cases that don't apply.” Lestrade couldn't resist.

“Now that's daft talk.” MacDonald told him. It was exactly what Bradstreet had been thinking. “Where would that be? The Lost Umbrella Department?”

“Now, that
can
be interesting.” Lestrade said sadistically. Talking whilst chewing helped him concentrate on a perfectly straight face. “Wasn't it last year Bellows reported an old brolly on ‘Fourth that was being used to hide State Papers?”

“Hidden up in the handle, wasn't it?” Bradstreet proved his knowledge of small, deathless details as well as a willingness to add to MacDonald's torture. “Then again, where else are you going to hide things? The stalks aren't very big.”

“Makes one wonder how many other brollies are being used for ulterior means.”

“And there's what - 4,000 unclaimed brollies in the department at any given time?”

“Well, would you claim a lost'un if you were using it to pass on swag?”

“We'll never know... until someone subjects all 4,000-plus to a thorough search.”

The Londoners turned and looked expectantly at their ersatz host.

MacDonald scowled at them.

“I'll be outside,” he announced grandly. “Doing eemportant things. I'll see you tomorrow.” He rose and with long-legged dignity, made his way to the door. “And speakin' o' umbrellas,” was his Parthian shot, “mebbe want to take your own. The weather does what she wants up here in the North.”

BANG went the door.

6: Bones Dried Up:

“Our bones are dried up,

our hope is lost,

and we are cut off.”

-EZEKIEL 37:11

Watson awoke that morning to the tune of the little street-urchins calling for work or alms.
Today
he would begin.

The morning news was not very interesting - that in itself was interesting, as it was Watson's experience that Edinburgh could make a
duck
a newsworthy event.

The memory could make him smile now, but at the time it had only caused gastric upset; a flying eiderdown mallard (and from only the Gods knew from where or to where), had aspired too high of a height whilst passing over the city. Unlike the Icarus of mythology, his wings had not melted but iced over, sending him plummeting to what would have been a death by normal standards if its loss of control hadn't coincided with a passing waggon of construction-sand for the local ironmongery.

Having been inordinately proud of his introduction to Blackheath, Watson had been more than a little nauseated to find his brief moment in the sun eclipsed by an unlucky sea-fowl who later wound up as a pampered pet at the waggon-driver's cotter.
[2]
His
story had received exactly one paragraph of text. The mallard (replete with evilly beady eyes and a serrated beak which gave it a most unscrupulous leer in the illustrations) received three square inches of paper.

I really was arrogant, wasn't I?
Watson asked himself with a wry shake of his head, smiling at the newsprint just as the tavern-keeper slipped a platter of black pudding to his elbow, side-dressed with a steaming mound of eggs.
Expecting them to write up my
achievements! A duck plummeting hundreds of feet and surviving really is a more
newsworthy event; rugby players emerge on a daily basis!

Still smiling at himself, he put a fork into his breakfast whilst a clustre of idlers mused aloud on the tribulations on a weather front that couldn't be predicted by time or tide. The more things changed...

“Do I know you, young sir?”

Watson looked up into the face of a younger, much hairier version of last night's tavern-keeper. “I don't know,” he answered honestly. “Perhaps, though I haven't lived here for a time.”

“I mean no offence,” The man assured him. Watson lifted his left hand from the table at the wrist, conveying he understood. Family was not just a way of life and a reason for a blood-feud; family connexions were constantly lost and re-forged. “You simply remind me of a man I once knew... a teacher... he would tutor some of the boys with promise, even tho' they never had much money.” A wistful note threaded through that smoke-roughened voice. “I was one of ‘em.” He said. A hammerhand thumb lifted up, touched his forehead. Watson noticed this aberration in fascination. “But I cannae remember ught I should... was hurt in the wreck o'the
Yarrow
. I don't know his name, but... well you remind me of him somehow.”

Watson swallowed hard. “There was a teacher, his name was Watson.” He cleared his throat. “I fear he's gone now.”

“Ah.” Old sadness crossed the face. What Watson had taken for age was in fact, a very hard life and the weathering parchment of burn scars that a salve of goose grease and knitbone
[3]
had not been able to cure. “I allus wished I could thank him for his kindness to me. But I was ashamed for him to see his lessons had been wasted with the fall of a mast.”

“Did you enjoy his lessons?” Watson made a stab in the dark.

His applicant was startled. “
Of course I did
. I still remember the wee gemstones of his teaching. His numbers... Oh, yes, my life was the richer for it.”

“You could have given him no higher compliment, sir.” Watson said softly. “I should know.”

The doctor watched the man walk away, his step more confident whilst he himself was shaken. He had dreaded such a confrontation. It was a consequence of living in Edinburgh. And, of course, being so thoroughly a
Watson
.

The weight of the satchel rested at his feet; he would go nowhere without it. The
problem
was the next step in all of this. The doctor frowned as he thought. Even though he knew he was doing it, he couldn't seem to stop. The basic sense of unease was still there, but fainter for having a decent meal and a good night's rest.

Deceit was not Watson's nature, though he
was
clever. Somewhere in his life he'd gotten the impression that the quality required a high craftiness he did not possess. Most people who met him had him pegged for
intelligent
at first line-up. But the sort of cleverness that could combust the air with lies... well,
that
was a different story.

Why
couldn't
life be more like the lessons of open warfare? There was a reason why Holmes called him a romantic. Watson responded to the intricate rules of behaviour fronted with forthright conduct on an emotional level.
They made sense
. He disliked the feudal method, but his personal beliefs in a meritocracy were part of his attraction for the Army.

No matter how much he tried to puzzle out the problem, the solution never came. Shaking his head, he rose to his feet, placing his weight upon his walking-stick. His leg suddenly throbbed, like a dead thing forced to move reluctantly against his will and the young man set his teeth. The hard-won optimism was melting in the face of the old pain.

He would have cursed... if only there was any good in it. Sadly, cursing did no more good than it did begging for water in the desert, or wishing for morphine as one woke up from the surgery-table.

John Watson stood outside the raised porch-step of the small tavern, breathing quietly in the cool of the morning air. About him a soft grey fog swirled an undulating twist before his eyes, each dirty water-droplet heavy and pale.

On the other side of the street, a mere yard to the left, he could see a beggar perched on another such step as the one he was using. The man was missing his left leg, and he was the colour of the fog. Watson could see the shine of war medals above the bowl he kept for begging. His clothing was falling apart to rags, and yet he was polishing his medals to a shine.

God in his wisdom, have mercy on us...

He was beginning to see how much he missed his life in sooty London, cesspool though it was... and... his life with his new friend.
London is more home to me now than this place. In a way it feels strange. In
another...
In another way he could not quite define... London felt like the place he had been meant to live in all along.

The newspaper-sellers were cantillating about a new art-show featuring the works of Britain's favoured and controversial artists. Watson had no taste for such fare; the very thought made his insides lock up under his ribs and sting the water to his eyes.

I will not stay here.
He knew this to be true
. I no longer belong here. Mourn me, but let me pass
, he paraphrased the
snatch of prayer from his childhood. The heavy satchel pulled his wrist all the way to his shoulder and neck. It added to the ache
in his leg, made his step one-sided and awkward. Humiliation made him
even more awkward: he stepped off the kerb and all but fell onto the
street. His cane saved him.

Embarrassed, Watson lifted his eyes by accident to the silent veteran begging on the other side. The old man's pale brown eyes were calm and quiet... and knowing. In one moment, both men understood each other.

Watson lowered his gaze, knowing the beggar would never accept money from the likes of him. He too, had served and given enough.

Once on the street, Bradstreet horrified his best friend with the purchase of a hand-held pie stuffed with a ground meat that was no more identifiable than the accompanying vegetable. Lestrade devoutly hoped it wasn't turnip, but the odds were...

“Just because they make you ill doesn't mean the rest of the world has to do without, Lestrade.” Bradstreet had enough attention to give him a halfhearted scowl.

“It doesn't exactly make me
ill
, Bradstreet. It just... I used to eat a great many turnips when I was younger.”

“Crop-failure of the ‘70's?” Bradstreet guessed. “Yes, as I recall, kitchens were a bit limited that season.” He chewed and swallowed peacefully. “At least we had a choice of turnips, turnip greens, mustard, cabbage-turnips,
[4]
Swede-turnips and parsnips.”

Lestrade made a sound that managed to combine agreement with digestive opinion. “Yes, Bradstreet... I vividly remember.”

“At least there
were
a few beetroots. I rather liked the yellow ones... and the mangel-wurzel...” Bradstreet propped his feet up against a chunk of broken street-rubble that the road-workers had not yet noticed. In the tiny slip of park it was possible for two men in clean but battered clothing to enjoy an early cup of tea as a clustre of children attempted a complicated-looking game that appeared to be a combination of road bowling, palle-malle, hurley, and ‘dodge-the-traffic'. Lestrade, who had no children of his own (much less the intention to marry), was flinching at every third or fourth movement. Bradstreet, well accustomed to such things, only paused from his eating long enough to bellow well-meaning advice to the poorer players. Lestrade thought by turns that his best friend was making it worse.