You Buy Bones (31 page)

Watson nodded and turned again to the table, his fingers resting on the green blotting-paper. The foetus that had saved his life floated before him. Fresh alcohol had been added. It would take time to see how this child had been collected. By default of its location, it was doubtful it had been taken by the permission of the parents. Another stolen grave. “A treasure he could gloat over in private is not such a great treasure. The casts... they would have been a proud trophy. Forgive me, Bradstreet.”

“Nothing to forgive.” Bradstreet grunted. “If Parker is not insane, he is at least imbalanced. And,” he lumbered to his feet to face Watson square in the eye. “You needn't be ashamed of your profession. Because as long as you're in it, the Yard will rest all the easier.”

Watson stared as Bradstreet went back to the main office, his eyes suspiciously wet.

And... Lestrade was saddened to realise, the man was also astonished.

Someone taught him this.
He wasn't born invisible, but he was taught to be.
The little detective was too familiar with being the neglected son not to
see the signs in another.

Beware of the invisibles. They have hidden depths.

They would never be full partners... but they could be allies. In a city like London where crime was as varied as the methods used to combat the same... it would be enough.

“A remarkable man.” Watson murmured. “He has a charitable heart.”

“Well, yes, but why do you say so?”

“I was thinking of how many other people in this world would bay for Parker's blood.”

“If he did, he would be going against his faith.” Lestrade said simply. “Also, it would throw off the courts if there was a breath of favourtism on his part.”

“Still, it cannot be easy.” Watson's speech was low, softly deliberate and very precise. Not unlike Mr. Holmes in one of his rare moments of reflection.
[9]

Lestrade thought of his own experience. He told the truth and forced himself to watch his brother hang. “I dare say it wasn't, Dr. Watson.” Watson shook his head, still marvelling. “I think it is easier for him that Dr. Parker seems out of his senses.” Lestrade stuffed his little book deep in a pocket as he spoke. “I'm no man of great learning,” he added with a wry twist to his lean face, “But if one thing operates without rhyme or reason... it is a madman.”

“Perhaps the courts
will
declare him mad.” Watson sounded tentatively hopeful, and as the idea took root, his shoulders squared back. A fresh gleam came into his dark eyes. The little detective wondered if he imagined the wisps of shadows clearing from his worn-out face. “It can be a difficult thing, to prove madness. There is too much we do not know about the brain and how it affects our motives.”

Lestrade did not tell the young man it was at times like these the courts were
more
likely to decree madness just to quickly stuff a crime under a rug - not the nicest way to dispense justice, but a justice of sorts would be met. “It isn't for you or I to decide, but it does seem likely, doesn't it?” He rubbed at his jaw in sudden thought. “Perhaps he was already on his way to madness when he returned to Britain...”

“I can't imagine what must have happened to his mind when he decided to find his father's remains.” Watson clasped his hands behind his back in a sudden military-like movement. His fingers clenched deep inside his palms. “It would have been a simple task... as a man of medicine he would not have been blocked from the usual venues.”

“No.” Lestrade had been trying not to think about this. “He found as much as the skeleton, but not the skull.”

“It is most likely in the collection of some other scientist. Another man of medicine.” Watson mused as he walked out of the room. “Or a specialist.”

Or another bone-grubber,
Lestrade thought. He believed that was more likely - a skull of a murderer would be worth much more in the market than that of a simple beggar's.
I doubt it really matters... looking for his father's head would be enough to put most people around the twist. What I wonder is when did he decide to start collecting people the same as his father?

“That will be
that
,” Bradstreet intruded into his thoughts as he returned. “And thank all mercies large and small.” The big Runner had found his hat and was eagerly brushing the smells of Edinburgh Below off the felt. “What d'you think, Lestrade?”

“I think he'll be sent straight on to Broadmoor.”

“I hope so. We aren't a hanging country, Lestrade, but I worry when there's a mess like this.” He shuddered.

“And you? I expect you'll be talking to your family before the end of the day?”

“I did send a wire.” The big man confessed. “I told them what they may expect...” He sigh-shuddered inside his heavy coat. “I'll be off to speak with them at the Church.”

“Truce under holy ground?”

“Truce under holy ground.”

“Need you a friend?”

“Not this time.” Bradstreet spoke with regret. “Perhaps later. On the train back.”

Lestrade patted his pocket where his own ticket rested. “I'll meet you at the station.” He promised.

“See that you do.” The corners of Bradstreet's mouth moved up without any heart as he left the room, leaving Lestrade alone at MacDonald's desk with the human remnants.

The little professional picked up the box holding Ambisinister's hand (he would not, could not give in and call it a Hand of Glory). With its recovery the burning need to find the thieves for the crime had dulled down. Or perhaps it was the memory of Parker in his mind.

He wasn't certain what he should think. Parker was in every respect all that his family had hoped to be... and all for what?

To be well educated, own his own house, answer to himself and be his own man, to run a household and be respected and admired... the man had even contributed to the charities about London and Edinburgh. Wouldn't that be enough? Couldn't that be enough?

It would seem not.

Within this insight, the Inspector could admit he had been on the brink of making the same mistake with one John H. Watson, Army Surgeon.

Watson would have made a fine policeman... if being a policeman was enough for him.

It wasn't. He could see that now.

Ah, well. The Yard's loss was clearly the gain of Mr. Holmes.

The small man smiled wryly as he tucked the box inside a heavy leather gripsack. He was professional enough to want to head back to London and the comforts of his office now that the case was mostly concluded... but he had a full day to spend before the train left, and he may as well do it proper.

“Excuse me, lad.” He waved down a promising-looking young man. “I'm looking for the Episcopal Church?

The stripling nodded. “That'll be St. Mary's, Mr. Lestrade. If you stand on the front steps, the cabs can take you straight over.”

“Straight over?” Lestrade repeated suspiciously.

A grin was his answer. “Especially if you tell ‘em you wish to hear the Grimthorpe Bells.”

Lestrade grinned as well. The name of the designer of Big Ben was allowed enough. “Thank you for that.” He pressed a random coin from his pocket into the young palm, and strolled out into the cloudy air of Scotland. With luck he could get a minister or clergyman to make a prayer over his cargo before nightfall.

And from there... a little talk with Brother Jerome. The old fellow had been a policeman before donning the habit. He'd listen to the entire sordid tale without judgement... and he'd keep Ambisinister's hand secure as Lestrade filed the proper procedures to bury it.

Weary and craving the comfort of any bed, even if it was the back of a cab, Lestrade straightened his back and shoulders. Dr. Watson was just buttoning his heavy coat for the outdoors. The two men saw each other at the same time and nodded a final greeting... or a parting of ways.

Lestrade offered his free hand to shake and grinned when Watson took it with something like his usual firm grip.

“Do you have a place to stay tonight, Doctor? We'd be honoured.”

Watson shook his head with a chuckle. “I'm well set up! I... ran into the friend of a friend at my tavern. We promised to talk of mathematics.”

“Sounds... delightful.” Lestrade felt his first laugh in days bubble up. “Now how are you going to keep this case from Mr. Holmes? He proclaims to read one's entire history on the trousers, cuffs, and shoelaces.”

“And the boot-tips.” Watson filled in. “He's still out on his own case. I don't think he's even in England.”

“How disappointing,” Lestrade mused. “I was looking forward to having one over him, just this once.”

Watson's smile only grew. “I fear, Inspector, you and I will have to work a great deal harder and longer to claim such a victory.”

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