You Buy Bones (8 page)

He would give in. The Inspector knew that.

Mr. Holmes would grind him down as surely as Old Leathersides. Would inveigle his way to the man's house and there he would find... what? Proof of what crime? Or confirmation of what innocence? The old Bookseller would go off, and whoever had hired Mr. Holmes (perhaps someone even in the Yard, like Gregson)... would get a note on their desk.

He shook his head, admiring and unable to truly disapprove.

Mr. Holmes had been good to his word. He had found a way to remember the old man.

And it was a fitting form of tribute, too.

Mr. Holmes had discovered the perfect disguise.

Men see what they want to see.

No one wants to see a ghost.

You Buy Bones:

A Novella

You buy land, you buy stones; you buy meat, you buy bones.

-17
th
-century English proverb

1: You Buy Bones

February, 1882:

Despite opinions to the contrary, Scotland Yard
did
pay attention to minutiae:

• Time of death
  
• Coroner's
  reports
  
• Factors in weather
  
• Annoyances of one's co-workers
  
• Social
  events
  
• Annual fluctuations in murder
  
• Statistics
  
• Etc.
  

The problem with all
of them was that the minutiae never-ended and there was
precious little chance for rest and reflection.

Despite the usual depression that came with this daily remainder, Lestrade was feeling good that morning. Mrs. Collins had suffered one of her wild hares in the kitchen and her long-standing gratitude for having an Inspector as a boarder (guaranteeing a shield from all but the worst kinds of interference on Paddington Street), had led her to stuff a large parcel in his hands as he made for the door, umbrella in hand.

A typical February day in London is soggy with snow, slimy with the addition of the soot-soaked fog, and made raucous with the special kinds of traffic disasters that result from poor brakes, invisible ice, and people rushing far too quickly to get from a warm and dry place to the next warm and dry place. A steaming hot bundle in one's icy hands can only be an improvement.

On his way out, Inspector Bradstreet opened the door for Lestrade. He sniffed and stepped back inside. “
Package from Mrs. Collins!”

Before Lestrade could say or do anything, the big man ducked his head directly over the cloth and inhaled loudly.

“Hah!” He said smugly. “Beef tongue with potato and leek!” A puzzled look crossed his face and he sniffed again. “Hang about. Why are you bringing in cooking from your landlady, Geoffrey? The future Mrs. Lestrade should be doing this.”

Lestrade simply
looked
at the other man. His old friend was overdoing the good cheer, but with the mourning-black on, Bradstreet was in deep need of something to make merry with. “There is no ‘future Mrs. Lestrade,' and remind me
again
why you and your nose weren't placed on the Bakery case, Bradstreet?”

Bradstreet grinned as he straightened; Lestrade tried to ignore how the jet tiepin at his throat glittered back like a single beady eye. “I love my food, Lestrade... I don't take it to work with me. If I started investigating into what I ate, I'd be skinnier than Watson.”

“
God forbid
.” Lestrade commented. “But I think he's starting to look a
bit
more natural. Ran into him at the Tavern the other day.” Lestrade
struggled to manoeuvre the obstacle of eager detectives. “All right!” He
lifted his voice. “Didn't
any
of you eat
breakfast?!”

“I didn't.” Barnes popped in.

“Barnes, you
never
eat breakfast. And if you did, I'd worry about you.”

Barnes' walk was in one of the worst digs of London during the cat-eye shift. He seemed to have more than his fair share of lounging corpses as a result. Dumping one's murder victim into the middle of the train tracks might be a fundamentally bad idea in the light of day, but in the gin soaked moonlit nights, it was
almost
a reasonable notion to the criminal mind. Barnes hadn't eaten red meat in a year.

Lestrade struggled to his office with a full burden, aware that Bradstreet was ploughing through with his own brand of assistance. He set the basket down with a gasp of relief once he was in his office. “All right, then. Now what?” He stared at the stack of papers on his desk. “And people say spontaneous creation is rot.” He muttered under his breath. “
I'll show them spontaneous
- here now, what are you doing with that? My caseload's full up!”

Bradstreet held up a folder. “You asked for this last week.”

“
That was six cases ago
!” Lestrade blustered. “Where was it then?”

“First ordered, first served.” Bradstreet said pitilessly as he set the papers down. “It takes
time
to interview madmen. Pass it on to Jones if you're feeling a bit spread thin.”

Lestrade's annoyance threatened to metastasize. “Why Jones?”

“Oh, he's still working with Holmes here and there, you know. Those loose ends about the pick-pocketing gang off Court Street.”

Lestrade shuddered. “
There's
a story or five,” was his verdict. “I prefer to stick with the ordinary, wholesome London criminal - once they cross the Thames or Hadrian's Wall I'd just as soon as leave them to my betters.”

“What about the Forty Elephants? Wouldn't you rather deal with foreign criminals than the Forty Elephants?”

“When it comes down to it, Bradstreet, most of us will never see
that
particular elephant.”
[19]

“Amen.” Bradstreet made a face at his friend's scorching wit. Lestrade sank down in his chair and began fishing for a moderately-long pencil. “Ugh. Save me some of that tongue, would you? I've got to deal with a missing husband case this morning.”

“Good luck with
that
one, Bradstreet.” Lestrade said with feeling.

“Is that all you can say?” Bradstreet sniffed.

Lestrade tilted his head, considering. “Missing husband?” He repeated.

“Aye.”

“Was he philandering?”

“Most definitely.”

“Check under the floorboards.”

“Aren't you the wag today?” Bradstreet walked away, shaking his head and muttering dire Border imprecations under his beard. The little Inspector grinned at his retreating (and very broad) back. He reached for the top paper on his desk purely by default. It was a request for a summary on a recent rash of stabbings involving...
coney
butchers
? Lestrade groaned out loud.

Three hours later he had completely lost his appetite - not to the sorrow of his cohorts, who were willing to do his landlady's cooking justice. Sadly, they added to his distraction by their long-running speculations on how the marvellous (and mythical) Mrs. Lestrade would be cooking once Lestrade saw fit to let her make an honest man of him. Gregson had been particularly ungrateful for his free meal with discussing a large
Euclidian algorithm
that he swore would calculate Lestrade's geometric shape from “rectangle” to “square” with a fortnight of decent cooking. By the time the door to his office opened again to show one of the clerks, Lestrade was ready to crumple his papers until they were promoted from a two to a three-dimensional form, and file them into the dustbin. “What
is
it, Matt?”

“Message for you, Inspector.” The boy produced a yellow square. “Dr. Watson inquires if you can meet him for an early supper at your favourite tavern.”

Lestrade realised Watson meant the ‘
Keg
. “Hang about, lad...” Lestrade scrawled a hasty answer on the cheap paper. “Send it right back to him, I can break free early today, seeing as how I'm missing a...” He caught the boy's eye to the desk. “Go on, help yourself.” He sighed.

Montague Street:

Watson was in the process of passing coin to a street urchin Lestrade
recognised from Baker Street. “
And tell her there isn't a bit of horse in this
!” The inspector heard the doctor's parting shot as the boy took off
with a rope of sausage.

“Do I want to know what that was about?” Lestrade asked as he came up behind the other man.

Watson started slightly, but quickly relaxed. “I assume you have a strong constitution.” He retorted. “The usual rumours of horse in the pork sausage. Mrs. Hudson insists I give her order an inspection if I'm to have any peace at the breakfast table tomorrow.”

Lestrade folded his arms and roared. “And surprised she didn't ask Mr. Holmes? Wouldn't it be just like him to be on something like the Epping Sausage Forgery?”
[20]

Watson looked skyward to the sooty clouds. “I'm afraid I accidentally let slip to Mrs. Hudson that I ate a cavalry mount during the War.” He said grimly. “If Holmes has experience with horsemeat, it isn't on a culinary level.”

“Goodness. Did you like it?” They fell into step. Lestrade's shorter stride could match Watson's limp easily, but the little detective remembered when he had to slow down for the doctor's pace. If his strength grew back in those long legs, Watson would be the one slowing for
his
stride someday.

“Not at all disagreeable.” Watson was honest. “Sweeter than one would be accustomed to in a red meat. Very lean, but
tough
. The camp-cook made a passing cake out of the fat as well.” He lifted the tip of his walking-stick to gently push a wandering dog out of the way. Only long experience restrained Lestrade from blowing his whistle to report the stray; it wasn't his responsibility to do the job for the beat Constable.
[21]

“At any rate, Holmes must be
interested
in food to get involved.” Watson's wry tone made Lestrade snort.

“He's been queer about food since I've known him.” The little man noted with a long-standing expression by rolling the eyes upwards.

Watson flicked him a look to the sides of his gaze but said nothing. Whilst they'd known each other less than a full year, Watson still seemed on uncertain ground; he didn't like criticism of Holmes in any shape or form, but the Yard had heard him stand up for himself many a time when Holmes was being particularly...
Holmes-ish
.

In a way, Watson acted a bit like a brother more than a friend because of that particular division in loyalties; brothers never hesitated to criticize one another, but woe behold the outsider who joined in! Since coming to that realisation, Lestrade had refused to mould his behaviours in any way, but he
understood
better. Watson was still annoyed that the Yard wasn't getting more accommodating with his much-smarter friend, but he also accepted they all had different ways of working.

“I started my day out with tongue under a crust, and now I'm planning haddock and Grozet.” Lestrade ducked quickly to avoid a wave of slush coming off the cab wheels. “Is that agreeable?”

“Rather much. Anything hot would be welcome.” Watson said softly. His limp was still pronounced, but it had gotten so that in the rare perfect days, one barely saw it. Lestrade knew for a fact it didn't interfere with his ability to chase down someone who deserved a rugger's tackle.

The
Malmsey
Keg
was unchanged during Lestrade's month-long hiatus, and the Inspector was glad for it. There were too few places in London where one could have a quiet meal and a drink and the usual Policeman's post,
The Elegant Barley
, was too far away in the opposite direction.
He suspected that was also one of the draws for Watson, as he'd seen the man here by himself on occasion, ordering one of the cook's spicy Indian, or simply sitting with a drink in his hands and listening to humanity as it flowed about him. Lestrade had never
met a man so content with simply watching and listening. It was as if the common man were something he was still trying to understand, and he was enjoying the study.

“I didn't expect to hear from you, actually.” Lestrade lifted his hand to indicate he wanted his plate of fried fish (Watson opted for the ‘Day's Delight'). “As miserable as this weather is, decent men are staying in.”

Watson shook his head. “I was at a medical convention.”

“I trust it was informative.” Lestrade said carefully. Watson looked like he was about to confess to something that required no less than a discreet execution and a burial in an unmarked grave.

“Oh... it was informative.” Watson said in a strained voice. “It is why I am here.”

“If this is business, then do go on. I'm available at any time, you know that.” They paused in silence as their food arrived, and Watson put his pay down without noticing he was over the mark. Lestrade made note to be certain the balance returned.

Watson took a deep breath. “Inspector, I'm going to ask you a difficult question.”

“Go on.” Lestrade prompted whilst swirling a forkful of fish in horseradish. “It can't be any worse than what Mr. Holmes has asked of me in the past.”

Watson sighed. “Does Bradstreet have any missing relatives?”

Lestrade felt the words dry up in his mouth. He parted his lips, but failed to bring up any words. He closed his mouth and watched as Dr. Watson's face grew progressively glummer from across the table. He cleared his throat. “Yes.” He said thinly. “Yes, I'm afraid he does.” He cleared his throat again, and a maelstrom of thoughts suddenly clotted in his mind. “Have you heard anything?” He lowered his voice although Bradstreet could have hardly heard from inside the station. “Have you
seen
anything?” He hissed.

“Lestrade... I want to be wrong.” Watson's face was as grim and cold as Lestrade had ever seen. Against a desert-tanned face, the ice-white chill of voice was a terrible contrast. “I can't speak to him until I've exhausted all possibilities.” The doctor set his drink down and leaned back, toying with his cufflink. It was the manner of a man who is suddenly indecisive; something Lestrade had never associated with the doctor. He thought fast and decided things easily without the slightest self-doubt. “Does Mr. Bradstreet have or had in the past, a younger female relative with six fingers on both hands, vestigial extra toes, probably webbing between said digits, and a spine that was slightly bent forward due to an eighth vertebrae?”