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  A pall settled over the room; some of it was the factual weariness that intruded upon the mind whenever the concept of persuading Sherlock Holmes of anything was offered. The men settled into individual brown studies, Lestrade playing with his little glass more than he sipped, and Bradstreet stretched toes-out to the small fire lapping at his wet soles.

  Baker Street:

  Watson woke up hours earlier than his usual habit in a mood as foul as the overcast sky. His body ached and throbbed from the remnants of the war; he more rolled out of bed than got out of it; one of the fouler phrases from his barracks-days came to his mind and he just as viciously stamped it down.

  Why was it, he wondered darkly, that the Army insists on sending home men who are still capable of pulling a trigger? God knows, the urge to pull that said trigger was strong today. He could take his Adams and retire to the practice-range...

  But not in this weather. He scowled as he clipped his moustache for the day. Even Mrs. Hudson’s plane-tree looked abashed in the small courtyard. And if it wasn’t this weather, I wouldn’t have the urge to go practice!

  Holmes’ solution, which was a panoptic redecoration of the room in bullet-pocks, was no solution at all.

  He yanked on his waistcoat and found a clean handkerchief for his sleeve. Away from the light chill of the window the warmth of the fire penetrated the floor-boards. Knowing Mrs. Hudson, there was hot coffee or tea on standby. He shot his cuffs and descended the stairs amid the warm smells of a busy kitchen, expecting Holmes to be smoking up the Drawing Room if he had not gone to bed.

  But the Drawing-Room empty and the atmosphere free and clear.

  Watson felt his brows float upward, buoyed by surprise as he stepped into the uninhabited room. The bedroom door was half-open; Holmes usual habit to let him know he was out.

  This was a little out of what Watson had grown accustomed to for his friend’s schedule. Under normal circumstances, Holmes would have been fixing his pre-breakfast pipe by now with his morbid collection of all the unsmoked tobacco fished out of the bottom of his bowl during the course of yesterday.

  Watson looked about; Holmes was still not there. The drapes were pulled open presenting a wide view of the chilly wet street.

  A folded paper torn out of one of Holmes’ unlined notebooks rested on the breakfast-table like a dozing butterfly.[40]

  Curiouser and curiouser... Watson flipped the card over.

  Watson,

  Will be gone until the following Tuesday.

  H.[41]

  “Huh!”

  For someone who was capable of the most amazing verbal creations, when it came to writing Holmes could be as brusque as an unsanded plank.

  Holmes had left the early-morning paper by the note; thoughtful of him. Watson couldn’t face the thought of going outside just yet. He poured water out of the pitcher and mixed himself a packet of acetylsalicylic powder. The cloudy drink was bitter and sour, but he drank it from long experience. It wasn’t enough to take away the edge of the pain.

  He was down to the worst of the gritty bottom-dregs when Mrs. Hudson emerged with the breakfast tray - set for one. He replied to her usual good-morning queries with his usual manners, knowing she deserved that much courtesy when Holmes could barely remember if he had eaten. He was glad of the coffee, and was pouring himself his second cup when his landlady arrived, too early to take the tray.

  “Begging your pardon, doctor, but this just showed up at the door for you.” She pulled a neat little envelope out of her apron-pocket. By now Watson had come to recognise various hands from the Yard; they were economical on paper. He thanked her and snipped the lip of the flap open with a snap of his fingernail.

  Doctor,

  We have the materials you requested.

  You may see me at yr convenience.

  G. Lestrade

  Excellent use of discretion from Lestrade; and here Holmes wasn’t even around to appreciate it! Life and its myriad ironies... the doctor caught himself smiling. Why was he smiling? His heart rate had increased; he was facing the prospect of something grim and dire, but he was looking forward to it at the same time.

  His smile faded. Holmes was gone. He was guiltily relieved. There is no need to feel this way. If I can solve this appropriately, he will never know the shame of my profession.

  Scotland Yard:

  Bradstreet’s smoking had increased after Hazel’s illness. Lestrade mentally shot up a prayer of thanks that the man’s intake had cut down markedly in the past 24 hours. Thinking of a problem often did that to him - that and knowing Hazel was beginning to pull through.

  “I wouldn’t trust those maps,” Bradstreet was saying. “Sure they go back far enough, but the coordinates are nightmarish. How’s one supposed to find a missing tombstone when the boundary between two graveyards was separated by a white cedar?”

  “I’d look under the cedars myself,” Lestrade noted. “You just think how big they can get. And the roots could be causing all the upheaval... could very easily crush the grave-markers to rubble in a short period of time. Well, I could be wrong. What’re the stones made of?”

  “Yellow soapstone. It was local over there. Almost slippery to the touch, soft as butter when it comes fresh out of the ground, which is why everyone wants all these elabourate decorations? But it isn’t permanent.”

  “Goes against my grain, friend. But then again, so much of my family has themselves for a sexton.[42] I’ve not known many courteous enough as to die on the ship instead of off it...” Lestrade glanced up and belatedly noted Dr. Watson was standing in the doorway, hand lifted (and frozen) in the act of knocking politely on the frame. His expression was a sight to behold.

  “Oh.” Lestrade cleared his throat. “We were, ah, discussing a missing graveyard, Dr. Watson.”

  “A missing graveyard.” Watson looked like his ears had betrayed his mind.

  “It’s not what it sounds like. It appears to be a property issue, and it’s come to the point where both sides of the border are about to go to war. Figuratively.”

  “In which case, at least we know where to put them.” Bradstreet grumbled. “Mostly.”

  “Oh.” Watson was still looking wary.

  Lestrade thought back to what else he’d just said. “A lot of sea-farers in my family. Some of them were actually law-abiding.” He had the air of a man who has told tales on himself too long to be affected by it now.

  Watson relaxed. “I’m surprised you aren’t in the Thames Division.”

  Bradstreet hooted. “That’s what everyone says! Just because of that one ruddy inch.”[43]

  “I’m the black sheep.” Lestrade explained. “I hate to get my feet wet.”

  “I’ve heard worse.” Watson said wryly. He limped inside the office with his damp hat in his hands. Bradstreet rose and began pouring tea.

  “Lestrade made this,” he warned. “Since he came back from that undercover work with the Tinkers, he’s been unable to make a decent cup.”

  Lestrade blew a smoke ring at his best friend. “If it doesn’t kill you, it should do all right.”

  “I’ve never had a Tinker-brewed cup before, I confess.” Watson stared down at the cup, his natural eagerness for the spice of life warring with his natural desire to avoid a relapse in his health. Somehow, Lestrade had managed to make it strong enough to pull the theine[44] out of the leaves; the oils glistened on the surface, and the doctor knew without trying that half a cup of the stuff would send his heart to racing like a shot of cocaine; a break-out of sweat would surely follow. “I might need a bit of milk and sugar with this,” he said faintly.

  “There’s no ‘might’ about it.” Bradstreet commiserated. He dropped three lumps into the brew. If anything, it looked even darker. “Lestrade likes sweets as much as Christ likes Moneychangers. You’re always on your own
for that around him.”

  “It keeps me on my feet.” Lestrade was obviously immune to his coworker’s emotions. “Well, Roger, I think I owe you a Mag.[45] I really would have thought Mr. Holmes would be here with the doctor.”

  Watson swallowed his tea, thinking that the painkiller of this morning was nowhere near as effective. “He’s off on a case. I’ll hear all about it in terms that are hardly to be fathomed, and he’ll probably be the thinner for forgetting to eat.”

  Lestrade frowned lightly. “His weight’s better than it was when I met him.”

  “Surely you jest... no, surely not. You wouldn’t make a joke out of that.” Watson shuddered. Lestrade shrugged with his pencil. “At any rate, I’m off work today, so I thought I’d come over.”

  Bradstreet was nodding as he went to the back of the office and pulled down a tightly-built cardboard box. It was the sort for mailing packages, strong as thin wood and almost as heavy. “I remembered that our old village priest used to make hand-prints of the children when they were a few years old. The prints were sort of a... well; I suppose you would say a prayer record.”

  “Go on.” Watson’s brown eyes lit from within, like a flame behind a cognac bottle.

  “Yes, we’d hardly any children, due to the parents moving off to work, so the elders celebrated all births.” Bradstreet did not look into the box as he pressed it in the doctor’s hands. “I thought he’d just made prints, but he did one better. A few years after he’d done my age, he moved to plaster.”

  Lestrade had been bracing himself for this, but Watson had the look of a man who already knew what he would see. He gently lifted the lid and poked aside the padding of soft papers. Lestrade, from his vantage point, saw the doctor’s face spasm as if in pain.

  That’s it. Lestrade didn’t know why, but something very important had just happened.

  Watson pulled out the plaster-cast of a child’s hand and held it as lightly as if it were his own. Bradstreet had clasped his hands behind his back and was turning to stare with great fascination out the window. Lestrade had been trying to ware himself for this since Bradstreet had intimated the contents of the box; it was still a shock. The thin sheets of plaster for the webbings between the fingers were delicate as sea-shells. The cast had every detail of fingernail and whorl.

  It unsettled the little detective, most severely, and he didn’t blame Bradstreet for not looking. Those hands were the only real physical trace he had left of his sister unless Watson was successful.

  And they’re real enough, he thought.

  Under his moustache, Watson’s mouth had set. He was pale underneath the browning of the desert sun, and scoops echoed under his eyes. Those eyes glistened as they lifted up to look at Lestrade.

  “This is what I need.” He said steadily enough, but he cleared his throat before he could continue. “If I may... Inspectors... this is a difficult question I must ask of you... if it makes it any more palatable, think of it as... a writer searching for research material.”

  Bradstreet and Lestrade looked each other, but they were both in the dark. “Go on, doctor.” Lestrade prompted.

  Watson thrust his jaw out, just a bit. “The case in question means going to Edinburgh. How should we do this?”

  Lestrade felt the blood drip out of his face. In the corner of his eye, Bradstreet was turning on his heel, eyes wide and hands open.

  “I... I wouldn’t.” Lestrade whispered. He looked at Bradstreet and found support there. “Scottish Laws aren’t exactly the same as English Laws. You have to be very careful. All one needs is a single misstep of jurisdiction, and... and then you just see how many policemen find themselves ruined!”

  “Lestrade and I know English law inside and out.” Bradstreet rasped. “And we know some of the differences in Scottish law and English law, but it’s enough to make us leery of stepping on anyone’s toes, however accidentally.”

  Watson had paled too. “I... had hopes, gentlemen,” he said stiffly, “That-”

  Bradstreet’s large hand shot up, halting all attempts at conversation.

  “No, it isn’t hopeless, just requires a bit of extra planning. We’d have to call up someone we knew from that end... someone who knows us enough to give us a little leeway, and they’d help us do the job. The only thing is we’d be sharing the responsibility of the case.”

  “MacDonald?” Lestrade suggested.

  “Without a doubt.” Bradstreet agreed.

  “If this is a case of murder within the North,” Lestrade hedged, “We’ll be walking a tightrope.” He studied their guest a breath longer before adding, “The more we find on this killer, the better.”

  “I can assure you, the odds of the man stopping at only one illegal collection are very small.” Watson whispered. “It is much more likely that he has more crimes.”

  “The more that is found, the stronger our standing. But if there is a chance that an English citizen has met a foul end with someone on the other side of the wall... We do need to be there.” Bradstreet clutched at his teacup.

  Watson nodded. He set the plaster casts down inside the box as gently as a sleeping infant, and went to the wall where Lestrade had a large map of London. He stared at it in silence whilst the Inspectors watched him.

  “I have to return to Edinburgh if I am to smoke out our murderer. I’m not certain where it happened... but I believe the proof will be at his residence.” Watson’s back was hard as a rock under his coat.

  “Dr. Watson,” Lestrade made his voice as careful as he could. Bradstreet was a powder-keg, primed to explode. “Perhaps it would be in everyone’s interest if you explained a few things about Dr. Parker?”

  Watson’s face was still white, which made the ghastly set of his face all the worse. “A man,” he murmured, “that I was once pleased to call my mentor.”

  Lestrade felt his jaw drop. At a loss, he stared at Bradstreet. Bradstreet’s expression, he was sure, mirrored his own. Watson’s reticent horror now made terrible, perfect sense.

  19 The Forty Elephants was a legendary gang of women; ‘seeing the elephant’ was a contemporary American phrase for seeing something that turns out to be disappointing.

  20 Counterfeit food

  21 Policemen were expected to carry string at all times in the hopes of securing stray dogs - which were an ever-present problem for London.

  22 There are many Hellfire Clubs, most united in an anarchist approach to having a good time. Pagan worship and orgies are the most common charges, and “Do what thou wilt” is the unofficial motto of all the clubs.

  23 The first real work was in 1895

  24 West Indies chicken dish.

  25 Holmes is concerned at the lower status a surgeon has compared to the higher-grade of rank as a physician.

  26 Holmes’ Stradivarius! Holmes revealed in The Adventure of the Cardboard Box his Strad was worth at least 500 guineas, but he had purchased it from a “Jew Broker” off Tottingham for 55s. A guinea is worth 1 pound + 1 shilling, and used for tipping; a gentleman’s coin. A tradesman like a shoemaker was paid in pounds, but a guinea was used to pay an artist. At the same time, it was a mark of a true gentleman to pay with guineas. A shilling is 5 pence or a ‘bob”. Holmes had a reason to be smug!!

  27 “...for when I see the stub of a cigarette marked Bradley, Oxford Street, I know that my friend Watson is in the neighbourhood.” - Holmes to Watson, HOUN.

  28 Just a small homage to ACD’s own observation on the fact...

  29 Jersey =Toad; Guernsey=Donkey; Rabbit=Aldernay; Sark=Crows

  30 Full phrase: “Gone off to Hanwell and no return ticket”: Gone crazy.

  31 A rare book of theodicy. One of Samuel Clemens’ favourites because his own departed daughter loved it im
mensely.

  32 Language of Flowers: Listening to Magistrate Flowers at the Bow Street court. The man was known for his solution to offences: “Ten shillings or seven days!” Bow Street Runners were one of the earliest versions (1746) of the London police. They evolved from the “Thief-Takers” who tracked criminals for a fee, and took government wages. Their building (25 and 27 Bow Street), was completed in 1881 and unfortunately converted to a boutique in 2007

  33 Hart Street was renamed Floral Street in 1895

  34 Right now, Lestrade and Husher only know a Scotsman by the name of Abram Lyle is settling down to the business of refining sugar, and that will put a pinch in the local markets that will not compete with their own sweet goods. Lyle’s Golden Syrup, a viscous leftover of the refining, will arrive in 1883.

  35 match

  36 View with contempt

  37 The Hooligan Gang actually existed - a knot of young, tough and often motive-less malefactors who may have inspired the introduction of ‘hooligan’ into our dictionary. At this point in time they are not yet completely notorious; in 1904 Lestrade will read from his notes to Holmes and Watson: ‘It seemed to be one of those senseless acts of Hooliganism which occur from time to time, and it was reported to the constable on the beat as such.’ (The Adventure of the Six Napoleons)

  38 Holyrood is a custodian or janitor.

  39 No pennies: No pay.

  40 Holmes’ copious notes and extensive collection of personally-collected information is legendary, but Watson records few instances where Holmes actually writes things down. Perhaps he fixes his data temporarily into his amazing memory?

  41 The details of Holmes’ absence will be clear in future writings.