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  42 A reference to the unknown numbers of the drowned amongst the English Channel, ‘the great churchyard, where every man is his own sexton,’ meaning they have buried themselves in the sea.

  43 There was a 1” difference in the minimum height requirement between the Thames Division and the other police.

  44 Before caffeine was discovered to be in both tea and coffee, theine was named of the active stimulant in tea.

  45 Ha’penny

  5: Envy

  “Envy Rots the Bones.”

  -Proverb

  Bradstreet, surprisingly, spoke first. “Doctor, may I trouble you for a moment whilst I speak with my colleague?”

  “Oh, of course.” The ever polite Watson began to leave the office, but Bradstreet stopped him.

  “No, not at all. We’ll bring in some coffee whilst we riddle this out. I don’t know about you, but this tea isn’t doing it for me.” (Lestrade’s mouth fell open.) “Inspector?”

  “Coffee, doctor?” Lestrade managed not to stammer.

  “Actually... yes. That would be a good thing to have.” Watson glanced down at his leg as if he suddenly hated it.

  Lestrade waited till they were up against the wall where the small stove kept the pot percolating. “What was that all about?” He hissed.

  Bradstreet wiped his face. “Did you see the look on his face?” He hissed back.

  “I saw,” Lestrade protested. “He’s upset, man alive, but he looks to be in control.”

  “You think?” Bradstreet shot back. He still spoke very softly. “Geoffrey... can we trust Watson on this?”

  The possibility had simply never occurred to Lestrade. It must have shown in his face, for the bigger man sighed.

  “I know, he’s living - and working with - Sherlock Holmes. Holmes usually gives us a fair deal, when he’s not with-holding evidence, or making us feel as though we’re back in school, or just insulting us to our faces... but what’s Watson like in a Particular, Geoffrey? Have we seen his mettle?”

  “What more can you test from an Afghan fighter?” Lestrade wanted to know. “Look, Roger, I know what it is you’re asking, and you’re right to do so.” Bradstreet didn’t react; he was standing with his arms folded across his chest, hiding behind his thick mustache. Lestrade kept on. “Roger, I don’t think Watson’s that kind of man who would let his personal feelings take priority over structure. He’s military; just look at him. We must look like anarchists in comparison to the life he’s used to living.”

  “That’s just it. You’ve seen how personal some of these veterans can get when things go harsh. What if he’s like that once he’s the one under fire? Can you say for certainty he wouldn’t react on impulse?”

  Neither man ignored the fact that Bradstreet was worried about Watson being too-personally staked in this; policemen were often called to worse than a murdered sibling. Bradstreet simply didn’t know if he should add Watson to his own burden.

  Lestrade swallowed dryly. “You’re right, of course... but, Roger... the same could be said about the two of us. There isn’t a day when we’re told not to let our feelings get in the way of a case, and then we run right into someone turning a blind eye to procedure and bashing a confession out of someone!”

  Roger grimaced, for ‘confession-bashers’ were the rule, and not the exception. “At least we’ve got the two of each other to keep ourselves narrow, and we’ve got our oaths of service.” he pointed out if in a garbled way. “And Watson? If anyone would keep him on the path, wouldn’t it be Holmes, whom we are not bringing in to this case?”

  Lestrade sighed and poured the last of the coffee. He didn’t know who brewed it; hopefully Dagg or Mirren... “Watson doesn’t want Holmes innit because he’s trying to protect Holmes from a bad situation. I don’t question Watson’s loyalty to a mate. For that matter, I don’t think the good doctor would do anything that would bring Holmes’ to attention to this bloody mess.”

  “You think he’d behave to keep Holmes out of this?”

  “You heard his reasoning. This is a matter for the medical community, and he needs it to be as discreet as possible. Now, I get the feeling that a part of him is just plain ashamed that his own mentor was proved rotten, and he doesn’t want Mr. Holmes to know he once kept bad company... but... he’ll keep his mouth shut and his hands to himself to keep this from getting out where it shouldn’t.”

  Bradstreet’s dark eyes were shrewd. “There’s something else, though, isn’t there?” He guessed. “You’ve got that look on your face again.”

  “Perhaps.” He admitted slowly. “Mind you, I’m no expert on the way doctors and surgeons and physicians and whatnots operate, and I just don’t have the urge to learn much more than I do know.” He sipped the top off his cup gingerly, decided he could live with it.

  “They remind me of the peerage, actually.” Bradstreet said surprisingly. “You know how they can get; inclusive, shut-mouthed, and loyal to a fault.”

  “Yes, that does sound like our betters...” Lestrade said wryly.

  “Pshaw, I’ve been introduced to some surgeons who may as well be a Peer of the Realm!” Bradstreet sniffed.

  “And that may be part of the reason.” Lestrade reluctantly held out the sugar bowl to Bradstreet and tried not to watch him pile it in. “I think... Watson may be wanting to protect the innocent.” He met Bradstreet’s look of astonishment in silence. “I’ve had a few examples of medical scandal explained to me, Roger. This is... this could be a powderkeg.” He shook his head, not satisfied with what he was saying, but unable to make it any clearer. “If a doctor is placed into disrepute, it isn’t just the doctor who will be tainted with the scandal. His family, his friends, his very school and the students who respect him will all be affected. His work cannot be cited without derision or scorn; any good he’s done with his innocent students will be completely negated by the scandal; his students will share in that shame.” Lestrade took another drink of coffee. “Call me wrong if it feels wrong, but I think Watson’s craving for the proof to be set forward by another doctor. As a matter of honour... even if it could bring about his own destruction of reputation.”

  Bradstreet’s shadowed face suddenly infused with the light of comprehension. “Well, I suppose I can see why he doesn’t want Holmes to know about it.”

  “Beg your pardon.?” Lestrade paused, his bitter cup suspended before his lips.

  “I’ve seen these scandals too.” Bradstreet’s fierce gaze was backlit from a taut satisfaction at un-riddling Watson, and his large fist gently ground into the pestle of his palm. “If word gets out Mr. Holmes knew about this mess, the public would avoid him like the plague. They’d lump him with Watson’s crime of reporting his teacher in murder.”

  Lestrade closed his eyes and pressed his forehead. “You’re right. Watson wouldn’t want to put that at risk.”

  “He’d be down to the level of a shill, or... working for the Foreign Office and I can’t say which would be worse.” Bradstreet breathed his relief. A mystery was solved and he could rest. “A man like him needs to choose his clients.”

  “So we just remember... if it all explodes in our faces, we just make sure Holmes can truthfully say he didn’t know what his fellow lodger was doing.” Lestrade did not share his friend’s satisfaction. The whole thing tasted sour as old mash. “All this... all of this... this coddling,” he spat, “to protect the future sensibilities of a man who wouldn’t return the courtesy.”

  Bradstreet’s blocky face was so deep in thought even Lestrade couldn’t read him. “He’s a dangerous man, this Parker. There are those who would say that the consequences should have kept him from his actions. And yet, you and I know humanity does not live up to its ideals.”

  “No... no it does not.” Lestrade sighed. There was no reaching Bradstreet when he started waxing phi
losophy. “When a man thinks of what he intends to do instead of what he is doing... that is where the worst crimes take root.” He came to himself and put sugar in Watson’s coffee. “If he’s behind the murder... would he stop when someone else caught his fancy? I suggest we see what sort of plan is formulating in Watson’s mind.”

  “You think he has a plan?” Bradstreet asked doubtfully.

  “Not sure he needs to plan,” Lestrade said thoughtfully. “Throw him into a disaster, and I can imagine he’d rise up swinging. But telling him there’s a disaster to come into... that’s different.

  “I know how procedure should be followed.” Lestrade scowled. “And I’ll keep to it. Watson is sure as sap and we can believe him - but unless the proof is hard and fast, he won’t say it. He wants our assistance in getting this proof; very well, we ought to give it to him.”

  “Once the proof is there, it’ll be our turn.” Bradstreet stared at the wall behind Lestrade. “We’ve used assistance before, Geoffrey, and I can accept that. But if it looks like he’s in trouble, we should be there.”

  “What we need is a hard excuse of our presence in Edinburgh. Start thinking, Roger. Can your intra-office ties explain it?”

  Watson smiled slightly to see that when the Inspectors returned, their expressions firm in a new unity in the situation.

  “We’ve glanced over a few codes.” Bradstreet explained. “We don’t know where Elspeth may or may not have died,” he stopped to take a deep breath, “but she was a citizen of England. That and a few other fine details ought to give us the leeway we need. There’s also the fact that your man Parker claims double residency in Scotland and England.”

  “He hasn’t used his English address in five years, but he still keeps it up.” Watson scowled thoughtfully. “I didn’t think of it.” His self-disgust at missing the small detail was actually rather gratifying to the policemen, who daily faced the accusation of laziness or stupidity for overlooking the smallest detail.

  “We’ll keep it in mind. His double-residency will go a long way to helping us carry the authority. What we can do is file the initial report based upon your statement - which can be kept in confidence for now - and get a warrant to search the English address. That will allow us to tie-on an additional search upon his Edinburgh address, but you seem worried?”

  “Not for the English address, no.” Watson said quickly. “He can’t get to his possessions in time. No, I am concerned that if he is surprised by a search of his house, he can... damage our chances of finding the proofs of his crimes.”

  The Doctor squared his shoulders backwards, his still-brown hands lacing together at the front of his waist. “His father was suspected for years of collecting... but in the end it was only the proof of that one attempted murder, and a stolen skull that convicted his actions. If the whispers are to be half-believed, there was an entire room of such things, kept in secret.”

  “You mean sneaking in and finding the swag.” Lestrade could not completely hide his admiration - or his disapproval. It made his voice do queer things.

  “That,” Bradstreet attempted diplomacy, “Sounds... a little... chancy.”

  Watson only looked at him.

  Lestrade cleared his throat and coughed into his fist. “Well.” He muttered. “We’ve done similar things in the name of the Badge, haven’t we? Bradstreet, what’s your recipe?”

  Bradstreet grumbled a bit. “My responsibilities in Bow allow me some jurisdiction, but Lestrade will be the figurehead and the ultimate authority.” Bradstreet nodded to the little man. “As long as it doesn’t interfere with his professional duties, he’s allowed to take on private cases.”

  “And my desk is clear.” Lestrade told him. It was only a little white lie; it would be clear if he pulled the night in the office, but he’d done worse for far less reason.

  “What is your fee?” Watson startled them by asking, rising to his feet with a hand to his waist.

  “Already taken care of.” Lestrade said quickly. “There’s been a reward posted by the family and I can use that as an excuse.” But I wouldn’t take that ill-offered money if it was dressed in a peerage.

  Watson nodded slowly. It was obvious his personal sense of honour was tainted at the notion of taking an advantage, however false, or a family’s grief; but he was prepared to go along with a necessary ruse.

  “So... what are your intentions and how can we help you?”

  The doctor gave them his brief summary of intentions, and was grateful to see they had no objections to what he was planning. Bradstreet shook his hand in parting. His grip was dry and strong.

  Outside, the London fog was building pressure; Watson felt the dull throb in his bones and wondered again if he had cast his lots to a foolish wind when he chose to come here. He still felt vulnerable and naïve in this city, a cesspool indeed. He liked people; it was a fundamental part of his being.

  Yet, there were times when he wondered if he was completely out of his depth with the Study of Man.

  Going to Dr. Parker’s house again might be another such activity that would be listed as “out of his depth.” He slowly limped his way to the attentions of the nearest cab-driver and listlessly gave his directions to the chemist, the Stationary’s, and finally home. Trafalgar Square passed by his window, the endless throngs of homeless huddled against the cold.

  Despite the winter air the reek of the unwashed wrinkled his nose. His face stared out of the glass, tired and stupid. The gaze of another veteran like himself looked up, his once-alive eyes flattened and dull.

  That might have been his fate all too easily. At best, he might have been one of the recruiters... one of the men who had set his steps to the Army.

  Culp had been the man’s name. He paid out of pocket for things his wages didn’t cover: the cleaning of his uniform for being all day in the soot of the cities, and even the Queen’s Shilling that sealed the deal. He cut a fine figure in the corner and spoke with pride, but he was a Shabby-genteel underneath his brass buttons. When Watson had accepted his shilling it had been a measure of trust between them: too many young wags had taken the shilling and never returned, leaving Culp all the poorer.

  Would he still be around? Would he still be on the recruiting corners?

  Watson leaned his head backwards, staring with eyes that did not want to quite focus on the dirty scenery as it rattled past. He clenched his teeth as the cab turned to a rougher cobblestone; electric threads of pain charged his nervous system. Putting his injured leg straight out helped, but he hated how it bent the rest of his body like an old man’s.

  The cab ground to a slow halt inside a pillow of sloughed-off snow and sluggish pools of melt. Watson stepped out with his hands death-gripped upon every support he could find, but when he turned around to hand up the fare he was unprepared when the driver hopped down and helped him with his parcels. Flustered attempts to pay him extra were met with a firm no and a nod. “Not at all, sir. We remembers our soldiers.”

  Watson was left standing, staring after the vanishing man and his horse with his goods neatly set upon the door-step. He did not know the man... but somehow the man had known him. Was he on display? He shook himself and took the key to the lock.

  Strange how his bachelor lodgings felt like they were home; and his moody, wonderfully brilliant, disputatious lodger with their already long-suffering landlady, family.

  Perhaps I feel that way because my own family would have never understood. Not that what he was doing would be illegal; Watson could not imagine himself performing any such activity. It was hard enough to see himself defeating a lifetime of upbringing to enter a man’s household - a man once respected - as a guest under subterfuge. He was very glad his parents hadn’t lived to see this day. Their own personal sense of honesty would have never noticed the purpose of his actions; they would have only noticed that he was operating under false
pretence. From such actions, they held, no good would come. Dishonesty begat dishonesty.

  They had been blessed with the comfort of a narrow outlook. Small wonder they had not turned a hair when their second son, the son who must make his own way, went to medicine for his career, and from there the Army. A bullet in the desert, or a falling brick off a roof - one’s destiny was all the same.

  Perhaps it was the new awareness of Bradstreet’s own estrangement, but the doctor was worried about the Runner. The man’s bereavement was clear. As a doctor, Watson had granted his name to many a babe by grateful parents without knowing if the child would ever survive. He knew one of Bradstreet’s twins had been named after Lestrade. What a loss for everyone.

  The doctor wrenched his mind back to the business at hand as he took his packages one step at a time to his rooms. He had no sister himself, but if anything had ever happened... he was not certain he could be as contained and controlled as the big man.

  You’ve plenty to do without taking on another’s problems, he scolded himself; Bradstreet would not welcome that sort of kindly invasion. He tried to make himself as comfortable as possible in his usual corner and waited for the familiarity of Baker Street to settle into his bones. If Bradstreet - or Lestrade - had seen him at that moment, they would have been surprised at how silent and still he had suddenly grown.

  For his part, Watson had learned the art of doing nothing the hard way; it is very difficult to come to a useful plane of mental power when one is near-mindless with pain and blood-loss and thirst in the heart of a desert war. Later on in the Army hospital he began to recollect some sense of himself, but all the hard efforts were laid waste with enteric fever (enteric fever - what an ironic term for a man who did nothing ‘enteric’, but laid insensible three out of every four days of his illness!).

  The third blow had come when the Medical Board deemed him unfit for serving again; logically, Watson could not blame them. He would have rejected himself out of horror. But the Army had been his chosen world, and one he had thrived in with an unknown sense of self-worth. Losing that world had been painful in the extreme. At the same time, he was facing another form of rejection in terms of what family he had left.