You Buy Bones Page 20

  “Oh, that is an extreme example.” Bradstreet admitted. “Besides, Canada’s been prepared for another war with the States since 1812.”

  “Good for them.” Lestrade snorted. “I’d be too. I’ll bet the Red Indians will volunteer. Very well. So we can do some sneaking around and get this fellow over to London. If we can prove there’s something on him. That’s lovely. But in the meantime, we have a man in there who is not a policeman, whom we can only trust will confirm the proof is inside. Hopefully he won’t be hurt in this.”

  “He is from Baker Street.” Bradstreet grunted.

  “And he’s a Watson, eh?” Macdonald murmured. His eyes caught a faraway look; a memory perhaps, and his fingers tapped against his thigh in thought.

  “You’ve met him, haven’t you? At the Regatta Parade last year.” Bradstreet commented.

  “He’s a different one.” MacDonald said obscurely. “Not as different as the man he shares the rent with, but still. Different.”

  Lestrade risked pulling his glance away from the front door. “In what way?”

  “Man’s a Scot. But have you eever noticed, he uses the word “Scotchman” and not “Scotsman?””

  Bradstreet frowned, then his eyebrows slipped straight up as he realised what Macdonald was saying. “You’re right. That is different.”

  Lestrade needed a moment to catch up with them, but he soon enough grasped it: The word Scotchman was correct English in all ways, but it was almost exclusively used by people who were outside the race. Scots hardly ever used that word... save as a wry joke or a disparaging motion.

  “Why would he use an outsider’s word?”

  “Oh, there are a few reasons.” Bradstreet admitted. “Scots aren’t like the English, Lestrade. There’s much less importance placed on dialect. But for you to use an outsider’s name for yourself, well that usually means one was taught to be ashamed of themselves in some way.”

  7: Bone-grubber

  (A). A person who grubs about dust-bins, gutters, etc., for refuse bones, which he sells to bone-grinders, and other dealers in such stores. Socially as low as the people who collect dog-dung for the tanneries.

  You can do this. John Watson felt his heart cease to beat as someone fumbled at the other side of the door; a light scratching of metal, before the door opened. The dried-apple face of the old butler blinked up at him, unused to the daylight of Edinburgh.

  “May I help you, sir?”

  “Hello,” Watson was lifting his hat as he spoke, fingers gripped around the handle of the satchel in a death-lock. “I apologize for my abrupt arrival, but I was wondering if Dr. Parker was available for a social call.”

  The butler’s eyes - dried-up looking too, like black haws or sloeberries left to desiccate on the branch, peered into his face.

  “Lieutenant-Colonel Watson?”

  “I’m afraid it’s only the Major,” Watson was patient - he had given this speech at the last visit. “My apologies for not minding my manners.”

  For just a moment, the brittle exterior thawed on the old face, and Watson knew he had struck home, as it were, on his entrance.

  “I have my card,” Watson lifted the rectangle of paper as he spoke.

  “Not at all, Major.” The butler spoke so smoothly it could not be seen as an interruption. “The Watsons have standing welcome in this house. Please do come in side. Dr. Parker will be made aware of your arrival. If you recall the solarium?”

  Now that he was alone in same said solarium, Watson took a deep breath. He took another. No doubt the many green potted tea-plants in the warm, sunny room appreciated his contribution.

  He’d stopped thinking when the old man let him in. For a moment the identity of John H. Watson had vanished and a blank slate had appeared. He was not an actor. But he could, at least for a brief time, submerge himself into another’s personality. Most people had that ability on some level; he’d had reason to practice it more than most.

  Now what? Alone with his thoughts, the familiar cauldron was bubbling to the surface.

  From somewhere distant and above, a door shut behind two foot-falls. Watson shifted his weight to his stronger leg and lowered his bag.

  “John Watson!” Dr. Parker shuffled forward with his own version of war in his body; an uneven spinal column underneath his sober black suit and a large portion missing from his hip-bone. The visitor had often felt the man had never really resembled anyone’s ideal of manhood with his long, cobweb-like whiskers curling in silver bows off his narrow nose, and large red ears like the ears off some book-illustrator’s fanciful concept of a gnome or household-brownie. His body was designed for scuttling, and before his wounds (it was rumoured) he carried the erratic, lopsided patterns to movement. Even as he entered the room his hand was extended for a shake. Watson took it with an inward swallow. The hand was dry as a stove-top and bulky with three different rings.

  Watson knew it was common for a man to move his wedding ring to the opposing hand once he became a widower... but displaying the fact he was widowed thrice over... that was something one didn’t see every day.

  The old man’s eyes gleamed, bright blue-green and energetic. “So good to see you again - and so soon! What brings you back to us, Major? Surely not my scintillating conversations about dry old dusty bones!”

  Watson smiled with more confidence. “I’ve always enjoyed your conversations, sir.”

  “Pshah... I have no real cleverness. I merely stockpile ten to twenty variable topics, and I go down the list.” Parker waved his grasshopper hand to the low benches resting in the solarium; they were wood and carved to mimic bamboo canes. “Have a seat. What have you been doing with yourself? How is the Lieutenant-Colonel?” The title was given lovingly over the tongue, and Watson had been expecting this, but it still scraped against his nerves.

  “I’ve been up to no more than last time; training and working on my career - .”

  “Are you going to set up your own practice?” Parker broke in rudely.

  “-er, soon enough, I hope. I’ve been using my wound pension for more than the horses.”

  Parker laughed. “I know the truth of that! You should have stayed with the Fighting Fifth,” he waggled a finger at Watson. “I know the Berkshires are a good lot, but nothing like a Fusilier in a tight spot!” He dropped his hand into his lap, sudden as a meteor. “But you’ve heard that enough, certainly. What is your brother up to now?”

  John was now better prepared. “He is still caught up in his own affairs,” he assured his host wryly, and it would take someone as sharp as Sherlock Holmes to notice there was little in the way of warmth behind the eyes. “You know how he is.”

  “Too true, too true. There’s a genius in every family!” Parker laughed again. “But don’t tell me it was business that brought you back. Not this time of year when so much of the roads are swamp.”

  “Well, no, not precisely.” Watson permitted himself to lean back a bit, and took the offered cigar. “Most kind. Thank you...”

  “Not at all. It’s good for the plants, you know. In the good months I just open the windows and let them purify a bit of the Auld Reekie, but when things are like this-” Parker shrugged. “I make my own reekie fog.”

  Watson laughed shortly. “I confess it was a puzzle that brought me back, Dr. Parker.”

  “A puzzle?” Parker’s quick eyes popped alert (everything about that man was quick; it was like talking to a grasshopper that would far rather stretch its legs). “Not from anything I said, I hope.”

  “No... no, not at all.” Watson found a tray for his cigar resting underneath a large fibre-banana tree and pulled his satchel to his feet. Parker leaned forward; arms perched on his knees as Watson pulled a small key from a chain around his wrist and delicately prised the mechanism open.

  The satchel opened with a stiff creak of leather
, not unlike that of a large frog. Inside rested a thick padding of crumpled soft rice-paper. Watson fished around carefully for a moment, and then slowly drew out a plaster-cast object.

  Dr. Parker’s quick little eyes expanded as his mouth formed a serious little O underneath his wispy whiskers. His large ears flushed red, catching the sunlight in the little room and as Watson watched, the red spread like a flowing stain across his papery cheeks to settle to the high points just below the outer corners of his eyes.

  “Why, good heavens, John. Wherever did you find this?” Awe mingled with several other emotions in the man’s scratchy voice. John was fairly certain he sensed a thread of worry.

  “A surprising gift,” John admitted. “What do you think of it?” He did not wait for an answer. “I was told the owner was a child of about five or six years of age when it was cast.”

  “Five or... six...?” Parker repeated gently. His own surprise tingled his voice. He looked at the imprint of the small, webbed hand more carefully. “It is very small,” he admitted. “I don’t suppose you have the other hand cast?”

  “As a matter of fact, I do.” Watson agreeably obliged; Parker’s own hands trembled as he rested each imprint upon his knees. He looked like a child facing a treat. The fact that it was the marks of a child’s hands that he faced so eagerly made things all the more disturbing.

  “This is... clearly a Selkie,” the old man said carefully. “But I must say, it is most pronounced. And an extra finger! I really thought my specimen was the only one.”

  “Well, you only have a skeletal specimen,” Watson said slowly.

  “Wherever did you find this, John?”

  John pinked up. “I’m afraid it’s a bit of an unlikely story.” He started carefully.

  Parker laughed. “Of course, if you’re the one telling it!”

  Watson felt scarlet crawl up his neck at long-endured japes at his love of writing.

  “But do go on!” Parker pressed.

  “It is not a very absorbing tale, I fear. I was merely performing some services for an old man who was once vicar for a little church somewhere north of London. Rheumatoid arthritis.” Parker nodded to show he’d understood. “He lacked the funds to pay me, and I wasn’t really paying attention; I told him we could always barter, so I didn’t think anything of it.” John shrugged. “He returned a few days after his visit, raving about how the treatments had helped his joints, and asking if I would take payment in some plaster casts of pathology. Once I saw what he had, I thought how marvellous it would be to begin a small collection along the lines of your study.”

  Parker picked up the child’s hand-cast, his eyes shining as he stared about him. Watson was convinced he did not imagine the spark of sudden malevolence in the once-kindly face at the thought of a rival collector. “John, John. This is marvellous. You have no idea how amazing this is.”

  “He said he had another set of casts made of the child a few years later,” John said almost absently. He kept his eyes on the small white objects as he spoke; it helped hide the need for his feelings to come out.

  “How remarkable! Did you tell him you were interested?”

  “Of course. He was an intriguing fellow.” Watson pulled out his little notebook and frowned at the small pages. “Name of George F. Carmichael, vicar of Lerwick’s Church of the Cove.”

  “John, this is amazing.” Parker was back to peering at the small white things in his hands. He looked rather too eager about his work. “Would I be too forward in purchasing them from you?”

  John let the silence drag out to awkward proportions. “I was rather hoping to keep them for myself... eventually donating them to the Museum when I have finished my studies.” He smiled charmingly. “So few students have the advantage of a decent collection, you know.”

  “Oh. Of course. That would be quite good of you, John. Quite good.” Parker hurriedly lowered the little casts. “May I have a little time with them to take some measurements?”

  “Of course, Dr. Parker.” John had found his cigar cold and was busying himself with re-trimming the end and lighting it. “I thought it important enough to take them straight to you for perusal. No one else even knows about them.”

  “Really.” Parker’s eyes gleamed. “John, I must say that is passing kind of you.”

  “Not at all. I recalled your fascinating monographs - not to mention your lectures - of the past.” He puffed quickly, grateful for the thick smoke-screen that had suddenly risen between them.

  Parker shook his head in admiration before lifting his water-clear gaze to the younger man. “I shan’t need more than a night with them.” He said quietly. “Please do stay with me for supper and the night. Unless... you have other obligations?”

  John sensed the other man had sniffed the bait. Now to let him run. He shook his head. “I’m afraid no one else even knows I’m still in the city,” he confessed. “I did all my familial duties the other day. I would have been on the Flying Scotsman, but the weather...” he grimaced and reached for his throbbing shoulder. “Well, it has been rather discomfiting. I was forced to change my plans at the last minute.”

  “Of course it has. You should make yourself comfortable.” Parker rose, but not without tightening his grip on the tiny plaster hands. “I needn’t more than a few hours to make written notes of these... please do stay the night, my dear young fellow. I’d be most pleased to put you up.”

  Bait drawn. John rose slowly, exaggerating the stiffness of his leg. “That is most kind of you, Dr. Parker,” he said with a smile. “Most kind.”

  Bradstreet had drawn the short straw. He wrapped tight inside his heavy wool coat and dropped to sleep by degrees whilst he trusted Lestrade to stay awake.

  Little worry about that; Lestrade had something broken or deaf in the part of his brain that controlled sleep schedules; that was rather obvious to the Yarders who had to operate with him. Lestrade functioned without sleep and even less kindness.

  Whilst Bradstreet slept, sharing the warmth underneath the shelter of the boxwoods, Lestrade smoked from an unfamiliar packet purchased on the street-corner and wished he’d selected a less-pungent brand (he daren’t risk smoking something that smelled ‘outsiderish’ and had bought from the first tobbaconist by the inn). The casual eye would pass them by as two nondescript men, wrapped in dark clothing and sheltering from the night, but being polite enough to stay off the street so as not to offend the eye of respectable people.

  Over their heads loomed Dr. Parker’s address. On occasion the clatter of the staff shuffled back and forth; windows opened for inspection and shut again with distant clangs of wood upon wood. A military man, Parker was the type to batten down the hatches at every chance.

  Lestrade normally hated the stone silence of a skulking patrol, but his head was unusually crammed with the disturbing contents of MacDonald’s file. Instead of fidgeting restlessly and percolating like a factory brewery, he was hammering point after point home in his skull and smoking to keep from compulsively checking upon his watch at every count of 120.

  Condensed to the most basic of portions, the case of Dr. Parker, Senior, had been left on a puzzle.

  Families were insistent that Dr. Parker had been the force behind the looting of their loved ones’ graves. This was back-benched by the statement of one of the grave-robbers who wanted a lighter sentence bestowed on his sons. If there had nearly been a riot before, there had been a narrow miss with three as the approval to dig up the graves in question had been given. Three graves were empty.

  But other than the man who had been “insufficiently dead” and a few relics in his study, nothing had been found. The case had been hushed up. Quiet voices and probably quieter papers had turned a mountain into a mole-hill. Lestrade didn’t like that. The courts hadn’t liked it much either, and the families hated that there were no actual proofs of their beloved dead
in his possession... but luckily there had been enough with the one crime to put the man behind bars for the rest of his natural life. The son had neatly escaped all threat of scandal as he had been finishing up his schooling in (of all places) Switzerland. The little detective had no understanding of going through the bother of travelling so far just for an extra letter or three to attach behind one’s name, but he was quite used to not understanding that isolated breed called the academic.

  Watson might have been more suspicious of Jonas Parker if he’d known anything useful about the father. It was a clear case of silence in the Hallowed Halls. In burying the past the entire medical community had put the future at risk.

  Proving again that God did pay attention to the lives of mortal men (if only to leave a Punch-like comment), Parker Senior’s natural life ended sooner than anyone’s expectations. Intolerance with his own boredom had led the man to an unhealthy habit of window-gazing in the dead of winter, and his natural arrogance had refused the (base-born) prison doctor’s treatment when the cough moved downward. He died under the same frozen conditions that had ironically prolonged the life of his last victim, for the extreme cold of the night had left the body-thieves thinking there was no warmth of life within. In a last note so fitting it needed no words, Parker’s body had gone to the very science that had served him in life.

  But to be extra-sensitive to the issue, Scotland had hastily donated the corpse to the English physicians, claiming the neat excuse that the Parkers were English citizens (MacDonald had penciled in the margins of the paper that the skull remained under lock and key as a study for the dangerously insane, but the body had been lost).

  Whole or intact, Parker Senior’s soul was long gone by the time the son had returned from a life abroad and set up his practice whilst making horrified reparations to society. Society had been all too eager to help him bury the business in good deeds and generosity. This lasted barely a year before he shipped out as a surgeon for the Crimean War and returned another year later, permanently crippled from a potent admixture of enemy viciousness and savvy Russian snipers during the Battle of Sebastopol. In the fervor of the Light Brigade (which had mercifully for him been at Balaclava), Dr. Parker had gained popularity, respect, and admiration. From there his career had risen quietly and without any real murk, until finishing into dusty old and sleepy retirement.