You Buy Bones Page 25

  The two men sensed the crucial hour in the room. They were united in their desires, but chasms existed between them in their methods. Complete trust would never be possible... not if both men hoped to keep to their own moral codes.

  Lestrade lowered the relic back into its case. Watson turned again to his project. They went back to work.

  It was morning when Lestrade stumbled into the small room he shared with Bradstreet. He wanted to sleep, and any wayward dreams had best go elsewhere for their business: he wasn’t buying any of it.

  After a few minutes of lying face-down on the scratchy blanket with his entire body buzzing like a beehive from nerves, the little detective rolled over and tugged his hanging coat closer, fished in the pocket, finally pulling out a familiar little book.

  Parker’s collection of specialists.

  He leafed to a particular page in the back. Parker had liked the quote of the man on the other side: a spinal-injury specialist in the Western side, who had dallied in France long enough to make an in-depth study of the unfortunate Lacenaire.[8]

  Or, rather, a particular part of Lacenaire.

  The quote had been marked in pencil. Over and over.

  And over and over.

  Lestrade read the quote again. He couldn’t help himself.

  A study of Hands

  -Theophile Gautier

  Lacenaire

  Strange contrast was the severed hand

  Of Lacenaire, the murder dead,

  Soaked in a powerful essence, and

  Near by upon a cushion spread.

  Letting a morbid fancy win,

  I touched, despite my loathing sane,

  The cold, hair-covered, slimy skin,

  Not yet washed clean of deathly stain.

  Yellow, uncanny, mummified,

  Like to a Pharaoh’s hand it lay,

  And stretched its faun-shaped fingers wide,

  Crisp with temptation’s awful play;

  As though an itch for flesh and gold

  Lured them to horrors yet to be,

  Twisting them roughly as of old,

  Teasing their immobility.

  A man who was truly mad might be stuck on a Hand of Glory... but would they be honest enough to admit it made them uneasy? Lestrade’s guts told him Parker was useless and cruel, but... not... irrational.

  Gregson, of all people, had a special turn of phrase for people like Dr. Parker. He called them “Incurably and cold-bloodedly sane.” Lestrade had passed the days and inexperience when he would have scoffed at Gregson’s wit. Like everything else, the man’s wording was a fatal blow for its effectiveness.

  The courts of law could put a man to trial or bedlam for his sanity... but they couldn’t do a thing about a sane man who was missing a heart and soul. Hang him, yes, but could one prove a deviant of this... extreme degree... was actually sane?

  If he was a less stubborn man, Lestrade would have turned the little book to the courts. But... Watson had told him he never wanted to see the book ever again.

  And really, there was no proof that the penciling was Parker’s, was it?

  The detective finally put the book back. He needed to talk to someone when this was over - Brother Jerome, perhaps. This was a dirty, filthy, horrible, terrible case and he could trust the little friar to help him understand it.

  Watson had been called as principal witness on grounds that his name would be kept out of the papers. Lestrade and Bradstreet hadn’t expected the speed of the acquiescence of the authorities, but Watson had his wish.

  “Either his name or his family name means something to someone,” Lestrade muttered at the tiny book he’d been reading over and over since they’d allowed Watson the courtesy of a private moment. Through the single glass pane of the office they watched, blear-eyed, as the doctor signed his final statement with a crisp snap of the pen and passed it across the desk to the waiting official - some Gaelic title Lestrade didn’t recognise.

  “You knew anyone who’d share rooms with Sherlock Holmes’d be a stripe apart.” Bradstreet muttered. “But could be they just want the case kept mum.” He was living on cups of black tea and cigarillos the way his friend was living attached to his book. In the privacy of MacDonald’s freezing office, they would watch everything through the open office-door. MacDonald had even pulled the rest of the specimens from Parker’s little private Black Museum, so the two men were a little crowded. Still, it was a small price to pay to keep prying eyes from the pitiful remains until they were shuffled back into the morgue-storage where everything was guaranteed to be safe as houses.

  “How are you feeling, Roger?” Lestrade asked bluntly.

  Bradstreet grunted. He looked like he had a case of pink-eye, and shrunken hollows gave an appearance of lost weight and mass. “I don’t look it,” he muttered, “but I feel... I feel weightless.” He flicked dark ash into the tray as he spoke. “It’s like... well, I don’t know. Like I can breathe again. And I didn’t know I was missing that breath in the first place.”

  Lestrade nodded his understanding. At his elbow perched a battered box for blasting-caps, with hand-painted MONOTYPE SAMPLES over the lid in bright blue. No one would guess the last remnants of Carney Ambisinister rested inside it, wrapped in more cloths than would shame a mummy. The little detective was taking no chances.

  Bradstreet couldn’t stand the silence. “Why monotype?”

  “Who’d steal monotype?”

  More silence. Bradstreet tried to take the question literally. It was usually the safest thing with all things Lestrade. He was still composing a response when his friend stiffened up, his dark eyes upon the door.

  The doctor’s limp was less pronounced; perhaps his statement about having to “move it out” was true. Relief had lifted his spine and clarity was back in his thin face that had not been there since before their collaboration.

  “I’ll be attending the trial,” he stopped as he came to the Inspectors, and waved them to keep their seats as he leaned forward on his walking-stick. “I also contacted some gentlemen of my acquaintance. After the full examination and recording, you will have your sister’s remains. In view of the delicate circumstances, that should be within the next 60 hours. They promised to keep her name out of the papers, as well as yours...” He paused to cough into his hand. “Excuse me.” He apologised faintly. “I believe there are still particles of sawdust in my lungs.”

  “Can you do anything for that?” Lestrade asked quietly.

  “Oh, indubitably... just not in polite company.”

  “I’ll contact my family.” Bradstreet nodded, his face perfectly composed again. He had been preparing for this day for a very long time. “But, doctor, if I may.?”

  “...yes?” Watson wondered as he tucked a fresh handkerchief into his sleeve.

  “Dr. Watson,” Bradstreet spoke one inch at a time, and his dark eyes were fastened deeply upon the tall, tan-skinned man. “Dr. Parker... was he... intending to collect you?”

  Lestrade jumped slightly. He hadn’t expected Bradstreet to pay attention to anything outside his own sphere...

  Watson licked his lips and chose not to answer directly. Lestrade was staring from one man to another with an uneasy expression.

  “He is not... sane, I think.” He said carefully.

  “No, of course he isn’t. Why would he collect you?” Bradstreet persisted. His dark eyes were bright, almost feverish with the need to know. “All those... poor people down there, there was something significant about them. You said in your report he accidentally called you ‘something,’ now that means something to me.”

  Watson did not want to answer. He would have rather not answered for the rest of his life. He closed his eyes and took a shuddering breath. “I was his student,” he said heavily. “He was... fascinated by the wo
unds of war. Perhaps... because of his own.” He looked down. “So few of us came back from the desert. Jezail bullets caused amputations as much as death... he wouldn’t have had much to study...”

  “Ghoul.” Lestrade said under his breath. He was fixed upon the arm-bones of the tursh-toothed woman before him.

  “You set yourself up as the trap. Perfectly done.” Bradstreet said softly. His eyes shone with tears.

  “I let Parker believe a few falsehoods,” Watson closed his eyes, he was so tired. “I let him think those hand-casts were part of a set, and that the older casts were in the possession of your family’s priest. I also intimated that the hand-casts were going to wind up in a museum someday.”

  “Well he wouldn’t have liked that!” Lestrade stared. “You just as well invited him to kill you to cover up his murder!”

  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 Grimthorp
e 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.”

  1 Mix of ale and gin

  2 Lowland word for crofter

  3 comfrey

  4 kohlrabi

  5 Cabinet of Curiosities: A traditional name for a collection of items that had not yet been properly quantified in their status within the scientific world. This centuries-old practice is the earliest forerunner of modern museums.