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  “Did he now?” Lestrade felt his brow go up. “By any chance, would you recall his name?”

  Lions shook his head. “Never gave it, sir. He was mostly asking me the questions.” Another chew and swallow whilst Lestrade idly calculated probabilities. “Nothin out of the ordinary about him, though. No distinguishin’ characteristics.”

  Lestrade felt his other eyebrow slide up. “Now, come on, Lions. Everyone has a distinguishing characteristic or three.”

  Lions looked doubtful. “Well, nothing that couldn’t be proven, sir.” He gave the bewildering information. “I mean, he was limping pretty hard on his right side, and his left shoulder was stiff, but you know, that doesn’t prove he’s injured there.”

  “Ah, well... you’re right about that. But surely you’ve some way of describing him.”

  Lions shrugged. “‘E could have been any man off the street. Awful thin. Didn’t look natcheral.”

  Lestrade bade Lions goodbye, rubbing his chin as he did so. A nurse was flagged down, and a few polite questions under false pretence sent him outside to the small trod permitted to sight-seers and the convalescing public

  He found his quarry down on one knee lifting a small object off the ground for the benefit of a knot of boys that had the hardened look of the Cock Lane gang. The nearest boy took whatever it was he was passing on, and the ragtag children fled like chickens at the sight of the grain pail. Then he rose to his feet, and his lack of balance momentarily surprised the Inspector. Watson needed every inch of his walking stick.

  The notebook came to his mind: Watson had admitted he could only travel outside in the best of weather. That weather was passing. Clouds were pulling over what little could be seen of the sky. It was a long walk to Baker Street.

  The man had gone from being all shades of brown to brown and white; his face matched his shirt collar and made his dark eyes even starker. With excruciating slowness he sank down into the nearest bench with his bad leg stiff and straight. For a moment he leaned on the end of his cane, head hanging down.

  Lestrade frowned to himself, uneasy about walking in on such a moment and also because something niggled at his brain, something he was watching that didn’t quite fit. He stayed where he was for the nonce, waiting for the incongruity to reveal itself. Watson would not thank him for trying to help him. Soldiers had their pride.

  Watson’s tired reverie was interrupted by more company; four dirty ragamuffins dressed in three or four layers of clothing - all they owned, no doubt. They clustered up to the doctor, pelting him with questions in piping voices that Lestrade couldn’t make heads or tails of - although he was fairly certain not all the words were in English. They were calling him ‘Crow’ which was the low word for a doctor, but Watson seemed unable or unaware he could take offence at the word.

  Watson lifted his head slowly and smiled with the patience of a man who has had to endure younger, messier, and noisier humans all his life. To their questions he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small brown paper sack, folded neatly and tied off with string.

  “All right, no glocky fanning, now.” Watson said patiently and the smallest boy jerked his hand back from his discreet search for valuables on the doctor’s clothing. “Which of you is good with numbers?” He demanded. Clearly, everyone felt they were. “Well, then, you need four drops per pound of water. Who knows how much that is?” He shook his head at their sudden hush. “A pint of pure water is a pound and a quarter, lads. Say it for me.”

  “A pint of pure water is a pound and a quarter!”

  “Very good. Now you know what happens if you take more than a pint a day?”

  “It undoos all the good.”

  “It will undo all the good.” Watson corrected without rancor.

  Definitely not brought up in Catholic, Lestrade thought.

  “Is this enough for Mum?” The oldest asked him in a tone of voice that sounded a bit belligerent.

  “It’s enough for all your family, and I suggest you run it home and start mixing it.” Watson leveled his finger at the boy’s face. “Send for me if there’s no improvement by tomorrow morning.”

  There was no thank you, no comment to say they’d heard; the doctor was suddenly alone at his bench and rubbing his leg with an impatient scowl whilst two men with a too-familiar stamp on their features swaggered up to him. Lestrade felt his inner voice groan as he calculated just how close they were to the outer district of the opium dens.

  “Spare a bit of soft, gov’nor?”

  Watson lifted his head slowly, as if the notice of his incoming roll was just beyond his abilities. “I beg your pardon?” He asked politely.

  Oh, now, that was enough. Lestrade couldn’t be an accessory to murder - or even a toff-rolling. He began looking for a way he could discreetly sneak up without being seen until it was too late. There was always the chance Watson could handle this by himself. He was not surprised by his new guests...

  “Saw you dispensin’ charity among the poor there.” The larger of the men - wasn’t it usually that way - was smirking. The smaller man looked lighter and quicker - he might even be the leader, using his friend as a diversion. “And we were next in line, as it were.”

  “I assure you, you’ll get no more than a few shillings.” That eyebrow went up again as that voice dropped to the dry note Lestrade remembered. “And I’m afraid it won’t look too well for you the next time you go to the clinic, Mr. Woods.”

  “We’ll just have to live with that, won’t we?”

  Lestrade was stamping out just as Watson’s cane touched the first man’s sternum. He barely seemed to tap, but the bruiser stopped dead in his tracks just as he was closing his hand over the doctor’s shoulder.

  As soon as his fingers touched him there, something flitted across Watson’s face like black lightning. He rose up, weight favouring his better leg, and his opposing arm lifted. Lestrade saw the flash of gnashed white teeth in a white face with dark eyes and a terrific impact sent the would-be assailant on a short journey through the air. The standing man backed away, kneeling down to his comrade’s side in a show of loyalty - his only admirable action.

  “I’m not sure you need me, doctor.”

  Watson whirled, his face open to Lestrade’s and for a moment it was a terrible thing, like a violent wave cresting. Just before it could crash, the look was smoothed over and replaced by tired regret.

  “I know them.” He said softly. “When the hunger for their drug comes, they’d commit whatever crime is required.”

  “Yes, I recognise the breed.” Lestrade agreed. A single glare was enough to freeze the would-be thieves. “You aren’t going to go anywhere, are you? Thought not.” He pulled out his police whistle and blew; Watson flinched at each blast but held himself in check very well. “You might as well sit down, doctor. It can wait for the Bobbies. This is Holder’s beat; he won’t be long.”

  “Holder,” Watson breathed out slowly, collecting his nerve. “Didn’t he play cricket at one time?”

  “W-well, why, the very same.” Lestrade blinked. “Do you play cricket?”

  “At one time I did.” Watson passed a gallows-grin to the smaller man. “But I gave it all up for rugby.”

  Lestrade forced his embarrassment down his throat. If Watson was looking for pity he would have done so in better ways. As it was, Lestrade sensed the doctor was just stating a fact because he was trying to face a bitter truth about himself.

  And at that moment, the puzzle pieces that were Watson jigsawed together with a sharp click in Lestrade’s mind.

  Watson wrote about himself in a distant voice in the details of his past. He ironically seemed more alive pre-London than he did in it. In the present he was showing himself as struggling and failing to understand the genius of his fellow lodger. He concentrated on his failure to comprehend that mind - a struggle everyone
at the Yard could sympathize with. Watson might describe others in unflatteringly honest lights, but those were outside observations, notes on how people were behaving, talking, and how they projected themselves. When it came to the inward rationale, he kept the frustrations, the inadequacies, and the incomprehension in his own viewpoint... and thus, was hardest on himself.

  ‘The campaign brought honours and promotion to many, but for me it had nothing but misfortune and disaster.’

  Watson was in transit between the young man who had been in the prime of his life and fortune, and the shattered, useless soldier who somehow survived Maiwand. Instead of serving the Crown he was now dependent on Her benefice. The two ill-matched facets had not yet melded. It all fit on him like a shoe that hadn’t been broken in. He was a stranger to himself.

  ‘I had neither kith nor kin in England...’ ‘...be it remembered how objectless was my life...’ ‘...My health forbade me from venturing out unless the weather was exceptionally genial, and I had no friends who would call upon me and break the monotony of my daily existence.’

  The man was trapped inside his lodgings more days than not with no one to see day in and out but that half-mad detective.

  Oh, dear Lord. He is a ghost. He doesn’t see himself as real yet. That’s why he writes the way he does. That’s why Holmes’ attitude doesn’t really bother him. It’s the admitting that he exists at all that’s important!

  Lestrade kept his composure cool on the outside of this face for the longest three seconds of his life as he and Watson regarded each other with polite masks of civility.

  And he is right. We don’t give Holmes full credit. It’s our habit. We’ve convinced ourselves it’s our right because he only offers advice... it’s our careers, and we put our lives on the line every day, and that gives us our sense of entitlement. We want our merits to prove our worth, but how does a private consulting detective prove his worth?

  That was a question Lestrade was could not answer. Holmes puts himself at risk too... just not as often. But either way, dead is dead.

  Lestrade found himself wondering what Holmes thought of Watson. If there was a god, perhaps he simply thought of him as no worse than the other mere mortals in his life. Hopefully no less.

  “His name is Carl Masters.” Watson cleared his throat. “The other fellow is his brother-in-law, Charlie Woods. They are both opium addicts.” The doctor leaned on his stick, a peculiar mix of emotions on his face. “Carl has cancer of the lymph nodes. He does not have long to live.”

  Carl was groaning; Lestrade discreetly stepped on his right forearm to prevent any further mischief. Watson was looking at them the same way he had looked upon big, dangerous Jefferson Hope.

  “Dr. Watson... you are sorry for them? They could have cracked your skull easy as glass.”

  Watson blinked as if puzzled at the question. “No.” He said simply. “But, I regret what led to this.”

  Lestrade wasn’t certain he understood, but unless he was wrong, Watson could be trusted as a man who would not fight just for the sake of fighting.

  “Well.” There was a slight awkward silence. Lestrade put his hands in his pockets and pulled out the notebook. Watson’s eyes went wide and his cheeks pinked before paling. “I believe you dropped this...”

  “Yes... that I did.”

  “Next time you may want to put your name upon it somewhere. Saves the trouble of a man reading another man’s writing.” Lestrade cleared his throat. “So tell me.” He cleared his throat. “And be honest now.”

  Watson tilted his head to one side, growing red. “Yes?”

  “Now that I’ve gained back four pounds, do I still look sallow and ratfaced?”

  “Oh, no.” Watson’s lips twitched. “I soon promote you to lean and ferrety. Finish gaining the rest of your weight back, and you’ll be sleek and satisfied.”

  The rest of his weight? “What about Gregson?”

  “Gregson shouldn’t gain any more weight.” Watson made a face at the thought.

  Lestrade thought his holiday was looking much brighter.

  13 A reference to Watson’s unsteady gait from his injury. ‘Dot and carry one’ often meant the stride of men with unevenly matched legs or even a wooden leg.

  14 Wilkie Collins’ The Moonstone

  15 Early precursor to the mystery genre

  16 Five shillings

  17 Inspector Jones had a right to be glum when he and Sam Brown lost the tenner reward in SIGN. That would have paid his taxes... and kept his house in vegetables for twelve months.

  18 Heavy doses of colloidal silver could turn a person blue.

  A Well-Read Ghost

  The little bookseller died at dawn.

  It was Murcher’s beat; the big man got a little stuffed-up in his voice when he relayed the news. No fault to him. Hardly anyone could remember not seeing the wizened-up little figure scuttling back and forth the busy streets of London.

  “Plato!” He would insist upon a poor, bewildered student from the University. With his rough, croaking voice he might have been a black-clad frog hopping around the tall, young, straight and unwary quarry. “The Classics must be appreciated by such a fine gentleman such as yourself!” Or, upon spying a tired-looking cutter coming out of ‘Bart’s... “Galen! Surely you cannot pretend to be a student of your Art, sir, your Medical Art, without learning of your forefathers!” And despite the fact that a cutter’s chance for advancement was rife against his station... the man would find himself buying the book in trade for a moment’s peace. And who was to say how he didn’t profit? The old man had an instinct for knowing the secret hungers that walked around him.

  Lestrade had fallen victim himself, once or twice. Unlike Gregson (who could be cozened into a fancy dictionary), Lestrade merely wanted to know more of the law and its changing nature. Some of the titles were still unfinished; heavy, hearty stuff with pithy contents needing the attention of one chapter a night. But he had bought them, and, buyer beware, Lestrade had never allowed himself to regret his side of the bargain.

  They all knew he was poor. He had a stall, if one could call it that; a costermonger’s little get-up and painted with so many layers of mahogany varnish it must have been proof against the thought of rain or snow and wind... he took better care of his little cart than he did himself; he was always cleaning it when he was on the kerb, muttering to himself in sing-song little snatches of foreign languages. He was a familiar sight to nearly everyone throughout London.

  Lestrade was picking his way down one of London’s older and close-set streets at the sound of Murcher’s whistle. That quickly, his breakfast was diverted and he was one of the people drawing to the big Constable... the difference being he was supposed to be there. His heart began to sink at the little glimpses of shrunken black form through the crowd Murcher was swatting back like horseflies. The corner of the little portable stall protruded from behind his blue coat-tails. At the hunched-over little form inside his battered black frock-coat, with the blue veins shrunken into his dry hands, Lestrade felt the descent complete.

  “He seemed fine enough when I walked past him,” Murcher nodded and touched his thick fingers to the brim of his helmet. The crowd took the cue and scattered. The policemen ignored how they moved slowly, as if to prove they weren’t intimidated. “Just a little tired. I asked how he ‘uz, and he croaked, “sufficient today is the evil thereof.”

  “Sounds just like him.” Lestrade knelt carefully on the rim of the street, and tilted the slumped head that was resting on the hollow chest. What he saw was all too-familiar, even if he hadn’t seen the dark, glimmering track of death through the thin white hair running down and behind the stained collar. The frail old head, scarcely more than the three pounds or so it was supposed to weigh, was even heavier in death as it wobbled on the neck. The ligh
t grey eyes were already clouding over.

  Atheists were strange folk, the Inspector thought not for the first time. How could anyone witness the change from life to death, especially in the eyes, and not believe in a soul?

  “Looks like a burst vessel, straight enough...” The quickness of the death was offset by the appearance one left behind. The Inspector quietly leaned the head back and with Murcher’s help, stretched the old man’s body upon its back. The pooling blood had already suffused the face behind and around the white side-whiskers with a plum-like tint and made a slight swelling where the wrinkles sunk into the face. It was difficult to make the body rest supine; perhaps the rumors were true, and he really had broken his back in the past. (Lestrade doubted he really had handicapped himself in a coal-mine. Miners didn’t have time to read.)

  There was nothing in the way of dead-filth, just the usual filth of the living upon the clothing. Lestrade wondered how many rag-shop vendors had given the old man the clothing he wore. It was nosy and he felt like a peeping Tom, but it was inevitable to wonder. The cream-coloured shirt had once been beautiful silk. The collar atop the shirt belonged to an earlier age. The cuffs were too large for those thin wrists. The cufflinks were cunningly fashioned of tiny polished acorns. What the Inspector could see of the waistcoat was a rusty wool, only barely dark enough to match the street-battered black wool.

  “Wonder when he last et?” Murcher was asking.

  Lestrade shrugged. “He always went to Brucie’s for bread and tea in the evening. Someone ought to tell him... where was he seen last?”

  “He was sniggling eels by the Bridge yesterday.”

  “I’m betting you that’s where he set up for the night.”

  “Lord, I hope not, sir. The wind coming off the Thames was fierce last night.”

  “It usually is, this time of year, but two old men would choose it if it meant less chance of being preyed on.”

  It always took long enough for the dead-cart. Lestrade folded the scrawny hands across the chest. No sense wasting time. He didn’t know if there were provisions set aside, or anything in the way of possessions outside the cart. Brucie ought to be told. Another harmless old soul that even the cutthroats ignored out of whatever decency they might possess... or perhaps even they knew there was nothing worth killing for inside those old coats.