The Narrow Path: The First Storm

Inspector Gregson was rarely taken aback by the weather. Some men had old wounds—broken bones, metal bits from battle stick stuck in them—perhaps a sensitive head. He, however, had a wife who had a particularly exquisite sense of smell that had somehow remained intact despite a lifetime of London.

But Elise was out with her family on one of those jaunts, the sort that lasts all day and finishes with bulging sacks of stuff, and the gruff man had forged without this morning. So accustomed was he to her barometric reports, that he had quite forgotten to pay attention to his own senses. Enough of his brain was devoted to just rising, dressing, eating the bread and tea she had thoughtfully left for him, and then getting out the door.

So it was with a slight sense of surprise and a much larger sense of self-annoyance that he rounded the corner on his way to New Scotland Yard and found himself staring into the rising front of soggy grey atmospheric bile.

"Oh, no." He groaned aloud. A troupe of urchins—Gregson recognized them as the reprehensible malcontents off Lestrade's street—paused on their pelt to shelter with a puzzled look. Elise would kill him if he came back to their apartment with a coat soaking wet and stinking of the factory-smoke coming off the estuary.

And speaking of Lestrade…Gregson hurriedly put his back to the grimy bricks, hoping for a scrap of protection, noting Constable Lions was headed for cover on the other side with an unseemly haste in his heavy coat and boots.

…if that wasn't Lestrade himself, exposed in the mews, running like a member of the peerage pursued by anxious bankers.

"Hurry, man!" Gregson felt victim to his own temptations, and cheered him on although it looked fairly well hopeless. The clouds were boiling like that stuff the theatre put in the witches' cauldron whenever they did Macbeth.

Lestrade gasped to a halt, literally stopping his momentum by putting his palms up against the bricks by Gregson's side.

The heavens opened.

"Holy God!" Gregson blurted. He stared in a mixture of disbelief and reluctant admiration at the seething brew above their heads. "Look out!" They pressed themselves as close under the eves as their bodies allowed. The first of the water running off the roof-tops was always the worst and it hadn't rained in over a month; it drizzled down in thick, black strings, painted with thirty-two days of soot and cinders, feathers, small bones, plane-leaves, chips off tile, slate, paint flakes, bird and animal droppings, cloth, twigs, dead lengths of ivy, loose bits of crumbling brick and mortar

—Lestrade grabbed his Derby in both hands and tightened it about his skull like a bottle-cap as a half-eaten rat plopped out of the sky to land in a mass at their feet. Maggots crawled out of its thin rib-cage. A puddle—more soup than water, mixed equally with roof-top effluvium and fresh horse manure—collected around the dead rodent.

"You know," Lestrade spoke through the intricate fence-work of perfectly clenched teeth. "There are over 14,000 lost umbrellas in the Missing Claims department. Fourteen-sodding-thousand. And we can't afford to purchase a single one."

"We should have a statute on them," Gregson agreed. "Of course, can you imagine the damage Punch would do to us?

The little man shuddered as if he was cat, not man, under the wet. Both had sudden fantasies of a painful cartoon drafted up of an improvident Bobby supplementing his pitiful income by hawking lost umbrellas on the street. The possibilities were simply infinite.

"I wonder how long this is going to last?" Gregson finally wondered.

"I don't know, but at least the water coming down is merely grey now." Lestrade sighed. He looked tired—of late, a common occurrence with him. It was a little disturbing.

"Too right. And no longer textured." Gregson shivered under his coat. "Awfully late in the year for rain." His breath smoked in the thickness of the air. "I'd much rather it be snow."

"One last cleaning of the ton before winter, I suppose." Lestrade commented. Unlike Gregson, Lestrade was a small furnace; his breath steamed as violently as the vapour coming off his shoulders. Gregson had never seen Lestrade more than slightly discomfited by the coolness of the clime, and he always felt it unfair. He himself had a severe allergy to the cold, especially when it was wet like this.1

"Your people hail from sunny France," he complained. "Why aren't you cold?"

Lestrade blinked at him, askance at this peculiar attack. "We hailed from Cornwall and Wales before we fled to the peninsula, you know." He pointed out. "Have you ever seen Snowdon in January?" He tucked his hands inside his arms. "This isn't like you, Gregson. Shouldn't you be making a clever comment about how we're getting nowhere in the Funeral Home scandals?"

Gregson shrugged; the movement almost took him from out of the protection of the eve. "I'm helping Hopkins too, y'know. I know what kind of problems you're having."

Lestrade blew out his breath. "It's awful." He said bluntly. "We've tried everything we can think of, but it still looks like we might have to apply for an exhumation or two."

Gregson had expected the news, but winced anyway. "That won't go over well," He proved his gift for understatement. "Not with the PMG breathing down our necks for anything it thinks we're doing poorly."

"At least they haven't gotten wind of this mess…yet." Lestrade pointed out.

"Too true." Gregson shook his head.

More rain. A gust blew mist into their faces. Lestrade burrowed under his muffler, resigned to his fate.

"Well, Lestrade, I suppose I owe you an apology."

Lestrade met that comment with the suspicion it deserved. "How so?"

"I once told Mr. Holmes you didn't have the sense to come out of the rain."

Lestrade chuffed. "Kind of you," he said evenly.

Rain.

"Heard from Watson?"

"He can't really enter this case until we have something to show for it." Lestrade folded up the edges of his muffler to cover the bottom of his chin. "I appreciate the man's instincts, his willingness to keep up with the advances in science, and I certainly appreciate the fact that he's not a bad tracker…but we don't have anything for his medical analysis yet." He blinked as the wind changed direction. "I was on my way to meet with Hopkins; he was investigating some church-records that might prove useful."

"There are too many dead people to keep track of." Gregson complained.

"I'm sure that's how these parasites managed to avoid detection all these years."

The rain was halting to the point where they could see the street on the other side. The Inspectors watched as poor Constable Lions poked his head out from his own shelter, looked both ways, and resolutely squared his shoulders. The big man appeared to sigh, reluctant but determined to do his duty, and he stepped into the open street. Standing water met his uncomfortable boots. He was probably already soaking wet; walking inside his heavy wool uniform would keep him warm to an extent…as long as he kept walking.

Dry if not cozy, the Inspectors watched him go with a piling caseload of guilt. When it approached avalanche proportions, Lestrade squared his own shoulders and faced forward. Gregson could only follow. They might have the luxury of plain clothing, light shoes, and the freedom to huddle out of the weather, but it was impossible to enjoy that comfort when their fellow policeman was out suffering for less than half their own wages.

And it wasn't as though any policeman made enough to brag about. Lions was paid roughly the same amount as a ditchdigger; 150 pounds. The absolute minimum required for marriage. The Inspectors made more by 50, but it was eaten up in the same rate. Just putting his two sons in school cost Lestrade an easy two pounds a year; cheap enough on the outside, but that didn't cover their clothing or books or school supplies. Gregson had heard that the first-born was a bright little button, craving paper and ink more than other children did toys and sweets. That cost money too. Chalk and slate did it more than not, like it did most children.

Gregson suspected Lestrade was stretching his funds to the last farthing to make certain his children never had—or suspected--the kind of schooling he had. Gregson couldn't blame him. Education had been bad enough when they were that age, but at least Gregson had the luxury of being sent to a Dame School with his older brothers. The small man had been much less fortunate; like all too many children, he had known only the lot of the 'ragged schools'' six half-days of education to the very poor and orphan children. Although Gregson had not been subject to that misery, he did not wish to contemplate it. It was one of the reasons why he and Elise were childless.

The other and more important reason, of course, was in Elise herself…

Still, we somehow turned out all right…somehow…

Reminding himself of that always worked…for a while. It was too easy to remember the hollow anguish in Bradstreet's eyes back in '82 when his three youngest children died of winter ails—and nearly their mother too. Lestrade had nearly lost his wife the same way with the arrival of their youngest son.

Gregson wasn't certain how those men could continue on after that sort of loss. Elise was the one thing in his life he could rely on, and thoughts of anything that could endanger her made him half-mad with fear.

Lestrade slowed, politely waiting for the bigger—and naturally clumsier—Gregson to catch up. Rain speckled tiny dark freckles the dome and rim of his hat. Those large dark eyes regarded him with a little puzzlement mixed with a bit of impatience. Gregson could read the thoughts: Can't he wait until we're at the Yard before he starts woolgathering? It made him smile to himself. Their rivalry was not the same bitter thing it had been, ten years ago. In its absence both men felt a sort of unspoken relief. It had held them both back, even though the war had been under the tacit approval of their superiors, who carried the attitude that 'grist makes bread.'

Gregson had once believed that.

"Where are you headed today?" The larger man asked.

"After work? Unless something shows up, straight home." Lestrade's step faltered just slightly as a dying gust swept a fragrant wind into their faces. "I don't care to be caught at the office when the Chief brings in his new guest for inspection!"

Gregson snorted through his nose. "You have to wonder who it will be this time," he noted as they skirted a rapidly-expanding puddle. The same boys that had ran past Gregson before the storm were running past them again. Lestrade paused and shouted something in a mash of syllables Gregson—as usual—couldn't fathom. One boy paused long enough to give a saucy answer in return, but the grin on his dirty face melted as Lestrade said something right back, quick as a fishwife. As one, the children teemed off with the group-control of a school of fish that already knew where it should head.

"Honestly," Lestrade switched to English—he probably thought Gregson had even understood him. "I don't understand some of these boys anymore."

"I have a hard time imagining you as a boy myself, Lestrade." Gregson noted.

Lestrade spared him a hard look. "I guarantee you, Gregson—the older you get the harder that will be."

"I'll take your word for it—bother." They avoided a stinking rivulet just in time. "All right. If Hopkins and I were to see you today, after work, would you be available?"

The little man paused, tilting his head to one side curiously. "I wasn't planning on being anywhere, if that's what you mean," he said carefully. "Have you learnt anything yet about this funeral scandal?"

"I'm not sure. But it wouldn't hurt the three of us to start meeting on a regular basis and pool what we know. The three of us ought to be able to learn something, you know."

"One can only hope!" Lestrade spoke just a bit sourly for the perspective. He stuffed his hands in his pockets. Like most men who couldn't afford a tailor, his outer-clothing hung slightly too large for his frame. While it gave him a greater freedom of movement (a vital thing in a dangerous situation), it gave the wrong impression that he was smaller than he really was. "It's settled then. You and Hopkins come over whenever you're both ready. I'll be at home."

"And why wouldn't the three of us meet at my place? Or Hopkins?"

Lestrade gave him the look of scorn he deserved. "I'm not about to go anywhere near your house at the hours of supper without your wife present. And Hopkins…while I wasn't there at the time he invited over those cronies for Youghal's birthday, but I certainly heard all about it. We'll be doing him a favour by keeping the hospitality duties away from his family."

"I admit, I feel sorry for that boy." Gregson smiled weakly. "Were our mothers ever that protective?"

Lestrade did not smile back. "I wouldn't know." He answered seriously.

Gregson swallowed down. Stupid, he thought. "This evening it is." He promised. "I will see you with Mr. Hopkins then."

Lestrade nodded. "We'll have supper for you."

"You needn't go through any imposition, Lestrade."

"I'm not. We need some sort of excuse. Just tell the others I lost a bet and had to provide a free meal or something." Lestrade looked like he didn't care what anyone thought of him for such a loss; he didn't look he cared either way. "And warn Hopkins about Paddington Street, would you?"

"Absolutely," Gregson chuckled. "We'll see you then."

Lestrade watched him go. Gregson walked like a stiff, aching rheumatoid and it was no wonder. It made him shake his head to think of what the bigger man went through on a regular basis.

He was a bit of a prig, and he never hesitated to rub his better brains into Lestrade's self-worth, but Lestrade always wondered if Gregson would survive one winter to the next. His normally white face would tinge with blue; his tallow head would chill with frost, and his hands shook constantly. But damned if he would go through double-effort to make certain no one had cause to say the winter hampered his ability to work. From one tenacious man to another, Lestrade respected that.

1 Reynaud's Disease