"Is it supposed to have those green things inside?"
Faced with the inevitable question, Inspector Lestrade never looked up from stirring the coals about the cooking-trivet that had begun its life as an iron wagon-wheel years ago. "Those green things are leaf celery and beetroot-tops." He tapped the cooking-pot with his stick; sparks lifted up from the humble utensil. "You should remember," he said pointedly, with a flash of those too-dark eyes. 'You helped me steal them this morning."
Hopkins didn't really want to remember that particular episode, even though the theft was from an abandoned garden it was still on a private estate and policemen were really supposed to be above that sort of thing.
All other considerations failed, however, at the sight of what his companion had (optimistically to his thinking), termed 'supper." He couldn't positively identify what it was they were cooking their supper in either, but he was fairly certain it was never created with an eye to culinary practicality. It was thin cast-iron; he knew that much. Lestrade had roasted the large round sheet-metal in the coals for nearly an hour before he placed the tinfoil-wrapped vegetables in the bed of coals and covered them with ash; after that, the mysterious metal sheet, and on top, the small cooking-pot that was an even stranger. There was something about it that made the young man think of rail-yard scrap metal. He hoped he was wrong…but he doubted it.
Night was crawling over Cornwall from behind; despite himself, Hopkins found his attention increasingly drawn to the soft smears of colour tinting the line between the ocean and the sky. Not for the first time, he pondered that artists were famous for their ability to convey the brush-strokes of the First Master of Art.
Which was a better view than the jumbled lumps of stone remains half-a mile across the lonely moor. Hopkins didn't like the old Neolithic huts at first chalk; with the fading of the day, the place was even worse. Nightmarish. Positively gruesome and disturbing and...well, threatening.
He wasn't superstitious; he didn't believe in ghosts, but he could well believe the land had forgotten to tell the residents that the rest of the planet had moved on without them. Images of wild savage men in skins with murderously sharp spears were leaking into the young man's psyche. Ghosts would be preferable.
"Hopkins, you've been nervous as a debutante all day. You've gone undercover before; whatever is it?"
Hopkins breathed out, grateful that Lestrade (who was unmatched in his ability to make the largest Yarder feel the smallest), only looked puzzled and concerned rather than impatient. "I suppose part of it's because I haven't been out in the open in a few years," he began slowly. "But also, it's quite an ugly case we're on. When was the last time the Home Office had to pull in so many different Inspectors and Sergeants in on a single affair?"
"1891." Lestrade answered promptly. "Twelve Inspectors, three sergeants, and I believe the total of PCs involved came to 39. I could be wrong about that one…did Bow Street use both of the Irish Twins, or just one?"
"Who's to know?" Hopkins wondered, and for the first time that evening, the two men laughed. Humour in the face of a crawling damp Cornish fog wasn't a simple thing to come by, and they were both glad of it.
"You're thinking of the Docks Case at the Estuary," Hopkins mused. "Lord, what a mess that was." He sighed and touched his leg with a sudden mischievous expression. "My first battle-scars."
"I couldn't tell you how many I picked up on that one," Lestrade grimaced. "I think I lost count after they stuffed me into that hogshead. Or maybe I just fainted…some of those details are a blur."
Hopkins shuddered. "I don't mind telling you, I never regret the conclusion of a case, but there are times when we're working on one that I fear we aren't doing any good."
"Get used to that sensation." Lestrade answered, and gave the cooking-pot a testing tap.
"I suppose what really makes it hard for me though, is knowing there's been so many deaths connected to this case already." Hopkins sighed and stuffed his hands into the deep pockets of his battered rag-shop coat. "Fourteen poor miners…all for being in the wrong place in the wrong time. Who would bother killing miners, I ask you? Their life-span is chancy enough as it is!"
"You're asking the wrong person. Artefacts and relics and professional degrees don't mean that—" Lestrade snapped his fingers; it made a cracking sound across the small plain, "—compared to a man's life. I don't care how many years are spent in their education, how many strings they had to pull, favours to cull, patrons to worry. Those bone-hunters are a queer lot. They're not murdering each other for survival, they're murdering for their reputation." Lestrade finished by tapping his forehead to indicate insanity. The incurable sort. "When it comes to the upper echelons, I swear to you, that lot is as barmy as the Third Marquis of Queensbury."
Hopkins shuddered all over, visions of the infamous and utterly mad ten-year old Marquis caught in the act of eating a freshly roasted scullion in the kitchen. It was not a soothing image for one who was out in the middle of nowhere, in unfamiliar territory, with equally unfamiliar nourishment.
"It's a small thing in the whole scheme of things," he said thoughtfully. As usual, the problem itself distracted him from the overall unease of the assignment.
"It does seem a small thing," the older man said casually as he picked up a lump of coal and threw it in. Sparks fountained like fire into the night sky. The soft-coal sat, pondering the heat before wisps of smoke began to curl up around it. Bituminous was like that; it put a layer of grime on you before and after it was burnt; Lestrade wiped his hand fastidiously on the damp grass. "But you'd be surprised, Hopkins. This mine has been owned and operated by the same small group of people since during the Roman occupation."
"How can you be so sure?" Hopkins wondered, more curious than challenging. That was his great strength although he wasn't aware of it. His burning curiosity to know amused the hardened old crowd at the Yard—even the Bow Street crowd, who remembered something of their young selves in the newcomer. "There's not that many records left after the Romans left, and most of those are molding church records."
Lestrade merely shrugged. "First of all," he began, drawing letters in the air with the glowing end of his stick: ONE. "This is Cornwall. People have been mining it since Bronze became the latest new fashion after the double-edged flint points and a few bits of iron. Tin was a valued commodity, so naturally no one was just going to up and tell the powerful trading-partners across the seas where they were and how they were doing. If your teachers were anything as brutal as mine, they would have mentioned something about the role of tin in the Roman Invasion." He shrugged. "The Greeks believed in a mythical Cassiterides—Tin Islands—west of Europe, so this place is as good as any to be a point of mythological misdirection."
Hopkins made a musing sound and picked up his tiny teapot. "I remember my teachers saying the Tin Islands had to exist somewhere in the ocean, or they wouldn't be called islands."
"Academics." Lestrade scoffed. "No comparison to honest work. A tin seam is an island, Hopkins. Mines are just the means to extract the pools of wealth hiding in the ground." He took his own cup and knocked half the portion down. "Been that way a long, long time."
Hopkins was thinking back. "Most people don't refer to the Romans as invaders," he pointed out. "Saviours of culture and all that." Those too-dark eyes sank into Hopkins' chest, threatening to rip the roots right out of the ribs.
But Lestrade only smiled, his sharp, swarthy features bending in a smile that Hopkins never—quite—accustomed his nerve to. "So they don't. I tend to forget some small details from time to time…" Those dark eyed gleamed like the teeth shining in the fire-light. "You know," he added conversationally, "just because Oliver Cromwell came from Cambridgeshire, doesn't mean there's any use in being ashamed of one's roots."
Hopkins was a moment collecting his voice. "I haven't been there since I was a boy."
"But you're still of the fens, Hopkins. You're a Crane, as much as I'm a product from where I'm from. It's in your speech—Cambridge University accents leak down to all the levels. At least you've got the grace of having one point of origin to your family. I need a slate and chalk to keep track of mine."
Hopkins sighed, and held out his battered tin bowl in good grace as Lestrade dropped a ladleful of near-boiling broth inside. At least he could identify the bacon—he had brought that along. The single mangel-wurtzel1 Lestrade had pulled out of the lost vegetable-plot had been of a truly stupendous size; the older man had briskly peeled, trimmed and chopped it up, burying the incriminating evidence with a casual skill that somewhat worried his companion.
"How much longer until time?" Hopkins wondered. Now that the sunset had vanished, he was beginning to stir with the restless worry of doing his job.
"Just a moment…" Lestrade fished in the muffler wrapped around his neck and pulled out an iron chain. "Where'd that dratted Pole Star get to?" He muttered to himself.
Hopkins grinned; it was most unlikely that the Axis had gone anywhere. He watched as the older man set the tiny nocturnal dial on the month, and eyed the little metal disk until it lined up with the North Star. Unlike the fixed arm of a sundial, a star dial had to move, and Lestrade adjusted it until the arm lined up with the uppermost star of the Big Dipper.
"Half-hour." He pronounced, and popped the dial back around his neck.
"Half an hour's all my nerves can take." Hopkins muttered.
"You'll do fine." Lestrade was drinking the broth out of his bowl first. "Granted, I'm sure you'd have more of an exciting time with Mr. Holmes right now, but let's leave that to the Yarders who aren't in a period of recovery."
Hopkins grunted. No one complained about being back on their feet after spending a week in bed, wishing they could eat something that could keep down. "I doubt Mr. Holmes wants to see much of my face anyway." He said honestly.
Lestrade only laughed. "You're in a rather large, exclusive club then, Hopkins. Don't let it worry you."
"Things were fine for a long time, and then I made those mistakes." Hopkins persisted. "It was like…I'd disappointed him beyond measure." The hurt still echoed a bit, despite his attempt to hide it.
Lestrade lifted dark eyebrows, but he didn't make a dark comment or scold him. "He's not like us, Hopkins. He's not one of us. Don't think of him as anything less than an amateur. I know that seems like it's an insult, but we're the real professionals in this. We do this for a living, but Mr. Holmes is a detective because he really doesn't seem to have a choice in the matter. Professionals are career-men; amateurs are in for it because they love their craft. There's worlds of difference between the two."
"I know," Hopkins admitted. "And I understand that. But I swear to you, every time I work with him, we have to re-affirm the rules of behavior."
Lestrade barked a laugh. "Too true! You should have seen him before Dr. Watson's influence. Poor doctor is a calming sort." He laughed again at the expression on the younger man's face. "Just because Watson can shoot the eye out of a bloody crow at a hundred yards and is usually the first one to hit the scene of an attack doesn't mean he's not a stable sort. I'll trust his gun any day; Mr. Holmes rarely if ever touches the things, which is just as well. Everyone needs some sort of limitation." He took his flask back and had a sip. "As hard as he is on you, Hopkins, he's even harder on himself. He's a smart one, and that's true. But there's no room in his life for error. That in itself, leads to error. Do you understand what I'm saying?"
Hopkins sighed. "Which is why we're out here, in the centre of nowhere, waiting to catch coded signals from a half-witted gang of academic murderers?"
"Oh, it's not exactly the centre of nowhere...it was probably even a lively little burgh a few thousand years ago." Lestrade said wryly. "Any time you have to sweep a campsite for sharp arrowheads is a clue to its usefulness in the past...where was I? Oh. Hopkins, we're the back-up in case something else goes wrong."
It was Hopkins' turn to lift an eyebrow. "Just the way you said that implies to me you believe it will."
Lestrade shrugged. "Call me a nervous sort...but Mr. Holmes is as angry as I've never seen him, and it's just as well you and I are out of it. This gang is half-witted, make no mistake. Mr. Holmes would have never known this lot was even about if they hadn't stabbed Watson."
"But Watson put the other three in the hospital." Hopkins protested. "Why is he that upset? I've seen the man shrug off a bullet wound without a blink!"
"Because it's Watson," Lestrade said patiently. "You never worked with Holmes when Watson was with him until that...what was that case? Abbey Grange? Holmes doesn't care tuppence and a gin-shot for his own welfare, but if someone even pokes Watson, it's like a two-tonne Kilkenny Cat on the loose!"
Hopkins shuddered. "Well they shouldn't have tried to kill him then. Did anyone ever find out why they tried such a half-cocked thing?"
Lestrade shrugged. "I'm afraid Watson's features are so generalised they mistook him for a rival in the field. They'll live to rue that mistake. Mr. Holmes will see to that." The little man didn't sound very upset at the notion of vendetta. If anything, the prospect appeared to be a cheerful one. "Late in life, I've actually come to learn to appreciate irony. Watson wouldn't have been injured in the first place if he hadn't gone on vacation without Mr. Holmes. I was there when they were arguing at the station. Holmes just couldn't put down a petty forgery case long enough to hie to the coast." The chuckle was low and amused. "It'll be a cold day on the sun when Mr. Holmes lets him go on vacation without him after this." He turned his head, eyes sharpening as a flicker of fire caught on the rim of the ocean. "Hah!"
Hopkins was already lunging for his tiny notebook and lead pencil. "Ready!"
"N...O...R...W..." Lestrade counted the flashes on the encroaching smuggling-ship. "C...V...--Northwest Cove--"
Some instinct made Hopkins look up--he could write without looking. "Lestrade!" He hissed.
"Not now, lad...12 D. S...T..."
"I think that's Mr. Holmes running across that old Neolithic village!"
"...Twelve degrees stabbard...probably is, Hopkins...hmn...two degrees North..."
"Lestrade!" Hopkins protested. "I think he's going after those pot-hunters!"
"Probably." Lestrade was unruffled.
"Shouldn't we do anything?"
"Isn't Gregson with him?"
"Uh...W...I suppose that's Gregson chasing after him."
"He'll be fine. G...R...T...B...--'Great Boulder, or I'm a ruddy slide ruler. Are you getting this down, lad?"
Hopkins scribbled frantically. "It's the two of them in that awful place, Lestrade!"
"You think?" Lestrade drawled. "F...R...S...T...hmn...I think he dropped his lantern on that one..."
A gunshot rippled through the air. Hopkins jumped. Lestrade never turned a hair.
"Lestrade!" Hopkins groaned.
"What did I tell you about Dr. Watson, Hopkins?"
"W--He's still in the hospital!"
"You have a lot to learn about Afghan veterans, Stanley. It was only a glancing wound." Lestrade casually lit his pipe from a twig, eyes still on the coastline. "F-R-S-T-S-T...R...M...First Stream...that's got to be the little freshet that drains into the Cove..."
"He lied?" Transcribing Morse Code, following what was indubitably an exciting event in a Neolithic village across the field, and holding up his end of a strange conversation, Hopkins had never done so many different things at once.
"Mr. Holmes is an amateur, Hopkins." Lestrade was smiling around the stem of his pipe as he spoke. Hopkins could hear it. "He still trusts Dr. Watson not to lie to him. And Dr. Watson's pulled some whoppers to save his skinny neck in the past."
1 A stock vegetable, an orange long beet high in sugar.