Truth is the Critic
When the first chapter of A Study in Scarlet came out, the Strand not only sold most of its copies out in record time, it raised the flag over Scotland Yard. Lestrade, for his part, felt an all-too-familiar sinking sensation settle in his intestines as he forced himself to read through each excruciating paragraph.
"I would enjoy this a great deal more, if Gregson hadn't tipped me off about what was coming." He muttered under his breath. The other's words had been haunting him since early morning. '"Sallow and rat-faced."' Gregson had sneered. '"Well at least we know Watson's pen can peg a man accurately."'
Constable Briggs, transferred on Baynes' request, gave a wry look as he picked up a thin avalanche of blank warrants off the floor. "He sure'nuff knows how to write about London, though. When I brought my Anna here, she cried a fortnight."
Lestrade was briefly distracted from his looming tragedy by a stranger one. "That's terrible, Briggs. Is she any better?"
"Oh, yes sir." Briggs was pleased to report. "She only cries on Easter and Christmas."
"Oh." Lestrade stared at the young man, slowly realizing the boy was telling the truth. He wondered if Christmas included all twelve excruciating days of it in the Briggs household. It might explain why he never grumbled to be on duty on any of the major holidays... Still, it was better than nonstop crying every day, wasn't it?
Scotland Yard settled in with its back to the wind, facing each installment with a mixture of relief and anticipation. Lestrade knew in his bones that in the case of Bradstreet, Hopkins, Athelney-Jones, MacDonald, Youghal and Baynes the serial was being met with unholy and hyena-like glee. More than once the unmistakable sounds of muffled guffaws drifted up from the stairwells. He had a terrible foreboding that a great deal of those Strand issues were being bought up by his comrades in arms.
As deeply annoyed as Lestrade was about the whole mess, he had to admit Watson spared no one, not even himself. Reading Watson's first, stubbornly incredulous reaction to Holmes' deductive abilities was like reading his own first experience—but, mercifully, Holmes hadn't shredded him apart as badly as he'd done the poor doctor. That in itself was worth the price of the rag.
"I think we needs file that one." Bradstreet offered. Of all the others, he was friendliest to Lestrade; they had far too little in common to be in competition. They didn't even look anything alike; Bradstreet's cubic capacity was an advantage in the rougher sides of London he favored—no one ever thought of making fun of his peaked cap or Froggy style of dress. "We should make the reading of it mandatory to the new'uns coming in."
"Oh, I don't know about that," Lestrade protested. "Tradition was good enough for us, wasn't it? Send the poor wretches off all unknowing to their fates, just as we were done ourselves."
"Cruel, sir. Cruel…"
"I hope that quack knows a good solicitor." Gregson stamped past. "I'll have him in court, by God. If he thinks he saw it bad in Afghanistan, I'll give him something to limp about!" Instead of his usual pause to gloat about his rival's newfound kinship with rodents, Gregson had clearly discovered the part Lestrade had just been snickering on.
"I agree." Lestrade said blandly. "Your hands are hardly fat, Tobias. Perhaps a little on the Euclidian Square side…and the plumpness of your musculature could bring about a false impression…"
Gregson whirled on him. "By God, he's got his nerve! I don't care if he's a veteran or not! This was uncalled for!"
"On the contrary." Lestrade said icily. "We don't like each other, Gregson—there's no point in pretending otherwise. But we could at least be civil and respect each other's barriers in the line of duty." Lestrade slapped the newsprint down on the rail and folded his arms across his chest. "And if you think we have it rough, for God's sake, why don't you actually read these accounts and see how Holmes is portrayed."
Possibly Gregson was just too astonished to pick Lestrade up and toss him out the nearest window. Or Bradstreet's looming presence had something to do with it too. Lestrade made a mental note that once he got home, to write on his calendar the historic occasion of cutting his rival adrift: (Have witnessed phenomena referred to as 'speechless').
"Don't you even care?" Gregson finally demanded.
"Yes I very much do care, thank you. But can you prove Dr. Watson is spreading falsehood?" Lestrade tapped the Strand with his fingertips. "And again, I submit to you, as if we were in court. Who would you rather be in this particular story, Inspector—yourself, or Sherlock Holmes?"
Gregson's silence was awkward. He was not accustomed to being faced with a question that required that kind of thought.
Lestrade was inwardly sweating. He was not accustomed to being on the obverse of Gregson's attitude. Gregson was smarter than Lestrade by far—it was common knowledge and Gregson never let him forget it. But Lestrade's willingness to get out and plod through the streets had gotten him to Gregson's level. The bobbies called him "The Concrete and Clay Inspector" for good reason, and for the most part, Lestrade was satisfied with his reputation at the Yard.
The worst part of his job was that he had to know his own limits better than his rivals. Gregson could always be counted on to throw some intellectual problem at him and make him look like a fool, just to get even with a half-point Lestrade had scored on him a week ago. Ergo, Lestrade had learned early on it was best to take his lumps and move on before the indignities could gather interest. He took it from Gregson, but damned if he would take it from that amateur Holmes.
"Read it all through, sirs." Bradstreet said quietly. "The doctor tells the truth. And he certainly told the truth in that the two of you could band together in a common cause. Now that's something none of us ever thought'd happen." He shrugged his massive shoulders. "The case needed Mr. Holmes, that's true, but when the two of you combined your talents, we had the man inside twenty-four hours."
Talents? Bradstreet meant well, but that was a sad choice of a word. Gregson would never apply 'talent' to Lestrade. Lestrade decided he had no choice but to take his slim lead and finish with it.
"Inspector, people are asking us to our faces how we feel about this serial. We can lie, or we can tell them the truth. Or we can completely save our faces and take the third method: We can say the serial is being done with our complete permission."
"You cannot possibly be serious!" Gregson roared. "After the way he wrote about us?"
Now it's us? Lestrade gritted his teeth. "We cannot stop Dr. Watson from writing unless he prints an utter falsehood. Now, can you find one?"
Gregson's face was dark as iris, but he shook his head. "He shouldn't write about us in such a disrespectful manner."
"Disrespectful? Tobias Gregson, I submit to you this is nothing. When was the last time you saw a print of us that had both the good and bad together? That's going to give Watson's pen even more credulity. And if I'm to believe my favorite street-vendors, it's made us look a bit more human to their eyes. Do you not remember the time Punch wrote us all up and made us look to a man like universal damned lobotomics?"
Gregson and Bradstreet both to a man, flinched. Punch had written about the Yard almost three years ago, but the memory still lingered, like a septic infection. Bradstreet once confessed the caricatures still flashed in front of his eyelids at night when he was feeling his most vulnerable. No one in the Yard had bought a subscription or used the paper for more than a game of darts since. Well, there was young Briggs, who insisted they were the thing for lining the bottom of his rabbit cages…
"Punch also accused us of being selfish, glory-hunting seekers who refused to work together. Now it's true we do work together, but we only do it when we have to. I for one am perfectly content with you working on your side and I to mine. But if the Yard gives everyone the impression that we know about Dr. Watson's writings, and aren't upset…it will go better for our reputations in the long run."
It was the worst example of eating crow Lestrade had ever put himself through, worse than the time the Old Man dressed him down (at a healthy distance) in front of the whole Yard for falling into an open sewer while chasing a felon impersonating a dairy inspector. (And he hoped Gregson, who had been the first to congratulate him for that escapade in brilliant alliteration, wasn't thinking of that right now.)1
Gregson wouldn't leave voluntarily without a verbal evisceration, and Lestrade couldn't handle that on top of all the bitter honesty he'd just spewed. Besides, it was the end of the day. He opted for a dramatic exit. Three more days, and he'd be on holiday. He could last that long.
1 "Lestrade Leapingly Loses Malignant Mad Milkman, Matthew Morrisy by Sadly Slipping into Stinking Sewage off Sanders Street."