20 June 1900
The successful recovery of the famous black pearl of the Borgias from within a plaster bust of Napoleon Bonaparte occurred parallel to the solution of the Pietro Venucci murder case and several incidents of petty larceny that preceded the murder. This latter involved the breaking and theft of facsimiles of the aforementioned bust.
The man charged, in part or wholly, of these three crimes is one Beppo, second name unknown (but under investigation), an Italian piecework man, known in the Italian Quarter as a talented craftsman despite being 'molto brutto', that is, particularly ugly. Indeed, the man's features are sharply simian in nature; he has thick eyebrows, with an unusual protrusion of the jaw, is tall, with nimble limbs. He is at present under the custody of the C.I.D. and is being held in the cells at the Yard, awaiting the inquest.
There is also an investigation being undertaken to find evidence pointing to the involvement of the Venucci family (including the deceased, Pietro) in the theft of the pearl.
The connexion with the pearl's disappearance was not apparent at first, but owing to investigations by Mr. Sher—
Inspector Lestrade found himself coming to an abrupt halt as he stared at the name he had been about to write, the name he had been thinking of but had no intention of writing. With a sigh, he took up his pen to strike out the error—then stopped.
He was occupied with drawing up his report concerning the case he had recently worked on with Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson which, he remembered, began quite simply. The breaking and entering and destroying of property seemed at first to Dr. Watson as symptoms of an idée fixe, a form of monomanic mental aberration. Holmes quickly dismissed that hypothesis (which somewhat stung because it had been similar to official detective's own). A mental illness, the amateur had said, would not manifest itself in such systematic behaviour. No, no, there was bound to be a sane mind at the end of this business, with each move carefully planned. Quite as usual in Lestrade's experience, Holmes was right.
Despite all talk of the depth of parsley sinking into butter on a hot day, nothing could have made him believe that the absurd destroying of Napoleon busts could lead to the solution of two cases. Both the older theft and the recent murder were quite well known, but the former was definitely celebrated not only at home but also in the Continent. Such an accomplishment could and would very well earn him his long sought after promotion to Chief Inspector.
And yet, here came the formidable obstacle, something he would only admit to himself with any amount of comfort. It was not he who had noted the relationship of this case with the year-old theft of the Borgia pearl; the master stroke had come from Sherlock Holmes. It was not the first time in his long career that Holmes had provided the key to a particularly sticky case without asking for anything in return. This is what often made composing reports so difficult. Ever since the publication of A Study in Scarlet in Beeton's Christmas Annual in '87, there was no end to the talk of how great a writer this Dr. Watson was. Every time praise of the sort for the doctor would fall upon Lestrade's ears, he would smirk ever so slightly, thinking all he does is write what really happened. He and all the other detectives who would consult Holmes were the real fiction-writers; deleting or minimizing Holmes' participation from their reports was a feat that the great Dickens himself would find Herculean.
What was it that was making this particular report so painstakingly hard? It wasn't just the fact that he had sneered at the consulting detective's odd fixation with the smallest detail of the whole affair, the breaking of the busts. If he had simply paid attention to that trifle and perhaps, had the wit to recall the name Venucci, he would have overtaken Holmes.
Or would he?
The lean, ferret-faced detective leaned back in his chair to rub his weary eyes. He had purposely decided to stay in late to avoid the jibes of Inspector Gregson. Normally, his rival would hold his tongue upon finding that he had had Holmes' assistance in a successful case. After all, Gregson was no different; he applied to Holmes, as many of their other colleagues did, when he found himself sinking in a quagmire of clues with no solution within easy reach. However, in this particular instance, with honours well on the way, Gregson could not help but utter several hints about "how difficult it must be to be an amateur—no pay, no recognition, and certainly no promotion." Lestrade felt the remark was mostly out of order, especially since both detectives were fully aware that Holmes usually took no reward but the pleasure of the mental exercise the cases provided. As he often said, "I play the game for the game's own sake." Again, Lestrade thought, something in this case tugged at his better nature, and he certainly did not need to have Gregson sneering across at him while he tried to compose his report at the office bull pen, which provided absolutely no privacy.
He thought back to that dramatic evening. After Holmes had explained the chain of reasoning and logic that had led to the finding of the pearl, he felt a rather different sense of pride in the amateur. It was of the completely selfless sort, and quite unlike any time in the past, the urge to sing his colleague's, nay, his friend's praises rushed out of him before he could stop himself.
"Well, I've seen you handle a good many cases, Mr. Holmes, but I don't know that I ever knew a more workmanlike one than that. We're not jealous of you at Scotland Yard. No, sir, we are very proud of you, and if you come down tomorrow, there's not a man, from the oldest inspector to the youngest constable, who wouldn't be glad to shake you by the hand."
And, for the first time, Lestrade recalled to himself with a smile, he saw a side of Holmes that he long believed did not, could not exist. As this speech flowed on, he fancied (but he couldn't be sure—with Sherlock Holmes, you were never sure) he saw the cold, grey eyes grow somewhat teary. They had, at least, definitely softened along with the amateur's voice as he replied, "Thank you, thank you!"
Lestrade rubbed his eyes again as the sheets of paper in front of him became strangely blurred. He wiped his hand with his handkerchief and took out his pocket-watch, observing that eight o' clock was drawing near. He knew that he was certainly not going to be able to finish his report tonight, but before closing up shop, he knew there was a question to be settled.
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A week later found the newest Chief Inspector sitting in his private office, with a nice, hot cup of tea and a little dish with iced biscuits sitting by the cup's side on his desk. He leaned back in his upholstered chair, puffed at his exquisite Cuban cigar, and closed his eyes, thinking, this is truly living. His inspector colleagues, he thought with satisfaction, all wanted the post he had and the reflected glory of the case he was handling, the infamous theft of a precious black pearl. Best of all, he had not done the toughest part of the work—someone else had. All he had to do was lazily reach out to pluck the fruits for himself.
As a matter of fact, he was waiting for one of his subordinate colleagues now. Within five minutes, he heard the expected rap at the door, and he bade the knocker to enter.
His colleague came in, placed a small bundle of papers done up with red tape on the desk and, at the Chief Inspector's behest, he took off his hat sat himself down on a hard, straight-backed visitor's chair.
The superior officer undid the tape, quickly glanced through the official notes on the evidence, went over the scheduled dates for the inquest and picked out two consecutive sheets. His eyes moved rapidly through the document, hungrily taking in every detail. Then, suddenly, his expression clouded over in a surge of anger.
"Inspector," he growled warningly, "What do you mean by this? What exactly are you trying to prove? Do you realise the consequences of this report?"
"Quite certainly, sir."
"You put our organisation in a rather poor light. I'm not certain that's proper."
"I am bound to disagree with you. After all, I have only put down what actually occurred."
The Chief Inspector's face flushed for a moment, but he fought it down, thinking fast. He tried appealing to the man's ambition. "You have just let a rare opportunity pass you by, man."
"Sir," the inspector placed a heavy emphasis on the word, "I am aware of that."
The Chief Inspector flared up slightly, but held his temper at bay by letting out a loud sigh.
"Tell me, why? The man's quite willing to take nothing for himself. All and sundry knows that!"
The normally hard-faced inspector smiled, almost smugly, for the first time since he entered the room.
"Because there are more important things."
The Chief Inspector roughly picked up the inspector's report to peruse once more the offending paragraph.
The connexion with the pearl's disappearance was not apparent at first, but owing to investigations by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, the unofficial consulting detective, the same who has assisted various C.I.D. inspectors and constables in the past, the link was firmly established. It is certain that without the amateur's assistance, the full significance of the larceny case would not have been grasped and it is possible that the Borgia pearl may never again have seen the light of day. For this, this inspector recommends that all honours resulting from this case be bestowed on none other than Mr. Sherlock Holmes.
As his superior fumed silently, Inspector Lestrade smiled once more, this time with an air of triumph, picked up his hat, and stood up to leave and work on his next case.
And perhaps, if the Conk-Singleton forgery case had found its own, most likely successful conclusion, he would go up to Baker Street and ask Mr. Holmes for a little bit of help.
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A/N: Thanks to igbogal, Zantetsuken-Steel Bladed Sword, HoVis, Susicar, Lady Razorsharp, Igiveup, Akiyra, Haley Macrae, Janey Aurora and Knife86 for reviewing my last story, The Tempest Within. This slightly different tale is dedicated to you guys.
I thought I'd pick the brains of someone other than those of our favorite sleuthing pair. Since I've often wondered how Lestrade felt about his association with Holmes, I started with him. Naturally, this is in no way Watsonian, but I did try to keep within Victorian bounds. And yes, Sherlock Holmes, Dr. John H. Watson, Inspector Lestrade, and all their retinue aren't mine. I wish they were, but then again, I wouldn't do them the justice Sir Arthur Conan Doyle did, so I can just quit dreaming. :P
I used Baring-Gould's and Ernest Bloomfield Zeilser's chronologies as my basis for the date of the report.
I admit that I did a lot of wild deduction here. It's not unlikely that the Chief Inspector position did not exist during the days of Queen Victoria, as it was during her reign that the C.I.D. was first put up (I mean, how quickly can anyone rise up that ladder?). Plus, there's no indication whatsoever in the Canon of the position. I know, I know, it's no excuse for not doing research, but with the very little time I have to pursue my literary pursuits…sigh.
Anyway, I hoped you enjoyed this!