This is a filler that never wound up in the full "Test of Professionals" Fic. I am trying to get a feel for London's concerns and news and...yes, gossip.

The Lancashire-Rose:

Clea found herself wondering where people found the time to eat all the food she was creating—when they seemed to be doing so much talking while they ate.

And what they talked about while they were eating…

Marwood was dead.

London's public executioner had held his post for much of Clea's memory. She wished that his empty post wasn't the other popular topic after the Krakatoan crop-failures.

On the other hand…work was work. Work was the thread that wove her customers together. They had the right to speak of what was on their minds as they ate. Clea could hope they thought of others' sensibilities, but wasn't about to enforce her will unless someone complained.

And the snippets of overheard conversations were their own form of education (not the sort of education one would collect in schools or finishing courses). Fine gentlemen poised to the cleaner side of the establishment; they chose the tea brewed in the wrought samovar her girls constantly polished against the smuts of London; and they pretended they only stopped here because they were in a hurry, but they tended to come back later with a friend or two. On the other side were the workers who had the pence for the small, thick pies she served up with parsley. Clea had found inspiration in the Miner's pasty, and the men and women she served took comfort in the familiarity. It was filling, cheap, and served hot.

Krakatoa had burst; England's Executioner was dead. The two swirled around and around, no one talking about anything else for long.

"If Pa kilt Ma…who'd kill Pa?" A wag burst out laughing—but surprisingly it was not one of the coarser persuasion. That sort, work-grimed clothing and mended shoes et al, sat on the other side of the tiny courtyard taking their pasty with the sort of silence that meant they disapproved of the poor example their betters should be making.

The cut-up remained oblivious. Clea disliked him; he spent money on an expensive tailor that nevertheless discredited the quality of his good blue wool in too much ornamentation. Having announced the old riddle, he gave his own answer: "Marwood! But who'd kill Marwood?"

He was still laughing at his own wit as he continued to the train station. His "friends" (Clea could only hope such a man had them) followed silently. They passed the last of her outdoor-tables, and it was a wonder they never noticed the frosty glare one of her customers gave them; he was a thin, sun-browned man with a heavy medical bag at his feet. His companion was a tall, lean example with black hair and unsettling grey eyes that shot everywhere, like a kitten that didn't know which ball of yarn to chase first.

"It won't be a gentleman who applies," the tall man was saying with an authority Clea admired. Very rarely did one encounter a person with so much confidence—and there wasn't a false ring to it either. Unlike the last tasteless example in fine cloth, this man wore his station comfortably. Clea couldn't remember seeing him before; his pallor suggested a taut illness and confinement. She had seen his dining-companion; a scarce-thicker man with a brown moustache and eyes the same shade who limped slightly when the weather was bad. She knew him as a polite man who never quarreled and seemed to enjoy any cooking that was not of his own making.

He took her cup of strong black tea without looking; such was his determination to get his point across to his companion (Clea was amused to be ignored in such a way). "Really, Watson, I could argue for the use of a gentleman taking Marwood's empty post. We'd be much less inclined to the death penalty if we didn't blithely leave it to someone else…A gentleman ought to consider the post!"

"But, Holmes," His companion protested. "While I agree with you in the theory of it, and yes—those that condone or support the death penalty ought not to be distant from it—I am thinking of the economics of it all. Work is hard enough for a man who finds the Hangman's post attractive." To underscore his point, he lifted his freshly-bought newspaper and indicated a small square in the bottom. "The late Mr. Marwood was retained for 20/ a year, and commissioned 10/ for each execution. Bearing that in mind, Mr. Marwood made over…215/10/0 per year! A man might well support his wife and children on such an income! Yes it is a grim duty, but I would say some men are more than willing to make that sacrifice to support their loved ones as a man ought."

"You forgot to mention that the estimable Mr. Marwood supplemented his income by selling segments of his grisly ropes to the morbid public. Or would he argue it was necessary since he had to pay a staggering guinea per hanging rope?"

Clea was both amused and admiring as Watson faced this retort with a sniff.

"I am only referring to respectable means of income, Holmes. I hardly consider selling sections of hangman's rope—or the relics of the dead—as respectable. Bearing that in mind, I would suggest that if a gentleman will not apply…then the common lout will also be automatically rejected."

"One may only hope!" Holmes exclaimed. "Marwood was a most humane man by all accounts, though he did sell relics to those who had a taste for such nonsense." The tall man picked up a cigarette-case from within his coat and a tiny metal match-box followed. Clea was still unsure what two men like these would be doing in the open air of autumn…even though it could be much worse than it was now. They seemed to like being exposed to the slow-rolling fogs and smuts and the occasional peculiar vapours curling from the street not two yards from their table.

"Here, Holmes. You need to conserve the strength in that arm." Watson had leaned half-across the table with a match already lit. His friend frowned at him from over the sights of the cigarette, but there was little venom in the look.

"You act as though I have been invalided out!"

"Hardly. I merely know the physiological affects of a knife to the muscle-tissue." Watson made a strange answer. "But to return to the argument we were having, Marwood was a pioneer in his grim field for the pain and suffering he wished to prevent."

"Very true." Holmes had finished getting his cigarette to his lips, and he was now puffing like a chimney. "It was his work with weights and tables that ensured a humane end to a life—no matter how dark and corrupted."

"I agree, for I knew him at my club." Watson admitted, and took the surprise of his companion with aplomb.

"You never mentioned that to me, my dear fellow."

"In truth, I did not know his identity until some months passed. His qualities could not help but strike a fellow, for he was most sincere in his life, pleasant to speak to, and very genteel in demeanor. For many weeks I thought his darkest facet was his taste in the Club's brandy. One had the impression that he would listen to anyone that needed to unburden his soul."

"A man who places such thought into his work would be considerate," The tall man agreed. "Well, well! We shall see! Perhaps a—halloa! Lestrade! You're just in time to join our conversation!"

It took a moment for Clea to put that neat, clean figure with her image of the soot-blackened wreck of a man who had wiped his threepence clean before paying for his meal. She looked, and was ashamed of herself. Only the battered truncheon peeking out the edge of his open coat spoke of his profession. The rest would have been nearly anyone else in London who served or was new to the Merchant Class.

He was distracted, that was certain. As she watched from the shelter of the St. Andrew's door he aimed his steps to the two peculiar men having tea.

"Mr. Holmes? I beg your pardon, but what were you speaking of? I was thinking of other matters."

"Obviously." Holmes responded, in such a way that it was not completely easy to resent him. He spoke in the amoral way a child did; sometimes a grown man turned out like that, but it was hard on everyone else. "We were discussing Marwood's empty post. Is there any word on his successor?"

As she watched, Mr. Lestrade slowly took his place at their table. He looked a little tired; she signaled to Violet at the samovar and the girl moved to pour off a cup of black and take it to the newcomer.

"You have a strong constitution, Mr. Holmes. But as of this morning, I can tell you there has been no decision yet as to who will be the next Public Executioner." Mr. Lestrade blinked up, surprised to see a cup of tea in his face, and took it with a brief fumble for his change.

Mr. Holmes casually (and to Clea's view, callously), threw down the price for the cup. Violet took it without a pause, and Mr. Lestrade chose to overlook everything he had just witnessed.

"There are quite a few people who have submitted their applications, Mr. Holmes. Letters of mark, or support of some sort…even a retired policeman put in his name. James Berry. I don't know if it would be a good thing or not if he's accepted." Mr. Lestrade paused to drink his tea.

"A former policeman? Surely that would put in a vote of credibility and a responsibility to duty."

That made the eavesdropping Clea blink; she had not realized till now that Mr. Holmes was not the sort that normally scorned and scoffed the police with charges of laziness or corruption.

"Well…you never met the man." Mr. Lestrade answered with a bit of a low note to his voice. He held his tea in both hands like an oracle, and stared into its depths. A tiny smile flickered back and forth over his lips as a series of conflicting thoughts came to him. "He is a man of…strong convictions…almost bull-headed when up against any sort of criticism. He was a good copper when he was under the Bradfords1 but he resigned himself when he felt he wasn't being given full credit for his work. To be honest, he was an unusually hard worker, probably one of the top ten out of a hundred…but as high as we valued him, it meant just as much to him to place himself higher. He left the Force twice because he felt his competence wasn't being fully recognized. Some men never realize…one does not necessarily gain prestige with seniority."

The diners watched as their new companion rubbed at his temples as if they hurt him.

"I can't say." He said at last. "I don't know who they'll pick. That Yorkie's an irritating fellow and I'll say that to anyone…but his compassion's as wide as a Roman Road, and he doesn't believe in relying on the drink. He never shied from a fight, but he hesitated to cause harm. I daresay that alone would qualify him for many posts. His pride would be enough to ensure his work'd be done right, too. At least, that's my reasoning."

"Is your pick on Berry?" Holmes wondered with a quick glint in the eye.

Mr. Lestrade laughed quietly. "Not hardly! I always lose at the races for a reason!"

"Are you that terrible at it, Inspector?" Watson spoke for the first time. Clea wondered at how content he was to hear his friend talk, to fall so silent when Holmes was controlling the conversation.

"Terrible? I'll stand my know-how of horseflesh against anyone. It's the rigging, you know. I can't think about that. I always place my shills on the horse that should win, not the horse that ever wins."

Holmes roared with laughter, even putting his hand to his head as he shook, and Watson traded a swift smile with Mr. Lestrade. It was like a waterfall tumbling to hear the man laugh. His careful, controlled behavior had crumbled as abruptly as a landslide into a foaming river with his mirth. Clea caught herself smiling like everyone else; such was the force of the man's métier. Larger than life, her father would have said with an approving smile. Some men are larger than life.

He was still chuckling to himself as they rose to go; headed to the station like the rude churl before them. Clea could understand that they wouldn't want to travel too close to him. Mr. Lestrade remained with his tea; she had the impression he was shaking his head slightly at Mr. Holmes.

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1 Bradford Police Force