World War I in London. This is more suited to the murky moods of DEVILRY, and like Devilry, each chapter should stand alone on its own merit. Going to War is no unfamiliar theme in our history, but it seems as though we re-learn certain lessons every generation.
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The days of our years are threescore years and ten; and if by reason of strength they be fourscore years, yet is their strength labour and sorrow; for it is soon cut off, and we fly away. Psalm 90:10
August 8, 1914: The Defence of the Realm Act is passed.
The police knew it might happen; rumors and gossip had flown like leaves in the months, weeks, and finally days before the one day in Parliament. Only so much gossip can be dismissed as rot after all. But they have all they can do to handle the flurry. Last year Sir Edward1 pressed to have the sales of pistols regulated. Pistols and handguns are now out of favour in a country that has sworn in 24,000 Special Constables to offset the strain of what will be known as the First World War. War is on their very door-mat, and anyone with a gun is now eyed with suspicion.
"He did it because of that crackpot what tried to kill him two years ago." Bradstreet says the obvious without fear. He's so close to retirement it's ridiculous. "One little assassination attempt and he just tries to outlaw badness."
"Huh." Jones moves his shoulder awkwardly as he aims the darts. "Wouldn't've survived as a Bobby on the Beat, that's for certain."
"How's the bursitis?"
"Lovely. Just lovely. Coming right along. Positively tops." Jones throws again; he's off.
Gregson mutters to himself as he turns a page in the paper. Behind him the plink-plink of a roaring coal stove adds acrid climate to the back room of the Malmsey Keg. It's cozy, self-contained. They've earned the unspoken right to this little room and their own drinks-bearer. The only rule (if it can be called such) is that one must have served for the Badge at least twenty years.
"Hold on there, Jones." Lestrade winced at the next round. "The darts are supposed to get to that large round thing on the wall…not the wall itself."
Jones gave his opinion with three pointed words and kept trying, left-handed. When Mr. Holmes called him 'tenacious as a lobster' he was only speaking the obvious.
Gregson looked over his newspaper. "Speaking as the expert on insulting Ratty here, I must say there, Jones, your insults have lost their old artistic touch."
Jones sighed like a slow-leaking tyre and leaned on the wall with one hand for a moment, his head hanging down. "I'm fagged out." He said at last. "You'd think, 24,000 new police on the streets there'd be something good in 'em."
"They're 'Special Constables' and don't you dare lump them with the likes of us!" Youghal had just arrived, wet as a trout and still struggling with his heavy cape. He finally dropped it onto the hand-made coat-rack by the stove where tiny drops of dirty water soon hissed on the hot metal. A fume not unlike a burning gutter soon arose.
"Ahh, the South End!" Bradstreet sniffed nostalgically. "Any luck with the Fagin2 over there?"
"Pinched like a crab." Youghal sighed. "S'why I'm here. I need to celebrate something, and that something happens to be apprehending that lout despite the aid of those Special Constables."
"Oh, dear." Lestrade was merciful enough to leave it at that.
Youghal was not yet ready to let it go. He kept his hands over the heat for a moment, building momentum in his brain. Outside their room the usual good cheer was going on among the younger Constables, Chief Constables, sergeantsandwhatnots as they settled down after a long day.
"You'll note," He added glumly, "that despite the addition of these extras in the city, there are precious few of them actually here in the 'Keg. Most of 'em are out trampling about in their own gin-mills."
Lestrade was tired of his chair. He rose to his feet and ignored how all eyes slid to him or Gregson now. The new Uniform still didn't fit like the promised glove and the largeness of the sleeves took the most adjustment. Gregson's eyes were knowing and amused; had been since their promotions.
You can be smug, Lestrade thought back at him, knowing the prig knew what he was thinking. You got promoted in the Met. CID Superintendent still felt strange to him, and he didn't like the fact that he was in the office more and the streets less.
"I knew something like this would happen," he said finally. "We needed to fill the ranks for those who are in the War, but…too many of these Johnny-on-the-Spots know precious little about what they're doing…or what they're even here for!" He joined the other man by the stove, thinking that Youghal had either shrunk a bit in age, or was wearing low soles. Lestrade doubted he'd found the time to grow a bit in his last twenty years.
"If that was one of us back then," Jones mused over a handful of pilfered darts, "If that was one of us…"
"It almost was!" Lestrade reminded him. "Remember the Franco-Prussian War? England almost volunteered into that mess!" They shared a collective shudder. "We've always had our men joining the military, just as we've always had military men joining our ranks. But every time there's a war…you have a large number of men that have to be shuffled back and forth like a game of billiards."
"I'd think of it as a game of chess myself." Gregson opted. "No, wait, you're right. Billiards. Knock you flying from one department to another, and if you lose, you go off sunk."
"Vivid." Morton muttered. "In the meantime, we're outnumbered, gents. Raw, rough, young, cocky young stripes are gadding about London, drunk with the power and little more than uniformed bullies. Just when I thought we'd survived long enough to see better days!" In a dour mood he picked up one of the periodicals from the lamp-table and made a pretense of thumbing through it. "We've unwound the clock back to a poorer era, mark my words. I don't dare retire now! Not when I've got to keep my eyes on my own men as much as the elements I'm arresting!"
"Pass on the names." Lestrade sighed. "We might as well chart our own hoodlums."
"Amen." Youghal's usual energy was diminished at the solemnity of the conversation. Of late, the Old Guard had come to the 'Keg not to relax, but to seek a temporary refuge.
-
With the Act, pubs had to close at 9:30. Lestrade didn't want to stay the whole time anyway; another joy of the Act was that all the beverages were now watered down to prevent alcohol indulgence. He bade them all a good-night and walked home instead of hailing his usual cab. The entire day had been wasted within his office. The world was changing, but promoting him to be a part of the changes felt wrong. He'd been good enough at what he did as a Chief Inspector.
He turned up his collar against the rain and tucked the rim of his hat down like a bottle-cap as people about him complained of London. He felt like a perfectly working watch-part taken out of an old watch and put into a new one: a cannibalised piece of machinery.
A Bobby was at the intersection, directing the traffic through to promote a steady flow. Lestrade couldn't tell who it was; sometimes he still thought he saw the PCs of his past walking through London…the dead ones or those invalided out. PC Cooper was now a Sergeant. Murcher had been a sergeant for years and had no intention of rising higher. He liked his little corner of the world and it went without saying, his little corner operated smoothly with little crime.
Twelve men were testing next week. A 10/s bonus prize was for those who could successfully test in Yiddish. Lestrade wondered what the late Mr. Root would think if told this new generation would be rewarded for knowing his wife's language.
The new Constables were nothing like his generation. These lads were given better pay; enough that they could actually afford to live in the very city they served. They had a bit of a coal allowance; a clothing allowance if they worked out of twig, and medical care. Anyone below rank of station-sergeant had a weekly 1/6 rent stipend—what he wouldn't have given for that luxury in his day! He'd taken his rooms with Mrs. Collins on a work-agreement, paying the balance of his time in paint and small repair work. Long were those evenings when he'd be staggered from lack of sleep and still be up, paying for his right to live by more work.
That reminded him; they needed to go check on her grave on the coming Sunday…
…a Woman Police Officer scurried by and Lestrade fell back warily to avoid being seen. He frankly doubted she was up to something he'd approve of. Harassing other women seemed to be the lot of this new face of London Law…it resembled a bad joke but it would be amusing if it weren't so true. The wives of the Old Guard were rarely complimentary about them.
Women in the uniform. What an opportunity that hadn't existed before. And speaking of opportunity all around…just the chances for promotion had risen to an astonishing level.
Fifteen out of a hundred men now had decent odds for promotion within the ranks.
But some things never change. He reminded himself. The Bobby's shouts blended with that of the traffic—more automobiles than horses now—and the patter of rain. The last time I saw Mr. Holmes, each policeman was responsible for 726 citizens. Now it's down to a staggering 724. Barking, that. Barking.
The rain faltered after a few streets; one thing about London. Snow on one side could be ice on the other…or even a warmish rain. In his case it began to dry with a freakish wind that smelled just a bit of the Surrey tanneries. He re-tightened his hat, wishing for his bowler one more time. Dratted assemblies…one had to wear the blue—not that he wasn't proud of the badge, but it symbolised a promotion he was not certain he wanted. I feel like the organ-grinder's monkey. Someone else put this on me.
It was his habit to keep these thoughts to himself in the long minutes between work and home. Best air out the laundry before he needed to think about either…at least that was his thinking to himself when he rounded the corner past the zoo and discovered his youngest son at odds with a fresh-faced Special Constable.
Even over the rising wet wind, Lestrade could suss the situation at a glance. Nick had a half-broken loaf of stale bread in his hand and he was near the gates of the zoological gardens. The S.C. was haranguing him and waving the cuffs, regardless of the fact that his victim was twice his size in both directions and calmly refusing to see what the fuss was all about.
Third time this month…
"What's all this, then?" Lestrade used his sharpest voice, and both men started a bit as they turned. Both flinched a bit. As well as Nick should; if his tender heart got in the way of the law with the animals…
"Sir." The Constable paused with a clumsy salute of respect as he took in the DSI's ranking. Lestrade could see him churn it through the rusty waters of his brain: 'Dee-tect-ive suuuperinnntennndent innspectorrrr.' "This fellow here was feeding the pigeons."
A blatant breach of the Defence of the Realm Act. Lestrade felt himself tighten up.
"I beg your pardon, sir." Nicholas spoke respectfully—as well as he should to his own father as well as a policeman. "But as a trusted employee of the British Zoological Gardens, I know it is against the law to feed strays, wild animals or birds now that we are at war."
"Then perhaps you could explain the loaf of bread in your hand, sir." Lestrade offered dryly.
Nicholas wordlessly held out the loaf of bread in question. "I had it to eat, and then I realised it was barely fit. I was just plucking off the mouldy parts."
The Special Constable grimaced. "Which leads to littering." He pointed out.
Lestrade looked from side to side, but of course the wildlife that had been following Nicholas around since birth had taken care of the breadcrumbs. "The litter seems to have gone the way of nature, Constable." He said in the same tone of voice. "Tell me. If you were to advise this gentleman to do better in the future, what would you have him do?"
Nicholas Bartram Lestrade, you owe me. The father communicated with that special silent language only fathers possess upon sons, from the other side of the back of the Constable's head as it was explained thoroughly and at great length, the existence of rubbish bins, their purpose of being, and the nearest locations. At the end of it Nicholas was properly respectful indeed and the Constable was swaggering off with the satisfaction of a job well done in the eyes of a CID Superintendent.
Lestrade and Lestrade regarded each other with far too much composure to smile. Not yet. They could both hold it in until they were all at the supper table.
"He'll be halfway to the station before he thinks of how he could have arrested you."
"Oh, he'll be back tomorrow." Nicholas answered. Favouring his mother's large-scale relations, he was a living mountain next to his father. "It seems he's a relative somewhere of Miss Downey."
They fell into step together and turned to Paddington Street with a will. "Miss Downey? Whatever happened to the Charming Ivy? You're not turning old-fashioned on us, are you Nick?"
Nick stammered a moment but managed not to blush. "I don't know…it seems safer somehow…I mean…there's more than one Ivy and people might get confused."
"To hear you talk, there's only one Ivy Downey in London." Lestrade paused and pretended to look both ways against traffic before they crossed. "Good job you never joined the Force, lad. If I'd to go by your raptures about the young lady, I would've thought she was eight feet tall and glowed."
Nicholas made a growling sound in his chest. "Can't hear you," he shot back, miming an ear-horn at his ear.
"Nice try, Nick, but it's your other ear what burst. Get into the habit of walking on my other side if you want to use that."
Nicholas gave up and started laughing. "Very well. Might I invite her over with her Mum soon?"
"You may, but best ask her for the convenient date and stick to it." Lestrade fondly clapped his son on the back, though he had to reach up to do so. "Don't plague yourself over this, lad. Times are hard for everyone. The Act is making us all buckle down and tighten up. They say we'll have to start rationing food if this keeps up much longer."
Nicholas mumbled sadly. "It's hard to work at the Gardens, Tad. I can feed animals, but as soon as I'm outside the brick walls…it's a different story. The ASPCA is doing all it can to stay open, and who wants to adopt strays when things are so tight?"
"The police can only obey the letter of the law, Nick. Not its spirit. Sit you down and think about it tonight. I'm sure you'll find a way around it." It wasn't the greatest of inconveniences. Right now there were plenty of grieving youngsters forbidden to fly kites or light bonfires that were quite angry at the Act just now. Their fathers were just as angry because it was now illegal to purchase binoculars. Lestrade had wisened up to the whispers leaking out of Parliament and stocked up on several spyglasses and two binoculars. It worried him that defiance of the Act could conceivably mean the Death Penalty, and he was glad that possession of said objects weren't illegal…yet.
"Martin coming in tonight?"
"Supposed to…Depends on if his boys are still coughing."
"Poor fellow. Well, let's see to your Mamm, shall we? It's a gloomy enough night and her cooking ought to make the day right."
"You won't tell her about just now, will you?"
"Tell her about what?" Lestrade chuckled. Forget the fact that Nick had become an adult over eighteen years ago. Clea Lestrade was still a formidable power.
"Thanks, Tad."
"Thanks, nothing. I might need your help getting those War curtains up tomorrow."
"You just need someone tall."
"Well, that's you, m'lad."
Nicholas' laugh died out by inches. They walked another street-length before his father asked him what was the matter.
"Mr. Lewis says the airships are going to attack."
Lestrade toed a broken cup out of his way. "He's probably right."
"What can we do, Tad? They're so…" Nick's voice caught. "They're so big."
"Size isn't everything, Nick. You ought to know. You were small once."
Nick was very quiet for the rest of the walk. They passed the Station and its ruckus, stepped across the old tracklines, and set their gaze down the abandoned line that was now their street. Home was at the end, and with it, warm pools of light and sanity.
"Yes, sir." He said at last. "You're right about that. It's just that we're so small next to Germany."
His father poked him in the side. Greying and bronzed with age, his father's eyes had never greyed with the rest of him, making his gaze even sharper and stronger.
"Small things have a way of getting big, Nick."
1 Sir Edward Henry
2 Someone illegally employing children