The Malicious Maligning of Inspector Lestrade

Chapter One: False Start

"Inspector Lestrade is a bad apple, rotten to the core!"

Sir Rupert Bradley, Commissioner of Police, made his point by slamming his fist hand hard on the desk. Several papers rustled and drifted to the edge, disturbing other pages, which floated to the floor. To his greater annoyance, his cup of tea jumped from the saucer and slopped liquid into his lap.

If truth be told, I was finding his inattention irritating on that rainy afternoon in late spring of 1879. April showers had given way to May downpours, and London sagged beneath the unrelenting weather. People and pavements were sodden, and the heavy grey clouds weighed on the soul. Five months into the year, and winter had yet to lose its grip. The rain continued, and temperatures had stubbornly resisted rising.

Even in the Commissioner's snug office, where a fire had been maintained in the hearth, there was a decided chill in the air. Considering the subject of our discussion, I could not lay the blame for the shivers that periodically ran up my spine entirely on the weather.

I had been delaying this meeting for as long as I could, partly out of necessity, partly by design. In the months after leaving Postern Prison, I had been beset by one aliment after another. Bitter cold and my emaciated state had conspired to wreak havoc on my constitution, confining me to bed for days at a time. As one long week dragged into another and no sign of improvement in my health, Mycroft had inquired whether it was worth his while paying for my bed and board, since, so it seemed to him, he was throwing good money away after bad if what I really needed was a shelf in the family vault.

I noted that he did not visit in person. Our family tradition held that illness was to be avoided at all costs and those who fell by the wayside were best left there. He did, however, send a succession of doctors, none of whom agreed on the best course of treatment, and instead suggested either copious amounts of food or indecent amounts of alcohol.

Worse of all was the physician who offered me a patent medicine guaranteed 'to put the colour back in my cheeks in no time'. I spent several listless days analysing this so-called 'miracle tonic', to find that lead, arsenic and mercury were amongst the ingredients. I passed on my findings the General Medical Council, and was relieved to hear in due course that the physician in question was practising no longer.

If the doctors were confounded by their failures, the blame had to lie partially with me. There were matters I had not told them, or more honestly could not tell them.

I had not even told Mycroft. To confide would be to admit that what he had long known to be correct, that I was unfit for the role of consulting detective.

I was starting to believe it too. The events had Postern had shaken me more than I cared to admit. It made me question my own abilities, my own judgement even. Six months ago, this would never have been the case.

Even at my lowest, I had not been tormented by this lack of confidence.

Something had changed.

That something was the morning I had been drugged and dragged from a cell in one of the country's most notorious prisons, had a rope thrust around my neck and fell through the trapdoor. The scene played over and over in my mind, unbidden. The touch of the hood against my cheek, the blood pounding in my ears, the sheer helplessness and futility of it all. My dreams always ended the same, with the sensation of falling, always into nothingness, a deep void without an end. At that point, I usually awoke, shaking and sweating.

Death, in itself, holds few fears for me, but I defy any man to stare extinction in the face and emerge unscathed. It forces the acceptance of certain truths. We are never as honest as when we have stared into the abyss.

In my case, it was the knowledge that my last case had been one blunder after another. I failed to measure up to my own high standards, and at the final reckoning, it had been Mycroft who had located Vamberry's whereabouts, with less effort than I had expended on treadmills and broken teeth.

It was a bitter pill to swallow. Then, descending Jove-like in a shower of pomposity, Mycroft had had the gall to tell me that the one person I held as an ally was implicated in what he had described as 'a canker at the heart of Scotland Yard'. He had forbidden my association with Lestrade, and worse, had questioned his actions during my last case. He had held the Inspector's fate above my head like the sword of Damocles, and like that unfortunate courtier of old placed in the same situation, I found my position decidedly precarious.

I thought, for once, that I knew more than Mycroft. Whatever Lestrade's deficiencies as a detective, I had allowed myself to trust the man. If not for his timely intervention at the prison, I should have died. Now I was being asked to investigate him, to exonerate or condemn. I had no difficulty believing the former, less the latter. The problem was proving it, one way or the other, and I knew I was unequal to the task.

Put simply, I had lost those particular skills that gave me my living.

Where once I had seen the lover, the banker, the swindler, the liar, the thief or the clerk carved in the faces and attire of the milling throng, I saw now only men and women going about their everyday lives. Mud on trouser knees was just that, and the spatulate fingertips of the average man on the tram held as little meaning to me as the smell of the tobacco he was smoking.

I told myself it was a passing fancy. As the body recovered, I had reasoned the mind would follow. Little by little, my health strengthened, but the secret life of London remained closed to me. I began to face the truth that I was a consulting detective without the means to pursue my profession, and without means of correcting my condition. Physicians would not understand, Mycroft would gloat, and I would be forced to accept one of the petty government sinecures that my brother had at his disposal.

I saw my future mapped out in frightening detail. Days of slow decline, locked in a nameless department, shifting papers and shuffling lives. Retreat to a club and then to bed, to sleep and awaken the next day to start the whole tedious process over and over again until I faded away from tedium.

That prospect gnawed at my soul, tormenting my days and plaguing my nights. Sleep proved elusive at the best of times, except now I found myself dreading its presence. As a result, I was exhausted. My mind was disordered, my thoughts ungoverned. I told myself I needed sleep and, better yet, sleep without dreams.

Pressed by one of the doctors, I had confided the problem of my insomnia. His answer had been laudanum. I resisted for the longest time, then out of desperation had weakened. Content at first to have found relief, I tried to ignore those days when I was racked with confusion and could not distinguish waking daydreams from night terrors. Only when I caught myself increasing the dose to achieve the desired effect did I realise my folly. I immediately emptied the infernal concoction down the sink. The insomnia returned, worse than ever, and I took to wandering the streets after dark to shake off the lethargy.

These nightly perambulations took me far afield, sometimes to places new, other times to the familiar. One evening, I found myself back at the Hoxton Hippodrome, where the chorus girls still danced as gaily as ever and no doubt teased impressionable young men in the wings. A tawdry magician plied his trade, pulling flowers from his sleeve and cards from his pocket. Next was a mind-reader, claiming to be able to delve into the secrets of strangers. I envied him. Even with the obvious help of an assistant in the audience, he was at least able to make good on his claims. If I were his shoes, up on that stage again with the eyes of the crowd on me, I doubted whether my poor efforts would receive so rapturous a reception.

The night I realised I could delay the inevitable no longer was when my travels took me through Whitehall and into the path of a familiar figure. A group of policemen was gathered on the corner of the road that led down to Scotland Yard, and amongst their number I discerned several members of the detective division. I pulled up my collar and tried to pass by unnoticed. At that same moment, the group broke up, laughing loudly, and one of them bumped into me.

There was no easy escape. We recognised each other immediately. Lestrade had an air of ebullience about him that was contagious, and the wide grin on his face was mirrored on that of his companion, a short, insignificant man of similar years and disposition.

"Why, if it isn't Mr Sherlock Holmes," said Lestrade, slapping me on the back. "Bless my soul, I haven't seen you in ages. Well, not since I got you out of that prison."

"A convict, eh?" said his companion.

"No, Mr Holmes here was helping out Gregson."

"Well, he would need it."

The pair guffawed extravagantly. I tried to slip away, but Lestrade held onto my arm. "He's lucky, this young man." I noticed a slight slur to his voice. Up close, I could also detect the smell of alcohol on his breath. "Near got himself a wry neck and lived to tell the tale. 'Sheer luck', that's what I call him down the Yard."

"I've heard you call the lowlifes many things, Lestrade, but never that."

"Oh, but Mr Holmes here is special," he continued blithely. "He was hanged and–"

"Lestrade," I interrupted. "Is this necessary?"

He chuckled and put a finger to his lips. "It's all very hush-hush, Gerald. We're not supposed to talk about it."

Talking about it was not the problem. Who might be listening was more of a concern. Not that this thought had occurred to Lestrade; both he and his companion continued to laugh drunkenly, drawing the attention of every passer-by.

I was inclined not to linger. There was that about his manner that I found deeply offensive. While I had fretted in an agony of indecision, Lestrade, like my brother, had been noticeable by his absence. Mycroft had at least sent wires; I had heard nothing from Lestrade. I knew he was at large, and, if the reports in the papers were anything to go by, thriving. Hardly a week went by that his name had not been associated with the foiling of some nefarious activity in the capital. I could only imagine Gregson's fury that his hated rival was stealing his thunder.

For my part, I had put his lack of interest down to the demands of his work. This had not been entirely satisfactory. Having worked with the man, this new-found success of his was puzzling.

Failing that, I had consoled myself that he, like myself, had been dissuaded from continuing our former association. Mycroft had set out his terms to me and the consequences that would follow my refusal to comply in no uncertain fashion. I imagined someone had done the same with Lestrade. Now I had met him, however, I realised that, what for me had been the ruination of my livelihood, was for him a source of amusement.

"Nice to have seen you again, Lestrade," I said brusquely. "I must be on my way."

"Now don't be like that." His grip tightened on my arm. "Mr Holmes used to help me with the odd case or two."

Given some of the circumstances we had investigated, 'odd' was indeed the appropriate word.

"Then he got himself some nice rooms up in Bloomsbury and he thinks he's too good for the rest of us, don't you, Mr 'High-and-Mighty' Holmes. Won't hob-nob with the likes of us now he's got his fancy government job working for his brother. Butter won't melt in this one's mouth, Gerald."

I stared at Lestrade. "You're drunk."

He took a moment to frame the words, slightly lurching as he tried by gesture to describe the exact nature of his condition. "Not quite. But I intend to be before the evening is out." He pulled the other man close and patted his cheek. "This here is my brother-in-law, Gerald. He's a good egg, aren't you, Gerald? We're celebrating."

"I can see that. What exactly?"

Lestrade pulled himself up to his full height. "I've become a father. Again."

I tried to remember how many children populated the Lestrade household at the last count. "Is this number four or five?"

"Six and seven actually. The wife had twins last night. Girls. Rachel and Rebecca." He grinned broadly. "And a bonnier pair you'll never see in merry old England."

"Bonnier than you were at that age, I'll wager," chuckled Gerald.

I dutifully offered my congratulations. "I trust Mrs Lestrade is well."

"Right as rain. Her mother's looking after her. And her father's staying with us too."

"This would be the gentleman who keeps ferrets?"

"Prize ferrets," Lestrade corrected me, waving a finger in my direction. "Champion ferrets, in fact. You think you know everything, but you don't. And my father-in-law, he's a very important man in the ferret world now, so mind what you say about him."

That sounded to me like something of a dubious honour. Still, it would be a dull world if we were all the same.

"Now are you going to come along with us, Mr Holmes, and help us wet the babies' heads, or am I going to have to arrest you?"

I wondered what charge applied to those who refused to drink with an inspector from Scotland Yard, and decided, considering Lestrade's mood and the happy occasion, that I should not test the case. And something he had said had awakened my interest.

I did not resist when he hauled me along with Gerald into the nearest public house. The atmosphere was hot and slightly foetid, as to be expected when a mass of humanity press into a confined space with inadequate sanitation and the liberal application of alcohol. Lestrade pushed through the crowd to the bar, dragging us behind him. Grumbles followed in our wake as elbows jostled the glasses in drinkers' hands and slopped beer onto the sawdust-strewn floor.

"Landlord!" Lestrade called. "Drinks for my two friends here. Your best bitter for me and Gerald here, and what'll you have, Holmes?"

I eyed the stained glasses and the dirty brown colour of the ale with its swirling lumps of sediment. "Whisky, if they have it."

Lestrade raised his eyebrows, and Gerald sniggered. "Oh, whisky, is it? Good English ale not good enough for you? You'll be wanting soda next, I daresay. Well, you heard the man, landlord, your best whisky and make it a double." He gave me a withering glance. "That'll put hairs on your chest, Mr Holmes."

"It'll part 'em in the middle, from what I've heard," said Gerald.

Three glasses appeared before us, and Lestrade swept up his with gusto. "Your good health, gentlemen, and that of the latest additions to the family."

"Here, here," said Gerald. He gulped down a mouthful and grimaced as though he had swallowed red-hot coals. "'Ere, that's not bad. A bit chewy, mind."

"Then we should all be enjoying it." Much to the landlord's bemusement, Lestrade clambered up on the bar and addressed the curious throng. "Gents, I've had twins and we're celebrating. Drinks all round!"

A hearty cheer rose up and the crowd hurried forward. I was near crushed against the bar under their weight, and it took a good deal of struggling and pushing before I was able to escape and find myself a seat in the corner. The hero of the hour, Lestrade bantered and joked with his fellow drinkers, and it was a little while before he joined me. Gerald was nowhere to be seen, and his brother-in-law seemed unconcerned as to his fate.

"You enjoying that?" said Lestrade, nodding to my still full glass as he eased himself onto the bench next to me.

"Very pleasant. I thank you."

He grunted. "You want to get that down you, Mr Holmes. It'll do you the world of good. You look like you need it. What are you, nine stone dripping wet?"

I was somewhat below that, but that was none of Lestrade's concern.

"They've obviously not been feeding you in Whitehall. You look like death warmed up. Mind you," he said, taking a sip of beer, "I've always said those Whitehall types were a load of ghouls."

"Contrary to what you may have heard about me, Inspector–"

He waved this aside. "I've heard a lot, Mr Holmes. And I understand it too. You've got prospects, well, so have I, and what with the family growing and the like, I have to look to myself. I can't keep scuppering my chances by associating with amateurs who come and go when they feel like it."

"Is that what you think I've been doing?"

Lestrade could not meet my eye. "You've been busy, I daresay."

"You haven't been idle either."

"That I have. And all on my own too. No help from you or Gregson. Now what do you think of that, Mr Holmes?"

"I applaud your diligence, Lestrade. At this rate, you'll make Chief Inspector in no time."

"A rise in pay would suit me better."

My gaze turned to the plethora of drinkers, currently enjoying the fruits of Lestrade's largesse. "You appear to be doing very well for yourself in any case."

"Ah," he said brightening. "I've had a bit of good fortune lately. And what with the little 'uns, it's been welcome."

Paying for a round for fifty or hardened drinking men would have required more than 'a bit' of good luck, as Lestrade described it. The first beginnings of uncertainty were nipping at my mind.

"What sort of good fortune?" I inquired.

"The sort the wife wouldn't approve of."

The secrecy was revealing. "Then we are of the same mind. A man who gambles does so with his family's happiness."

"Now, now, I've only had the odd flutter," said he defensively. He saw my expression. "I don't need your approval."

"There are better ways to waste your money, but none surer."

"Normally, I would agree with you, but I know what I'm doing. Now take Gerald here." His brother-in-law was staggering towards us, an empty glass in his hand and a bleary look in his eyes. "He's a gambling man, and he'll tell you it's all down to chance."

"I've never won nothing, me," said the luckless Gerald, near missing the bench as his legs collapsed beneath him. "I can't think why."

"Being a born loser probably has something to do with it."

Gerald considered this unhappily. "I wish you'd tell me your secret. How d'you pick 'em?"

"Can't do that, Gerald."

"But I'm family."

"Family or no, I'd not be right in the head if I were to kill the goose that laid the golden egg, would I now?"

I listened to this exchange, feeling my misgivings growing. Talk of secrets when it came to gambling did not bode well. Nevertheless, I was intrigued and felt inclined to press him further. Lestrade was just verging on that border where drink loosens the tongue enough for the sharing of confidences.

"Let's just say my blessings are twofold at the moment," said he at my prompting, "and I'm not a man to go looking a gift horse in the mouth." He jabbed Gerald in the ribs. "A gift horse, get it?"

The implication of this was clear. I did not flatter myself that this elementary deduction heralded the return of my abilities.

"Ah, so you've 'deduced' it, have you?" Lestrade's mood suddenly turned sour. "Took you long enough. You see, Gerald, Mr Holmes considers himself to be a detective – forgive me, a consulting detective. He can look at a man and tell you when was the last time he changed his socks."

Gerald looked puzzled. "Why would you need to know that?"

"It's his trick. Thinks it makes him cleverer than the rest of us. Well, we'll see. Oi, Harry, over here a minute."

A bearded man of middling years, in a shabby coat, tweed trousers and yellow waistcoat, wandered over in answer to Lestrade's call. He stood in front of us, swaying unsteadily, red of cheek and eyes unfocused.

"Now, Gerald," said Lestrade. "Old Harry and me are well acquainted from the days when I was in uniform. I'll bet you half-a-crown that Mr Holmes here can tell us what this gent's profession is without batting an eyelid."

Gerald squinted at the man. "I'll take that bet. Let's see your money."

Several coins appeared on the table. The talk of a wager had attracted the interest of others, and I saw money changing hands.

For my part, I stared at the man before me, a sinking feeling clawing at my insides. I looked, I tried to observe, and could make nothing of it. The clothes that had seen better days, the attempt at respectability with the stained necktie, the calluses on his hands, the peculiar wear on his shoulder where several threads had been torn, the short brown hairs adhering to his coat and battered hat – it had meant something once; now it was just so many meaningless details. A hundred thousand men like this peopled the city, and I had been called upon to give an account of just one plucked from the many.

As the long silence dragged on, I could feel the oppressive weight of Lestrade's stare. All eyes were on me, all waiting for a pronouncement. The unpalatable truth was that I had nothing. My thoughts were noisy, as loud as the pounding of my heart. My chest felt constricted, and all I could think was how to escape the situation, as quickly as possible.

"Well?" Lestrade prompted.

I had to say something. I latched onto the hairs – clearly animal in origin – and made a wild guess.

"A cabman," I said at last.

A groan sounded from several members of the throng.

"No, he's an organ grinder," said Lestrade. "I'd have thought that was obvious. Where's your monkey, Harry?"

"On the bar, having half a'pint of the best," said he. "'Ere, no one's ever thought me a cabby afore now. Wouldn't mind their takings though."

"I should be going," I said, getting to my feet. "Again, congratulations on the birth of your daughters."

I fairly ran from the public house. Outside, I stopped to catch my breath. It was a mistake. A moment later, Lestrade had caught up with me.

"Mr Holmes, wait." I turned to go, but Lestrade caught me by the arms and forced me to look at him. "What happened just now?"

"Nothing."

"Don't give me that. You were as white as sheet, and sweating, like you were afeared for your life."

He stared at me, and in that moment I saw the realisation come into his eyes. His expression changed subtly, and the instant I thought I saw something approaching pity, I tore myself away and hurried home. My humiliation was complete.

I spent a fretful night and by morning had reached my decision. I sent Mycroft a telegram, explaining that I was not fit for the investigation he had in mind. I said no more than was necessary, and hoped that he would take this to mean that my health was still fragile.

The message that came back was terse, along the lines that he had made assurances and was expected to keep them. Certain people had grown tired of waiting, he claimed. If I was unequal to the task, then I would have to explain it to them in person.

This unhappy state of affairs therefore accounted for my presence in the office of the Commissioner of Police, watching Bradley dab himself dry of spilt tea, his face growing redder by the minute.

"Well, Mr Holmes, what do you propose to do about it?" said he. "I have been a patient man, but matters have come to a head. Your brother tells me you are discreet, but I would have your word on it."

"You place too much faith in my methods," I began.

"Perhaps so," he interjected. "But I can't argue with the Prime Minister. He said you were a clever fellow. Well, it appears he was wrong. I'll wait no longer. I'll have Lestrade arrested and the devil take the consequences!"

He made a gesture that implied the interview was at an end and it was time for me to leave. I hesitated. To admit defeat so easily was abhorrent to my nature. I thought of Lestrade, his good humour the night before, and the family he would leave behind if he were to be incarcerated. I recalled his words about the 'ghouls' of Whitehall and wondered whether I would find my place among them.

In the midst of these thoughts, my gaze wandered to the framed embroidery on the wall with the words, In God We Trust. Trust was something I had been lacking of late. If I could not trust myself, how was I to be of use to anyone? But then something from Proverbs drifted into my mind: For a just man falleth seven times, and riseth up again: but the wicked shall fall into mischief. I had fallen once, and was already contemplating a fall far greater. Perhaps I owed it to myself, and Lestrade, to test whether I had six falls left in me.

"Are you still here?" said Bradley irritably.

I tried to remember how I would have handled such impertinence but six months ago. I dug deep and found a little of my pride remaining. "May I say, Commissioner, you are too hasty in jumping to conclusions."

He gave me a sharp look. "Don't prevaricate with me, Mr Holmes. Are you saying you're prepared to look into this business?"

"I can but try."

"I would have your word on your discretion."

"Naturally. Now, Sir Rupert, perhaps you could elaborate. After all, you have told me very little. I cannot make bricks without clay."

Lestrade – 'a rotten apple'? Surely not! And poor Mr Holmes, we knew you wouldn't give up that easily.

Continued in Chapter Two!