Some of us have often wondered if Peter Jones (REDH) and Athelney Jones (SIGN) are the same person; it is quite likely. I leave the proof to my betters, but an interesting note came up once in that some pastiche writers hyphenate his name. This was fairly unlikely, as that was an upperclass affectation; regular people would have simply made their mother's maiden name into their middle name (Laura Ingalls Wilder). At any rate, I wanted to have some fun with the drunk Yarders again.

It pays to enrich your Victorian Word Power:

Lush: an alcoholic drink

Lushery: An establishment of relaxed standards that serves alcoholic drinks

Lushington: A drunkard.

-

"Athelney Jones."

There was a pause about the seedy little tavern—which was nowhere near the high standards of filth at their last gathering.

"Peter." The Inspector looked about him. "Athelney," he said slowly and clearly. Each bald syllable hovered over the dust-smeared tabletop that bore the track-marks of many lifted and lowered drinking vessels. "Jones."

Gregson shifted slightly in his chair (it creaked badly, so he stopped). "Eruhm," he cleared his throat. "We know your name, lad."

"The drinks aren't that strong," Bradstreet agreed, but there was a faint note of complaint to that statement. This close to the Daft Days, they had a right to be less than sober.

"It's not about that," the Inspector declared, somewhat strongly out of his annoyance. "I know you know what my name is. You know what my name is."

"I ought to hope so," Lestrade leaned into one hand, the other still wrapped around some sort of awful pear wine Hopkins had persuaded him to try. The brilliant green colour hadn't put him off, which just proved the little rat had more courage than sense. "Isn't that the first thing they ask you when you're taking the Policeman's tests?"

Bradstreet snorted and clapped the smaller man on the back. Green stuff came out of the bottleneck and spilt on the table.

"Blast that…fool of a rag…" Inspector Jones swayed slightly—more from his indignation than the amount of alcohol in his brain. "Giving me a hyphen! Have I ever been a bloomin' "Athelney-Jones" to any of you?"

Lestrade and Hopkins, who were directly across from each other, traded a single look. "Oh, no," that look said. "He's off." Their comrade didn't "off" often, but when he did, it was memorable. Like a summer squall it was loud, occasionally violent, and there was nothing to do but get under shelter and wait for the blow to pass over.

"Now I can understand that from an American rag," Mr. Detective-Inspector Peter Athelney Jones began afresh. "But not from an honest, red-blooded John Bull of a rag like the Times."

"It is unlikely," Hopkins cleared his throat, "but when you think about it, it isn't outside the realm of possibility."

"Realm my mother's favourite tatts." Was the horrifying retort. "If she were alive, she'd be chasing that rag-man of a writer down with her broom." Depressed, the big man slouched forward, his elbows on the table, adding to the dust. "She had a big broom," he added, possibly to himself. "Her father was a broom-maker."

Hopkins released a tiny, tiny sigh of equal parts sympathy and worrisome frustration. Unfortunately, Lestrade caught it.

"Hopkins," the older Inspector drawled (it occurred to Hopkins that Lestrade had a ripe opportunity for getting back at him for that bottle), "You look a little bewildered."

"I…came in late, as you know." Hopkins could use the truth to his advantage, and had no problems with looking ignorant. "What's going on, if I might inquire?" There was a touch of timidity to that last bit; he wasn't certain of the value of extending this obviously painful conversation.

Lestrade knocked back another drink, never turning a hair as Bradstreet sought his own solace in his pint. "Simple." He said heavily. "The Times, which normally aims to a high standard, managed to make stable-bedding out of our Inspector's work at the Gallery forgings. The forgers in charge were confused with the informers—that'll make for some interesting explaining to their wives when they get home, assuming they get home in one piece—and then they bollixed his name up. Instead of a good, solid, normal "Inspector Peter Athelney Jones," they put in "Inspector Athelney (hyphen) Jones."

A hyphenated name was the lot (or contrivance, to hear Gregson) of the higher echelons, who were as unwilling to part with their surnames at the splicing of marriage, as they were unwilling to throw themselves into the Serpentine in January. As one could only belong to Scotland Yard if they started from the ground up (ensuring no self-respecting gentleman would join the ranks of Constables), the mistake was clear.

Hopkins winced. "Oh." He said. It was all he said. It was all he could say.

"They'll print a retraction tomorrow," Gregson sounded so confident everyone knew he was lying through his cracked upper molar. "Just you see."

"Don't want their blooming apology." "Bad enough I get a rotten cabbage thrown at me every night I walk home by my own nephews. Everyone thinks I got airs as it is for joining the Metro. My own mum, she wouldn't have any of this, I tell you. Plain Athelney. That's all. None of that blue-blooded stuff and nonsense."

"You are aware that the only reason why we can have this conversation freely is because we're in an establishment that's as far from being "elevated" as Darwin's gnats." Gregson, when he chose to show off his better education, could do so with alarming results. "So you might as well vent off the stopcock, Jones. Tomorrow's another day and I guarantee there'll be a toff at the end of it."

"Athelney Jones." The poor man grumbled into his nearly empty cup; his voice vibrated a basso echo back into his face. "Athelney…Jones."

Hopkins leaned slightly towards Lestrade. "Has he been this way for long?"

"Depends on where we're starting with this, Hopkins. Are we talking since this morning when he first saw the paper, or are we talking about the argument his parents had on his name before he was born?" Lestrade poured the rest of his ghastly vintage out and sipped with a bland expression. "As legend has it, that was the one and only time his parents ever fought."

"Really." Hopkins couldn't help but be impressed.

"Yes. I don't think his mother really put his father in the hospital, though. It makes for a nice story, but stretches the credibility a bit, wouldn't you agree?"

"Credibility?" Bradstreet pointed at the bottle. "I'll show you a cred. How could you drink that garbage? Looks like creamed spinach."

"Number one, I haven't a thing against creamed spinach," Lestrade's overly bright eyes suggested he was well on his way to feeling not-so-much-pain himself. "Secondly, it's just a perry with enough parsley in it for a kick." He leaned back, one arm folded behind his head for a pillow, possibly protecting his hair from the grime on the high-backed chair he was in. "Hopkins recommended it as a tonic after that punch I got at the warf."

"Oh, the double kidney shot?" Gregson cringed, as did everyone else. "Too bad he didn't get you in a nicer spot…like the kneecaps."

"Seems to be helping…" Lestrade shrugged. "My word, it has been a long day."

"It'll be even longer tomorrow." Bradstreet watched as their guest of honour rose up and made his uneven way back to the tender for another round of drinks. "In fact, I think we're in for a long night."

"We're supposed to be celebrating," the normally laconic Inspector Morton pointed out. When things grew emotional, he tended to bow out into tweedy silence, speaking as little as possible. This was an extenuating moment. "As hard as that poor man worked getting those forgers to justice…we should be here lifting toasts and getting him drunk and happy, not drunk and glum."

"We're up to suggestions," Gregson said, just before Jones returned to slam down a heavy platter of assorted objects before them. Bread rolled off the dish and was quickly caught up by Hopkins, who brushed the dust off with alacrity. Too late, he realized he had committed himself to that particular chunk.

Jones muttered yet still. "I put it to you, when has anyone from the higher class ever condescended to come down from the heavens to join our ranks?" The man was growing more upset by the moment. "I ask you."

"That's not it," Gregson protested. "It's the mandatory law that anyone who wants to join the Yard has to start up from the bottom. Can you imagine one of those spoiled, well-fed toffy boys walking a twenty mile day in heavy boots?"

"Or walking twenty mile at all." Bradstreet smirked. "Not a fair law, that. Wouldn't you adore seeing that? I'd bribe a barrister to pass that law!"

"Or dealing with their first angry mob." Lestrade suddenly snickered.

"Let's not use Lestrade as an example," Bradstreet warned. "Not everyone was fortunate enough to get locked up in a 200-person riot on his third day of work."

"Oh, and you were any better?" Lestrade sniffed childishly. "Dropping a bag of evidence all over your future father-in-law's feet on your first day."

"What was the evidence?" Hopkins whispered to Gregson.

"Assorted body parts." Gregson whispered back. "A bit ripe."

"That doesn't count." Bradstreet snorted. "He didn't know me from Adam that day."

"No, but three months later, old 'Basilisk' caught you dancing with his only daughter…he remembered you then." Lestrade pointed out gleefully. "Then he remembered you as the blushing PC standing guard for all those arrested ladybirds."

Hopkins suddenly started laughing. As they turned to look at him, he foundered, half-eaten rye in his hand. It only made him laugh the harder.

"Morton," Jones stared, "how long does it take for ergot to enter the bloodstream after ingestion?"

"A touch longer than that."

"No, no…s'just…" Hopkins sputtered for a moment further, wiping his eyes as he struggled for breath and enough calm to talk. "I just had a mental image of the Home Secretary sitting down with his panel, discussing this law." He staggered through another peal of laughter, the stale bread forgotten.

"I suppose that could be quite amusing," Morton mused, "if one had enough to drink."

"Forget it." Gregson snapped bitterly. "Hopkins could never drink that much."

"My deductive skills inform me that in view of that evidence, there is something genuinely amusing at the bottom of this," Bradstreet leaned back in his chair and helped himself to the slivered beef off the platter.

"I just had a bout of imagination," Hopkins managed to explain once he was under control. "The concerned fathers wanting their precious sons to go join the military under some fancy patronage rather than do something as demeaningly dangerous as joining the Metro…" The young man swayed slightly, exhausted from his mirth. "As if we're much safer than taking the Queen's shilling."

"We're not." Lestrade said flatly. "Dr. Watson told me to my face that most of Afghanistan, combined with the tiger-infested mangrove swamps of India was safer than Saffron Hill to the Estuary. When I told him the average assault against the police was 25% a year he was astonished it was that low."

"Did you tell him name-calling and rotten cabbages don't count?" Morton wondered.

"The name-calling, yes. I forgot about the cabbages."

"For shame on you, Ratty. Mr. Holmes would tell you it's the small details that matter." Gregson admonished with tone and wagging finger.

"That's why I have you, Euclid."

"You know, it's probably for the protection of those lovely sons that the law was passed." Hopkins finally came to the point of his hilarity. "Can you imagine all the fun we'd have?" He thus supplied examples: "Sending them all over London for a left-handed whistle…or telling them the Thames division needed someone to supervise the hookmen?"

Gregson spluttered, narrowly keeping from spraying the table just in time. "Now come on, lad. The left-handed whistle is a classic!"

"What about the ambidextrous truncheon?" Lestrade smiled fondly at the memories. "Or that time we took Johnson's tea-can and replaced it with whiskey?"

"That was a prank?" Morton wondered.

"He was a teetotaler. Didn't forgive us for three years. Apparently, it was a very good tea we sacrificed."

"Sacrifice nothing. I drank it." Gregson sniffed. "Gave me a dicky heart for half the day. You can overbrew a leaf."

"So that's what started you on the road to ruin." Lestrade shuddered.

"Come off it, Lestrade. My tea isn't that strong."

"Tobias Gregson, the Gipsies I work with say your pot is too strong. The Gipsies, Gregson!" Lestrade was definitely getting comfortable with his drink. "Between you and the Dooleys, I'll either be put under early, or I'll be preserved like a bog-man and stagger through existence an extra thirty years."

"Free choice is involved, Ratty. Like that green stuff you just drank."

"It's not all that bad once you get past the third glass."

"Pass."

"Sherlock Holmes." Morton spoke up. As always when he spoke in a social setting, it was a surprise. The man had a thoughtful expression as he swirled a cheap port. "Send the poor little blighters to Sherlock Holmes to consult a case now and then. Bet you a deuce to a deaner, he'll have 'em in tears three minutes after the hello."

"That's because their skins are too thin." Hopkins answered, pausing for one last snicker. "Comes from bein' raised in a nice warm house and never miss a meal…good education…always in the black with the doctor's bills…Sundays off for Chapel…a savings account with three-percent interest…vacations to the sea-side every summer…pheasants in winter…" His eyes widened as an ugly note entered his voice.

"…social parties, first-class train tickets...equestrian lessons, wise investments…smothering hens to demand every bloomin' minute of your time during the day all anted up at the dinner table while the gran scolds the maid for putting up flowers that clash with the wall-paper…"

The other Inspectors traded looks.

"Ahem…Stanley…"

"Damn it!" Hopkins smashed his fist into the table. Dust went up; Lestrade started. "I want them to join the Metro!" He spoke petulantly. "Can't we sign a petition or something?"

"Er, yes, yes we can." Jones said quickly. In the face of some obviously agonizing and long-buried past history in the Hopkins family, Jones had quite forgotten his own grief. "I have it on my desk. We'll all sign it tomorrow."

"Good." Hopkins was too drunk to realize the blatancy of the lie being told him. Pacified thus, he was soon resting his no-doubt spinning head in his arms. "Wouldn't know the crabshells they were wearin' from the crabshells they step on by the Thames," was a last mutter before he passed out.