Truth is the Critic, Part Three: Speaking With a Ghost
Lestrade took his holiday with mixed feelings. The Yard was still up in arms—and when was it not--although not for the usual reasons involving crime, malcontents, public disturbances and that extremely large but well-used category known as "vice." A three-day weekend meant one thing to Lestrade's mind. Rest. After weeks of forcing himself into a degree of physical action to make up for fever, he could finally lie down and sleep until his own body wanted to wake up.
His plan worked until two cab drivers decided to quarrel over the same fare at the top of their lungs. Lestrade fumbled for his watch and blearily peered at the numbers. Finally, he closed one eye and could focus on the facing. It was a trick that worked when strong drink kept him from focusing well. 9 am. He groaned and pulled the covers off his shoulders.
The air was warm but Lestrade knew better than to trust it. The smell of the Thames echoed the movements of the weather over the water. It would not be a perfect day forever. He pulled on his heavier coat but left it open for the sun and yawned his way down the street. Street urchins scattered like quail, but he ignored them, knowing the lot from Paddington Street was fairly well-behaved—at least they were to him. There were several streets where his small size translated to "fair game" to the future dissatisfied residents of London.
"Morning, Inspector!" Constable Perkins lifted a hand the size of a coracle paddle in greeting. Lestrade was amused to note that while the Paddington urchins flew before him like small insects, they flowed around Perkins as though the policeman was a large and rather tough boulder. "Are you headed to St. Bart's then?"
Lestrade slowed in his step, hands in his pockets (he was off duty after all). "St. Bart's?" He repeated slowly. "I wasn't planning on it. Why, is something happening? If Holmes is trying to tattoo the corpses again, I don't want to know about it…
Perkins blanched. "I'm sorry, sir, I thought someone would have let you know." Up close the dark smears of sleeplessness were clear under his pale blue eyes. "Constable Lions was injured in the line of duty."
"Lions?" Lestrade sucked in his breath. Lions had been assisting Bradstreet on a notorious baby-farm practice.
"Yes, sir. They were storming the building where the bodies were bein' hid, sir, and it was quite old and run-down. Lions was the last in line; they think his weight was what did it after everyone else's, and he went right through, into that wretched basement. Cut himself open on a broken billhook, sir. Doctors aren't sure if he'll have the use of his leg back."
Lestrade closed his eyes for a moment. Lions was young but cool-headed. He was calmer than even many of the old-timers at the Yard. He did not know if the man could face debility with the same attitude. "Thank you for telling me, Constable." Lestrade said finally. "I'll pass on to him that you were concerned."
Perkins flushed, awkward from the praise. "Not at all, sir. We stick together in the Yard."
"Yes…" Lestrade thought of Gregson. "That we do, Constable."
Lestrade grabbed up a sausage roll from his landlady and as an afterthought, stuffed another into his coat. He ate the one on his way to St. Bart's, his mood not improved by the fate of another Constable.
Why didn't Punch talk about how dangerous it was to be a policeman? Punch was popular because of its reputation for sticking to "inoffensive" material, but the truth was, there was no such thing as a gentle ribbing when it came to such a serious matter. Policemen, plain-clothed and uniformed, were at risk as soon as they stepped into the street, and that risk did not go away when they went home. They weren't paid enough to put up with half the lot they did, and on top of the people who were willfully trying to cause them harm, there was the problem of London itself.
London was not a safe place to live.
That great cesspool, Watson had called it. It certainly was. He shuddered to think of what would happen to that 'cesspool' analogy once the Thames started warming up and people conducted housecleaning on everything from garbage to dead animals and even the churches were known to toss unwanted bodies into the river to make room for the more affluent. The Wharves were pulsing, malignant organisms, and people disappeared every night—men, women and children. They also disappeared in both directions. Gregson was killing himself trying to prove the resurgence of the shanghai trade off the East side, but so far it was going no further than the slave market over on Bethnel Green.
Lestrade didn't bother with wondering at Lions' 'accident' as it was no accident. Buildings that sheltered crime were deliberately kept squalid, and a bobby could face getting shot by a tripwire gun as fast as a bomb laced with poison.
Fifty years ago, entire portions of London had been populated with nothing but criminals. It had caused a level of crime to match the last time England had been invaded by the enemy. Those desperate hours had created Sir Peel's MPF, but the problem had only subverted, gone from brazen to subtle, controlled and intelligent. It had taken 7 years, and even the magistrates had held the Peelers in contempt, but they had done the job, and made Charing Cross safe.
Or as safe as any part of London.
No, there was precious little in the way of assistance for the police. If there was, they wouldn't have to resort to consulting with people like Holmes.
And he does help, but God he is arrogant about it! Lestrade caught himself fuming, and controlled it with a grimace. Enough. He would be visiting a comrade. Lions was married, wasn't he. Lestrade turned the possibility over in his mind. His wife—Elsa—she'd be worried
St. Bart's had been in practice since around 1137, but they did keep their hand in the common matters. Lestrade doubted a single family who claimed linage that far back would be so friendly. He passed a placard in the hallway advertising the local clinics throughout London and the purpose of each—he almost stumbled in his tracks when he saw the card read "If you cannot read this, ask someone on duty to read it for you." It left him a shade more disillusion than he'd woken with that day.
Constable Lions was a fairly big man—should he survive to become a plainclothes Inspector he'd make a formidable figure. The loss of blood made his skin very white as he sat propped up with a newspaper, and he looked up with surprised pleasure at another visitor.
"Well, good-morning, Inspector. I hope you aren't here to convalesce too."
"Not at all." Lestrade shook his head at the lump under the blanket. There were obviously a great many bandages underneath the left leg. "But I'm surprised they put you in a room all to yourself. Have you been promoted?"
Lions blushed with chagrin. "Not at all, sir. It's just that several of the doctors, well…there was a bit of a fuss over me when I came in, and I suppose you could say there was a fight."
"A fight?" Lestrade pulled his coat off and sank into the one chair—obviously brought in for the consulters. "What kind of fight would that be?"
"I'm not really sure, sir. Except I don't mind telling you I'm never playing a game of tug o' war at the family reunions ever again. I know what the rope feels like now." Lions blushed even further. "There was this new doctor, fresh out of surgery from somewhere, trying to say my leg would have to come off. Then this second doctor, he comes in and he's younger than the first one, and he says bloody hell no one's getting amputated on my watch, and they started shouting in the hallways—oh, thank you, sir." Lions took Lestrade's offer of a sausage roll with relish.
"Go on, lad, you seem to have had a much more engrossing night than I did." Lestrade leaned forward on his knees. "I take it the argument was resolved for the best?"
Lions chewed and swallowed. "Not in so many words, sir. A new'un came in off the street, still in his walking-clothes and his stick, and took a look at the two fighting, and the mess I was making on the floor, and sent me to the back surgery." Lions suddenly guffawed. "Wish I knew what they looked like when they saw their prize plum had left!"
Lestrade breathed out. "But your leg will be fine?"
"Oh, yes sir. Right as rain, 'e said." Lions started to lift the sheet to show Lestrade, but the smaller man hurriedly declined the invitation. "At any rate, he even let me watch as he sewed me up. That was right decent of him, I have to allow."
Lestrade did not share that kind of sentiment. "I'm pleased for your peace of mind, Lions. I didn't think surgeons would release their jealousy long enough to let us laymen in on their trade secrets."
"Oh, this un, he's a real bene, sir. Soldier, like. Didn't believe in treatin' a grown man like a kitten." Lions was half finished with his meal by now. "Said he had a lot of practice back in the war."
"Did he now." Lestrade felt his brow go up. "By any chance, would you recall his name?"
Lions shook his head. "Never gave it, sir. He was mostly asking me the questions." Another chew and swallow while Lestrade idly calculated probabilities. "Nothin out of the ordinary about him, though. No distinguishin' characteristics."
Lestrade felt his other eyebrow slide up. "Now, come on, Lions. Everyone has a distinguishing characteristic or three."
Lions looked doubtful. "Well, nothing that couldn't be proven, sir." He gave the bewildering information. "I mean, he was limping pretty hard on his right side, and his left shoulder was stiff, but you know, that doesn't mean he's injured there."
"Ah, well…you're right about that. But surely you have some way of describing him."
Lions shrugged. "'E could have been any man off the street. Awful thin, though. Didn't look natcheral on him."
Lestrade bade Lions goodbye, rubbing his chin as he did so. A nurse was flagged down without trouble, and a few polite questions under a patently false pretense sent him outside to the small walking-trod the convalescing public was permitted to take.
He found his quarry down on one knee lifting a small object off the ground for the benefit of a knot of boys that had the hardened look of the Bow Street gang. The nearest boy took whatever it was he was passing on, and the ragtag children fled like chickens at the sight of the grain pail. Then he rose to his feet, and his lack of balance momentarily surprised the Inspector. Watson needed every inch of the walking stick he carried.
A STUDY IN SCARLET came to his mind: Watson had admitted he could only travel outside in the best of weather. That weather was passing. Clouds were pulling over what little could be seen of the sky. It was a long walk from Baker Street.
He'd gone from being all shades of brown to brown and white; his face matched his shirtcollar and made his dark eyes even starker. With excruciating slowness he sank down into the nearest bench with his bad leg stiff and straight. For a moment he leaned on the end of his cane, head hanging down.
Lestrade frowned to himself, uneasy about walking in on such a moment, and also because something niggled at his brain, something he was watching that didn't quite fit. He stayed where he was for the nonce, waiting for the incongruity to reveal itself to him.
It was not immediately forthcoming. Watson's tired reverie was interrupted by some expected company; four dirty ragamuffins dressed far too thickly for the weather clustered up to the doctor, pelting him with questions in piping voices that Lestrade couldn't make heads or tails of—although he was fairly certain not all the words were in English. They were calling him 'Crow' which was the street word for a doctor, but Watson seemed unable or unaware he could take offense at the word.
Watson lifted his head slowly and smiled with the patience of a man who has had to endure younger and noisier humans all his life. To their questions he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small brown paper sack, folded neatly and tied off with string.
"All right, no glocky fanning, now." Watson said patiently and the smallest boy jerked his hand back from his discreet search for valuables on the doctor's clothing. "Which of you is good with numbers?" He demanded. Clearly, everyone felt they were. "Well, then, you need four drops per pound of water. Who knows how much that is?" He shook his head at their sudden hush. "A pint is a pound the world around, lads. Say it for me."
"A pint is a pound the world around!"
"Very good. Now you know what happens if you take more than a pint of this a day?"
"It undoos all the good."
"It will undo all the good." Watson corrected without rancor. Definitely not brought up in a Catholic school, Lestrade thought.
"Is this enough for Mum?" The oldest asked him in a tone of voice that sounded a bit belligerent to the Inspector's mind.
"It's enough for all your family, and I suggest you run it home and start mixing it." Watson leveled his finger at the boy's face. "Send for me if there's no improvement by tomorrow morning."
There was no thank you, no comment to say they'd heard; the doctor was suddenly alone at his bench and rubbing his leg with an impatient scowl while two men with an all too-familiar stamp on their features swaggered up to him. Lestrade felt his inner voice groan as he calculated just how close they were to the outer district of the opium dens.
"Spare a bit of soft, gov'nor?"1
Watson lifted his head slowly, as if the notice of his incoming roll was just beyond his abilities. "I beg your pardon?" He asked politely.
Oh, now, that was enough. Lestrade couldn't be an accessory to murder—or even a toff-rolling. He began looking for a way he could discreetly sneak up without being seen until it was too late. There was always the chance Watson could handle this by himself. He didn't seem surprised by his new guests…
"Saw you dispensin' charity among the poor there." The larger of the men—wasn't it usually that way—was smirking. The smaller man looked lighter and quicker—he might even be the leader, using his friend as a diversion. "And we were next in line, as it were."
"Charlie, you'll get no more than a few shillings." That eyebrow went up again as that voice dropped to the dry note Lestrade remembered. "And I'm afraid it won't look too well for you the next time you go to the clinic, Carl."
"We'll just have to live with that, won't we."
Lestrade was stamping out just as Watson's cane touched the first man's sternum. He barely seemed to tap him, but the thug stopped dead in his tracks just as he was closing his hand over the doctor's shoulder.
As soon as his fingers touched him there, something flitted across Watson's face like black lightning. He rose up, weight favoring his better leg, and his opposing arm lifted. Lestrade saw the flash of gnashed white teeth in a white face with dark eyes and a terrific impact sent the would-be assailant on a short journey through the air. The standing man backed away, kneeling down to his comrade's side in a show of loyalty—the only admirable thing about him Lestrade had seen.
"I'm not sure you need me, doctor."
Watson whirled, his face open to Lestrade's and for a moment it was a terrible thing, like a violent wave cresting. Just before it could crash, the look was smoothed over and replaced by tired regret.
"I know them." He said softly. "When the hunger for their drug comes, they'd commit whatever crime is required."
"Aye, I recognize the species." Lestrade agreed. A single glare was enough to freeze the would-be thieves. "You aren't going to go anywhere, are you? Thought not." He pulled out his police whistle and blew; Watson flinched at each blast but held himself in check very well.
"You might as well sit down, doctor. It can wait until the bobbies get here. This is Holder's beat; he won't be long."
"Holder," Watson breathed out slowly, collecting his nerve. "Didn't he play cricket at one time?"
"The very same." Lestrade was surprised. "Do you play cricket?"
"At one time I did." Watson passed a gallows-grin to the smaller man. "But I gave it all up for rugby."
Lestrade forced his embarrassment down his throat. If Watson was looking for pity he would have done so in better ways. As it was, Lestrade sensed the doctor was just stating a fact because he was trying to face a bitter truth about himself.
And at that moment, the puzzle pieces that were Watson jigsawed together with a sharp click in Lestrade's mind.
Watson wrote about himself in a strange, distant and objective manner in the details of his past. He ironically seemed more alive pre-London than he did in it. In the present, he was showing himself as someone who was struggling and failing to understand the genius of his flatmate. He concentrated on his failure to comprehend that mind—a struggle everyone at the Yard could sympathize with utterly. Watson might describe others in unflatteringly honest lights, but those were outside observations, notes on how people were behaving, talking, and how they projected themselves. When it came to the inward rationale, he kept the frustrations, the inadequacies, and the incomprehension in his own viewpoint…and thus, was hardest on himself.
"The campaign brought honours and promotion to many, but for me it had nothing but misfortune and disaster."
Watson was in transit between the young man who had been in the prime of his life and fortune, and the shattered, useless soldier who somehow survived Maiwand. Instead of serving the Crown he was now dependent on Her benefice. The two ill-matched facets had not yet melded. It all fit on him like a shoe that hadn't been broken in. He was a stranger to himself. I had neither kith nor kin in England…
…be it remembered how objectless was my life, and how little there was to engage my attention. My health forbade me from venturing out unless the weather was exceptionally genial, and I had no friends who would call upon me and break the monotony of my daily existence.
The man was trapped inside his lodgings more days than not with no one to see day in and out but that half-mad detective.
Oh, my God. He is a ghost. He doesn't see himself as real yet. That's why he writes the way he does. That's why Holmes' attitude doesn't really bother him. It's the admitting that he exists at all that's important!
Lestrade kept his composure cool on the outside of this face for the longest three seconds of his life as he and Watson regarded each other with polite masks of civility.
And he is right. We don't give Holmes the credit. It's our habit. We've convinced ourselves it's our right because it's our careers, and we put our lives on the line every day, and that gives us our sense of entitlement. We want our merits to prove our worth, but how does a private consulting detective prove his worth?
Holmes puts himself at risk too…just not as often as we do. But either way, dead is dead.
Lestrade found himself wondering what Holmes thought of Watson. If there was a god, perhaps he simply thought of him as no worse than the other mere mortals in his life. Hopefully no less.
"His name is Carl Masters." Watson cleared his throat. "The other fellow is his brother in law, Charlie Woods. They are both opium addicts." The doctor leaned on his stick, a peculiar mix of emotions on his face. "Carl has cancer of the lymph nodes. He does not have long to live." Carl was groaning; Lestrade discreetly stepped on his right forearm to prevent any further mischief. Watson was looking at them the same way he had looked upon big, dangerous Jefferson Hope.
"Dr. Watson…are you sorry for them? They could have cracked your skull easy as glass."
Watson blinked as if puzzled at the question. "No." He said simply. "But, I regret what led to this."
Lestrade wasn't certain he understood, but unless he was wrong, Watson could be trusted as a man who would not fight just for the sake of fighting.
"Well." There was a slight awkward silence. Lestrade put his hands in his pockets. "So tell me." He cleared his throat. "and be honest now."
Watson tilted his head to one side, curious without apology. "Yes?"
"Now t
hat I've gained back four pounds, do I still look sallow and rat-faced?"
"Oh, no." Watson's lips twitched. "Recall that I soon promoted you to lean and ferrety. Finish gaining the rest of your weight back, and you'll be sleek and satisfied."
"What about Gregson?"
"Gregson doesn't need to gain any more weight." Watson made a face at the thought. "But if he does, the rest of him will catch up with his hands."
Lestrade thought his holiday was looking much brighter.
1 Soft. Paper money