Watson was taken aback at how the normally steady Lestrade had reacted to the news of this strange, grisly event. He bent forward and buried his face in his hands, trying to control his breathing as he stared at the floor.
Gregson sighed, not pleased with his news. He passed the smaller man a folded-small square of paper with writing all over its surface. "I felt you ought to know," he added, "that it is clearly an older crime—much older…but there were some…papers found with the skeleton. My apologies, doctor." He explained carefully.
"Not at all." Watson assured him.
"And some of the boys chipped in for the vigil," Gregson pulled a string-bag from over his shoulder and lowered it with a glassy clink upon the floor-boards. "I already checked with the little friar…or whatever you call the men of god in this church."
(Watson paused to wonder what kind of church it was; there were little ornaments to clue it)…
"He's used to people eating and drinking to stay up a night, but he does ask no card or dice games for money."
"Most kind of you, Gregson…" Watson reached for his money-pocket, but Gregson cleared his throat.
"Boys already took care of that." He said firmly. "And if you need anything, just poke a head outside. Murcher is walking the beat at ten, and Barrett is following after. They know to swing by and see how things are going, but if I were you, I'd not linger outside." The pale man shrugged awkwardly. "Newspapers, you know."
"Are they out there now?" Watson asked in alarm. He started to rise up.
"No, no…not at all. When it looked like we couldn't keep them from looking for trouble, we gave 'em plenty to choose from. A bunch of us sent tips to every rag we could think of, tellin' them you'd be mourning in about twenty different cemeteries. MacDonald even told 'em you were going to Edinburgh…and did you know there's more'n one church over in the Orkneys?"
Watson's face twisted as it failed to decide on the proper reaction: laughter simmered close to the surface but he tried his best to look disapproving. At last he only smiled.
"No, I did not know that. What denomination?"
-
Minutes passed in silence once they had the chapel to themselves again. Watson now understood why it was just they two and the occasional visit by the man of the church. Everyone else was out shielding him from the public eye.
He tried not to dwell on his gratitude for the emotions it sponsored. It was like that terrible night on his way home to Mary from Switzerland…looking out the train to see her surrounded by countless policemen. Half the plainclothes had even donned their uniforms in a show of respect…all had held a bull's-eye lantern against the darkness.
Watson thought of Holmes as a bright light in the dark, and like a bull's-eye, he was focused in his light. He did not merely shine; he looked out and peered through the world with purpose.
The candles fluttered in a tiny draught, taking his attention. Mary and Arthur's ceremonial urn rested in the centre of it all. The tiny chapel was humble, and of the three pews, theirs was the only one stable enough to linger in. It was heartbreaking to see how loving hands had done what it could to prevent the effects of time upon the wood and glass.
"Remind me to give that poor clergyman a donation." Watson said to himself.
"Already done." Lestrade had finally lifted his head. He was openly shaken, but more like his old self. "Rather a nice donation was made in your name."
"Really, I didn't want anyone to keep spending money on…"
"S'not. The donation was made in repairs. Ought to look like a different house of worship by the end of the month. I just hope my wife didn't volunteer me for more than the paint-mixing. This time of year I can't set mortar worth a hang."
Watson felt his emotions threaten to get the better of him. Lestrade smoothed over the moment by leaning over and picking up the bag Gregson had left. "Aha. Thought I smelled garlic."
"Garlic?"
"I took the liberty of the local butcher's." The little detective held up a very familiar looking object. "I suggest an evening with liver sausage and strong ale."
"That sounds like a very real plan." Watson realized he actually had an appetite. "So long as you don't ruin my reputation as a Northumbrian." He took the loaf of bread meant to go with the sausage. "As I recall, all the proper Scots monasteries eschew both garlic and tomatoes as unhealthy foods."
"Well, I do attend the Anglican church. When I'm not on duty." Lestrade broke the bread apart with his strong hands. "Which is most of the time…I don't think I've been in a church during its usual hours more than eight times in…good Lord…since I started up as a lowly Constable. That's…" He screwed up his face in concentration as he did the math. "Thirty years. Soon to be thirty-one. No wonder I'm so ignorant."
Watson did a fair job with dividing the sausage with the bread. They agreed to leave a third aside for the kind old churchman should he come by again during the night.
He was so tired. Sleep was out of the question but his eyes blurred until the row of candles became a single, shimmering curtain of light.
"I suppose I ought to explain what just happened."
Watson opened his eyes, grateful for the distraction. Lestrade was staring at the floor again. Gregson's paper had been read and was slowly turning into tiny scraps on the floor.
"You needn't if it upsets you."
"Oh, you might find it interesting." Lestrade made a hollow sort of laugh, like a man would if trapped in a dry well. "A case with interesting points to it, as Mr. Holmes would say."
Lestrade needed to talk. "Go on." Watson encouraged.
"Back in the mid-17th century…it was the year the calendar changed over1…a wealthy man lost his only son and his wife with the baby." Lestrade wordlessly picked up one of the ales and flipped the stopper off. "This led to a problem, because the baby had already been promised in marriage to a cousin within the family…a cousin who wanted the name of the family joined with a ridiculous amount of the wealth. What to do? The father chose to hide the death of his son and went to one of the servants. They'd just had a son themselves."
"They took the son?" Watson guessed.
"Not as simply as all that…but you might as well say that's what happened." Lestrade drank and leaned his head into his hand. "The servants had once been quite prosperous. Times had fallen hard upon them, so they had the memory of being well-to-do, but they certainly didn't have the means. And then the master offers them…a deal. He takes their son and raises him as one of his own…and that will be one son they needn't ever worry about. Correct? All they need to do is terminate their rights to the boy." He let the bottle hang in his hand. "Happened a lot back then, from what I understand. You know, I even found some records where men and women legally turned their own illegitimate children into their bondsmen. Legally. The court turned the children over, and they worked like the slaves they were to their own flesh and blood, until they came of age and were thrust straight out into the world." Lestrade flipped his free hand. "Just like that."
"It was common." Watson agreed quietly. "I can't imagine it today…but I suppose in those days it was nothing to think of."
"Well, I am not used to it. I think it's awful."
"As do I."
Lestrade sighed. "The boy who died…his name was Luke Quimper…was replaced by the new Luke Quimper. But there was no legal way to bury the child in a Christian burial. So what happened to him? You wouldn't believe the stories I grew up with. We would terrify ourselves creating ghost-stories about a child trapped in the walls. We didn't know the whole story of course…but we heard the handed-down bits of rumours…Mostly we didn't believe what we were saying…but at night time it was harder not to believe."
Watson shivered inside his coat.
"There was one thing the servants did correctly. They were told to give over the page of their Bible that marked their son's birth. They did. But they kept the bill of sale. It's been passed down father to son ever since then. It's been the secret no one knows about until they come of age. I suppose this means I've come of age now." He swallowed dryly. "I inherited the mantle of horror. But I suppose that's nothing compared to what happened when Jethro Quimper learnt we were blood-kin to each other after all."
"What happened?" Watson felt no exhaustion now, just a strange thrill at this 'mantle of horror' as Lestrade put it.
"The knowledge drove him mad. He beat his own father to death and left my father to take the blame—and he would have. My father would have taken the blame rather than let the word escape. But that was taken out of his hands. And…he might be mad now, but he had enough presence of mind to pass on the proof of the sale. I went ahead and sent an encrypted wire to Browning and Jacobs…they were dealing with the Plymouth murder after all…and that inspired them to start looking harder in the house of the crime."
Lestrade shook his head. "They tracked Quimper's movements in that house somehow… somehow…to an old room mostly used for storage. Quimper had struck a panel, looked inside the wall when it fell off, and then he put the panel back and went on. That inspired them to look." His hands still hung lifelessly at his knees. "They found a carefully wrapped skeleton of an infant."
Watson didn't know what to say.
"Funny." Lestrade was saying. "We weren't allowed in the house much as children, especially me—but we always thought the haunted wall was the one up against the master fireplace."
"I am sorry your family has to be enduring this." Watson said at last.
"I am trying to understand…but I just can't." Lestrade admitted. "For what it's worth, it hasn't driven me mad, so I suppose I'm made of sterner stuff than Quimper is."
"As if that would have ever been in doubt." Watson smiled at half-a-hundred incidences in the past—and half of those had Holmes complaining about the little detective at the top of his lungs. "Lestrade, the very notion of you being mentally weak is enough to make the stone dog laugh." Lestrade snorted. "I'm quite serious. You're most tenacious, and you're quite stubborn, but I've seen you back down from your stance after no more than a moment's thought when you realized you were wrong."
"I've had plenty of practice." Lestrade joked half-seriously.
The candles nearly guttered; they fell silent as they watched, but the tiny flames survived.
It was awkward to return to talking once they stopped. Thoughts crowded their heads, but they wanted out in no particular order. It was easier to concentrate on eating.
"That's a western wind," Watson said suddenly—it was like a blurt after so much silence. "The storm's breaking."
"Good." Lestrade thought of the poor people in the eastern end of London. There would be fewer corpses to pick up once the cold stopped killing them. "I am ready for spring."
God, you are a fool, he thought just a moment later. Spring would be the anniversary of Mr. Holmes' death. Less than two months…
"It is over."
Lestrade felt a chill as he looked at the doctor. The man was leaning on his knees, head slightly down as he stared at the floor in a fixed manner. In the candlelight his skin was newly bronzed, as if he'd returned from another jaunt to the desert.
Something made Lestrade sit up and take notice. Careful notice.
"It's passed now." Watson was saying as if to himself. Lestrade had been a confessor many a time, but usually for guilty men.
The doctor rose to his feet slowly, and seemed to stretch within his clothing. He stepped forward to the ceramic urn that housed his family and as Lestrade watched, he rested a fingertip on the lid, thoughtful and reverent.
And strangely peaceful, as if he had just turned a cornerstone…
"He can't hurt them any longer, so I feel I may return your courtesy, Inspector."
Lestrade remembered almost too late that when Watson was utterly at his tether, he hid inside a more formal and stiff language. Probably how he was taught…he rested his hands under his hat and nodded.
"Whatever you feel is best, doctor."
"I know what is best. But I've been trapped of it." Watson was silent for nearly half a minute (Lestrade counted), while he watched the sea of words rise to tidal levels.
"Can you imagine what it is like to know of a terrible crime, and yet be completely lacking in proof?" He wanted to know. "To have not one shred of evidence because it was all taken from you?"
"Stolen?" Lestrade guessed.
"That too."
Lestrade felt a black well open up between them. Watson was listening hard for what he would say, and he was listening for the right response. If he missed, he would miss the moment.
"I fear we're used to that, doctor. I'm not saying that to excuse it, or to have you think we're callous and cold to tragedy. We're not. But we cannot move outside the boundaries of the law…and if we break a law to seize evidence…the courts will find us as poorly as the very criminals we have exposed. Perhaps more, for we are in a position of trust and we daren't break it."
Watson nodded. "I understand." He said at last. He looked up to the ceiling for a moment, and sighed at the small, understated little cross resting in the niche.
"I knew Colonel Moriarty once I was sent to the Berkshires. But my brother knew him the longer. He'd chosen that regiment; I wanted…I wanted the stronger medical training and the allure of India. So I went to the Fusiliers." He looked at his hands for a moment. "I was soon enough sent to join my brother, for there was need of me."
Lestrade heard the way that was said, and the bitter tang in Watson's voice, but said nothing.
"Afghanistan is rich in gemstones, did you know that?"
"Something of it." Lestrade admitted. "I always thought it was like the way Cornwall is supposed to be rich in Baltic Amber…you have to go out and find it first."
Watson laughed softly. "And there's no guarantee if you will. Very good. And it's true. The people value water over gold. But rulers enjoy wealth, and rulers have wealth." His lips tightened. He was quiet again while Lestrade waited.
The doctor leaned his head back. "I was twenty four years old when we first met, you know."
"So young?" Lestrade recalled in surprise. "You seemed much older."
"The lot of Nor'eastern Englishman, raised as a Colonial." Watson said simply.
"Do tell me about it."
"I was born in 1852. I grew up in Australia, reading of the American Civil War in newspapers while watching the world change around me in the sub-continent. By the time we returned to the northcountry, I thought of myself as a grown man when I was twelve, Inspector. Just as any good Scottish family would think. By the time you met me I had been a surgeon for four years. It was the total of four sleepless years in which I devoured my own sense of self in the blood and vessels and muscles and tendons and bones and ligaments and nerves of the human race." Watson's eyes had gone inward, surprised at the confusion of life. "I had no other future, you know. I was the second son, and received no property." Watson's face showed no bitterness, only a faint sense of wonder. "And while commissions were no longer purchased, my family was considered well enough to approve of my future rank as a Major."
"You worked hard for your rewards, doctor."
"It is not something I'm proud of speaking of." Watson said heavily, "for I wished to believe I was in a good, solid world. I knew there would be crime wherever I went, but I was not completely prepared for what I saw in Afghanistan." A cloud passed over his face and he looked down. "And as a medical man, I was uniquely qualified to observe men who were not at their best behavior."
"I assure you, I have no desire to ask for names." Lestrade said.
Watson relaxed slightly at that. "It is not in the best interests of the bereaved to give full details." He rubbed his head. "But there was a time when myself and a few of the others noted that some of the remains of the dead soldiers were being…tampered with." Watson swallowed harshly. "Even now, it is difficult to speak of."
"Doctor, I am fully aware of your discretion." Lestrade was privately wondering what had happened for someone like Watson to be so traumatized. Watson said his nerve had been shattered after Maiwand, but looking at him it was hard to imagine Watson afraid of anything.
"I'll be brief." Watson said curtly. "As long as we understand it goes no further than this room." The Yarder nodded his agreement. Watson's shoulders slumped. "Valuables were being smuggled back home in the corpses of soldiers who had died."
Lestrade gulped hard. "That is monstrous..!" His arms unlocked from their position. He straightened up in his horror. "Watson, are you sure?" He whispered.
"I examined the bodies myself." Watson said heavily. "And some of us were able to band together and…stop this travesty in a way that prevented scandal. It was all we wanted. The idea of the grieving families to know the true purpose of why their loved ones were shipped back for burial…" The doctor shook his head violently. "We could not bear the thought that they would learn the truth."
"And you are seeing parallels to this case, the one Hopkins is working on?"
"Not…exact ones." Watson said very slowly, sifting through the possible answers. "The funeral homes in question were involved with Colonel Moriarty's scheme to smuggle out the gems. But as far as I can see, the similarity ends there…It's as if…forgive me if this makes no sense…but it is if someone heard of this…escapade and took inspiration from it." Watson rubbed his forehead, looking every inch his age at that moment. "Colonel Moriarty was the man in charge of this horror. Colonel Hayter caught wind of it…and he and my brother arranged a…way of cheating him from his foul treasure. I wasn't there, so I can't say what all the details were. But Hamish found it necessary to don my uniform on occasion and give a false impression of his own whereabouts."
"If you were alike enough in appearance, I can see how that would work."
"Moriarty suspected, but couldn't prove anything. My brother fell to drink and nearly ruined the entire effort." Watson sighed heavily. "But I could not entirely blame him. He was…wrecked inside. A woman he wished to court had chosen another and he did not take the news well."
Lestrade thought of his own misery when he convinced himself Clea was an impossible dream. He hadn't torn up a tavern, but he had answered the call to a fight with ungodly enthusiasm.
"I would not be surprised that Hopkins has found proofs in the paper-trail of part of Moriarty's old schemes. It's the strangeness of some of these cases, though. I can't completely pin it all down. It eludes me." His hand made a fist. "I need to examine the rest of those remains…"
"We'll see that you get your chance." Lestrade pulled out his pipe and set up a smoke, purely for his hands to stay busy. "How is it you ended Moriarty's scheme?"
"We could not expose him, but we could take his treasure away. Hamish did that. He took care of things while I was raving with enteric fever. To this day I am not certain if I imagined our conversations or not. I desperately wished to speak to him, but we were already growing apart." The flatness of his voice was terrible. "We had been growing apart. I wished to be my own man, not his. He saw me as an extension of his own life, and he used me as thoughtlessly as a man uses his own hand." Watson clasped his hands behind his back. "I tell you this to explain my inability to supply all the information. Hamish left clues behind…and I was left mute."
Lestrade heard him swallow.
"Colonel Moriarty did not know which was which. And he knew we were not…amicable. He is a patient man, and he watched us carefully, I am certain, for signs of wealth. I had no money that could be explained by a pawned gemstone here and there. Hamish slowly died of drink. When he did die…Moriarty still waited. I was beginning to work more closely with Holmes, and looking back, I believe that Holmes was already collecting the professor's attention. He would not have wanted Holmes to know of him before he was ready."
"You're saying the Moriarty brothers were hand-in-hand with the Professor's Empire."
"I think it goes more than that, simply from what I know of the Colonel. I think he followed his brother to the extent that was required because he expected to take over the crime-family. The Professor was enough of a calculating machine that he failed to turn his reins over to someone just because they were family. Someone else must be his witness."
"Dear God." Lestrade breathed as it all hit him at once. "Watson! When the professor died, his brother wanted to take over, but someone is standing in his way…Gregson said this all sounds like a private war going on between rivals in the old gang…Moriarty needs the money those gemstones could raise!"
"Neither of us could completely attack the other." Watson agreed. "He has a horror of exposing his family name. I had my brother, then Holmes...and then my wife and child." He swallowed hard. "Now…now I have very little left to lose. And I can tell you what little I know."
"But…Colonel Hayter was involved. Doesn't he know anything?"
"Hamish hid the gemstones from both of us. It was safer that way. He played chess with Moriarty…he knew how the man thought. Moriarty knew how Hamish thought. As long as we were ignorant, we were fairly worthless to his schemes…but Hamish died and I took his sword…" He sighed. "Moriarty knows by now that it must have been Hamish. All possibilities are discounted."
"Doctor Watson," Lestrade whispered, "You are in danger."
-
1 1752 is when the calendar switched from Julian to Gregorian.
