Part Four

"Tell your friend a lie. If he keeps it secret, then tell him the truth."

--proverb

Near Regiate, Surrey:

"Inspector Lestrade, I am pleased to finally meet you." Colonel Hayter proved a diametric opposite of Colonel Moriarty by producing his hand in a quite un-military manner, and Lestrade was shocked out of his defensive reserve long enough to shake it. The grip reminded him of Watson instantly: quick and firm and of a hand that was very warm with health. "You are not an infrequent name in John's letters to me."

Lestrade caught himself swallowing, caught between flattery and panic. "He writes to you often, then?" He'd thought he had been a little clever, researching the names of the officers who had attended this military trial in the records. Hayter's name had come up practically next door to London.

Hayter laughed. "I may be a free bachelor, but my days are still lonely enough! John writes me as often as the mood strikes—as do I."

That was encouraging. "Well, I trust that you could deduce from my wire the purpose of my visit," Lestrade cleared his throat.

"Hmph." Hayter continued to confuse the Inspector by patiently regarding the clouds rolling over their heads. "That I do. Well shall we go inside, then? Or would you be more comfortable out here? I have noticed many of my more urbane guests are a bit taken aback by all the greenery I cultivate."

"It fair outbids Hyde Park." Lestrade said honestly. He couldn't recall ever seeing so much…stuff…in a single plot of earth.

"I once referred to my retirement as becoming a full-time gardener," Hayter explained succinctly.

"Ah." Lestrade blinked a bit as a bevy of red squirrels conducted a complicated-looking maneuver in the trees by the small fountain.

"Watch out for those little blighters. As soon as you turn your back they'll fan your pockets and run off with your watch!" Hayter warned. "I'm afraid my housekeeper has spoiled them dreadfully and they associate all humans with blind benefice. When we fail to show them proper respect, they grow as aggressive as a Hindu asked to attend an ox-roast." Hayter waved his stick in the air as he spoke. "Once in a while I conduct a little target-practice for my cooking pot, but it seems that for every one that makes it into the mulligatawny, three others move in." Hayter paused as a thought struck him. "Do you like squirrel?" He asked hopefully.

"I don't know if I do or not." Lestrade figured that was the best tactic to take—not that anyone really knew what was served up in the sausages off Fleet Street.

"Very healthful. I'll send some home with you." Hayter looked fantastically pleased at the notion of ridding himself of a problem by being a good host, and patted the pistol-shaped gun in his pocket.

"Ahem." Lestrade cleared his throat. "You…are too kind. But I don't want to take up any of your valuable time, Colonel…"

"You have business to conduct. I understand." Hayter paused at the outdoors-chairs set upon the lawn by a rather strange statue of a faun, and threw himself down. "Do have a seat. What may I help you with?" The shrewd eyes were knowing. "It involves John, I'm sure, or you wouldn't be here—and you certainly wouldn't look like you were about to hang your best friend."

Lestrade rubbed the back of his neck, telling himself the pollen made him itch. "A complaint was raised to us at the Yard about some details of Dr. Watson's service days." He began hesitantly. "A charge that he was not being truthful about his account of the Battle of Maiwand."

"Balderdash." Hayter pronounced. "I was there—Watson told the utter truth."

"I'm glad to hear you say so." Lestrade relaxed. "But the man who had charged the complaint has produced a strange bit of evidence that I must confirm or deny."

"You intrigue me, sir. By all means, present your problem and I will do my best to help you."

Lestrade silently handed over the chromolithograph and the report.

The report only made Hayter lift his brows; he snorted once and set it aside—clearly he already knew of the contents. The chromolithograph was another matter. For a moment surprise slashed his face, and then a deep sorrow before the image was put away.

"I can answer many of your questions, I'm sure." Hayter said gravely. "But you must ask them."

"Was Dr. Watson flogged for some sort of failure before the battle?" Lestrade decided to pick the worst question first.

Hayter sighed. "Yes. Flogging was allegedly abolished the year after Watson's trial." He said grimly. "I am afraid the practice still continues."

"Colonel Moriarty intimated there was more to the trial than what was in the report." Lestrade said, carefully using that name for the first time.

"Moriarty." Hayter snorted with enough force to wave his waxed moustaches. "Is that his little game?" He retorted. "God spare me from his type. I tell you, it is the men of his stamp that made me regret retiring when I did. I never felt comfortable with leaving the lambs in charge of the hybrid wolves…" Hayter's long fingers rapped a staccato on the arm of his chair. "If you'll forgive the perspective of a man who was at the trial, I would be honored to give you my own account—within reason, of course. There are still some details that I would prefer not to divulge in order to protect the privacy of some innocents."

"Colonel Hayter," Lestrade's voice was grim with emotion. "Whatever you see fit to tell me, I assure you, will be far more than what I have now."

Hayter seemed pleased with the answer. "To begin with, are you aware of the laws that bind the Medical Surgeon in the British Army?"

"I know precious little, although I have a reference at Scotland Yard."

"Then you already have more than most." Hayter approved. "I shall start with the subject that began this wretched affair. The officer's saber. It is mandatory for officers to distinguish themselves in their rank—besides the extra gold braid, the different hat and leg-stripe—to carry a saber that befits their rank." Hayter shook his head wryly. "Even the Medical officers are expected to carry a saber. However, there is an interesting little rule in their conduct: No medical officer is permitted to use his saber save in self-defense."

Lestrade realized he had stopped blinking. Hayter remained silent, patiently waiting for his brain to process. "Sir…are you joking?"

"It is a joke, but not an amusing one." Hayter said calmly. "I see your imagination is conjuring up the logical conclusions as to that situation."

"The report says that Major Watson was guilty of unbecoming conduct with his dress saber—I thought it meant something like…well, forgetting to polish it, or leaving it out in the rain or something like that." Lestrade's face turned red as he realized that sounded completely unlike Watson.

Hayter threw back his head and roared. "For all Watson cared, he could have used it to peel a pomegranate!—oh, my, that did conjure a vivid mental image, didn't it?" To Lestrade's confusion, Hayter turned as red as the roses crawling up the trellis. "Forgive me, that was quite uncalled for."

"Quite all right," Lestrade wondered what in the world had just happened with Hayter's embarrassment. As far as he knew, pomegranates had precious little to do with impropriety.1

"Back to the subject, the report says that Major Watson ran afoul of another officer, who himself was a Major. What the report does not say but I say, the man thoroughly deserved the trouncing given him." Hayter's face glowered. "I'm pleased to report that one is no longer able to inflict his damage on the troops…but he did rise to Lieutenant-Colonel before he left and now he's some sort of wretched Lord for a wretched northern district...In my most unworthy moments, I fantasize of his southern-hardened constitution falling victim to a good Orkney winter."

"If I may," Lestrade was writing as fast as his pencil would allow, "what kind of trouncing was this?"

"A thoroughly stupid one. There was the matter of a young lady involved." Hayter stopped, a brief look of pain in his eyes. "Please forgive me. It is for her sake that I will not name any names in this matter."

Lestrade nodded silently. Hayter looked relieved.

"John had a remarkable brother. I've never met anyone like him before or since. Truly brilliant man, mathematically talented, yet a bit of an artist and a natural scientist-naturalist…everything he touched seemed to turn to gold like a young Midas, but unlike Midas, he had no ill consequences of his fortune. I regret there was a bit of a fragile quality to his genius. He could have borne up any hardship life itself threw upon him, but he was absolutely unforgiving of himself. I tell you, no one could possibly be as hard on that man as he was on his own soul."

"Mayn't I inquire as to his name, since we are talking of two Watsons?" Lestrade asked.

"Oh." Hayter unexpectedly looked embarrassed. "Well, this is part of it. John and his brother were so very much alike, there was an understandable but confusing mixup in the records…they were both registered as John H. Watson."

"How often does that happen?" Lestrade wondered.

"More often than one might think." Hayter sighed. "Our Empire might overall be wealthy, but the average man who joins the military is trying to combat poverty. I've seen entire families enlist within a few years of each other. And if I told you how many women try to sign up disguised as men, I'm sure you'd think my retirement was due to a mental illness." The Colonel rubbed his forehead in memory. "Their names were confusing enough, truth to tell. John Hamish Watson is the Watson you know; his brother's name was the reverse—Hamish John Watson."

"Yes, that does sound very confusing." Lestrade agreed.

"It's a common enough custom to name children after their grandparents' lines, especially if the children in question look to be the only heirs to carry on the name. If I recall my salient details, the brothers were named after their paternal and maternal grandfathers—the Hamish family and the John family. It might have been Johns, and they dropped the 's'—I know I would. Things would be confusing enough without someone thinking they were Welsh in the bargain!"

Lestrade had often been asked if his low altitude had to do with a woodscolt Cymric ancestor, so he said nothing.

"It wasn't long before the officers learned of the gifts Hamish possessed. He was quite good at what he did—and he was capable of doing anything one asked of him. Before long he was being brought into work that was confidential in nature, but I assure you, that work was nothing but honorable. The fact that he had a brother who was so very much like him, and could mimic him quite well—well you might say it was a gift from Minerva, for some of our Intelligence staff. Imagine having a man who can be in two places at once?"

Lestrade shuddered at the thought. "I believe I am following you, sir."

"John was the medical major, and Hamish was regular infantry. The incident with the saber was unfortunately no more than a case of mistaken identity, brought on by a certain unworthy young officer who owed his rank to family connections, and who was jealous of the attentions of the daughter of one of the officers…jealous enough that he selected quarrels with anyone he believed might be in competition for the lady's favor. It was in reality, Hamish who picked up the sword. John would have kept silent for the good of the service anyway—but add to protecting his brother, well, I believe that he would have cut his own tongue out first before he betrayed his own kin."

"They were close then." Lestrade realized. He certainly wouldn't have felt that way about his own flesh and blood—too many of them saw him as a betrayer for becoming a policeman.

"As close as two brothers can be." Hayter's face had that strange look again, and then was gone.

"Correct me if I am mistaken, then. There was an incident with a jealous officer, and John Watson was identified as the person in the fight when it was in fact his brother."

"You are correct. It began as no more than warm feelings and warmer words, and then an overt challenge of skill with the gentleman's blade." Hayter sighed. "The only thing believable about that case was John's popularity with the ladies. There were Don Juans- a-plenty over there, and hot climates make matters even worse, but John was such an epitome of propriety that no one fear for anyone's daughter around him." Hayter chuckled under his breath. "It wasn't even those dashed good looks, either. It was the fact that he was one of the few young men who wasn't talking about how bloody marvelous he was. It gets quite tiresome to a young lady, who would prefer to hear about herself as the subject of conversation, you know. But every soldier dreams of rising in rank, and too often the poor girls are a captive audience to those dreams. But John…John simply liked to listen to people talk. He enjoyed the company of people, and people in turn enjoyed him. I'm not surprised the—well, the jealous officer in question often reminded me of that Irish proverb—'he who loves himself will have no rivals.'"

Lestrade shook his head. "This sounds not unlike some of the higher functions I've been forced to attend," he admitted.

"No one who really knew John would believe him capable of lifting any kind of blade when he was angry. John much preferred his fists in a scrum; said you couldn't slice a man open with your hands."

"Obviously Hamish felt otherwise."

"As I said, there was fragility to his nature that counterbalanced his awesome intelligence." Hayter looked down, thinking. "John took the charge of lifting his weapon in anger instead of defense, and the trial commenced. Moriarty, who was something of the patron of the man who started the whole mess, was all for the severest punishment possible."

Lestrade sensed there was a great deal more to this story, but he held his silence.

"I believe flogging was not as harsh then as it was in the past." Hayter said suddenly. "Yet, I was glad that it was outlawed a year later. I was flogged myself once or twice, as a hot-blooded youth who felt he knew more than his seasoned superiors. There are times when the birch across the shoulders is the only way to bring reason to such a young fool as myself." Hayter's lips set. "It isn't the physical pain that truly bothers a man. It's the fact that you are the one who has to remove your shirt and stand there, not knowing when the blows will come, except for perhaps your ears are sharp enough to catch the whistle in the air, just before it strikes you. Some men can't bear the thought of that anticipation, and that is the reason for the restraints. The restraints are really to help a man save his pride, you know. If a man cannot move his hands, then he cannot betray himself further by trying to twist away or shield his back…" Hayter's face had gone tired and sad in the pale light. "And of course, there are those who cannot bear the public censure of being punished in front of their peers, or the superior officers they have come to revere."

"If what you say is true, then perhaps Hamish would not have been able to bear that punishment as well as John did." Lestrade guessed cautiously.

"You have the right of it. As it was, he barely stood for his brother taking his punishment. There was no choice; if Hamish had stood up, then everyone would know he was working for Intelligence, and then his life wouldn't have been worth a Dari syllable to the enemy. We sent him away for his own good. The trial was very small and enclosed, and morale was at its lowest point in the men. I argued that the morale would only deteriorate further if we made the punishment public, as John was well liked and respected by the men. Were ranks prone to the vote, I swear he would have been running the 66th on approval alone." Hayter chuckled. "I was gratified to be listened to. John had his ten strokes away from the eyes of the 66th."

"It would seem Moriarty has remembered his grudge." Lestrade ventured.

"Remembered? He'd never forget, Inspector. Moriarty is a plague upon society." Hayter abruptly stood, shoving his hands in his pockets from his emotions. "A plague," he repeated. "I swear to you, that I was not surprised to hear of John's account of his brother the Professor-Napoleon-of-Crime. Not at all. It must run in the family to be completely ignorant of what the value of life is. But why, why in god's name did a good man like Sherlock Holmes pay the price with him?"

Hayter's voice was thick was sorrow and confusion for a world that should have made more sense. Lestrade abruptly felt his throat swell up in sympathy.

"Tell me." Hayter braced himself solidly and turned to face him. "You did not need to interview me, surely? Have you spoken to John yet?"

"No. He has gone out of London on holiday with his wife." Lestrade admitted. "They were invited to the house of his wife's former employer. I had to catch the train rather than wait for the forwarding address."

"I'll give it to you." Hayter said. "They're at Mrs. Cecil Forrester's. John has it in one of his letters somewhere. You should speak to him, Inspector. If Colonel Moriarty is up to his old games, John needs every ally he can uproot to his side."

"That's quite decent of you, sir." Lestrade said, surprised.

"John saved my life." Hayter said mysteriously. "I'll always be grateful for the chance to help him." He paused, slightly rueful. "It may take some time to find that address…I haven't thrown any of our correspondence away, and we do communicate a lot."

"I have to leave now if I'm to catch the train back." Lestrade said reluctantly. "Can you wire it?"

"I can do better than that. I can meet you in London tomorrow and we can go up to Mrs. Forrester's in person."

"Oh, but I—" Lestrade took in the fact he was about to argue with an old military veteran who was facing a vital campaign for the sake of good, and wisely shut his mouth. "Thank you, Colonel. You're most helpful and your assistance will no doubt be invaluable." He paused. "You have not said anything about the Chromolithograph."

"And I will not." Hayter answered. "John can explain that far better than I."

The train left almost as soon as Lestrade had paid his four-cents-per-mile fee back to Paddington Station. He grimaced and sank into the first spot that came to mind. It was all but empty in his car; a man snored in the darkest corner, and that was it for his companionship. This time of day, no one was going into London unless they had to.

At least I'm not bringing a bag of dead squirrels with me. Lestrade leaned his head back in the booth, closing his eyes as he thought.

Hayter's conversation had been illuminating, but there were a great many gaps in it. Even allowing for the fact that the colonel was protecting the privacy of others—and there was a definite protectiveness about the mysterious young lady—Lestrade felt he had only touched the surface.

The first step would be to find a way to quietly prove John Watson had not been the officer who lifted his saber in anger at this theoretical fight.

John would not thank him.

"Close as two brothers can be." Hayter's strange expression came over Lestrade's memory, and the little detective groaned aloud, clapping his hand to his forehead at his stupidity.

"Twins." He groaned. "John was a twin. Good God, I'm a fool," he said in the failing light of the car. "Holmes is right about me." If there was an afterlife, perhaps it was the silent screaming from beyond the barrier of the grave that had inspired his thoughts this far. Lestrade yanked his notebook open and began stabbing strokes across the paper with his pencil.

Birth certificates'll prove the relationship quickly enough—but if Hamish was working for British Intelligence, it might be difficult to prove it. Those tin-plated godlings are jealous of all information and like very much to make documents disappear--

--Lestrade stopped, body and thought, as illumination froze him in shock.

If Hamish was working for British Intelligence…

…By default, John had to have been working for them too.

Lestrade had never felt so stupid in his life. Nausea pushed bile up his throat as he realized the real nature of the trap Moriarty had set.

Moriarty was at the trial with Hayter. He had to have known about all the details.

And he knows I can't prove John's innocence.

He's planning to destroy both of us.

To be Continued…

1 Lestrade has no idea just how improper a pomegranate can be to a soldier from Afghanistan.