The carriage was almost a statistic apology to the trio after the hardships previous. It was clean, new, the metals polished, and the horses well tended. The driver, whom Holmes had hired long-distance, had thoughtfully seen to everything.
Watson sighed in surprised bliss at the discovery of hot wrapped bricks at their feet. "Incredible," he decreed, and permitted his eyes to shut in appreciation.
Holmes made a soft sound of agreement and pulled the traveling-carpet about him on his side. Without Watson at the peak of his own powers to keep the man fed and rested, he was already looking as unwell as his companion. Lestrade resolved to avoid the mess unless one of them collapsed—either one would bite his head off for noticing they might need assistance. For now he was perfectly content to bury underneath his own blanket, which he shared with Watson. Watson was a human furnace on any given day.
"Need a nip?" He asked quickly. Watson, oddly enough for a doctor, seemed to forget to carry a flask half the time—relying on a small bottle in his fifteen-pound medical bag for when alcohol was needed.
Watson blew out his breath, testing the volume of steam in the still-warming passenger section. "Not now, thank you." He said.
Well, Lestrade had offered. He glanced over at Holmes. The detective was almost—not quite—smiling.
"No, thank you, Lestrade." Holmes answered back in a, dare it be said, pleasant voice.
Which only confirmed Lestrade's worst suspicions about how unpleasant the next few hours were about to be.
-
"Constantin Jackson is about six-foot seven, three hundred pounds on average, and in possession of the whitest skin you'll see west of albinism." Lestrade recited the memorized facts by heart, dutifully, and tried not to sound like a bored waiter with the nightly menu. Outside, the frosted windows revealed a barren, limitless plain of iced and snowed-over marshland. The weather had pounded the long grasses and reeds nearly flat, and then once it was all heavy with snow, two inches of sleet had frozen everything in place.
Lestrade thought it as demoralizing as Dartmoor, just more brightly lit.
"He refuses to eat meat of any sort, and has been known to become violently ill in the presence of eggs." Holmes added for a fascinated Watson's benefit. "Cooked eggs, I should clarify."
"I know perhaps twenty people who eschew animal flesh," Watson was making a game effort to be as fair-minded as possible in this. The effort shone in his face. "Most of them have endured a past trauma of some sort…such as long-term employment in a meat processing facility…" He cleared his throat. "The reaction to eggs seems a bit extreme."
"He was once stopped in an act of murder by a man who knew of his…shall we say, mental obstacles," Holmes admitted. "By a threat to drop a dozen eggs on the sidewalk."
"And he is not in an asylum where he belongs?" Watson spoke a bit more harshly than intended. He started coughing again.
"He's been in asylums before, doctor," Lestrade confessed reluctantly. "But his usual meekness in ordinary and day to day examples is such that even the most suspicious guards will drop their vigilance. And to be truthful, there was one example where it could be said that the sanitarium provoked his escape."
"The attending physician thought to cure Jackson of his horror of eating meat." Holmes put in with an extremely rare example of brevity. "He employed a rather aggressive campaign."
Watson's jaw dropped open. Lestrade heard it click in the chill air. He then voiced the question Lestrade had been pondering for years: "Just to what degree of insanity is this man living in?"
Holmes, to do him credit, shrugged his ignorance. "I would welcome the chance to peruse his diary," he admitted.
"I don't think they allowed him pencils," Lestrade said thoughtfully. "Or any other sharp implements."
Watson shook his head. "What are we to do, Holmes?"
"Ah, herein lies the problem," Holmes pressed his fingertips to his chin thoughtfully. "Mr. Jackson knows Mr. Lestrade by sight."
"He ought to." Lestrade scowled darkly. "I've arrested that caitiff eight times in the past fifteen years."
"Caitiff?" Holmes' eyebrows briefly took wing. "That isn't your usual vocabulary, Lestrade."
Lestrade exhaled through his nose. "You can blame my improvement on the influenza."
"Influenza?"
"Yes. Do you have any idea how much reading material one human being can go through when they're quarantined?" Lestrade locked eyes, dead-on, with Holmes' grey ones and leaned forward slightly. "I even ploughed through two of your monographs." The latter had been an act of kindness Lestrade had yet to get back at Hopkins for--Lestrade preferred to gather a bit of interest on his return investments with revenge.
Watson carefully stifled his laughter. "Putting that aside, it is clear to me that Mr. Jackson should not see Lestrade."
"Nor should he see you, Watson." Holmes said crisply. "To all appearances, I should be travelling alone and unarmed."
"Ah, Mr. Holmes, not that I'm questioning your judgment--" God forbid, Lestrade prayed fervently that this would not be seen as a challenge... "But, I did say Mr. Jackson is six-foot seven and averages to three hundred pounds?"
Holmes, the second-smartest man in London, looked blank as foolscap. "Your point, Inspector?"
"I don't think boxing will cover this, Mr. Holmes." Lestrade swallowed hard. "Or singlestick. Or that whatsit-su form you learned abroad.."
Watson moaned loudly. "If by which, you mean Baritsu, it was actually Bartitsu." The doctor appeared to be dwelling in the sort of deep pain only personal shame and anguish can create. "And speaking of influenza, one must never, ever submit a manuscript to an office that is down with it; you never know what sort of illiterate substitute editor will be working at the desk."
"Oh, my." Lestrade blinked. "All that aside, you do realize size and muscle is to Mr. Jackson's advantage."
Watson, alas, chose the worst possible moment to show he was listening. "How did you arrest him, Lestrade?" He wanted to know with that appalling curiosity that so often resembled rudeness. "You're not exactly on Holmes' size."
Here it was...Lestrade thought to hell with it, and pulled out his flask. "The first time I arrested him, I had the aid of five constables. They piled on him in a coordinated scrum--you would have appreciated that maneuver, Watson--but he did nearly throw two off. PC Murcher wound up sitting on his chest." Lestrade unscrewed the little cap and took a small toast. "The second time, I'm afraid it was a bit less dramatic."
"Hitting him with a door wasn't dramatic, Lestrade?" Holmes's eyebrows had again taken flight. "Perhaps you should go back to the dictionary."
Lestrade scowled. "It isn't as dramatic as it sounds!"
"Using a broken door as a cricket-bat and Jackson's head as the ball?" Holmes wanted to know. "Watson, seeing as how you insist on celebrating Christmas, do put the Inspector down for the complete Oxford's? It will be a worthwhile investment if it prevents future misunderstandings."
"Kindly do not slap me with your largess with a dictionary worth more than my wife's new cook-stove, Mr. Holmes." Lestrade snarled. "The door was broken because he'd smashed it down with his fists."
"Why did he smash a door down with his fists?" Watson had that look in his eye that said he was mentally taking notes.
"Because Lestrade was on the other side." Holmes explained. "I can't say for certain to an event I did not witness, but one swiftly gathers the impression that our Friend Lestrade could never be the friend of Mr. Jackson."
"He threatened to hang me with my own muffler and feed me to a herd of swine." Lestrade admitted.
"It was the third time that he'd killed your wife's patron, was it not?"
"Now that one went just a bit better." Lestrade permitted himself to smile. It was not a nice smile.
Holmes turned to Watson. "If Jackson hadn't been twice Mr. Lestrade's size and mass, I'm certain someone would have tried to call it abuse of the badge."
"I pounded him into porridge." Lestrade's smile had only grown. "It felt marvelous. He'd come at me with a red-hot poker, so I figured anything I did to him in return was legal."
"But for the record, Mr. Jackson's defense did try to say Mr. Lestrade had been physically abusive." Holmes smirked. "Need I say the uproarious laughter in the court-room did damage to that tactic?"
"So what did you do?" Watson was grinning.
"I kicked him in the chest to halt his charge and he fell out the window into a mill-pond." Lestrade looked regretful. "Too bad the wheel was locked up..."
"Yes, that would have prevented a few more murders." Holmes sighed.
"The fourth time was the worst." Lestrade's whole body still ached at the memory. "The absolute worst."
"Why, were horses involved?"
"Horses were involved in the fifth case. The fourth time, we had a hostage, who in turn held that dozen of eggs hostage. I swear, I prefer Jackson when he's in a slavering rage. He's ever so much worse when he's huddled up into a ball, babbling. We had to strap him down and shuttle him off in an ambulance."
"But the fifth case was horses."
"Which ended faster than any of the other cases. He'd just killed his victim and was rather stupidly trying to dispose of the body in a hay-cart. The horses naturally spooked at the smell of blood, and took off running down the street. Nearly ran Constable Johns over."
The sixth case was accidental," Holmes supplied gleefully. "Mr. Jackson spotted Mr. Lestrade in a crowd and enacted some vague thoughts of revenge."
"It ended badly." Lestrade said darkly. "Come to think of it, swans were involved then too." He unconsciously rubbed at his upper arm, as if remembering an injury.
"Seventh and eighth cases were rather involved with each other. One might argue they were the same."
"After we grabbed him," Lestrade explained, "we thought we just might stick around a bit and sure enough, he was trying to escape from the asylum."
"Amazing." Watson summarized.
"I'll say." Lestrade took another drink. "What are we supposed to do in the meantime while you set yourself up for this lunatic?"
"Do?" Holmes echoed. Again that smile played at his mouth. "For now, nothing. We are to retire to a pleasant country inn and rest before the next stage of the game."
It was strange, Lestrade mused, that for a man who did so little lying, Holmes was still one of the last people he'd turn his back on.
