Inspector Bradstreet was content at his work. His peaked cap was worn with pride; he polished the buttons of his frogged coat with the same amount of attention a groom gave to the Earl's best horse. And he kept an arsenal of boiled handkerchiefs in his deep pockets in case of emergencies.
One might think with justification that his world was built precisely upon specific and narrow pathways, divertible by no influence. They would be wrong in that thinking; Bradstreet used his little ways to afford a sense of serenity and some degree of control over his life.
As his best friend had once said, "A riot in Hyde Park? No problem. Bradstreet has a clean handkerchief."
But all long days must end upon a proper note, and for Bradstreet, Saturdays were met with a few placid rounds at the Elegant Barley.
The large man hummed a ditty to himself and strolled merrily down the wet streets of London. The Runners had been in fine form today, what with little dramatics, but acres upon acres of most gratifying paperwork had been cleared from desks, files, and dustbins. The offices hadn't looked this good since the Blind Beak ruled. Speaking of which, someone had even found one of the old uniforms languishing in a dusty corner. Poor Landon had been the only one who could wear it; just watch him get stuck in the mouldy thing for the parades the next time they needed a Robin Redbreast!
Several Constables waved their respect and he returned it cheerfully. Hazel would have the brood down with her hot soup with bacon and if he knew their children—all of them—they would eat until they reached the point of grogginess and then lurch sleepily off to bed. He, however, would pause and have a pleasant hour socializing before he could get home. It was a definite improvement upon his nerves.
The newsman gave him a copy of the morning paper at half-price and he took it. The girls were always looking at images of the latest dresses to copy and to colour up. Garrett and Brian only wanted the sensationalist bits. Hazel clipped out the articles on science and medicine and oversaw the mixing of the flour-water paste. He whistled through his thick beard and scurried up the raised step, pushing open the door of the Barley…
…and greeting a stiff, difficult sight indeed.
He saw Gregson first. The pallid man was wearing his most infuriating expression—that of smug delight. Bradstreet sighed. He knew what usually caused that expression and looked the other direction.
Yes. There was Geoffrey, in the opposite corner and ready to chew tin nails and sneeze out brass clocksprings.
"How is it, gents?" Bradstreet sighed. "I thought the two of you were going to agree to get along?"
"Which we did until Gregson made a spectacle of himself." Lestrade snarled. Really, he had the face suited for it.
"Oh, you exaggerate just a bit, Lestrade." Gregson informed him in that sort of voice that, in a younger boy, would encourage a sound caning. Gregson was good at that sort of voice.
Bradstreet sighed for the third time and went to the front, picked up his usual drink (a Midlands-brewed golden lager), and returned to the centre of the crossfire. And then he promptly ignored the two contenders in favour of a pleasant hello to PC Barrett. "How is it, Barrett?" He asked. "Ready to patrol over on the East?"
"Ready enough tomorrow, Bradstreet." Barrett was lax enough to go without titles when they were both off-duty. "Yourself?"
"We ought to know by morning if the extradition papers are needed. Make certain you've got your eyepatch, would you?" He took a drink. "Did this start before or after they got here?"
"Oh, before. Long, long before." Barrett grimaced slightly. "It's all Gregson's doing." He whispered.
"I figgered that from the way he was smirking." Bradstreet confessed. "Game of the darts?"
"Ha'penny toss?"
They set up the game on the other side of the tavern. Behind them and over the usual rise and fall of conversation, two particular men were having their own rise and fall of their own conversation, which managed to be completely one-sided as neither was disposed to listen to the other.
"So how did it start?"
Barrett scuffed and tossed a dart almost in the middle. "It started when they had to show up in court together for the Holywater Sprinkler of Hollowell."
"Oh, heavens. They had to get along for that case!"
"They did, they did, Bradstreet. They had to. The Defense was painting it all like a poor madman who was trying to defend himself against the people he thought were the one who'd wronged him in childhood…"
"The Holywater Sprinkler makes Constantly Mad Jackson look like a Lapp-lander! How did that go over?"
"It went over dreadful, if you must know. Still, there was some slight credibility to the jury because he was sitting there meekly inside his manacles, head down like an overgrown child." Barrett threw and promptly won another ha'penny off his opponent. "So they had to present a united front. It was Gregson who ciphered out where he was hiding, and Lestrade was the one who persuaded his own family to help turn him in…" He sighed. "Hard to say what would have happened if the Defense hadn't been from Brightwater."
"What does Brightwater have to do with it?"
"Brightwater's as far from London as you can get and still pay fealty to the Crown, old fellow."
"I'm aware of that. I'm also aware that it's a heavenly piece of sod and full of smiling people, bucolic farmland and—"
"—All the social niceties of a turnip boiled in beer!" Lestrade was bellowing.
Bradstreet flinched and dropped his dart; it stuck on the plaster wall but Barrett never turned a hair.
"It's been going on like that since they showed up." The PC explained. "Anyway, the Defense mistook Lestrade for Gregson, and—"
"How the hell?!" Bradstreet yelped. Heads turned. Bradstreet turned, his great neck swiveling, and took a look at his mates. Lestrade still looked like Lestrade, and Gregson looked like Gregson. "There's half a foot and a few stone between them!"
"You look a little excited, Bradstreet." Gregson drawled. He passed an infuriating look to Lestrade. "What do you think, Gregson?"
"I think one of us needs glasses, Lestrade." Lestrade never missed the turn of a hair. "How's the Grozet?"
"Awful. Same as usual."
"They look nothing alike!" Bradstreet rinsed his throat out with his lager and took a deep breath while wiping beer-foam from his own beard.
"Telling him about this morning?" Gregson guessed wearily. "If you just stick to the bald facts, we'll only be here six or so hours."
"The Defense thought I was Gregson, and he started on about how I'd used needless force against the bastard." Lestrade could get blunt with his language when slightly drunk and miles from the nearest woman, child, or priest. "By the time he caught on that the jury was laughing, it was too late."
"Life in Bedlam." Gregson said in satisfaction. "Couldn't happen to a nicer mutilator."
"Nice is your word. You didn't have to clean up after his victims." Lestrade still looked a little grey at the thought. "Or did you ever bother to see what a few nails driven into a cricket-bat can do to a brain?"
"Thanks but no thanks, Lestrade. Don't have to. I'm not the one of us who has a chunk missing from his imagination. Did you ever talk to that phrenologist?"
"Not since he said my browline was indicative of poor hand-writing."
Gregson choked slightly. "Well, that's a stranger to reason for you. Anyone here can vouch that you write as neatly as a spinster schoolmarm."
"Gregson, stop defending me. You aren't good at it." Lestrade clutched his bottle with both hands—a sure sign that he was hoping to put it to traumatic use.
Barrett sighed. "Where were we?"
"Why they're fighting."
"Oh. Gregson, of course."
"Well, of course it's Gregson. It's always Gregson." Bradstreet complained. "Gregson can hiccup and make Lestrade pop his bowler."
"That's because Gregson has the unfair advantage." Barrett confided under his breath.
"What unfair advantage?" Bradstreet was interested despite himself.
"Gregson learned how to be infuriating to get even with all his older cousins. He got himself a great deal of skill in the art."
"And that's the truth."
"Lestrade was able to ignore Gregson—completely ignore him—last week and Gregson's been burning to show him up ever since."
Bradstreet sighed. "So h---"
"—and take a few lessons!" Gregson exclaimed.
"After you!" Lestrade exclaimed right back.
"They've been doing this for how long?"
"Three hours. They've barely had enough time to drink a single bottle each, they've been so busy shouting."
"Good Lord."
"—the bill to me if it makes you sleep better!" Gregson shouted.
"Think I won't?" Lestrade was standing up and leaning on his palms against the tabletop. "I'll make certain my landlady hears it straight from you!"
"I'm not afraid of an old woman!" Gregson riposted. "Present company included!"
"Oh, dear!" Bradstreet mashed his darts safely into the target with one stroke and blocked oncoming waves with his body. For a moment he sympathized with the Pharaoh's Army went caught between the opposing waves of the Red Sea. One hand went to grab Gregson by the collar and hoisted him up.
Simply out of sheer animal surprise, Lestrade backed away, all the better to take in the sight.
"What the devil?" Gregson puffed. His pasty face was turning cherry-red. "Bradstreet, put me down!"
"Are you mad?" Bradstreet wanted to know. "Your brighter brain cells aren't going to mean a thing against Lestrade and you know it!" He gave the Yarder a kindly shake. "You may be smarter, Tobias, but you're by far much slower, and by the time you finished smirking, Geoffrey will have dusted your nose for you. Geoffrey," Bradstreet continued, "You know he does this just to get you angry. Why can't you just ignore him?"
"I did ignore him!" Lestrade exclaimed. "I ignored him for a whole week and it's made him worse than ever!"
Bradstreet had been afraid of that. He sighed. "So what happened?" He wondered. "What does Gregson have to do with your landlady?"
Everyone, from plainclothed to uniformed, began edging closer to the wall while still wrapped in a cloak of nonchalance. Bradstreet took note of it anyway.
"It was all fine while we had lunch at the Hammersmith," Lestrade began.
"You call that fine?" Gregson blurted. Astonishingly, he was turning red from indignation. "Lestrade, you can take it if you want to, but I'll never stand that sort of disgrace!"
"If you only knew how batty that woman is—"
"Stop." Bradstreet shook Gregson again. "What happened, Tobias?"
"We were eating lunch when the woman next to us started in on her little boy. Told him that if he didn't eat those mushy peas, she would have us go over and arrest the tyke." Gregson continued to purple. "Well, I'd had enough of that! People are always using us as a threat to make children behave, like we're worse than monsters! So I stood up, listed my name, how long I'd been on the Force, my height, how much I weighed—"
"Off by a few stone," Lestrade cut in snidely.
"—and my awards and merits. And I finished by saying I 'd never eaten a single pea in my life, Eddie, and I wasn't about to."
"And then everyone in the Hammersmith clapped." Lestrade said sourly. "Eddie was quite happy to get a lifetime excuse off peas."
Bradstreet was about to chuckle, but a look at Lestrade stopped him. "And this has what to do with your landlady?"
"That witch is her daffy sister!" Lestrade exclaimed. "She's in for the week! What am I supposed to do now? I can't go home!"
"Oh." Bradstreet blinked. "Daffy, eh?"
"Abnormally so."
Bradstreet looked at Gregson. Gregson was trying not show the slightest bit of guilt at what he'd done to Lestrade.
"C'mon home with me." He offered. "The boys miss having their punching-bag around."
"That's a wonderful notion, Roger." Lestrade shuddered.
"Hazel has pease porridge cooking. With bacon." He added. "Yellow splits."
"If he doesn't take it, I will." Gregson piped up.
"Shut it, Tobias. Your wife would toss you out on the street if you let another living being hand you a fork, much less a meal."
"Who said that?" Gregson was already whirling to rip the spine out of whoever had been foolish enough to point out the truth.
Bradstreet took the opportunity as golden. In a moment they were gone, with only a startled "whuk" from Lestrade hanging in the air in the space he had just occupied.
It was a good and definite three-and-twenty minute's walk before either man slowed down enough to talk.
"Shed that, man." Bradstreet took the bottle out of his friend's hand and gave it a merry toss to a passing Glassman. "I've got better than that at home!"
"You are impossible." Lestrade scowled like a thunderstorm. He resembled one more than usual with the cloud of steam rising from his overheated body in the cool night.
"One might say the same about you and Gregson."
"Only when we're together." Lestrade sniffed. "Arrogant piece of work, he is."
Yes…Gregson was arrogant and Lestrade was defensive. The two didn't get along, and Bradstreet didn't think, after fifteen years in the C.I.D, that Lestrade could learn to get along with yet one more overweening character.
Of course, that was before a private consulting madman set up his shingle on Montague Street.
