Plymouth:
"You're wondering," Potier said cannily, "how much more your wife will put up with this." He refreshed his match and puffed quickly until it was caught up before taking up his small flask. "I've worn that expression quite enough. I deserved that expression most of the time. But bear in mind I was little like you. No one ever dared me down from a fight. Surcouf's pesky blood talking, I suppose." He grinned. "There was a time when I was the shortest moon-curser in the North Sea. Not that you would know that by looking at me today, nann?"
Lestrade grinned too; the tension shattered.
Potier stretched back on the bed with a comfortable sigh, arm folded behind his head. "Out casting my nets during the day…and at night I was sailing with the moon. I lived wild and both my wives were saint enough to put up with me…I suppose it helped that they didn't see too much of me. But yes. I didn't do what I did because I wanted to worry them…or make them afraid. Or leave them widows. I did it because I was wild and no one could prune me into a right shape."
"Interesting way of saying that." Jafrez sighed. "I've felt that was all they tried to do to me when I was a boy."
"Well, it wasn't your fault you looked so much like me." Potier snickered. "I imagine they must have panicked when they saw you."
"Hah." Jafrez smiled faintly.
"You're not like me in that, mab. You're far more responsible than I was. You don't have that crazy moon-blood in you."
"I don't know what I have, Tad-kohz." Lestrade's hands twitched at his sides. He was never silent for long; even when deep in thought he gave the appearance of internal motion. "I do know that I have so much to lose," he added softly.
"Clea won't leave you."
"That doesn't mean what I'm doing is fair to her."
"Fair? You've never believed in 'fair' before." Potier's brows drew up and together as he tapped ash into the fire. He leaned back to study. "You only believe in justice."
"You know exactly what I mean. I don't know what to tell her…that her estranged father-in-law will be hung for murdering a man who is the father of a man she hates and fears with every inch of her being." Lestrade measured an inch of space between his thumb and forefinger. "There are those in her family that will see that as proof they're doing well to ostracize her. Bad enough she married a policeman who can't promote past detective-sergeant. Or that her closest friend is staying away from her thanks to a stupid scandal over the Bow Street Strike. Or that I've come home to her half dead at least once a year since we've been married."
"The important thing is you do come home." Potier pointed out. "Heed this old veteran. "You come home. You may not rise in your profession, but better to dig deep in respectable soil than fall over because you've over-reached your length."
"That sounds like pruning again."
"What do you expect? Potiers farm when they aren't fishing."
"Or running the tides."
"Or running the tides."
They were both silent a moment, listening for the night-sounds of London that weren't there. Plymouth was different even in this—at least it was this far from the shipyards. A rabbit screeched as something grabbed it, the killer itself soundless.
"He killed the man that did the worst wrong to his wife…your mother." Potier said at last. "Clea isn't going to fault that…nor are her brothers and Charlemagne. They would have easily done that with their own hands. There's enough of the Celt left in them to agree to that."
"Years so late? Mamm and Armoricus did their best to keep that secret to themselves. It was easy because early births run in the family, and Armoricus looked just enough like Thomas that it'd be enough to satisfy anyone."
"Somehow he learned, ya?" Potier shook his head. "His health is failing; could be cancer, or something just as bad, and he learns this truth…and this is how he reacts. Wouldn't he want to spend the last part of his life righting an old wrong? A wrong against my daughter? I've never doubted he loved her, mab. Never that."
"No. I never doubted that either."
Lestrade put his back against something wooden and strangely carved. It looked like a ship's figurehead someone had given up on halfway through the work. "Something's off," he returned to the old subject. "And I've lost my way."
"You've been good to hold up this long. Can't expect you to pull your usual fifteen hours until you recover." Potier rose up and went to the day-basket. "Let us see what Mrs. Collins packed, ya? She has a good hearty appetite, like a dancer should."
"Dancing, my foot." Was the response. "She and Clea together would wear out a team of Greek athletes."
"It's true not many women would have the...withall to put a menu into a supper-basket." Potier lifted up a sheet of paper thoughtfully. "Are you certain your landlady doesn't come from good solid peasant stock? " He elevated a loaf of unsliced bread. "She's never made white bread once in my presence."
"Your presence has nothing to do with it." Lestrade found the inevitable terrine of stew, so thick it could be eaten with the edge of a knife-blade, and set it by the fire to re-warm. "The women of London are protesting white bread as it helps tooth decay. Wholemeal bread helps clean the teeth." He sliced off the heel and chewed without trouble as he fished in his travel-bag. "Remember when Old Baldwin was holding that nut-cracking contest?" He dredged up a memory from his childhood in Brittany. "None of the gentlemen could do that. They'd be using a hammer to crack their nuts."
"Cheating." Potier chuckled. "They were hazelnuts. I could open those with my gums."
"Oh, for…" Lestrade lifted his tiny canister of Jewsbury & Brown's ruefully. "I think the boys have been in the tooth powder again."
"You're upset that they're cleaning your teeth with your tooth powder?"
"Nooo…It's not their teeth that's the trouble…" Lestrade opened the little lid and poked through it suspiciously. "I caught them trying to clean Mrs. Collins' cat's teeth with my usual tin last month. They argued they were trying to make its breath better…but I told them no, not my tooth powder, use their own." A troubled expression crossed his face. "There's less in here than there was last time…" He muttered. "I keep this tin in the travel-bag…I suppose they thought I wouldn't notice…"
"Bless the saints." Potier was well used to boys, having been one, but he too was caught between a grimace and a smile. "Does the cat have better breath?"
"I have no idea. That thing is large enough to frighten the Thames-rats." He gave it up with a single laugh. "Tsk."
No fool with his energies, Jafrez ate and put what was left of the tooth-powder to good use, falling to sleep soon after. Potier stayed up a bit longer as he nursed the fire along, smoking his tobacco and thinking.
Things had smelled like trouble even before they stepped out of that damned tavern.
Potier had been glad to be out of the Sea-Eagle for starters. Strangers were always eyed (discreetly or not so discreetly) in a tavern. In their case…he and Jafrez were no doubt 'somewhat familiar' to the tired men and handful of women populating the little dive. There was a fairly good chance that the boy cleaning up the floor-sweepings was one of the Baldwins; he had the trademark fair hair and square face of that family.
There was no avoiding the families, but Potier had no desire to advertise their presence with songs and flowers. It would just be…brainless. Judging from the way Jafrez huddled down inside his coat just a bit, implying he was even smaller than he truly was, and passing sweeping glances from beneath his bowler…they were both thinking the same.
First, Browning had glanced about with his one eye as if looking for something. Failing to find it, he made an almost-shrug motion and led the way down the tiny road (more like a muddy stream breaking the monotony of the field-grasses), and it was not in the direction of the Plymouth station.
When Jafrez pointed that out, Browning answered something unclear to the effect that the gaol was full, and his father was being held on the estate.
With that, Jafrez snapped his mouth shut with a click so loud it must have hurt his teeth.
Potier had not been in Plymouth in some years; the risk of seeing his estranged family was painful. Still…
The little old man trotted after the other two, holding himself back with effort. After a quarter-mile up the winding trail from the tavern to the outskirts, Browning opened up a little to talk.
It was in English; a language Potier found illogical as much as infuriating. A trading language? A trading mishmash; a linguistic case of Bubble-and-Squeak,1 and it was to his grandson's credit that he had the brain power to be fluent in the ridiculous language.
"Well, now, why can't we call you a Janner?"2 Browning was asking as they hustled out of the outskirts and up a winding slope around and even more winding path...
"Haven't lived in Plymouth long enough to be called a Janner." Jafrez was arguing. "Have to be considered a bloomin' native to be a Janner!"
Banter aside; Old Potier was certain what sort of thoughts were running through his grandson's mind as they followed Browning. The look on his face matched the feelings the smuggler had when he had gone to the ti-ker in hopes of positively identifying his brothers' drowned remains.
He kept his eye on Jafrez as the two policemen traded apparently light conversation; Browning was still trying to say Jafrez was a Janner and Jafrez was saying he hadn't lived nearly long enough in Plymouth for that esteemed title.
Plymouth had always appealed to the smuggler, but not this soft green veldt of planted clovers and rolling mists with lazy herds of sheep eating their way through the veldt. He loved the noisy hustle of the ship-yards, where everything was for sale and the rest negotiable; where men and women took pride in their hardiness.
With these outlying lands…
…It was meant to be pastoral; the result was offensive. The Quimpers had long ago driven out the poor living on the slope overlooking the port and set up their own little kingdom over the ashes. A fiefdom, Potier had thought with contempt upon his first visit, and that opinion had never shifted.
"Just a mo.'" Browning held up his hand. His audience paused, puzzled that they were not passing the Estate Entrance itself and headed further to the other side of Plymouth. "We're heading into the Estate," he added. "Jacobs wants to talk before he moves the corpse."
"It's still there?" Jafrez stared. "Why? It should have been put in cold storage by now!"
"Jacobs' decision, not mine." Browning said simply.
Jafrez' mouth was a tight line; Potier felt no less angry. Both men opted to stay silent for now. Drawing attention to themselves would do no good.
Chilled mist rose from the stone paths; the earth between them glistened black and soft. After just a few weeks in "The Smoke," it was strange to see buildings made of their natural stone tints, and not the black of the coal factories. He'd forgotten how the wind favoured this part of Plymouth…how it kept the smuts and cinders from falling save on the unlucky days.
Several Constables, of that tall, ever-present stock in blue wool, hurried back and forth across the grounds. Potier calculated when the murder was supposed to have happened and measured it against what he was seeing. He thought some people looked edgy. How important was Ivo Quimper?
The plainclothed detective stood apart in the crowd of blue in his brown coat and suit. Against the luxurious furnishings, he was plain as a wren. He was giving orders in a calm, low voice that was so used to being obeyed he never had to sound firm. A Constable nodded and trotted off, his long legs stretching into a light run in his heavy boots.
Jacobs chose that moment to glance up; his eyes sharpened upon the trio as he extended a hand adorned with hammerhand thumbs and the negotiations—for that was what this was—began. "Inspectors," He said...
-
...After they walked out of the Murder Room, matters grew difficult.
"You'll forgive me sir, but you seem to be not in the best of health."
"I'm better than I was a few weeks ago." Jafrez answered. "And I'm capable of being your translator." That quickly, he took a measure of control from Jacobs. "How would you prefer to do this? Do you want me alone with him or do you want someone to witness? Or someone to listen where he can't see them?"
"I confess, I hadn't thought further than just getting him to talk." Jacobs was startled. Somehow he had stopped being the authority, but he didn't know how exactly that had happened. "We need testimony more than anything else. You know how men are. Once they break their private dams, more words follow the first, and more after that."
"I see." Jafrez agreed without agreeing.
Potier's sense of unease refined upon their approach of the estate's cells. It looked like a tiny stone tower, set in native block from the nearest limestone strata. Generations of rainwater leaked silent stone tears between the cracks. A policeman was standing guard and looking uncomfortable. Jacobs called him by his name, 'Carpenter.'
"He hasn't spoken, sir." The young man told them. "I check in on him like you say, but he hasn't said anything at all. I tried."
"Never mind, Constable, you did fine." Jacobs praised absently. "Inspector? Perhaps?"
"I'm ready." Jafrez answered firmly.
Carpenter took the nod and pulled out a ring of keys that fit upon the door. The lock squeaked. Potier watched as a smear scraped across the stone upon the door's swing.
-
It was late into the night. Jafrez was asleep. Potier slid out of the bed with as little noise as he was capable of. Worn out, his grandson never stirred. The old man breathed his relief and quietly fixed himself a pipe. He couldn't stop thinking about the day; he was grateful Jafrez was able to put it aside for now—that or he was just too worn out—but the recollection swarmed across his eyes like gnats at twilight:
A man carved of apple wood. That was Thomas Lestrade. From the gnarled body strong as iron to the green eyes gleaming in that square face...Thomas looked like a man carved of a still-living tree and then filled with a shambling, wood-like life. He hunched up, those green eyes glued to his son without blinking, and his hair had turned silvery under his beaten cloth cap. A thick bandage coiled around each hand but tiny spots of old blood had leaked through.
Thomas didn't recognize him. Potier shuddered to see a man look upon his own son with a stranger's eyes. The door's pale sunlight didn't even affect the man, didn't even make him blink. They were the violet eyes of the slightly mad…or at best, of a man who did not remember who he was.
"Where is Jeanne?" Thomas Lestrade asked softly. "Goulean, where is Jeanne?"
Jafrez swallowed and tried to speak. His mouth opened; he got that far.
Thomas Lestrade rose up slowly, weak as a kitten and shuffled to the tiny beam of sunlight coming through the high window. "I wanted to talk to her," he said plaintively. "I wanted to tell her I was sorry. Could you tell her?" Blunt, work-thickened fingers spread themselves against the shaped stone. "I can't leave," he whispered. "He'll punish them. They're too old to work by themselves now. I can't leave."
He fell back into muttering to himself, tracing a single line between stone and mortar.
Jafrez backed away as if his father had become the serpent of the fountain. He fled.
Potier followed him, but did not completely shut the door. His grandson had his back to the wall of the cell, breathing from the bottom of his lungs as the Constable guarded the entrance. Guard? A joke. Thomas was going nowhere. His wits were as addled as a child's when beaten too harshly.
"He thinks I am you." Jafrez croaked. He reached up and loosened his collar. Sweat chilled his face against the fog. Jacobs and Browning stood by, uncertain of what they should do, and that made them both look a little out of depth.
"Then let him think so." Potier didn't like himself for that sort of counsel, and it went against the grain of his honest grandson. "He will unburden himself, ya?"
"I'm not certain this is wise," Jacobs began carefully. "If he doesn't know who he is talking to…"
"We need a confession." Jafrez strangled. "If he thinks I am his wife's father…perhaps that will go faster." He pulled a handkerchief out and ran it over his face. "But we need to do this now, while he's in the mood to talk about something."
-
Paddington Station, London:
Watson grimaced as he watched the cabs go by. Overcast it might be, but the outdoors was better than his going back inside. Paddington Station could be at times…a massive problem. He hated getting into the station just after the trains braked. One never knew what one would find.
He sighed and tightened his muffler about his throat in concession to the damp. A doctor had to show he was sensible after all. He squared his shoulders and stamped, half-limping back under the skylight tunnel.
Patterson's pale face illuminated in the filtered sunlight like a ghost; he pushed his way forward, slippery as an eel with his dark eyes staring out like twin lamps capable of burning a dark light against his while skin. Again, Watson wondered how much longer the man would stay on his feet; how much was even left in him?
"I just got your note," The Yarder apologized. He breathed heavily as he stopped, waiting for the crowd to split open in concession to the next approaching train.
"You're in time then." Watson answered with what he knew was sympathy under his usual British politeness.
Patterson made a face. "Do I look so terrible, doctor?"
Watson was long used to making a smoke-screen. "It's not that." He assured quickly. "You merely look as though you've…well…ran across a few streets to get here."
"I did." Was his answer. "All the cabs on my end were caught on a funeral." He rubbed the back of his neck. "Who is this fellow? Mr. Holmes never mentioned him."
"I daresay." Watson didn't know why it made him feel better—was it reassuring to know he had more of Holmes' confidence than this man? Was it a petty jealousy, or was he glad to know that there was safety in that ignorance? "Dr. Mortimer is a well-qualified expert in human bones. I can't vouchsafe his phrenology, for I am no expert, but he is enthusiastic and a thorough scholar."
"I look forward to meeting him." Patterson said slowly. He still looked slightly lost and tired. Without knowing he was doing so, he shot his cuffs to make certain they hid the scars at the wrists.
Watson's gaze had fallen elsewhere. As the detective watched, a change came over the veteran. His brown eyes gleamed, and his mouth parted in a smile. He lifted his hand and waved, determined to be noticed.
Patterson turned, seeking an invisible line that stretched from Watson and the man who would be on its other side. They settled at last on a tall, thin man; a young man for the credentials given him. Small glasses in a gold wire frame illuminated bright grey eyes, and he moved with a slightly stooped back beneath his slightly seedy coat; the posture of a man who had already been a scholar for many, many years. As Patterson watched, ling spidery fingers quivered over the head of his Penang-Lawyer, and suddenly lifted the stick off the ground. The man waved in turn from the swirl of the human sea, returning the courtesy of his former acquaintance.
"Dr. Mortimer, I presume?"
1 A popular dish of cabbage and potatoes
2 A person from Plymouth; a nickname
