Lestrade's report:
Name: Detective-Inspector G. Lestrade of Division A, Whitehall, was called into a contracted case at the behest of Sherlock Holmes, Private Consulting Detective, on behalf of his client, His Grace Lord Nabal De Lessups. (Case details attached). After De Lessups positively identified the new volunteer worker for his Swan Reclamation Programme, he sent for Mr. Holmes in the belief that Mr. Holmes would be able to handle the case discreetly—
"Damn and blast!" Lestrade swore not less than five minutes later, as he aggressively crossed out the last three sentences on his report-form. "That doesn't make any bit of sense!"
Watson looked back at him from his good eye. The other was still underneath a cold compress to keep the swelling down. "It can't be that bad," he pointed out with all the reasonableness that came with rank innocence. He winced slightly as the Black Maria lurched them slightly to one side.
Underneath Lestrade, a semi-conscious Constantin Jackson moaned. "Shut it!" Lestrade snapped.
"Perhaps you shouldn't be using him as a settee," Watson suggested. "I don't think you really have to."
"No, I think I do. I really think I do." Lestrade shot back. "And as to the earlier topic, yes, it is that bad. It is every bit that bad." To prove his point, he shoved the battered report-paper under Watson's nose.
The doctor gamely squinted, and managed to make out several details in beams of sunlight coming through the bars. "Ah," he said at last. "I see what your problem is." Slowly, he pulled out his own pencil. "You're trying to tell them the truth."
"Forgive me for sounding trite, but that is part of my job." Lestrade sank his chin into his hand. Beneath him Jackson had subsided—he might as well, what with Lestrade's Derbies on his wrists and Holmes' nickel-plated spring cuffs were about his ankles. And Watson's unknown sedative in his blood-vessels...
"Let's see if we can't make this more believable." Watson touched the tip of his pencil to his tongue. "Mr. Holmes donned the disguise of a, ornithologist—"
"A completely batty one," Lestrade put in.
"When you think about it, most of his disguises are batty." Watson explained patiently. "That makes them all the more believable."
"What the devil is your reasoning for that?" Lestrade rubbed at his aching head, neck, and finally his jaw where he'd connected with the heavy ring on Jackson's fist in a poignant way.
"Because, who in their right mind would do this? People decide he's the genuine article as soon as they put eyes on him." Watson shrugged. "ornithologist…and concocted a story about an injured swan to Mr. Jackson. Mr. Jackson agreed to follow Holmes to the rendezvous, where myself and Dr. Watson were waiting."
"Don't stop now, doctor." Lestrade pressed. "You're sounding quite believable."
"That's because I haven't come to the challenging part yet." Watson sighed.
"How about…" '—Mr. Jackson, whose mental condition is a matter of record, was distracted by the condition of the swans…"
-
"Come here, my gels!" Jackson's voice boomed like the poetic bittern across the frozen marsh. Startled crows took to the air as he lifted arms like ship-beams.
Much to everyone's surprise (save Jackson, who was insane), the gigantic mountains of bird sat up on their skinny legs and waddled their large, black feet toward him with their heads down and hissing. Even Holmes looked taken aback.
"Well of course he's got them trained." Lestrade muttered. "My day has improved."
"Food for the gels!" The big hand swooped and produced a rain of mixed corn. The progressive waddle became a ponderous stampede. Holmes backed off to the side. Long, evil necks arched up and down, bobbing like fishing-floats in the air as they gobbled the grains. "Margaret…where's Margaret?"
"Perhaps that is the injured one?" Holmes offered.
"We've got to find Margaret." Jackson pouted—not unlike a child. "Margaret!" He hooted. "Come here, gel!" He cupped his hands to his mouth and a sound not unlike a French horn erupted.
Holmes cringed to his very spine; Lestrade filed that note (literally) away for later when the piston whistles lost their novelty.
"Where is Margaret, blast it?" Watson hissed.
Lestrade tapped him on the shoulder. "Look behind you." He whispered.
Watson complied. He met the evil black eyes of the cobb that had been staring through the slat at Lestrade for the past half-hour. "That's no Margaret," Watson protested.
"Watson, we have established Jackson is insane..?" Lestrade spoke as quietly as humanly possible. Outside, the madman was calling for 'Margaret' in increasingly loud, upset tones. "I think he's coming this way!"
Watson met the news admirably. He pulled out his Adams.
"Margaret!" Jackson hooted. "Margaret-gel! I have some nice rye and barley!"
Margaret already knew what he wanted to eat. It was detective sauced with a civilian.
-
"How about…" Watson hesitated. "We say…'during the distraction, Mr. Jackson was overpowered?"
Lestrade cleared his throat. "Outrageous." He retorted. "It doesn't take half an hour to 'overpower' a distracted lunatic."
Watson frowned at the paper. "Granted I'm reading and writing with only one eye, Lestrade, but is there any place in this report that says how long the apprehension took?"
"So we're playing around with time now?" Lestrade scowled. "Lovely."
"It comes in handy when you're protecting someone's identity." Watson pointed out. "I couldn't have written The Valley of Fear otherwise."
"I learn something new every day." Lestrade fumbled in his pockets for a small paper packet. He poured the anodyne-powder straight into his mouth and chased it down with his flask.
-
"Margaret!"
The cob erupted into a Divine Wind of feather and muscle as it circled the shack and headed straight for Holmes; Jackson turned to see the flash of Derbies in Holmes' hand. The detective, points to him, had excellent reflexes and Jackson's paw met empty space.
"The Mulligan's on!" Lestrade exclaimed.
Watson kicked the door open—it vaporized into splinters—and took off pell-mell to save Holmes.
"Stop, Jackson!" Watson had already leveled his gun but the madman had been effectively blockaded by a wall of feeding birds. As if they were of one mind, a forest of tiny white heads on long white necks telescoped up and what happened next could be described as an aggressive dispersal. Before the curtain of large white objects had cleared, Jackson had managed to get to Watson's side and struck the gun out of his hand, the other hand grabbing the doctor by the throat.
I'm going to roast for this one, Lestrade had time to think, before he cupped his hands and whistled. Constantin Jackson's entire body spun like a giant top; his face creased like a knife-mark into leather as he realized who was behind him.
"Hello there, Jackson!" Lestrade bellowed in the most irritating voice he could master—and he'd been cultivating the art all his life. "Remember me?" He pitched his voice to the volume normally used when scolding Constables: "Today's special at the Lancashire-Rose: Chicken!"
The madman took in the sight of his hated foe. A bellow that Watson later described as a bull elephant the Queen's Army had to shoot for going berserk escaped his large mouth.
Lestrade ran like the dickens.
"Watson!" Holmes paused to yank the doctor to his feet. Watson was coughing worse than ever, but he was alive and no worse for the wear.
"Lestrade!" Watson wheezed. "That madman is after him!"
Holmes blanched. When Watson was down, all other thoughts had fled. He looked about; the marsh had swallowed up both men.
"My god!" Watson breathed. "The man's insane!"
"Yes, I know that, Watson, but we need to find him before he murders Lestrade!"
Watson hadn't been talking about Jackson. He postponed the explanation for later. In one move he had checked his fallen gun and the two were pelting into the broken wall of ice.
-
"By the by," Lestrade cleared his throat, "How was it you managed to survive that massive hand about your neck anyway?"
Watson pointed to his neck, which was not exactly skinny. "You're be surprised how many times someone tries that on you on the ball-field." He said succintly.
"What do you do, flex your neck muscles?"
"Something like that," Watson grinned. "And a punch to the nerves in his wrist somewhat lowered his gripping power." He frowned suddenly. "So, what happened? All Holmes and I could see was a great white forest of frozen reeds. How did he catch up with you so quickly?"
Lestrade was exasperated. "Watson," he said through his teeth, "I'm a city-sparrow. I don't do well in wide open spaces, much less when there's soggy spots, mats of roots, frozen slick puddles--"
"All right, I get your bearings..." Watson scribbled quickly.
-
"Constantin Jackson—" Lestrade blocked the blow with a grunt; he felt the impact from his upper arm to his spine, and he knew he would be feeling it for days afterward—"You are—under—arrest—" He ducked and threw a jab that the madman ducked at the same time, running straight into Holmes' timed right cross. The sound was incredible. Lestrade followed through with a kick that put the toe of his heavy waterproofed boot into the nerve cluster behind Jackson's knee. This sound was even worse. It promised death.
Holmes ducked again—he was quite the flyweight, Lestrade had to admit. Watson limped up and threw his walking-stick to the detective, who caught it easily and promptly demonstrated his training in singlestick.
Jackson roared. Swans swarmed. Lestrade was shocked to see his world abruptly changed to a furious white blizzard and with one pull of the trigger, he managed to fulfill the Policeman's Dream. The swan fell dead at his feet.
And then Jackson went completely, utterly mad.
He moved so quickly Holmes' stick lost its target. With a whirl he lunged for Lestrade, gorilla-arms opened wide for a killing embrace. Watson came out of nowhere and to the detective's shock, stabbed the man in the ribs.
The two collapsed onto the frozen grass, Holmes shouting Watson's name but the doctor was already rolling away from Jackson's limp form.
Lestrade stood without moving, trying to accept the fact that Watson was holding a large syringe, contents empty.
"That's where you've been," He said hoarsely.
Watson panted as he rose to his feet. Holmes was grinning at him with an admiration Lestrade felt, and the amateur even went through the pretense of helping his stand. Watson tolerated it; as forms of affection went, it was probably the safest one for Holmes to enact.
"I'm afraid that was a bit too close to his liver for my liking," he rasped. "It will break down the sedative fairly quickly."
"By then we should have him safely in custody." Holmes assured him. "Lestrade, I think we might require both pairs of--"
"Oh, my God." Lestrade turned pale as the chalk downs. Stretched out before them was a massacre in white.
"Calm down, Inspector." Although Holmes looked a bit taken aback himself. "It's only the mute swans from the Thames that are under Crown possession."
"One…two…three…" Watson counted. "F—no, that one's just been winged…"
"What are we going to do about this?" Lestrade groaned. "They were still under his Lordship's care."
"I'll see to it." Holmes dismissed the disaster blithely. "For now we need to see about getting Mr. Jackson into the paddy."
"And the swans." Lestrade said gloomily.
"The swans?"
"Might as well make a clean breast of it…"
-
"Evil things." Lestrade grumbled. He was not sorry that one of the three casualties was 'Margaret.' The cob's eyes still shone with some sort of malice from where they'd thrown the corpse into the corner of the Maria.
"At least you have a pardon for killing the swans." Watson pointed out.
"I only claim responsibility for one of them!" Lestrade exclaimed. "There wasn't a single mark on the other two. I don't even know what could have killed those."
Watson wordlessly pointed. Lestrade reluctantly looked. The crop side for the swans were grossly distended. From here it looked rather like they had tumors.
"Oh." Lestrade muttered.
"That," Watson said in his best Doctor-voice, "Is why one must be moderate in one's diet. A lack of restraint at the table can only lead to a premature life span."
"They had heart attacks." Lestrade was not ashamed for staring.
"Inspector, they weigh close to four stone! I doubt they could even fly!"
"All that effort just for pate..." Lestrade groaned.
Watson suddenly broke into one of his rare smiles. "Well, Lestrade, the case is concluded, you have just enough time to get home for Christmas, and all you have to do is turn over Mr. Jackson--again--and figure out what you're going to do with three gigantic birds."
Lestrade closed his eyes and groaned again. "And why is Mr. Holmes not here to give me the usual speech about how I get the credit after he did all the work for the pleasure of the case?"
"Hmn, I'm quite certain he'll reassure us that it was a 'case with some minor points of interest.'" Watson offered. "But other than that...he'll be meeting us at the train-station."
"Why the train-station?"
"Something about collecting a sample of swan-shell pottery at the little curio shop..."
