It was all obvious…and terrifying.
Watson fell into a brown study as the others silently digested the ramifications of what he was saying.
Patterson lifted his head first. His glittering eyes were hard as nail-heads. "Doctor, what else did you learn about the bodies besides the fact that they are obviously modern?"
"They all had something in common. They were all to a man crippled in the leg or arm somewhere. And there were signs of recent injuries on their bodies. Broken bones for the most part, but overall, brutal signs of murder. They were bound, beaten, drugged and finally their throats were all slashed before they were thrown into the bog. I'm afraid that is consistent with the precious little we know about the bog-people." He remembered the tea in his hands and drunk it. "This is a fiendish mind at work here, gentlemen."
"Why would men of today be killed in imitation of the past?" Hopkins mumbled.
"A cult." Patterson said it slowly. That hard look had intensified, and with his gaunt, tall frame he resembled a more frightening version of the late Sherlock Holmes in the room, the way Mary Shelley's Frankenstein's Monster resembled a more frightening version of a human being. "We've always known Moriarty's gangs used people in all sorts of filthy activities. But how did they maintain control? A cult is easy. Clubs are popular! Men gathering isn't a thing worth noticing…and we know that there are rival factions splitting off and adding to the fire."
"Moriarty's men were deep in the fighting-rings and pits and sportsman-circles." Bradstreet rubbed his knuckles against his jaw. "We've already caught on that the gang is getting rid of their worst members by sending them after us."
"Yes…they're killing two birds with one stone while we slowly whittle down to twigs." Gregson grunted. "They're winning on that score."
"Another Hellfire Club." Patterson suddenly snapped. His voice cracked like a whip in the room. "Bloody hell, it's just another Hellfire Club." He slammed his hand on the table and stood on its force. The skin over his face had melted to paper over the hard bones. "Right in front of us. In front of me. I ought to have known better."
Watson had grimaced at the sharp sound, but remained silent.
"It's the best way to keep mum, you know. Share in something shameful. If one cracks you have to make damn sure no one's brought down with you, or your end won't be any at all neat." Patterson finished his garbled sentence by fishing for a slender little pipe. "I saw it over and over in my work in disguise." He swallowed thickly. "It's how they recruited people. They create blackmail."
Watson was feeling an ache between his eyes. Patterson's grisly revelation was as bad as the one he'd just given. Recruitment. Moriarty's gang had been vast…too vast to merely crumble with the death of the king. All men from all walks of life had been affected from the man's careful, mathematically precise calculations.
Recruitment.
Watson's considerable powers of imagination could see it easily, despite his sincere wishes against it.
Someone who needed to be cultivated for Moriarty's work could easily be set up for a life-time of blackmail. All one had to do was invite them over on the false pretense of a "social event" only what kind of social event would greet them?
Lestrade had half-risen out of his folding chair and was chafing at his hands. His face was drawn. Years suddenly rolled backwards, making him look as unwell and sallow as he had before his marriage.
"He had the resources for it." The small man admitted. "Look at how the Quimpers kept control of their allies for years—generations—by having those Wild Hunts. People were hunted down and killed like animals, and anyone who joined the hunt was culpable with the crime. It makes me wonder just how long the Quimpers have been the agents for Moriarty's people!"
"We may never know, but at least we're starting to get the picture." Bradstreet pointed out. He looked faintly ill.
-
France:
"Adrien?"
Adrien was confused. Surely it was not time to get up yet…his day began with the dawn and it was still dark outside.
"Adrien, my cabbage, are you awake yet? The doctor says you must take this."
Madame was there? In the dark? And why was the doctor here? Was it M. Sigerson? Adrien opened his mouth to ask questions and felt the pull of gauze and sticking-plaster against his face. The pull stretched to his eyes.
"Do not try to speak, cher, you need to drink."
The drink was bitter, like all medicines. Adrien felt the softness of the pillow beneath his head and sighed. A pain he hadn't been aware of was beginning to fade.
"What is happening?" He asked faintly.
"You will be well, my boy." It was the explorer's voice in his ear now. "And thanks to you, Angelique and Michelle are too."
It all came back to him and he yelped. A large hand pressed gently at his chest and he stopped trying to move.
"There, now see? Stop flopping like a flounder. You have nothing more than a broken arm and a crack on the head. You are also the hero of the Rue, you fine young fool." But Sigerson did not sound angry at him despite his words. He sounded proud.
"They are all right?" Adrien pressed. "The man, he was…" Words dried in his throat. "He meant…"
"I said they are all right, did I not? You are working yourself up over nothing." Sigerson patted his unbruised shoulder lightly. "You're a fine gallant, are you not?"
Adrien thought that over as he heard the click-click of Madame's heels walking out of the room. A metal tray clinked in the hallway. "Are you angry at me, sir?"
"Angry at you? No. Not at all." Sigerson's voice hushed. "I am…well, you remind me of a good friend of mine. At first I told myself it was because you loved my stories of the world, and then I thought it was because you were like him in that you could trick me into taking care of myself…but now I see you are also like him in that you run to danger without a moment's thought or a regret. It would have been just like him to put himself between a killer and two frightened girls…if you must emulate him, my young friend, you must do it all the way and learn the art of the pistol." Sigerson chuckled. "It would be in the interest of your health."
Adrien hadn't meant to doze, but the medicine was more powerful than the questions in his head. He had a sense of the passage of time, but little else.
And Sigerson was speaking.
"Clever old Shikari…what sort of bait for a detective but a murder?"
Adrien's mind closed for the rest of the night.
When he next opened his eyes, the Explorer was gone.
-
April 24th:
Kensington Street Practice:
Watson had slept late, as was his usual custom after the strain of Saturday. The well-to-do preferred to visit during what they called "appropriate hours" but those who worked for a living had fewer luxuries. He also felt for the poorest of the poor, who knew Sunday as a working day and church as a vague myth. As a result, Saturday was one of the most hectic and trialsome days of any week, and Sunday evening would be little better. At the same time the poor had fewer complaints about what the doctor said to them, and they were certainly slower to quarrel with him.
He dressed himself and employed the hot water for a strict shave and headed down the stairs. The silence of the house pressed on him and despite the growing strength of the daylight, he wanted to go back upstairs and burrow under his bed-covers.
You'll survive today, you fool. He chided himself weakly. This time last year, he had found Holmes in his consulting-room and asking if he could draw the blinds.
One year ago. Three hundred and sixty-six days (he did not forget Leap Day), meaning the literal "year and a day" of the poets.
Watson tracked his despair with the old grief piled upon the new. In the solitude of his kitchen he made breakfast of last night's cold beef and mustard between bread and ate carefully. The first of his patients should have been knocking at the door by now. It was almost noon.
He tried to think of any celebrations that would have explained the unusual quiet. None came to mind. By the time he finished and the final cup of tea drunk, he was pulling out his watch and measuring it up against the one on the wall. They both agreed.
Passing strange, he thought. Not that he was against a quiet day…but this was out of the ordinary.
He brushed himself down, set his watch back, and went to the foyer. No sign of anyone on the step. He was unlocking the door just as a hurried rustle of paper caught his ear.
"Oh! Hello there, doctor." Inspector Lestrade was sweeping something behind his back. In concession to the brightening April weather he was wearing a light coat and hat. "I stopped by to see if you were doing anything today."
"Today?" Watson wondered if it was actually worth it to ask the little man what the devil he had behind his back and what was it doing on his door. "I seem to be having a bit of a slow day, if that's what you mean."
"Well, that's a shame." Lestrade answered with patently false sincerity. "On the other hand, do you think you could stand to see some friends of mine? They were most grateful of a favour you did them in the past—you and Mr. Holmes too, to be truthful, but his favour was a bit different from yours."
Watson let that sink in. "If they're friends of yours, they're welcome enough to come here. I could bring in a luncheon…"
Lestrade cleared his throat over Watson's suggestion. "Might not be good for your business." He said succinctly.
"Oh." Watson caught on. "That sort of friend?"
"That sort of friend."
"Allow me a moment to get my stick."
-
Lestrade waited until they were in the cab Lestrade had whistled up from around the corner before talking. "Watch the bag," he cautioned. "It weighs a ton and you might actually hurt yourself if you kick it."
"I won't even try." Watson vowed. Lestrade grunted and—carefully—slid the gripsack to the end. He sat down with relief.
"Ferrying bricks, Lestrade?" Watson meant it as a joke, but Lestrade's mouth dropped open and his eyes turned as large as table-tennis balls. "Lestrade, I wasn't serious! Truly!"
Lestrade breathed out in his relief. "Don't scare an old copper like that." He said reproachfully. "For a minute there…"
"I can imagine." Watson supplied quickly. "You really have bricks in there?"
"Well, not too many…but enough for a sampling." Lestrade made a face and rubbed at his stiff shoulder. "My friends are quite the accomplished kiln-workers. The good landlady is looking for a particular quality of brick that we've been told isn't made any more."
"And you think your friends may have some in stock?"
"I hope not. They're colourful enough without adding brick-thievery to their repertoire…but they're excellent emulators, and I'd say they can find a way to create a creditable imitation…or even a forgery."
"I'm already curious, Lestrade." Watson assured him mildly. "You needn't try to convince me any further."
Lestrade chuckled lightly under his breath. "I hope your week was quieter than mine…we had to put down an entire gang of robbers off the Serpentine."
"That would explain, perhaps, the unusually high number of bruises I had to treat."
"No doubt." Lestrade's overall demeanor was that of a man who is mostly content with life, but something sober lurked inside his dark eyes.
Watson commented that the man appeared distracted.
"Oh. Well, there's no getting past a doctor. I'm just a little unwilling to admit April's here, you know? I keep feeling that we're going to get more bad weather." Completely sober now, he looked down at his hands. "I always hated this time of year to be truthful. Hated it worse than winter."
"I find that surprising. When I think of all the poor souls the winter months end or hamper…"
"But you expect it in winter. We put up with the misery, and people freezing to death in their own homes, and the crawlers struggling to keep warm with paper stuffed in their shoes or cooking rats because we know it can't last. Winter gives way to spring. But when spring comes, we've worked ourselves up into a pitch and next thing you know, bang!" Lestrade clapped his hands together. "Three days of mild weather and everyone thinks they're immortal. Lions is down with the cough again, can you believe it? The big-hearted fool overdid it helping street-sweepers get to their homes on a rainy night after a bunch of evening toffs in opera suits wanted to have some fun at their expense."
Lestrade sighed at the end of his anecdote, and Watson asked what had happened.
"Well, he didn't do what I would have done." The little detective shot back crisply. "I would have arrested all of them so they could explain to the judge what-all they were doing with their respectable time on the next morn."
Watson stifled a smile, but he could imagine Lestrade's solution rather easily.
"Aha, here we are."
Watson looked out the window and nearly started. A row of tombstones met his eye, but they were like few stones he'd ever seen. They were tall…or they had been at one time. Vines climbed over the carvings, and thick beds of rose-bush and hemlock marked the gates.
"Lestrade, what is this place? I confess I do not recognize it." He actually stammered; Lestrade had never seen the man so caught without his feet.
"We're in the old Gipsy part of the cemetery." Lestrade answered with a bland smile. "The Dooleys are back for the season, and they expressly requested the chance to pay their respects."
"But…I do not know them!" Watson whispered back. Frantic with ignorance. The shouts of playing children caught the ears of the men. Someone was cooking something over a fire…a stew rich with onions and watercress.
"Well…they know you." Lestrade answered reasonably.
"I do?"
"You treated one of the old man's grandchildren last winter. Bad case of croup. No one else wanted to get near a "dirty Gip." Lestrade repeated the phrase casually.
"That little girl?" Watson repeated. "I had no idea they were Tinkers."
"No idea at all?"
W-well…I was puzzled when they paid me in a gold coin from King James' regime."
"That sounds like Padriac." Lestrade snickered. "He dances with the law, but never really goes over the line. My advice is get his thanks over with. The longer you protest, the longer he's going to think you're being coy."