Things aren't going to be 'calm' for too much longer, people. In fact, consider this the rest break...

Scotland Yard:

"Good Lord," was Inspector Gregson's summary, opinion, and criticism of Stanley Hopkins when he next stepped into the office. "You still look a little pale there, Hopkins."

"We live in London, Gregson." Hopkins told him wearily. "I'm not likely to don the rosy bloom of health—even during such a stimulating time of year as this." Despite the flippancy, he breathed as lightly as possible.

The tow-headed man grunted, his own pale face pinking at the sides. "You're well enough. I take it Dr. Watson gave you a clean bill of health?"

"Well, he agreed to let me go if I agreed to be scolded for over-extending myself and winding up in his mercies within the next week." He winced slightly. "And he gave me a snorter of a speech on how I was inviting a lung infection in if I insisted on shallow breaths...so I will be breathing deeply once I'm home and lying down."

"That sounds more like it. I was starting to worry about that man…" Gregson was pointedly not smoking; he would be home in a few hours and owed it to his wife. "You missed Patterson, by the way. He's been working on our Wardrobe Man, and better him than me any day." He smiled at Hopkins' look of remembrance and distaste. "I know. Patterson's convinced there's something about the body that goes in with our current project."

"I'd like to know how." Hopkins confessed. "Even though I'm sure I wouldn't find the answer restful."

"Well they called in an expert of sorts to help with that…One of the Devonshire Health officers. Strange bird; reminds me of an ostrich somehow, especially when he looks at you with those eyes on each side of that big beak of a nose…" Gregson began ruffling papers in search of a particular paper. "Said the Wardrobe Man's hands pegged him as a…'excavationist.'" He passed the paper over. "I made a copy of that for you; the way things are going, we should be keeping duplicates about us."

"As in someone who excavates?" Hopkins hazarded a guess. He stopped to yawn. "Well that wasn't one of my proudest moments just now…" He read through the page carefully. "Oh, dear, he's right. Those researchers are as jealous as they can be. It's like watching a rugby game staffed with professors from rival universities."

Gregson tried to cork the laugh in his mouth but failed. "That's a rich image there, Hopkins. I'm surprised Punch hasn't thought of it."

"Too busy having their fun with us I suppose." Hopkins muttered darkly. He let his fingers tap on the arm of his chair in a loose musical pattern. "He mentions a list…do you have it?"

"He said he was putting it together today, and would let us have it when he was done."

"Let me know, please. I'd be most interested in this list…"

"Speaking of Lists, how goes your work with the Burial Board?"

Hopkins just looked at him.

"Ah." Gregson sighed.

"Ever since that grave opened up under Lestrade, I've had a devil of a time getting help. You wouldn't believe the talk of curses and going against God…I think it's just sound and fury myself. These men don't want to work with us at all. I even promise them a better than standard wage."

"Now that's odd. You think there's another reason why they aren't being helpful?"

"Honestly? What if we accidentally came across the bone-thief's business? Robbing the graves here and there for medical curiosities or a gold tooth or two? Remember those grave-robbers Bradstreet found back in '70? What if it's something like that?"

"Grave-robbers charging the big criminals to let them put their murder victims in already occupied holes?" Gregson rubbed at his arms. "Wait a moment there, Hopkins. That was back in '70…you couldn't have been old enough to remember that!"

Hopkins looked hurt and insulted. "Why wouldn't I?"

"You weren't more'n five years of age back then!"

"I know." Hopkins snorted. His glare was still young and unpracticed but it was beginning to show promise. "Believe me, Gregson, I do know…it was my birthday party ruined when everyone decided they couldn't stop talking about what was in the papers while I was trying to cut my own cake!"

Gregson looked to the ceiling. "And thus, some men choose a life of corruption and crime, while others choose the Yard…"

"Oh, for…" Hopkins dropped the subject—an act of will that impressed the older man. "Get me that list as soon as you can. I want to see if there's anything familiar in there." He pushed himself up to stand and slowly rubbed at his ribs. "Did anyone get the report on my accident?"

"Certainly. Not worthy of framing yet, Hopkins. You need at least three broken bones and a cup of blood for that…"

-

Plymouth:

The day had passed without incident…a resting period between the squalls. Potier strolled out of his daughter's house in a mood that layered pensive thought with the relief that he was again talking with Jeanne. Poor girl. Bravery should never be rewarded with tragedy. It had been good to hold her in his arms again, and drink the tea she made with her own hands, arthritic though they were.

Her bones hurt her in part from diet, he knew. She needed more of the good fruit and food of home; meadowsweet wines and the spicy black mustard plasters would help, and Angelica stalks candied with black cherry syrup. The size of the celery plot in her little garden spoke of her attempts to treat herself. He also saw there was a small patch of stinging nettles rising out of a warm compost-heap. Nettles were effective but not for the timid.

He thought of how he could help as he strolled back to the big house. The ocean had warmed the land to the point that it was getting a head start on growing. He couldn't remember the last time he'd seen such a green patch of England this far from spring. Young poppies were sending out shoots with the lettuce and onions; deep-planted leeks were just beginning to state themselves.

Night slid angles of shadow across the slope as the wet clover brushed his boot-soles. It was quiet; the folk were subdued down to the children. At one time he'd been easy acquaintance with these people, but that had passed as Quimper's control had grown. Looking back he hadn't known if he could do anything different. One had to save oneself; and he known there would be another war someday.

A war won or lost? It seems to live as long as we live. He scuffed slightly as his feet took him off the clover and to the crushed stone and shell of the carriage-road. Potier had conducted a revenge upon the Quimpers as good as he'd been capable of giving—and that had been considerable. Smugglers weren't the sort to be crossed, and they could remember wrongs without effort. The grandson that favoured him had been the opposite; choosing a life within the soothing straight lines of law and order and process. Life could be startling up to the very end.

Potier paused at the small lamp-post set up in the centre of the circular driveway that represented the heart of the estate. Another bit of monetary largess with the Quimpers; Potier stretched himself up, a spry old seaman, and hopped to the small flame with the end of his cigar. A moment later he was back on the ground and puffing in self-satisfied contentment.

The manor was lit brightly from within; Potier reasoned the butler—Howard—would have his hungover-hands full keeping order with all the clumsy policemen, curious newspaper writers, locals from Plymouth proper, and of course the staff that were just waiting to get their final notice for their service and be officially cast out into the wilds.

"Try it again," someone was saying.

Potier looked up. His grandson was standing in front of the library that stood by the Murder Room. The voices of the other detectives were adding in; tense and worried. Potier gnawed on his cigar thoughtfully and decided to let himself in. They could always tell him to go back to the Inn, but he wasn't about to do that without Jafrez.

-

After the cool damp of the outdoors, this felt hot and stuffy. Or perhaps it wasn't illusion. The detectives looked drained and sick in the yellow gaslight. Jacobs was drinking weak tea from a tin flask.

"Hello, Mr. Potier." Browning saw him first. Jafrez was sinking into the horsehair chair with his legs straight out; almost defeatist. "Did you find what you were looking for?"

"Ya, It was mat…" Potier found himself grinning again. "Mat-mat."

"Ah. Well…we've been working." Browning scrubbed at his bloodshot eyes. "Geoffrey…perhaps you'd be the best person to tell him."

"Are we going to keep this quiet?" His grandson wanted to know. "I can assure you, he's discreet as the ivy."

"There's no worry about that, I assure you." Jacobs waved that off, stiff with his fatigue.

"Mab?"

"Thomas didn't kill Ivo Quimper, he was trying to protect him." Lestrade felt himself losing the war with nausea. Potier's expression didn't make it any easier. He stopped and breathed for a moment, putting himself into another land from this one. As Potier watched, he went to a grotesque Baroque candlestick-holder, carved with vicious-looking spikes to simulate a real rose-briar twining up the stalk. "This is the mate of the murder weapon. You can see there's a place where the person carrying it can be free of punctures, but nowhere else." He slowly pretended to lift the thing and bring it down upon Potier's head. Potier drew his left hand up in instinct.

"Thomas Lestrade's left hand bears the brunt of the marks. He was instinctively protecting his right hand; that's the one he uses the most in his livelihood." Jacobs searched frantically for his tobacco and visibly relaxed when he found it. "Men are like bats; most bats don't like to bite a man even when they put their hands on them because they can't risk breaking their teeth. They'd starve to death. Same thing here. Your son-on-law couldn't ruin both hands; he needed them to be a valued worker."

"That makes sense," Potier considered as he passed over his little match-box.

"It gets worse." Jafrez told him quietly. "The marks Browning pointed out on his hand…look." He held out his own hand, and slowly wrapped it around the candlestick holder. "There are no gripping marks. Thomas Lestrade wasn't holding the weapon…he was trying to block it from coming down on Ivo Quimper's head." He stretched his hand into a blocking-motion. "He probably knew he couldn't possibly wrestle this thing out of the killer's grip, but he wasn't going to just stand there and let Ivo Quimper be bludgeoned to death either."

Browning looked sick. "We have more than one crime here. Why wouldn't Thomas Lestrade say anything about what he was doing?"

"These people won't talk on a good day." Jacobs pointed out. "They still think they're living in the Middle Ages. If someone above them told to keep mum…they'll keep mum." They watched as the man paced back and forth, hands opening and opening within each other.

"Fear is its own form of blackmail." Lestrade said coldly. "If you ever worked anywhere near Saffron Hill you'd be aware of that!"

"I'm not insulting anyone…I'm just saying that something's keeping these people from telling the truth."

"Jethro Quimper." Potier said it because no one else would. "He's alive."

"Why would he kill his own father?" Browning asked.

"Are you saying that one is not capable? I assure you he carries a great deal of cruelty."

"This wasn't cruelty. This was mindless rage, Tad-kohz, but you're right. He's cruel and he enjoys being cruel." Lestrade couldn't sit any longer. He rose to his feet and walked to the fireplace, hands clasped behind his back in an effort to hold them still. "But we can't prove he was here."

"No one else would terrify the families to that extent!" Potier exclaimed. "What more proof can you people require!"

"The testimony of one person." Browning told him. "Just one. As long as there's no hint of coercion that the witness gives and answer they think the questioners want to hear."

Potier's lips were a dark line within his beard. "Bring my daughter here. She'll tell you the truth."

Lestrade's face emptied of colour right in front of the other detectives. "Sir, I don't want her to have to do this."

"She can; she will. She's tough as blackthorn; you ought to know; she's your mamm after all." Potier didn't say it in English, but his meaning was clear.

Lestrade swallowed. "Inspectors? Your decision, not mine."

Jacobs remembered the little woman, nut-brown and drawing lines of age and fear and pain. He wasn't proud of himself for putting more on that sad face. "If she can help us come to the truth, we can only ask her."

"She can't testify against her husband." Browning reminded him. "How are we going to ask around the subject?"

"Trust me. I've had to do this sort of thing before." Jacobs did not look glad to say so. "Berry!" He lifted his voice and waited for the red-bearded man to come forward. "Please bring Mrs. Lestrade here, please. She knows enough English to know to come with you."

-

Lestrade went to the back without being told; he picked the chair that was almost completely behind the door and didn't move a single muscle as they waited. No one tried to say anything to bolster his feelings; it wouldn't have run true anyway.

Browning pulled out his notebook as they heard the door open and shut; Lestrade remembered he had a notebook too and pulled it out. It would help if his hands had something to do.

Potier saw how even as his daughter came into the room, her son never looked up but stayed fixed on his blank page with pencil at the ready. He held out his hand to Jeanne, and drew her to one of the settees, keeping her head aimed away from Jafrez the entire time. Berry hovered anxiously, unsure of where his duty would pull him next.

"My girl," Potier spoke in slow English; it was always better to not let people know how well you understood their language; a trick they had all played for generations. "We are needing to know a few things. Can you answer this man's questions?"

Jeanne Lestrade looked uncertainly upon the tall form of Browning, who tried to smile and look reassuring around his eyepatch, and Jacobs, who was still as grey and hard as a lean tree. She nodded nervously without taking her eyes off either of the detectives.

"Mrs. Lestrade," Jacobs pitched his voice to a low and soothing murmur. "Was Mr. Quimper in the habit of seeing guests?"

She blinked and nodded. It was not the sort of question she had expected.

"Even this time of year?"

"Ya…yess." Jeanne assured him.

"Did a guest arrive the night he was killed?"

"Nann."

Jacobs paused, re-thinking his question. "Did a guest arrive some time before he was killed?"

She looked confused. "Nann."

Looks were traded about.

"My daughter is very literal." Potier whispered. "Very literal. She won't look for deeper meanings to your questions."

Jacobs brightened. "Thank you." He rose slowly, and stroked at his chin. "Mrs. Lestrade…does Mr. Quimper have family?"

"Yes."

"I see. You don't believe your husband killed the master, do you?"

"Nann." She shook her head with the greatest strength they'd witnessed of her.

"Who would kill the master?"

"The master." She answered.

"The master." Jacobs repeated.

Behind his mother, Inspector Lestrade had looked up with a face white as chalk. Jacobs watched surreptitiously as he put down his pencil and slowly drew his hand up to his face, resting one fingertip to a faint scar at the left of his forehead.

Browning caught on. "Mrs. Lestrade, have you seen a man known as Jethro Quimper within the past thirty days?"

Tears filled her large brown eyes. She nodded.

"Was he anywhere near on the night Ivo Quimper died?"

-

"I have had my fill of this!"

Jacobs waited until Berry led a teary Mrs. Lestrade and her father out of the room before he exploded. The other detectives jumped; they'd been expecting it, but Jacobs was no ordinary man when his temper roused up.

"They knew." The grey man swore under his breath as he paced a track-line into the carpet. "I'll bet you pound to a penny the bloody Foreign Office and the Home Office knew all along he was alive, probably had their agents keeping an eye here for the past ten years…saw him come in and watched him leave before the murder was reported!"

"But why would they hide that much from us?" Browning protested.

"Quimper's French connexions." Lestrade spoke like an exhausted man. "There's plenty who feel the French are still willing to wage war against England."

"Oh, yes…the same bloody geniuses who think you're French, Lestrade." Jacobs spat bitterly. "Same geniuses who knew what was going to happen during the Franco-Prussian war back in '70…same geniuses who are running the show now that their sweet old papas have retired…" He struck against the mantle in his anger; the clock skipped on its metal legs. "Bloody tinkers-sons set us up!" He cursed.

"Don't demean the Tinkers into this." Lestrade growled. "They've got their principles."

"I'm starting to think a Tannery sweeper has principles compared to these fools." Jacobs roared. "All this because they want to keep an eye on a man who has power in the crime rings of France."

"It could be more than that." Browning rubbed gently at his temples. "If he's come back to English soil, he's got English connexions of his own…connexions that survived Moriarty."

"And they'll be wanting to know who those connexions were." Jacobs snarled. "It's all too clear. I was told…no, I was asked to keep an eye on this case, 'if he's the killer, find the proof' they said…I thought it meant…I thought they were telling me I had to find proof it was your father, Lestrade." Anger and anguish mixed in equal parts across that bony grey face. "But that's just what they wanted me to do. They led me to this…so the real killer could run free under their eyes." He stepped forward and gripped the smaller man by the forearms. "I nearly sent your father to the rope or to Dartmoor, just so the public would think there was a nice loose end tied up."

Lestrade swallowed. "If you let my father go," He said carefully, "you might as well end your chances of advancing. Look what happened to me."

"I'll do what I was told. I'll tell'em the truth." Jacobs' voice was chill. "I'll write up a report they won't like to hear, and they'll read it. Defensive marks on your father's hands; servants beaten into silence. And that description your mother gave, Lestrade…her description may yet save us all."

"I don't follow you."

"The police descriptions of Jethro Quimper are grossly out of date. She said he limps slightly, has grey hair, and needs a cane for full support; and there's a few nice scars on his face and hands." Jacobs frowned. "He must have had a busy life since his ship went down in the Channel."

Or when he was out hunting…Lestrade cleared his throat. "Are you saying, you're going to post an inch by inch description of Jethro Quimper, without saying it actually is Jethro Quimper?"

"That's mad as a March Hare." Browning grimaced. "But it's also a bit…clever."

"If Quimper's alive, he's active. If he's active, the Foreign Office has his real and current description in their records. Obviously we don't. They want to play us for fools, by God, I'll be their fool. I'll be a drooling, toothless gibbering fool!" Jacobs' smile was nasty. "They can't say I'm not doing my duty."

"That doesn't answer what to do about…Thomas Lestrade." Even with practice, Lestrade almost strangled at the effort it took to use his estranged father's name. He paused to cough. "They might want him for questioning. And…his wife."

"If the evidence points to another party…I can't exactly hold them for further questioning."

Browning reached for his pipe and started packing it. "I see what you mean." He held Jacobs' eyes in a hard light. "The Chief won't like it."

"No one will like it." Jacobs said at last. "Can you get your parents out of Plymouth but where you can keep an eye on them too?"

"Jacobs…" Browning whispered.

"I won't have it." Jacobs barked. "I'll do as they say, but I won't follow them until they pull my leash. I've had it." He set his mouth. "They wanted to know if someone else was involved in this…that's all they wanted to know. They didn't care about that old man, they didn't care about his family…we're the little ones. We didn't matter…" His fist dug into his palm. "I can't hold a man for a crime he didn't commit."

Jacobs spun on one foot, and stabbed the air before Lestrade with his finger. "Get them out of here; get them out where no one's liable to find them. If we need them…we'll call. But it'll be me or Browning. No one else." Jacobs' glacial fury burned from his eyes. "Some people are about to remember a few things about Scotland Yard. They are going to remember we are not gulls to be used."