K folks…I went out and bought a new mouse. The cut and pasting is going ever so much nicer now…
"Bloody hell!" Gregson turned white as a Dover cliff. The roar in his ears was scarce louder than the tumult of the sea behind his back. "Someone's behind us in the tunnel!"
"Whoever they are, I'm sure we needn't stand about for formal introductions." Bradstreet snapped. "Unless they're the Bloody Red Cross, that is—and I doubt it."
"Later," Gregson answered absently. He spared a moment to take in the hard fact that Lestrade was also right about the original manor. What he'd taken for sea-roughened boulders were once-squared foundation pillars. Whoever was looking for them…they knew quite a lot about secret passages.
"You, Mr. Loseth—where does this tunnel go to besides here?"
Loseth shook his head. "Never used it, sir." He explained. "Only the baronet and his people."
"You knew about it, but you never used it?" Gregson started to rant but caught himself just in time. Sir Niles was no ordinary villainous mind. He couldn't blame Loseth for wanting to live as quietly as possible, but if only they'd known of his shenanigans years ago!
"Now that's just lovely." Bradstreet muttered to Hopkins behind Gregson.
"We need to get out of here, and we need to get off this island and back to the mainland." Hopkins reminded them. "Patterson is doing poorly, and I'm frightened of what may happen to Dr. Watson if we've overpowered again."
"You needn't concern yourselves over me, Inspector." Watson was tying strips of cloth about Patterson's arm to bind it from moving and stressing his muscles further. The gun had been almost casually returned to Hopkins once he was done with it. "Patterson is stable for now, but we need to get him on a boat as soon as possible." His face abruptly twisted. "While I would welcome the chance to assist you bring these…" The doctor's wordsmithing skills failed him for perhaps the first time in the Yard's memory. "…these criminals," he decided, "As a physician I cannot part with Mr. Patterson."
"Gouster coming bad." Loseth worried to Bradstreet. "Could spin to a skreevar easy."
Bradstreet blinked as a thought came to him, and he groaned. "You're right. We need to get out of here and soon." He looked at Hopkins. "Hopkins, I am sorry. I was wrong…I forgot there's another meaning to gouster. Loseth was trying to warn us. The wind's going to go badly."
"We need to at least find decent coats for everyone." Lestrade butted into the conversation with some of his old arrogance. Clunk. A heavy chunk of reef-rock rolled to the top of the hatch under his hands. "The wind I'm feeling right now will wipe out half of us the way we're dressed once we get to the water, and if the fishermen see Dr. Watson the way he is, there could very well be sudden panic about avenging Chieftains come to seek their stolen treasure!"
Watson straightened up to reveal the most disconcerting grin the policeman had yet seen on his face. "I confess, I rather like that idea." He continued to smile in a very unpleasant way as he wiped his hands clean with a rag. "At the very least can you imagine the distraction I could cause?"
"And not a few heart-attacks." Hopkins muttered. He had joined Lestrade and Bradstreet in the pirating of a few stray stones of distinguished weight, and was piling them upon the top of the hatch. "This is the best we can do. It will slow them down, but it might not stop them."
"We can't stay here. Loseth, where can we get to a boat?"
Loseth shrugged in a way that only an islander could. "There cargo-boats…steamers. Kept 'em off the line of the rest…kept'em with the divers' gear."
"Divers' gear?" Gregson's swift mind pounced on the implications. "Who owns the gear, Loseth?"
Loseth looked at him as if he were mad. "Th'baronet, o'courst."
"Why am I not surprised." Gregson growled. "I wonder what the coastal police would think of that…well, later. We're getting to the cargo-boats, Loseth. Lead the way."
-
The path was narrow and the sun dipped below the sea too swiftly for their comfort. There were no street-lamps on Streat. No gaslights that spoke of the niceties of civilisation. They came to the shattered telegraph station, and they paused for something of use for poor Patterson. The lean man was shuddering as if wrapped in the deepest cold though the weather was only uncomfortable for the others. A rough carpet was their only haul until Hopkins yelped the discovery of a box of buried batteries.
"We'll take that for certain." Watson remembered again there were no pockets in his garb and paused to give the woven cloth a scathing glare. "But if we can find a supply of colloidal or similar, we can toss them as superfluous."
"We need to add nicking you a suit to the list of things to do." Gregson commented. "You look far too natural in those threads, and I'm starting to feel sympathy for Scrooge, escorted by all those ghosts."
Watson grinned at him again. There was little more than the flash of teeth and eyes as the clouds slipped across the moon, but the homespun was pale and reflected strange markings. Gregson was justified in his feelings.
Out of the shack things grew risky. They paused and hid behind boulders as they went along, hearing or glimpsing distant shouts.
"More shots." Hopkins whispered.
"Good ears." Lestrade grunted. Watson thought the little professional looked terrible. He moved like a much older man and paused often to look about him as if specifically looking for something or someone. Whatever fueled his personal actions, he did not know. Lestrade was keeping something to himself.
"We need to get over there," Loseth whispered harshly. He then gave up under the stress and fired off cylinders of syllables to Bradstreet.
The Bow Street Runner made a strange grunt beneath his mustaches, and translated. "We'll be passing behind the warehouse that Lestrade and Gregson were caught in. Nothing for it; there's nearly always someone in there, but if we walk quiet and act like we know what we're doing, we might be able to get through without questions."
"I'll take a look first." Lestrade got to his feet. "Give me a moment and we'll find out if there's anything going on."
He was gone before Gregson could tell him not to be a fool.
"Damn that little goose, I swear…" Gregson gnawed on his knuckle as they waited.
A few minutes later, Hopkins made a soft whistling sound. They peered as well as they were able; Lestrade was making his way back to them quietly. He was making no particular effort to hide himself.
"Ought to flog you for that one." Gregson hid his relief the old-fashioned way.
"If you think it'll do any good." Lestrade shot back as he lifted his recovered gun up. "I'm not leaving without this, Gregson. It has my name on it."
"Put it that way…" Gregson was glad Lestrade had added to the armoury. It was going to be hard enough to explain their presence to the Home Office when they got back. "See anything?"
"Lots." Lestrade answered coldly. "Those shots Hopkins heard? There must have been a tear-down. I counted eight bodies. Lined up and shot down like so many sheep."
Hopkins shuddered, but Lestrade wasn't finished.
"And gentlemen…I think we need to see what's in there. And so…and so does Dr. Watson." Lestrade hesitated openly. His silhouette shifted in the dark. "If you're willing, that is."
This sudden reticence was not like him, and Watson felt a prickle sit upon his skin.
"There's all sorts of bits lying about," Lestrade continued, still in that awkward voice as the wind picked up strength about them. Sand swirled about their ankles. A Glouster indeed.... "Surely there's some sort of kit for Patterson in there…and a change of clothing."
"Watson, you stand out a bit in this light with those—with that…"
"Tabard?" Watson suggested.
"Right. Stay in the middle of us with Patterson. We can at least block your outline."
Watson merely nodded once to show his understanding and went to Patterson's side. After seeing him in a combat environment, his return to the calm surgeon they knew was swift enough to make the head spin.
Gregson sweated to suddenly put them all out in the open like this—even for a few moments—but Lestrade's natural distrust was good to rely on. If something was wrong, the smuggler's blood would warn him.
Gregson just hated to give up his authority on something.
Lestrade nipped ahead and held the cargo-door open with his back, hand resting on the hilt of his reclaimed gun. He paid Gregson a long look as the man brought up the rear.
"Trouble, eh?" Gregson guessed. "Hopefully you won't have to use your old friend tonight."
"Huh." Lestrade scorned. "I need light. I'm not using this until I take it apart and put it back together."
"Isn't that a little worrisome? Even for you?"
"Quimper was on this island." Lestrade snapped. "I won't trust my own shoelaces until I've inspected them."
Gregson thought that was overreaching just a bit, but he allowed the man his anger.
"Inside." Lestrade urged. "We need to make a decision about this."
With that note, he slipped back inside. Gregson followed. He breathed relief to shut—and lock—the door after him.
-
Hopkins was lifting a vesta to a safety lantern hanging on the wall by its bail. He blew out the wax and traded Gregson a look over the smoke and flame. Every line and beard-growth was illuminated, and Gregson saw the older, seasoned man waiting to come out.
The warehouse was painted with horror.
Gregson took in the chilling lack of blood—only bodies, neatly shot and lying on their backs or sides where the punch of the bullets had cast them like so many sand-filled dolls. The men closest to the door were lying on their shirt-fronts, face-down into the filthy planks with small holes in their skulls.
Lestrade had managed to count eight in the poor light. With the lantern, there were at least four more.
"I've seen this before." Patterson whispered. The tall man stopped to clear his throat. Watson was lowering Patterson to a long crate for a table. His dark brown eyes were black.
"Where did you ever see something like this?" Lestrade whispered back. By consent, they were affording some sort of respect to the dead.
"Ah, Lord…it was years ago…a man paid his most trusted gang-leaders to shoot down anyone who would squeal…he stood behind them while it was done…and when it was finished…he shot his loyal sergeants. It was then he fled."
"Just like here." Bradstreet said hoarsely. "But who was it? Clay? Quimper?"
"Neither." Watson whispered.
They watched as the doctor slowly rose up, and walked with shaking legs to where Gregson was standing. He knelt and picked something off the floor by his shoe. Gregson stepped backwards violently, realizing he was next to evidence.
It was a thin paper band off a cigar.
"The Colonel has a preference," Watson said hoarsely, "for Moroccan, Cuban, and Iberian cigars."
Gregson stared at the tiny ring. "I've never seen an Iberian cigar in my life," he admitted.
"Nor have I." Lestrade murmured.
"I have." Bradstreet growled. "They're expensive enough to be obscene. Just one would keep my coke-stove going for a week."
Lestrade saw Watson's stiffen as he took in a long form tumbled up and face-down. He opened his mouth, thinking to warn him. "Doctor, just a…"
Watson saw.
He made a single sound—inarticulate, a briefly helpless sound that had nothing to do with the strong, capable soldier of his nature.
They all followed Watson's horror-struck eyes to the long, lean form in black. The dead man was built much like Patterson; skeletal and spare, with oiled black hair raked brutally to the back. A receding hairline was glimpsed over the top of the sleeved arm.
The cuff about the arm was pushed up to expose the bare skin. There were needle marks.
The doctor shambled slowly to the corpse, and just as slowly turned it over. Dust had settled over the lean face, stuck in the dulled grey eyes.
It wasn't Holmes.
But it looked so much like him, that Lestrade felt ill beneath his heart to see it. And Watson's expression was enough to crack anyone's fortitude.
The dead man stared upward into the trembling lamplight, his grey eyes flat.
Ridiculously, Lestrade thought of the great eyes of the amateur…would this imitation's gaze approximated such quick thought and action? How would it have been possible?
"He…that's why he laughed when John Clay said Holmes was alive…He hired a double…a double to fool us…to fool Mycroft…" Watson whispered. "And when everything started to go wrong for him…He…"
The doctor started breathing hard and fast; he couldn't seem to stop.
"He shot his own men."
Lestrade had seen the signs of shock before—and many times—but it never occurred to him that Watson would be its victim. Watson was a soldier.
No…that was it. Watson was a soldier…and a superior officer—corrupted though he was—had done the unthinkable by killing his own men.
Watson was a strong man, but that sort of betrayal went beyond the depth of depravity. His men had been loyal to him…and they had been in the way.
Lestrade tried to imagine how he would feel if C.I. Miller (cankerous as the old man was) would blatantly sacrifice some of his own policemen. He couldn't. Even Miller, much as he hated Lestrade, tried to get rid of Lestrade honourably, by practically forcing him to take trainings and classes that would qualify him for some sort of survival-wages if he wanted or needed to retire.
"That son of…" Hopkins' words failed him. He let his hands fall to his sides. "We're in a crime scene and we can't do anything."
"What? Of course we can!" Patterson rasped. He tried to get up but Loseth gently prevented him.
"We can't now." Bradstreet said heavily. "Hopkins is right to the centre. We have to have some of these Bludgers1 set to rights before we report what's going on."
"How?"
"The Queen's too close to Streat. We daren't report a half-started job. Streat's partially underneath Scots law; English law when it supplanted the old Viking laws." Bradstreet clasped his hands together. "And when something like this…something big happens…it all goes straight to the Home Office, and sometimes the Foreign Office."
"Foreign Office my eye." Gregson grunted. "More like paranoids. They'll use this as an excuse to move in and take over. Just watch. Mycroft Holmes won't be the least bit happy to find someone was out using the likeness of his brother for their own purposes."
A howl of wind suddenly cut the conversation off. It rattled against the loose planks; Hopkins quickly grabbed the lantern down from its nail with a breath.
"There we are then." Loseth whispered. "No getting off the Isle until it stops, or you'll be reaching the Mainland floating face-down."
"We'll make wise use of our time." Gregson spoke coldly and quietly. "Everyone pick a man. We need to find clues for identity…any little thing that can prove Moriarty will be another nail in his own coffin."
-
It was revolting work. The wind gained teeth in the space of a quarter-hour, and sand kicked through the cracks. Patterson dozed under the discovery of a field medical kit—Watson had judged the morphine safe enough—and had him drink up the colloidal silver found inside. While the Yarders searched the dead, he wired Hopkins' batteries to Lestrade's watch and lowered the lot into an empty tin filled with seawater. With the extra voltage the silver came off like a cloud in the water.
"I've never understood how that works." Hopkins confessed.
"Silver is anathema to most forms of harmful bacteria." Watson explained. "Especially the ones that encourage infection. It also appears to help the body fight off invaders." He shrugged lightly. "In the desert we would put a silver coin in our canteens. One never knew if the water we drank was clean." He had recovered from his initial shock and was back to his familiar duties as a doctor. "Or if the natives had poisoned the wells."
Few of the men were unscathed—even Hopkins had his own collection of once-broken bones from the past. These old offenses were alive and well as the storm's pressure rose and fell. Watson began limping noticeably, and twice reached up to hold his bad shoulder. Lestrade was limping as well, and Gregson saw he was rubbing at his head as if the pain had returned.
Gregson's once-broken ribs gave him a twinge now and then, which worried him without cause. It was the fear of the brittle bone disease; so far there were no signs of it in him, but he also paid attention to his diet and did what he could to take care of himself.
They each selected their man, wrote down what they could find of them by simple observation and the contents of each man's pockets, and then let the men have the last dignity of putting them out on their backs in the coolest corner, covering their faces with a tarpaulin.
And the work was grueling. They were obvious criminals. Their pockets contained the tools of their trade: weapons, lengths of garroting wire, a packet of poison here and there…thin shanks for silent assassinations…but there were also signs of human beings: wedding rings; an engagement token; a dried tussy-mussy…a handkerchief neatly embroidered with the hair of a murdered assassin's wife. Hopkins found a plain farmer's turnip and snapped the lid open, hoping to find engraved initials. What he found were the chromolithographs of two little boys.
He choked out something—or choked it down.
Lestrade sighed and rubbed at his head again. "For what it's worth, Hopkins, I doubt their families knew what they did."
"That helps some." Hopkins forced himself to pry the paper off the back. The names of the children were written in grease-pencil. "I'm sorry for my weakness."
"You shouldn't be." Lestrade said at last, because he felt something should be said. "This is revolting work. I've worked amongst corpses stacked to my collar-bone, and this is…this is not something I could get used to."
Bradstreet had taken time off to examine the crates. His reward was a cache of foodstuffs. "Here. We need to get something to eat—especially you three," he managed to glare at Patterson, Gregson and Lestrade all at the same time despite their being far apart. "Hopkins, that looks like a lamp-brazier in the corner…"
Supper did not lighten the gloom. The single lantern doubled as a cook-stove, its tiny flame catching the heat off the small iron frame where a pot of water boiled. Bradstreet's discovery of a jerrycan full of drinking water had been the highlight of the evening. They put up a makeshift broth using the water and a handful of dried beef that Lestrade grumbled looked to have been the same rubbish the Rockefellers sold to the Union Army during the Civil War.
"How would you know about that?" Watson asked in surprise.
Gregson snorted around a handful of raw bacon with his hardtack cracker. "He used to work the ports…you'd be surprised at what the Confederates and Yankees were trying to do to each other in the name of Patriotism."
"The worst part of it was after the war, actually…" Lestrade grimly set his teeth into a hard cracker. "The market was flooded with this cheap dreck. There weren't any more gullible soldiers to take advantage of."
"I learn something new every day." Watson decided.
Bradstreet suddenly lowered his portion. "I don't want to say this, but we need to get you gents into coats…and we need to find a suit for the doctor. He really is going to frighten the good people of this isle into conniptions if they see him."
Loseth looked openly puzzled at the last part. "There aren't many good people here, Mr. Bradstreet."
"There's one." Bradstreet didn't blink, which flustered the grizzled sailor all the more.
"There's still some men in the corner that need to be tended to." Lestrade paused to glare at Gregson's exaggerated offer of the tea-can. "One looks to be about your size, doctor."
Watson set his lips in displeasure. "I would refuse if I could." He said firmly.
"So would any of us." Bradstreet assured him.
The hour grew late. It was hard to appoint sleeping shifts. No one wanted to talk about it, but they were all thinking of who it might have been in the tunnel behind them. Finally, Gregson lowered the flame to conserve the oil and bade himself, Lestrade and Patterson the first sleep.
"Half-hour." He dictated. "Or I'll know the reason why."
Bradstreet grinned.
1 Violent criminals; bludgeoners