Hot and Cross
A handkerchief fished
From his left waistcoat pocket…
Unfolded,
Waved briefly
Brow mopped.
A lifetime, it seemed,
To Lestrade,
Since a whisper of fresh cooling breezes
Had stopped.
~0~
He loosened his collar,
Undid two more buttons,
And rolled up his shirtsleeves
And sighed.
But he stayed at his post,
On this market day stakeout;
His duty,
A matter of pride.
~0~
A sickly miasma
Of warm, unwashed bodies,
And overripe foodstuffs
Prevailed;
He tried to ignore
This assault on his senses
With shallow mouth breathing…
And failed.
~0~
His role, as a vendor
Of hot baked potatoes,
Was no help at all
In this heat.
He hoped against hope
For the timely appearance
Of those
He was placed there to meet.
~0~
A tip-off from Holmes
Had begun this endeavour;
Explained why the Yard
Was involved.
The trap, if successful
Should end with
Three captives
And several arch villains'
Crimes solved.
~0~
His shirt
Was now sodden with sweat
In dark patches,
And stuck to his shoulders
Like glue.
He pulled it away
From his neck
For a moment
Encouraged the air to waft through.
~0~
Holmes' stall, to his ire,
Was beside a small fountain
And cooled with
A constant fine spray.
His wares, Lestrade noted;
Cold drinks in tall pitchers,
Were perfect
For such a hot day.
~0~
Discomfort continued
Throughout the long morning
No purchases made
None at all,
Whilst Holmes and the doctor
Were constantly busy,
And had to replenish
Their stall.
~0~
He fumed as he watched
The detective at work,
Letting water cascade
From a jug;
His anger rose sharply
As Holmes caught his eye;
His smile,
Condescending and smug.
~0~
He watched a young urchin
Rush up to the doctor
And Holmes,
With a note in his hand.
A brief conversation;
Expressions suggesting
That things were not
Quite as they'd planned.
~0~
Holmes turned to Lestrade,
Then strolled slowly towards him
Unruffled, collected
And cool.
He hailed him
"Lestrade!
The wrong day,
The wrong market;
My latest informant's a fool!"
~0~
Lestrade, incandescent
At Holmes' blithe response…
Such discomfort he'd borne
For this plot …
Strode past him in silence,
Plunged into the fountain;
Still cross
But quite clearly,
Less hot.
~0~