Trepidation
Full Summary: Inspector Lestrade has done something that surprises even the Great Detective. Now he is gone—and one Inspector has been looking guiltier with each passing day. Will the good doctor and our favorite detective be able to solve this puzzling affair?'
Main Characters: Holmes, Watson, Lestrade. (And the rest of the Inspectors, perhaps the Irregulars too)
This was going to be my first Sherlock Holmes story, but instead I wrote a humorous oneshot called Malicious Generosity (three reviews) But still...advice appreciated. I was trying to imitate the style of Doyle—what do you guys think?
Oh yeah...Holmes had once mentioned that there was an ongoing rivalry between Gregson and Lestrade, which is somewhat exaggerated here. (Especially in the prologue).
...
"He is the most famous detective ever to walk the corridors of Scotland Yard, yet he existed only in the fertile imagination of a writer. He was Inspector Lestrade. We do not know his first name, only his initial: G. Although he appears thirteen times in the immortal adventures of Sherlock Holmes, nothing is known of the life outside the Yard of the detective whom Dr. Watson described unflatteringly as sallow, rat-faced, and dark-eyes and whom Holmes saw as quick and energetic but wholly conventional, lacking in imagination, and normally out of his depth-the best of a bad lot who had reached the top in the CID by bulldog tenacity."-H. Paul Jeffers
...
Note: I forgot to mention in the previous chapter—in all my Sherlock Holmes stories, I have Watson's war injuries in both his shoulder and leg, as it was never clear in the Canon whether it was one, the other, or both.
Chapter One
(Watson, Third Person PoV)
Holmes leaped from the cab, and strode toward the front door of Scotland Yard, with a familiar air of impatience about him. I was quick to follow, thanking the cabbie hurriedly as I tried to keep up with my friend.
"Lestrade!" Holmes bellowed, flinging open the door, causing a nearby constable to glance at him in irritation. I managed a quick apology to the man whilst running as fast as my war-affected leg could be used.
Managing to stay at a pace not five paces behind Holmes, I was startled when he abruptly halted—stopping myself, I realized that this was because he had run into Inspector Hopkins. Hopkins, as I may have mentioned previously, was a promising inspector, still in his prime—which was most evident in his step and posture.
"Hopkins!" Holmes grabbed the fellow by the wrist before the inspector could stammer out an apology and move on.
"Mr. Holmes?"
"Is Inspector Lestrade in his office?"
At this Hopkins stiffened visibly. "Who, sir?"
"You know damn well who I mean. Is he in or not?"
Hopkins looked away purposefully, and I furrowed my brow in confusion, confused as to why he would do so.
"Answer me, Hopkins!"
He hesitated. "I'm afraid Mr. Lestrade does not occupy the title of Inspector anymore."
I started, my mind reeling in shock. "What?" I asked, dumbfounded.
Holmes, too, was stilled for a moment. "Do you mean to say he has been demoted?" He asked, skepticism clear in his voice.
"No, sir." The Inspector sill would not meet either of our gazes. "He has resigned."
"What?" I repeated, astonished. Holmes beside me seemed at a loss for words. "That is absurd. Lestrade would never do such a thing."
"But he has, Doctor Watson. We think alike, however, and I'm sorry to say that I must leave you both with news that I consider a tragedy. If you'll excuse me, I have a case."
With that, Hopkins was gone, heading down the corridor with haste and a forced vigor in his step. I found myself looking to Holmes, as I was at a loss as to what to do. He was looking in Hopkins's direction with an expression that I couldn't quite fathom, and for a moment we were both unmoving.
Then he stirred, becoming that figure—that definition of energy that I knew intimately.
"Come, Watson!" He cried. "To Lestrade's office!"
And we were off again, acting as if we were being chased—or were the chasers. There were many a constable and Sargent we angered, all of whom Holmes ignored, and all of whom I apologized to.
It was this breakneck speed that caused Holmes to knock over Inspector Bradstreet, who fell in a flurry of papers. "What the devil—Lestrade does not occupy an-!"
"We heard!" Holmes called over his shoulder.
"Sorry!"
A minute more and we found ourselves at Lestrade's office—or rather, what used to be his office. Regaining our breath, we became witness to two constables shoving what looked like a desk out of the door of Lestrade's office. There came forth a voice from the inside—an obnoxious, smug voice that I am ashamed to say biased my thoughts of the issuer. "Put your back into it, you buors (1)! Come on, 'Constable' Ross—I'm betting you're a macer (2) and a downy (3) one at that! What about you, Hawkings? A flimp (4)? Dragsman (5) ? You both aren't worth duce (6), you realize that?"
I myself found the man's way of speech unfollowable—his exaggerated use of the cockney slang was incomprehensible to me—but I understood enough to realize that he was insulting the poor constables—their cheeks reddening with shame was enough.
Inspector Jones joined us from behind. "Bradstreet told me you'd be here," he said glumly. "Don't mind me—I come from two doors down left from here—I've had to listen to him-" here he nodded, acknowledging the voice, "all morning, and believe you me, it gives one the headache."
"Who is he?" I asked.
"Newly promoted Inspector Robbins, who will soon currently occupy Lestrade's old office. As you can see, he's clearing it out right now—well, Constables Ross and Hawkings are, he's barking out the orders. Apparently Lestrade said he'd pick up his personal items later, so Robbins is doing him the 'favor' of clearing his belongings out for him."
"He speaks with the tongue of the lower class..." Holmes murmured.
"Yes—he supposedly grew up with the bad sort of lot, and has never lost the accent nor the language." Jones grumbled. "And neither has Lestrade."
"Ross, if you drop that one more time, I shall label you as a leg (7) and have you stripped of your rozzer (8) status!"
Jones winced at that last insult and made one last comment. "I wager Lestrade shan't be back here until late evening, when most people are gone to retrieve what he owns. In the meantime, I or another inspector can contact him for what you wish...?"
Holmes's eye twitched. "It is...nothing. I shall-"
There came a crash from the inside, followed by several smaller thumps, followed by Inspector Robbins's voice. "Right. I've knocked down one of the gammy (9) cove's (10) bookcases. Start carrying 'em out." The two constables—who had been attempting to position the desk outside the door in a way where it would not inconvenience anyone using the corridor—reluctantly went back inside the office.
"I'd best be off, then." Jones smiled without mirth, and bade us good-bye with a final thought: "I shall not envy the man who crosses paths with Robbins, no, I shall not. And," here he paused. "I pray to God that that man is not me."
And so the Inspector went off, to -I supposed- his office.
"Was that Jones I saw—Good Lord, what on earth is going on?" Gregson's voice sounded from behind me, and I turned to greet him. The Inspector shuffled toward us, covering a yawn with his left and clutched in his right a coffee cup, steaming. Holmes was still a statue—portraying what could only be interpreted as deep thought.
"Lestrade has apparently resigned—his replacement, one Inspector Robbins in cleaning out Lestrade's old office."
Much to my surprise, the Inspector suddenly dropped his coffee cup, causing Holmes to start, glancing at us in alarm. "He resigned?"
"Yes—just last night too. And to think—he didn't show a sign of even planning such a thing when he came to visit us..."
"Resigned?"
"No one foresaw it Gregson—not even I! There is no use dwelling on it." Holmes snapped. As he did so, there came several thumps identical to the ones previously created by the felling of the bookcase, following those came a barely audible curse. Looking over, I saw Constable Hawkings bending over a pile of books that he obviously had dropped coming out of the room. Ross stood behind him, straining under the weight of many heavy-looking books, looking down at his companion with a helpless look on his face.
"I didn't think he would actually do it..." The Inspector murmured, and then automatically bent down to pick up the coffee-soaked shards of glass, pulling out a rag from his pocket to soak up the liquid.
At his spoken question, I froze, and said to him sharply,
"Why? What do you know?"
Gregson mopped the liquid up faster. "Nothing...nothing at all. I must be going, gentlemen. Good-day." I couldn't quite fathom how he had managed to retrieve all the shards of the mug in such a short amount of time, but when I looked down, there were no spots of liquid nor pieces of the mug on the floor to be seen. Looking back up, I found he was gone.
"He's been up to something." Someone from behind me muttered darkly. It was Bradstreet, who nodded hello. "I'll have you both know I was cleaning up that mess of papers for ten minutes." He glared at Holmes, who merely shrugged in reply. "I didn't know how much you already knew," he continued, "so I decided to come and explain things in case you didn't. After I organized the papers." He added.
"You think he may have had a part in...this?" Holmes gestured to the growing mess of Lestrade's possessions.
"All I know is that he's been up to something, and what I just saw between you and him proves it. You should have seen him when he came in today—sure, he did and does look exhausted, but he had that satisfied air he gets when he disillusions or insults—mocks-someone else. I'm assuming that person was Lestrade."
Three constables joined us. "Found the murderess, Inspector. She's hiding out in her seamstress friend's place with both of the crates." The tallest of them said.
"Good, good! I'll be with you in a moment, Dosby." Bradstreet responded. "You'll excuse us, gentlemen. I've been on this case for two weeks, now, and I'm glad to see it's coming to a close." With a disapproving glance towards Lestrade's—Robbin's office, he left us alone once more, save for the unlucky constables who were cleaning out Robbin's office.
"I'd like to meet this Inspector Robbins." Holmes said, striding toward Robbin's office. I hurried after him, although in all honestly I detested the thought of doing so.
"I'm sorry, sirs." Constable Hawking, who had managed to stack up the books in a presentable way, touched his cap apologetically. "But Inspector Robbins has requested that no one except us come near the office until it is presentable, and Mr. Lestrade's items are removed."
"He will see me." Holmes said confidently. Ross, coming out with another armful of books, glanced at us nervously.
"Constable Hawkings is correct, gentlemen. Inspector Robbins will become very irritated if you come in at this time."
"His anger does not concern me." Holmes brushed off their warnings with a dismissive wave of his hand, and disappeared into the room. I shrugged helplessly at the constables before following suit.
Evidently, Ross and Hawkings had already brought in Robbin's desk, for there it sat a corner of the room, and seated behind it was the Inspector himself, with both feet propped up on the surface. He glared at us, not bothering to put down his feet nor stand in recognition. "What do you think you're doing here?" He sneered. "I thought I specifically told them constables to not let anyone in. Useless-"
"They warned me, Inspector. I chose to ignore their advice—do not punish the wrong men, sir."
"Why'd you come? I suppose you heard of my brilliance and came for help on an issue. Well, I cannot give you the privilege of my company on your case, whatever that may be. Not until my office is finished. Gentlemen." The way he spoke the last part somehow made the compliment seem like an insult, and I fumed silently.
"No, sir. You see, I too accept cases. I am Sherlock Holmes, amateur-"
"Holmes?" Robbins asked, putting his feet down. "I was warned about you. They said you would come in here and try to steal my cases. I won't have any of it, I warn you. You are an amateur, Holmes, and that is all you shall ever be. After all—our roles are reversed. As you are a civilian, I expect that I shall see more of you in the future—you shall most likely ask me for advice, and I will most likely refuse to give it to you, because you are a fraud. You use cheap tricks to astound your clients, and somehow stumble across the right suspect through guesswork and luck. I won't consort with your type, Holmes, I shall not." With that, he put his feet up again, reclining as if he were king and we were servants. "Now leave me, gentlemen. I have business to attend to."
"Lestrade." Holmes said quickly. "What did you think of your successor?"
"He's full of codswallop" Robbins smirked. "He is a disgrace to all Yarders—he somehow managed to reach the status of Inspector without the intelligence I feel is required to take on such a job. Good riddance, I say, good riddance! The Yard is deprived of nothing but a waste of space. I would say the only skills he has are those of bravery and superiority—I suppose it will be hard for him to support his family after his resignation...now, I saw again, leave me. I have no need of your drivel."
And we were gone, exiting the room, I with almost uncontrollable rage and Holmes with a facade of serenity I thought not possible after listening to a man such as that speak.
"How—dare he!" I spluttered as we came to a halt in an empty corridor. "That narcissist! That...rude disgrace of a man! I loathe him Holmes, I really do!"
Holmes was quiet, leaning against the wall. "He is not...a pleasant man, by any means." He agreed. "Not at all."
We stood in silence, myself reflecting on how much I would like to engage Robbins in a brawl and prove that he was less the common man, no matter how much he believe he was more.
"Watson, what would you have us do?"
I shifted uncomfortably, unsure as to what Holmes wanted the answer to be.
"You can do as you like, Holmes. However, I am inclined to visit the Lestrade household, and talk to the man myself. So I can understand what on earth he was thinking, resigning like that..."
"And I shall join you. I still have an obligation to relay the information he sought last night. When do we go?"
"I'd say in three hours time—it is too early to do anything now."
"Certainly, Watson. Now, I know a pleasant little restaurant close by, where we can breakfast in solitude. It really is a charming little place. Would you like to give it a try?"
"Of course."
And so we were off, exiting the Yard and strolling down the pavement to dine. Holmes chatted companionably about the weather, and a new piece of music he had acquired last week, but I confess my mind was still on the loathsome figure of Inspector Robbins, and Lestrade's belongings, maltreated and desolate in that corridor of Scotland Yard.
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-oooooooooooo-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
Six pages!
Buors – Women
Macer – A Cheat
Downy – Cunning (false)
Flimp – A thief who mainly pickpockets crowds
Dragsman – A thief who steals from carriages
Duce – Another word for Tuppence
Leg – A dishonest person
Rozzer – A policeman
Gammy – False, hostile, undependable
Cove – A man (Gammy Cove—a hostile/undependable man)
I'm sorry about all those [cockney] 19th century slang words in there—it may have been hard to read—but I was trying to convey how disrespectable Robbins really is. Thanks to all 3 reviewers!