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).
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"...There was one little sallow rat-faced, dark-eyed fellow who was introduced to me as Mr. Lestrade, and who came three or four times in a single week..." -A Study in Scarlet
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Chapter Two
Although I have been in acquaintance with Lestrade for some time now, I admit I have been inside his house only once—and that was early in my partnership with Holmes. So it was still an unusual experience to visit the ex-inspector's home—and drawing close to it in our cab, I felt a faint unease at doing so—Lestrade had never willingly invited us to anything casual.
"Here you are, gents." The cabbie's voice sounded above us as the cab drew to a halt. Getting out, I turned to thank the cabbie, who had been pleasant and patient whenever Holmes had signaled for him to stop—so we could extend or conversation.
"May I inquire as to your name?" I asked.
"Certainly. My formal name is Moby Walter Robbins."
Holmes exited the cab, and immediately looked up at the mention of the cabbie's name. "Robbins?" He echoed.
"Yessir," the cabbie replied. "Do you know someone who shares the name?"
"Yes!" I cut in. "An Inspector Robbins-"
"Emory? Yes, I know him. He's my brother." The man said, sighing. I recalled the image of the Inspector reclining in his seat, well-dressed and healthy-looking. His brother before me was dressed in shabby material, held together with patches and grime. His build was thin, and and there was a gauntness in his eyes, that mirrored the eyes of a desperate man. However, this man was cheerful, and he smiled when he spoke.
"Need a shine, Mister?" I looked behind me to find a young boy, no more than 7, peering up at me from under a ragged cap. He was dressed similar to that of Moby Robbins, and seemed to have that same look of undernourishment about him.
"Antony David Robbins! What have I told you about interrupting conversations?" The boy became apologetic. "Sorry, govn'r." He then touched the tip of his cap, a small sheepish grin gracing his face.
"Your son?" Holmes asked.
"One of two." The man responded proudly.
"Shouldn't he be in school?" I asked worriedly. M. Robbins (as I shall refer to him from here on) frowned.
"He should. All of my children should. But the fact is, gentlemen, most men cannot support their families on their wages alone. I have tried again and again to send them to school. The first time, my wife contracted an illness and we could not afford a doctor. The second time, we fell into debt. The third time, I was almost fired and had to sell a couple of heirlooms that had been in the family for generations. So you see, sirs, it is a hard life, and unfortunately my children sacrificed their education for it."
"But your brother—he does not lend you any money at all?" I exclaimed, once again angered by the Inspector.
"No, sir, he says he has 'is own life to live and support. My wife is awful angry about him—she argues that as he has no wife nor children of his own he should help us with his extra money. However, I feel that family is family, and it would be wrong to impose on him."
"Wrong to-" I spluttered, outraged. "Wrong to impose? He is in the wrong, sir. Family is family, as you say, and if he ignores his then I have nothing but-"
"We have detained you, Mr. Robbins." Holmes interrupt, fishing around in his pocket for change. "And perhaps lost you clients. I hope this shall compensate for your patience." He drew out a sum of money I could not measure the amount of. It must have been more then the man had ever seen in one palm, for his eyes widened and his hand shook.
"I cannot accept...this much money, sir!" He held out the money, but Holmes shook his head.
"It is nothing, my friend. Keep it."
"Nothing to you perhaps..." M. Robbins drew his hand close to him, counting the money again. His hand suddenly curled into a fist, tightly and without warning. "I...thank you."
"Father, mother was looking for you earlier. She said you forgot your lunch again." Antony cut in, blushing as he remembered his father's rule about interrupting.
"Could you go tell her that I left it for her? It's her turn to have lunch today—I suppose she forgot." The cabbie replied. We all watched as the young boy raced away, his ragged scarf fluttering behind him. Then he looked back down at us. "Thank you gentlemen. For everything. However, I have kept you from your meeting, and as we both have obligations I suggest we part. Give my regards to my brother if you see him."
With a nod, he was off, and we were alone, ten paces from Lestrade's house. I half-wished that M. Robbins had stayed longer, so reluctant was I to disturb the Lestrade's. "There's no use delaying it, Watson. We must go." Yet again, Holmes had somehow discerned what I was thinking—but I had no time to admire him, for by the time I joined him he was bending over a child sitting on the porch steps, who shivered under a blanket.
"Why, you're Mr. Sherlock Holmes!" The child cried, standing up. "And Doctor Watson! It's been a while since I've seen you both." I stood embarrassed, racking my brains in an attempt to remember which child this was—Lestrade had three boys, as far as I could remember, and two girls. How old had the child been when he had met us? Six? Five? And the fact that he could recall our names and faces when I could not do the same for him was disturbing.
"Are you...hmm...are you...dear me, I think he's the one who starts with C..." This last part Holmes muttered under his breath.
"Charles. I'm Charles. But I'll prefer it when you call me Charlie." The boy said, seemingly not in the least affected by our failing to recall his name.
"What are you doing out here? Why aren't you in school?" I asked. The boy—I judged him nine or so, coughed slightly. "I've been sick for almost a week now, so until I'm better," he shrugged. "I stay at home."
I was about to express my alarm at he being outside when ill, but Holmes voiced my thoughts before I could. "Do your parents know you're outside? Shouldn't you be...in bed?"
"Kinda sort of...they asked me to leave the sitting room so they could have a talk, but when I heard them start to argue I decided it'd be best to leave the house until things quieted down a little."
"Outrageous. Come, we were visiting ourselves, and we'll bring you back in." I protested vehemently.
"I wouldn't..."
"Well, I would. Holmes, knock on the door, will you?"
Holmes stepped up to the door, his hand raised to knock. He hesitated, tilting his head to an open window—coming closer, I realized he was listening to raised voices. This is the following of what I heard—Holmes refuses to contribute to my scribblings, as he calls them, and even if he decided to give information I believe in this instance it wouldn't have done anything to affect what I lay down before you at all.
"...you thinking?"
"...I...don't...he deserves...listen, will you?"
"How...support children...think of them at all?"
"Of course...find work...maybe..."
"...children...school? ...Education...Giles!"
"Please..."
It was here that Holmes chose to knock, and the argument abruptly ceased. A few moments later, and the door opened, revealing a women graced with pleasant features and a natural air of elegance about her. "Yes?" She asked. I was surprised to see that there was no sign of wetness in her eyes, nor a tremor in her voice.
"Mrs. Lestrade? We met once before." Holmes said, bowing slightly.
Her eyes widened slightly, and she looked behind her for a moment, as if checking for her husband. Then she turned back to us. "Of course—Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson. Giles speaks quite highly of you both. However, I feel that it wouldn't be right for you to visit at this particular time-"
"Who is it, Emily?" Lestrade's voice came from the inside, and he himself soon appeared behind his wife.
"Lestrade," Holmes started, hurrying though his words as if he were afraid of being interrupted, or worse, shut out of the house. "Let us come inside. If not us, then your son, who has been sitting out here for a good while now."
"Charlie?" Lestrade and his wife exchanged alarmed glances, before the lady opened the door further and allowed us in, immediately lecturing her son on the dangers of what he had done. Holmes quietly pulled Lestrade aside, and I joined them. We stood in silence for a few moments, and I could tell that Holmes was scrutinizing the man with that cool expression I and his clients knew so well.
"I have the information you asked for." Holmes said, holding out the paper Lestrade had brought to us the night before. Lestrade wordlessly took his child's drawing, and waited expectantly. I noted the dark rings under his eyes, and the still-visible bruise on his jaw.
"The mud is quite singular—it largely consists of a mud found by a large metalwork factory by the docks. However, there are other-several other mud types here, from the alleyways behind the butcher shops, and that from a schoolyard on the outskirts of town. There is also a very small trace of tobacco ash, which had been stuck to the sole of the shoe with a glue used by carpenters. The tobacco itself was of cheap makings—probably from the Saxbry Tobacco shop. The shoe is of crude origins—note the uneven thread, and several places where it appears that parts of the sole have worn off slightly. It itself is large, indicating that the man is of great height and/or width, or that they were handed down to him by his father, although this I doubt, for the amount of mud left on the paper was enough for me to conclude that if the man in question had been lighter then his shoe size implied, he would not have left as much mud, nor would it have been spread so evenly such as this example. I therefore believe that the man to which this footprint belongs is of low class—most probably a worker from the metalwork factory, and as befitting a man of his class and size, is not easily intimidated." He finished, gesturing the bruise on Lestrade's jaw.
Lestrade's expression did not change. "Thank you." He replied gruffly.
"Your replacement is having constables clean out your office—they're almost done, and they said that you intended to retrieve them later."
"I intend to do so." He hesitated. "You may leave, now."
"I think not." Holmes smoothly replied. "I believe we can safely put aside formalities, Lestrade. I wish to inquire on why exactly you chose to leave the Yard. I believe Watson will agree with me when I say that you were the one Inspector everybody thought would stick to the job until the inevitable occurred."
Lestrade paled slightly. "That is none of your concern."
"I daresay it is!" I cut in. "You have been our associate—and dare I mention it—even our friend for a while, Lestrade...longer than I've known you. I refuse to believe you did this willingly. Did Gregson have anything to do with it?"
At this, Lestrade looked into not mine but Holmes's eyes directly, and said, "No."
"Who left this footprint, Lestrade?" Holmes pointed at the paper clutched in Lestrade's hand.
"I thought this was a required visit, brought on by my paper. It was not supposed to turn into an interrogation!" Lestrade's eyes flashed, and his next words were of forced politeness. "Don't you have patients that need tending to, Doctor? And you, Mr. Holmes, I believe you are neglecting your duties as a detective. I need not worry about my own obligations to my occupation, for currently I have none! Good-day, gentlemen." He grasped my hand, shook it firmly and bade us good-bye. Before I could make sense of it, Holmes and I were on the front porch, and the door was closing behind us.
I stood in bewildered silence, Holmes in thought. When I had recovered my wits, I chanced a look at my friend, and said, "That was...unlike Lestrade."
"You state the obvious as usual, Watson." My friend's reply was distant, and so I did not take his insult too much to heart.
We then hurried down the couple of steps, as if believing the far-fetched thought that we were trespassing on Lestrade territory. Once a good few yards away from the house, I stopped, Holmes doing the same.
"Do you believe he was lying about Gregson, Holmes?" I asked. Holmes took a minute before replying.
"I believe so, Watson, although it has been steadily getting harder to tell whether he's lying or not-"
"Wait!"
The call issued from Charles Lestrade, who clutched his blanket around him with one hand, and held something in the other, which was outstretched in front of him as he ran to us.
"Are you trying to worsen your condition?" I snapped, angered not by the boy but by his apparent foolishness.
"You forgot something, Mr. Holmes." He panted, coughing slightly as he held out his hand. In it was what I thought to be a letter of some sort, but I could not tell for long, as Holmes snatched it out of the boy's hand and shoved it in his pocket.
"Did you read it?" Holmes's voice was colder than I had heard in a while, his gray eyes steely as he gazed upon the boy—who shook his head. After a moment, Holmes relaxed slightly. "I didn't forget it." He said quietly.
"I know," Charlie said sheepishly. "'Cause I pickpocketed it—I needed an excuse to talk to you privately." At this, Holmes stared at him in disbelief—myself included, for I could not recall a time when any urchin had successfully pickpocketed the Great Detective before.
"You...managed to pickpocket me?" Holmes's voice was low, his surprise coming forth freely from his tongue.
"Yeah." Charlie's voice was enthusiastic. "With skills like that, you can't turn me down!"
"What do you mean?" Holmes replied.
"I want to become an Irregular!"
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Sorry it took a while to update this.
I was pleased that the first three reviewers reviewed again—thanks, you guys! And hey, thanks to the three new reviewers too!
And, of course, to all those who subscribed and/or favorited.
So...sorry if this chapter doesn't live up to the other two. I should have spent more time on it.