Devonshire Squires Chapter Twenty Four

He put the two cups of tea down on the bedside table and then sat on the edge of the bed. From beneath the bedcovers came a contented, "hmmm. That smells good."

John gave a tired smile. He had come to terms with having someone else in his bed- kept him warm, and when she wasn't there now, he missed her. Mary didn't seem to mind that he was a restless sleeper, often waking several times in a night. Mindful of her presence though, when he was awake John tried to lie still, and ponder what it was that had woken him. He still had nightmares occasionally, sometimes involving Afghanistan, sometimes about Sherlock, occasionally the two would be mixed up together. You're not haunted by the war, Doctor Watson…you miss it. He'd never quite forgiven Mycroft for being able to read him so easily, the very first time they had met.

This morning when he woke, Sherlock was on his mind. Mary and he had got home late last night, when Lestrade said there was nothing more to be got out of the crime scene on Fenchurch Street. On the way home in the taxi, he'd gone from being annoyed about Sherlock not being there, through being irritated, to past being angry. Now, he was not only worried, but actually afraid for his friend. The case had everything going for it- complexity, murder, and an audience who wanted him to be there, showing off how clever he was. But, the man resolutely remained absent. It was uncharacteristic. No, it was worse that that; it was just plain wrong.

Mind you, John had to admit that he no longer knew what was characteristic of Sherlock. The man who had come home and bounced back into his life waving a champagne bottle at him was proving to be elusive, mercurial. John knew that some seismic change had happened, but could not fathom what it was, nor what the consequences were.

Mary stirred, and a hand came out, followed by a blond sleepy face looking for the cup of tea. He handed it to her, with another smile. She sat up and took her first sip with her eyes closed. A blissful sigh followed.

"You have no idea how much I appreciate you getting out of this warm bed on a cold December morning and getting me a cup of tea."

Once she got her eyes open, he realised she was studying him. He gave her what he hoped was a reassuring smile.

She sniffed. "Yeah, I'm worried about him, too."

"Do you think it's too early to call George Hayter?"

"Why?...oh, wait- do you think he knows where Simon Waterman or Stuart Bradshaw are?"

"Maybe. I keep thinking they might be able to help us find Sherlock."

At that precise moment, John's mobile went off. He hurriedly put his cup down and grabbed it.

"Speak of the devil…" He connected the call. "Colonel Hayter. I was just thinking of phoning you, but you've beaten me to it."

Mary sat bolt upright in bed and tried to snuggle up as close to John as she could so she could listen to the phone, too.

"I'm no longer a colonel, Doctor Watson; I'm not even a qualified doctor now, just a retired country squire these days. But I thought you would like to know that I was telephoned last night by Simon Waterman."

"Interesting. Can I put you on speaker phone?" She was nodding furiously. "Mary is right here and would like to know what Waterman said."

"Good morning. Miss Morstan. As I was about to say to Doctor Watson, Waterman rang me to say that the fight club is meeting again tonight, and there is still no replacement for me. He was trying to talk me into coming along. 'For old time's sake,' he called it. He's going to tell them tonight he's quitting, and he's trying to get some of the other injured fighters to join together to demand that I'm replaced. He says the chap injured last week was very lucky. He's been released from hospital after a vertebroplasty, which should heal in a month. I understand he's going to argue alongside the others, too."

"Will that convince you to reconsider?" John hope it would.

Hayter laughed. "I'm through with London now. I'd be tempted to volunteer your name, but it wouldn't be fair to ask you to take on the role, Doctor Watson, because you should never put your licence at risk. You have your future career to consider and responsibilities now that you are getting married. But I thought you might know of someone else- perhaps another doctor who has retired from the RAMC?"

Mary butted in. "Do you know where the fight's going to take place?"

"They always text the venue just a couple of hours ahead of time, to keep it as secret as possible. "

John exchanged looks with Mary, who nodded encouragingly. He hesitated for a moment. "Um..." then decided. "There's been a development that you need to know about. I'm going to ask you to keep it confidential because there is a police investigation underway." He paused, giving the man a chance to back out, if he wasn't willing to abide by that understanding. When no response came, he went on. "Last night there was a murder, at the offices of Cunningham Lindsey on Fenchurch Street."

"Bloody hell. It wasn't Alec Cunningham, was it?"

"No, William Kirwan, the Cunningham's driver. Ever heard of him? Is he involved in the fight scene?"

There was a slight hesitation, then, "Not to my knowledge, or at least I don't recognise the name. A lot of the fighters hide behind aliases, but over the months I got to know a lot of them. Partially because TradeRisk works with so many financial services companies that I tended to bump into them on the job. Of course, I have to pretend not to know them. It's all part of the club rules- no names, no blame.

Mary leaned forward. "Why did you think it might be Alec Cunningham who was killed?"

There was a laugh at the other end. "Because he's such a hot-head that he has irritated just about everyone on every team, including his own. Clasher- that's his fight name- is just that- he rubs everyone up the wrong way. It wouldn't surprise me if he offended someone enough to take drastic measures."

John had been thinking a lot about what the Cunninghams had said last night. "He claimed that this was a burglary gone bad- that Kirwan interrupted someone trying to do a prank raid. Have you heard about these raids before?"

There was an audible sigh at the other end. "Yes- it's all part of the hype. Grudges between the teams build up to the point where one of them takes it upon themselves to do a bit of petty thieving. The promoters are happy for it to continue- say it gets the crowds going, pumps up the betting."

"Is there something going on between the Cunninghams and the Acton team? Alec Cunningham was pointing the finger in their direction."

There was a dismissive snort. "The Actons have a law suit against Cunningham Lindsay, been grinding its way through the courts for the past seven years. Relations are pretty strained. He could be trying to implicate them just because he's a mean son of bitch. But, there could be something in it. Was the victim one of the new fighters? I know they've had to fill the gap caused by what happened last week to the Crusher."

"Is Crusher the alias for Stuart Bradshaw?"

"Yes." There was a hint of caution in the reply.

"We've been trying to find him, to talk to him about his opponent."

"The Devonshire Devil?"

"Yes. How did you know that?"

"Because Bradshaw told me who put him in hospital."

"I've been trying to reach Bradshaw. He's not at home, or at work. Do you have a mobile number for him?"

There was a pause. Then in a suspicious tone, Hayter asked a question. "Why do you want to know?"

John decided to trust Hayter. He really had no other option. "Because the Devonshire Devil is a friend of mine. I didn't realise that he was involved in the fight until I heard the ambulance service recording, and I recognised his voice. He's gone missing. I think he's in a bad way, and I need to find him urgently. Bradshaw could help."

There was a pause, then "You can ask him yourself. He's sitting here beside me, listening in."

Mary's eyes widened, sharing John's surprise, as Hayter's phone was jostled, and then the tell-tale slight echo of being on speaker phone cut in. "Bradshaw here." It was a deep voice, and John tried to imagine the size of the man speaking. "I'm hanging out with the Doc here because I've got no one else to turn to. I live alone, and the hospital wouldn't release me unless there was someone to keep me under observation."

John gave a wry smile. "I thought you'd given up on this role, Hayter."

There was a chuckle. "Think of it as 'after-care', Watson. You know as well as I do that it's not easy to stop thinking about a patient."

That brought John back to the reason why he had called in the first place. "Yes, well, I can understand that. Tell me what happened to the guy who broke your neck."

With a sniff, Bradshaw said, "He didn't, not really. It was my own bloody fault, 'cos I fell badly. The Devil's a clever fighter; I'll give him that. He knows styles of fighting I'm not familiar with, but I've got at least thirty pounds more muscle than him, and should have won, if I'd not been clumsy."

Impatiently, John snapped, "Just what sort of damage did you inflict? That's what I need to know."

"Hit his face a couple of times, and he'll be sore as hell from body blows to his chest and back, plus the bruising when I got his waist in a leg lock. It's my signature piece- why I'm called Crusher." The man's bragging hit a raw nerve with John, but before he could react, Bradshaw continued, "I did get one really good kick in to his kidney. That one's probably the worst of the lot. But, he didn't need a hospital."

"A doctor needed to decide that, Stuart." Hayter interjected before John could say the same thing.

"Yeah, well- there wasn't one. Which is why I'm going tonight. Simon's right. We fighters need to stick together on this. After the bouts tonight, we're gonna talk to the coaches and the promoters and get it sorted."

John was thinking about what he should say next when Mary butted in. "That's why you need to go, too, Colonel Hayter. The voice of reason should be heard. Why not take John with you?"

John turned to her with amazement.

She carried on. "Not to advise officially- you're right, he shouldn't risk his license. But, as an observer, he can help argue the case. So, if you agree to go, then when you are texted the address, send it to us and we'll go, too. Put us on the list as your guests."

"Miss Morstan- sorry, but you're not invited."

She looked nonplussed. "Why ever not?"

Bradshaw answered with a laugh, "Cos the only women who go to these things are prozzies and totty, hanging on the arms of the punters. With respect, lady- you don't sound like the type. And even if you were to try, you wouldn't be allowed anywhere near the ring, or in the team sessions afterwards. Only the docs will get in."

John nodded. "You're right of course." He shot a stern look at Mary, a don't-press-your-luck look. She pouted, as John continued, "Mary will stay here, but I will come; that is, if you agree."

Hayter responded. "Yes, that's a good idea. Expect a text around 5.30 or so."

John couldn't resist asking the question, "Do you think the Devonshire Devil will be there? We need to find him, because we need his help to solve this murder."

Bradshaw's reply was gruff. "Yeah, he has to be there. All team fighters need to be on deck, even if they aren't fighting. That's why I'm going. So the guy will be there."

"Why's he so important then?" The Cunningham fighter's tone had turned suspicious. "Is he a suspect in that murder?"

John smirked. "No. The devil is in the detail, Mister Bradshaw. That was Sherlock Holmes you were fighting."

There was stunned silence on the other end of the phone.