Chapter Notes: This chapter has been brewing for a while. I have been trying to seed this installment with clues, I admit to being a little wary that most will have figured out the twist before it hits, but I am hoping that I pulled a sixth sense...DUH...out of my hat.
That being said it was a very emotionally touch chapter...I have put Watson through a lot this time around, but somehow this is the worst yet. The man has a heart as big as all outdoors, which makes it somewhat fragile at the same time, he can take a lot of punishment to his body, and a lot of opostion metally, but when it comes to hurting someone, he bleeds and is vulnerable.
Lestrade gets a bit of home time, which I enjoyed writing, and as always his banter with the Doc is fun.
As for Alister Eads, I have never written a character I hate more...you'll understand why. That includes James Watson btw...who disgustingly has grown on me somewhat.
I hope you have fun with this, I hope I manage a few suprises. See ya back here next time!
Bart
Doctor John Watson, Police Surgeon: Scotland Yard 4
The Frozen Image
Chapter Eight
Lestrade was not sure later how he got home.
Soon after he left Baker Street the strain of the day caught up with him, he was not the same tireless young man he used to be.
That day had been one of the longest of his life. It had started out with one of the biggest shocks he could ever remember encountering early that morning, then came the weight of Watson's health concerns for most of that day, the tense meeting with Alister Eads, the political mechanizations just to keep that monster in Newgate, it was all a bit much for this old Yarder.
He was literally sleepwalking by the time he arrived to his South End home, and into Clea's waiting arms.
"Oh, Giles, look atcha, let's get you inside," she fussed as she ushered him in. She had learned a long time ago to let him decide what he could talk about, so she set about making him comfortable, feeding him the slow simmering stew that she always made when his time of arrival was in doubt, giving him that shoulder rub he had been desperately needing.
Lestrade tore off a piece of the black bread and sopped up that last savoury bit as he told her of his day.
Clea sat down across from him, her forehead wrinkled in empathy as he mentioned Watson's sorry state, and she chuckled when he told her of Mrs. Hudson's solution.
"You don't find her drugging John appalling?" She shook her head. "Giles, believe me when I tell ya this, I've done more underhanded things than that over the years to see ta yer health, and that of our brood."
Lestrade felt his eyes narrow. "What are you referring to, woman?"
"Wouldn't you like ta know." She remarked with a snort of derision. With no further elaboration, she slapped his knee. "Now when yer through, go build a fire in tha grate, I'll get a comforter and we'll get cosy."
Lestrade in spite of his weariness gave her his special smile. "What do you have in mind?"
She kissed his forehead as she made to clean the kitchen. "Now look whose tha presumptuous bloke?"
He gave her apron a tug as she went by, but she slapped his hand away.
The rest of the night managed to take his mind off his troubles. Later as they enjoyed the comfort of each other by the fire, the thought of the next day slipped back in like an early spring fog. "I don't know if we can figure this out, Clea, with Holmes or a healthy John Watson I'd be sure of it, but John could barely stand today."
She looked up into his eyes with that little sly curl of lip that made him want to kiss her every time. "Did John promise Eads that he would hang?"
Lestrade nodded.
She rolled her eyes. "John Watson always keeps his word, you know that."
"I know he'll try, but sweetheart, I don't think I've ever seen a person push themselves as hard as he did today. How much is he going to have left tomorrow?"
She traced his moustache with her finger. "Do ya think that makes him less dangerous?"
Lestrade kissed her hand. "No, it will probably make him more determined."
"You know it." She said settling into his arms. "Now, less talk, Mister Lestrade, more cosy."
"Yes Ma'am."
---
Lestrade arrived at the Yard the next day determined to figure this conundrum out on his own.
He was sure if the Yarders put their minds to the task, this accomplice would not escape them. His rebellious mind brought up the hellish month that Alister Eads was stalking the Eastgate area, how they had gathered and collaborated but the bodies still kept turning up. That feeling of impotence began a return engagement in his heart, but he forced back into the corner.
He was not the only Yarder wanting to take their turn.
He arrived to find a contingent of inspectors and some milling PC's gathered around a chalk board pulled in to the centre of the room. Patterson was already there, without a word he held out a steaming mug of black tea to Lestrade.
"It's about time you got out of bed, Gilesy, we've been here an hour," He remarked with a twinkle in his eye.
Lestrade gave him the ill-tempered look he was petitioning for, and then nodded at the board. "What do we have so far?"
Hopkins was seated nearby, he flipped open his pad.
"We think the bloke is local to Eastgate, knew Genny Bisset and her condition, was in contact with Eads somehow, we've sent a PC to Newgate to get a copy of the visitation records..."
"Add to the board that the fellow is young and impressionable, is an artist of some sort, knows angles of light and presentation and taught them to Eads, he not only knew Genny, but he was in love with her, and this was a mercy killing. That's all Doctor Watson has worked out so far, he got Eads to confirm at least that much," Lestrade called. Gregson, who had the chalk gave him a look of distaste for taking over, but then set about the job.
Patterson leaned in. "I heard about the hearing, did Hopkins and that Frenchy actually give the barrister that much cheek?"
Lestrade chuckled. "You had to be there, we lost the point though."
"Not yet, we haven't," Patterson remarked with a confident tone.
---
They bantered back and forth for the next three hours. PC's where sent out on errands, Lestrade winced at the use of available workforce, but that did not stop him from pulling in extra help from other shifts.
The Newgate visitor's log was a dead end when it became apparent that members of "The Bedlow Group" had mailed several letters for Eads, their cooperation was not likely.
Hopkins went to question Aldric Bisset and his family of six because he was already familiar with them. He discovered that Genny had a fiancé, a childhood love named William Woodbury, and they pursued that lead until he was located.
William and his newlywed wife were in the midst of packing for a Holiday to the Netherlands. The young man looked distraught when he was informed. "We...Genny and I, were engaged for four months when she caught, she was the one who broke the engagement, I could not dissuade her. I cannot fathom that she was murdered." William's new wife showed Hopkins the beautiful little christening dress that Genny had sent them as a wedding present. "She apologized that she would most likely be gone by the time we had a little one to christen, but she wanted to be there in spirit."
Hopkins, back at the Yard reciting the details, delivered that news with a quavering voice. "Who would kill such a girl as this?" he demanded in a harsh tone.
"Someone she was kind to, if she was not such a girl she might still be alive."
They all turned to see Watson, still without a hat, but ably using his cane, helped into the room by Mayweather.
Lestrade felt a sudden sense of trepidation that he had been complicit in Watson's drugging the night before. "How are you feeling, John?"
Watson winced as he lowered himself into a chair nearby. "Not well enough to give you the comeuppance you undoubtedly deserve, if that is what you are wondering, but fear not I am feeling somewhat better."
"I shall settle my affairs in the interim," Lestrade replied in a bored, wry tone.
"What did you mean by, if she was not such a girl?" Patterson asked.
Watson sighed as he shifted in the chair to a more comfortable angle for his injured side. "The man who killed her felt he was returning a kindness, I don't feel that she would even know his name, he probably watched her deteriorate from a far and it ate at him, not because they were acquainted, but because his love would never be requited. Genny Bisset was kind to others equally, but for someone who has known no kindness; her actions would have caused him to believe a relationship existed. Someone who has other friends, or the social skills to make them, would not have been vulnerable to such a man as Alister Eads."
He held a hand out to Mayweather, who handed him the packet of photographs that Lestrade gave him the night before. "These are copies of the five crime scene photos that Rollins made for me; he increased them in size at my request, included was the print of Genny Bisset's dead body."
Upon his orders, they pinned them up so all could view, Genny Bisset last in the order. The frozen images were nearly overwhelming together.
Watson picked up his cane with his uninjured left arm and pointed to them. "Can you see the two that do not belong? They will begin to speak if you look at them all together."
His words sounded ominous and supernatural, but when Lestrade backed away to his side and looked at them all simultaneously he saw to what Watson was alluding.
"The first and the last, they are different."
Watson nodded as if he was complimenting a star pupil. "Go on."
"In the first picture, the victim..."
"Beverly O'Connell," Watson reminded.
"Missus O'Connell was not posed very well, she looked like someone just dumped her onto the ground, dripped the blood and left, the light in the photograph was not the best even with the lanterns and flash powder."
"That first picture looks more like my victim," Patterson interjected.
"Right," Lestrade acknowledged then continued, "in the middle four, the light is much better, they were posed instead of dumped, but obviously not with care, there are limbs left in awkward angles and the eyes were left open showing the haemorrhages from strangulation."
"And then with Genny," Watson encouraged.
"She was posed carefully, her eyes shut, the light and angle is perfect, there is even that steeple cross shadow on her bosom, showing that someone knew of her faith and cared enough to pose her in a way they thought she would have approved," Lestrade finished.
Suddenly, Lestrade recalled something about the previous morning, some nebulous inkling, but he could not grasp it.
"The accomplice became involved after that first murder, and this last victim was his alone," Gregson blurted with a look of surprise on his face.
"An accomplice with an artistic sensibility that Eads does not have," Hopkins remarked chewing his bottom lip in thought.
Watson nodded. "This is all I have so far, which is little more than we already possess. It does give us a timeline to work with."
They went around a few more times before lunch but made no more headway.
They decided to take lunch.
Watson and Lestrade were left alone as the assemblage broke up, Mayweather was around somewhere not immediately apparent.
"Tell me the truth, how are you really?" Lestrade inquired with some caution.
Watson met his gaze with no hesitation. "I am better, Giles, I still have a fever, but I was able to hold my breakfast this morning, my mind is as sharp as it ever is, I will not be a hindrance."
"A hindrance..." Lestrade repeated with derision, "You are closer to this man than any of us, just by looking at some pictures."
Watson looked deeply troubled. "I'm afraid I cannot claim credit, I was aided by another man's suggestion."
Lestrade felt some concern for his friend's demeanour. "Oh?"
"Alister Eads all but told me what to look for," Watson informed, "I believe he wants us to capture this accomplice."
Lestrade startled. "That would mean he wants to die."
Watson nodded his thoughts distant. "He has no care for life, which includes his own; I don't believe that Alister ever lost control yesterday. You said yourself that the man had been stable since capture why would that change now?"
Lestrade felt a cold chill that had nothing to do with the room. "He's still playing his game."
Watson sighed. "We thought we were his opponents, but as it happens, we might just be pawns."
"I think you blokes are missing tha point."
Mayweather came back into their line of sight causing Lestrade to start. "How does he do that?" Lestrade hissed under his breath to Watson. Watson sighed, "I wish I knew." Speaking louder he called to Mayweather. "Go on, what is this point we are missing?"
"The point is," Mayweather began with a patient tone, "a man can be a good man and do an awful thing for what he thinks are good reasons, or he can be a bad man who does a good thing for bad reasons, the end result is what's important, not the motive."
Lestrade turned to Watson, they both raised eyebrows. "That made absolutely no sense," Watson remarked to Mayweather, "Go away...find someone to terrorize."
The younger man just shrugged and gave Watson that empty little smile.
"So, what do you want for lunch?" Lestrade asked as an aside.
"Not soup," Watson replied with a lopsided grin.
Lestrade snapped his fingers as if there was a plan foiled.
---
They sat to eat lunch in the northwest corner of Hyde Park, at Watson's insistence. Mayweather was not happy but he allowed it after a standoff with his obstinate charge.
It was indeed a very nice early summer day, and the warmth of the sun was helping Watson's sudden bought of tremors diminish. He and Lestrade settled in with the sack of meat pastries they bought at the corner bakery.
Watson nibbled on one but for the most part watched the couples and children enjoying the day.
"Do you ever wish you could be one of them?" he asked Lestrade.
Lestrade leaned back and followed his gaze. "Who?"
Watson nodded toward the milling public, "The people who go through their daily life without knowing their peril. Without knowing that monsters walk among them in the clothing of normalcy, monsters like Alister Eads."
Lestrade felt of Watson's forehead. "Your fever is making you maudlin, old boy."
Watson glowered at him until he moved his hand. "I asked because I would like to know," he insisted.
"I guess I've never really thought about it," Lestrade said with a shrug, "I raised three children in this city while wading through the filth, and the nastiness all day long, if you stop to consider what is out there, you'd never let your family leave the house."
Watson smiled. "You are right, I am being maudlin, I tried being normal and oblivious like them, a husband and a doctor only, but Mary knew the truth."
"That is," Lestrade encouraged.
Watson winced as he shifted. "The truth is, some lives were meant to be lived touched by violence, so that others might never know it."
Lestrade sighed. "What brought these thoughts on, might I ask?"
Watson closed his eyes in thought, composing his feelings into words, "I grow weary of this gift, Giles, this ability to empathize, it is a burden that weighs heavily on me today. I can see this young man, not his face, but I feel as if I know him already. He is in a lot of emotional pain, but he's very good at hiding in plain sight. I know he is a killer, but I pity him."
Lestrade reached out and gently grasped John's shoulder. "So, don't bear this burden alone, tell me what you are feeling, I'll give you what meagre help that is mine to offer,"
"I keep going back to the fact that he is an artist, he observes, he watches as a spectator, not a participant, until now," Watson informed a sigh.
"What sort of artist, painting, drawing, one of those blokes that do sketches?"
Watson shook his head, "there are other mediums..."
Watson's eyes popped open, he murmured, "Oh you bastard...we need to get back to the Yard, Giles."
Lestrade saw a terrible realization on his friend's face, one that made him wonder if he really wanted to know the truth, but he dutifully packed the lunch, waving Mayweather to come help.
---
The newly reassembled group was already back in deep discussion about the current conundrum when Watson and Lestrade returned.
Watson had a package under his arm from a stop he and Lestrade had made on the way back.
They were discussing local artists in the Eastgate area, but most were middle aged, the one that was not was an incurable womanizer. That chap did not fit the profile they had already established but they had sent a PC to get his alibi, whoever she might be.
Lestrade let Watson take the floor, he still did not know what the man had figured out, but he was standing by to give him aid if he needed it.
"Gentleman I may have discovered our accomplice, but I need some expert help," Watson announced cutting into the discussion. They all went quiet, their eyes expectant. To a man, there were no sceptical glances but simple faith in whatever Watson would say next.
"Can someone find me an artist as quick as possible?" he inquired.
Hopkins hopped off the desk where he was sitting with Bradstreet. "Rollins is in the darkroom, as good as he is at photography, he qualifies as an artist, I'll be right back."
Someone offered Watson a chair but the man refused, his jaw clenched, under some weight that he would not share. (8)
Rollins followed Hopkins back into the room; he was wiping his hands on a cloth. "What would you like to know?"
There was a look of absolute misery on Watson's face. "I would like to know why, Harold."
Rollins went very still. "Why?"
Watson held up the package pulling off the paper, it was a framed photograph of the Bisset family. "Photography is one of the newest art forms, there is no school for it, you have to take an apprenticeship, and your uncle owns a portrait studio where you learned your craft. Before he unexpectedly put you out on the street, he saw a sudden upsurge in success. Aldric told me that he wanted the best photographer in the city to take their portrait; more than one satisfied customer of your uncle's told him that he needed to get the quiet younger man that worked for him to take the picture. He said that he remembered that the young man had a stammer, and Genny was very kind to him."
The room was very quiet, they were all in shock, and some seem to be hoping that Rollins would deny Watson's allegations. The sheer misery and compassion on Watson's face showed he halfway hoped he was wrong as well.
Harold ended the speculation.
"No one sees me, not my parents or brothers and sisters, not my uncle, except as a threat, no one at the Yard. Even when I took portraits and the subjects stared right through me, I was just a camera," he said little more than a whisper, in the quiet he was easily heard.
"She saw you," Watson encouraged.
Harold nodded, "She smiled at me, looked at me, said she was sure the picture would be perfect, when they came for the prints she took one look and gave me a hug. I've never been hugged in my life, after twelve children, my mother just didn't care anymore," he confessed with a sob.
Bradstreet walked over and put a big bear like arm around Harold's narrow shoulders. "Go on, it will help," he said giving the young man a squeeze.
Watson nodded his agreement. "Alister?" he prodded.
Harold seemed to draw strength from Bradstreet. He spoke in a stronger voice, "Alister was in the crowd at that first scene, he saw some Constables dismiss my importance, tell me to get it done so they could go off shift, he followed me home, asked to see my work, he told me who he really was. I was terrified but then he told me that my crime scene photographs would be seen all over the world, like Matthew Brady, he told me that all he wanted me to do was teach him how to turn the bodies so they catch the light. That's all. I wouldn't be doing the killing, just giving him some advice; he told me that I could turn him in anytime I wanted to..."
"He did not seem like a killer..." Watson stated for Harold drawing him out.
Harold shook his head. "He talked about my photography, he was amazed at how they turned out, he encouraged me to do other things, and he said he believed in me. He knew how I would sometimes follow Genny, just to see her, and after she caught, he offered to make her a victim so she wouldn't suffer needlessly. I asked him to leave her alone; he told me that if I really loved her, I would not want her to be in pain...he told me a way to make sure she died as painlessly as possible. He told me I could blame it on him, it was his gift to me. He kept sending me these letters asking how she was, encouraging me to do the right thing by her, that all she was doing was suffering because I wasn't strong enough to do what was necessary. He said when I finally gave in, and delivered her from her pain I would know the truth..."
Harold broke down in racking sobs. "He was right...I know...he lied...she was alive...and I killed her...she was always nice to me...and I killed her!"
The Yarders all stood around they stared at the floor as Harold cried quietly.
Watson walked over to Harold, he bent down with some effort and looked into the young man's teary eyes. "You made a mistake, you can't changed that now, but you can still do the right thing for Genny, for her family, Eads used you because he knew it would hurt us, show him that you are still a Yarder, we will take care of you, this is not the end."
Harold wiped his eyes and nodded.
"I'll take him to the judge," Bradstreet declared.
Hopkins stepped up, "I'll go with them."
Lestrade still deep in shock managed to nod at them both, "Don't bother with the irons, bring him back here after, he will not be locked up with the animals if I can help it."
They all began to disperse; Gregson was wiping off the chalkboard in a disconsolate manner.
"He took Harold right out from under us, and wanted us to know it," Lestrade concluded.
Watson suddenly lost strength and nearly collapsed to the floor, but Lestrade caught him.
Mayweather was with him the next instant, helping him into a chair, Patterson hovered nearby, concerned.
"I think I am done, Giles," Watson remarked, "I am going home."
Lestrade nodded. "Baker Street?"
Watson shook his head. "Not for three years now." He held a trembling hand to his forehead. "I think my fever broke," he remarked with an ironic chuckle.
"Thank you for your help, John, go home, get well," Lestrade ordered.
Watson reached out a hand and grasped Lestrade's shoulder, "It is not over, Alister will be in touch, he's still got one last move to make."
Lestrade nodded in agreement. "I am relying on it."
Story Notes: Matthew Brady was a famed American photographer who collected battlefield photographs and went broke for his work, but upon his penniless death achieved world wide fame in one of those great consistent artistic ironies. Photography was seen in a more utilitarian capacity and the people who became photographers had to be apprentices first, no widespread affordable schools for Photography existed at this time.
Harold reminds me of so many persons who fall through the cracks, we are around them everyday, they perform a service but we really never meet them even after years. Who knows how desperately lonely the person beside you is, we learn to hide in plain sight sometimes, the Yard is so used to fighting outside forces that they have a blind spot when it comes to their own numbers, this happens a lot with police forces when one of their own is a suspect they tend be difficult to convince.
I hope this answers any questions that arise!
thanks!
(8) Picture of a distraught Watson in the profile!
Bart