Prompt from W. Y. Traveller - Detective Inspector Lestrade is not pleased he has to work on Christmas Day.

Christmas at the Yard

"But it's been two weeks since I had a day off, sir," Detective Inspector Leastrade complained to Chief Inspector Willows. He was standing in the chief inspector's office while Willows read through documents and reports.

"Inspector Hornsby was assaulted last night, Lestrade," Willows replied absently as he paged through another folder. "And you already know Inspector Carstens is down with some fever or other. Very sick fellow. Poor chap."

"And Bradstreet and Gregson both have families," Lestrade sighed. "I know, sir. It's just that I worked every day for the last two weeks so that I could have Christmas for myself. Is it really necessary to have an inspector on duty on Christmas Day?"

"I'm afraid it is, Lesrade," Willows replied and tucked the folder he'd been examining into his drawer before sliding another off the stack on the corner of his desk and opening it. "What if there were some crime needing your attention, man? You're one of my best. I expect you to act like it. There are plenty of constables out there who will be spending Christmas Day here instead of with their families."

"Yes, sir," Lestrade sighed. He could tell there would be no use in pleading his case. Duty was duty.

The next morning, Christmas morning, church bells throughout the city were ringing as Lestrade pushed through the front doors of Scotland Yard. It was a cold and overcast day with a light snow falling and Lestrade was glad to get in out of the weather. At least he would have a fire going in his office stove. At least that was what he expected. His key turned in the lock and he pushed open the door finding the room quite cold. His stove had not been lit by the night staff.

"Sergeant," Lestrade called down the hallway. "What's the meaning of this? Why is there no fire in my office?"

"Sir?" Sergeant King, a veteran of some twenty-five years on the force replied. He strode down the hall and looked into the office. "Don't know, sir. I didn't know you were even scheduled to work today."

"Found out last evening before I went home," Lestrade said.

"Oh, I see, sir," said King. "Likely the night staff didn't know either. Shall I have one of the constable light it for you, sir?"

"No," sighed Lestrade. "I'll see to it myself, Sergeant."

"Very good, sir," King said and returned to his desk.

Lestrade spent a few minutes crumpling newspaper and stacking kindling. He lived alone and was well practiced at fending for himself. With a match he set the newspaper alight and waited for the kindling to catch before carefully adding a small amount of coal from his scuttle. Best to let it start small rather than risk smothering the fire and having to start from scratch.

"Tea, sir?" asked King from the doorway. He held up a small, steaming mug, smiling in a friendly manner.

"Yes, thank you, Sergeant," replied Lestrade rising from in front of the stove where the fire was burning well.

"Cold morning and all that, sir," said the sergeant, handing the inspector the mug. "Merry Christmas, sir."

"Merry Christmas, Sergeant," Lestrade sighed, but he gave the man a grateful smile.

It took nearly half an hour for the fire to warm the room enough so that Lestrade could remove his coat. He reflected things could have been worse. The night staff might have waited another day to clean his office and then he would have been doubly put out. He went down the hall to the front desk and collected the list of prisoners being held in the cells. Two of the three were due to be released. He sighed. More paperwork to fill out and best he got to it.

After twenty minutes at his desk, plying pen to form, Lestrade made his way down to the cells with a constable. The cells were a dim, cheerless place always smelling of damp and sweat. At the far end was a door leading to an enclosed yard where the prisoners could stretch their legs when the weather permitted. Today there would be no need. No one in their right mind would want to be out there on such a cold day.

"Right," said Lestrade, examining the forms to be sure he had everything filled in properly. "Take these two out and then return to your duties, Constable."

Lestrade paused a moment in front of the occupied cell, examining the third form again. The prisoner was listed as Mr. Walter Smith. No address.

"Mr. Smith," Lestrade said through the bars to get the man's attention. "What is your address? I need it for this paperwork."

"Don't have an address, precisely, sir," said the young man, coming to the cell door. He had a black eye and a split lip. Lestrade noticed his knuckles were raw when Smith grasped the cell bars.

"Living on the street?" Lestrade asked, his pencil poised to make the notation.

"No, sir," Smith said. "I'm usually aboard ship."

"A sailor?" asked Lestrade, only passingly interested.

"That's right, sir," said Smith. "The Margaret out of Christchurch, sir."

"So your address is in Christchurch, then?" Lestrade asked.

"I suppose so, sir," Smith said, his mouth screwing into a frown. "I live with my sister and her family when I'm not on the Margaret."

"I see you're in here for brawling, Smith," said Lestrade as he filled in the blank on the form.

"I am, sir," the young sailor replied.

"I suppose it wasn't your fault," Lestrade said doubtfully.

"It was and it wasn't, sir," said Smith. "I should never have let Johnny talk me into going into that pub. One drink, he said. One drink and off to the ship we would go."

"And how many drinks were there?" asked Lestrade. He really didn't care, but there was little enough to do in his office. He might as well waste some time talking to this lad.

"I had one beer," Smith said, shaking his head. "Johnny had two beers and then started in on rum."

"And the two of you fought over it?"

"Oh no, sir," Smith snorted. "Me and Johnny are mates. We get on pretty well. Johnny gets rowdy when he's drinking and I couldn't do nothing with him, sir. Slapped one of the girls on the bum and next thing we know half the men there are wanting a fight."

Lestrade smiled at the young man's tone.

"So where is Johnny now?" he asked.

"Likely back aboard the Margaret," replied Smith. "He scarpered as soon as he got close enough to the door. Left me to my own devices, you might say."

"And you ended up here," said Lestrade, filling in the last blank on the form. "Bad business, Smith."

"Aye," agreed the young sailor. "She'll sail this evening. All my kit's on board. Likely lose my place. Cilia won't be happy."

"Cilia?"

"My sister," Smith said. "I've had a good run with the Margaret. Three years an engineer. Started as one of the black gang. Worked my way up. Now I'll have to find another berth. Maybe go back to the trans-Atlantic lines. Months I'll be gone and no one to help her with the children and her rent till I get home. It'll be hard on them."

"Well, you'll be out in two days, Smith," said Lestrade and turned to go.

"Merry Christmas, sir," said Smith and turned to sit on the edge of his bunk.

"Oh," said the inspector, pausing to turn back. "Merry Christmas to you, too. As merry as it can be, anyway."

Four hours later Smith heard the door from the upper floor open. He sat up on his bunk and waited to see who it was. The narrow face of the inspector he'd spoken to earlier appeared, framed by the bars of the cell door. Someone was standing behind him. A key rattled in the lock and the door swung open.

"On your feet, Mr. Smith," Lestrade said, motioning for the young man to rise.

"Yes, sir," said Smith, getting off the hard bunk with its thin blanket. "What's going on, sir?"

"Someone here to see you," said the inspector.

"There you are, Walter," said a deep voice. "Looking worse for wear, too."

"Mr. Polly?" wondered Smith. "What are you doing here, sir?"

"I made some inquiries, Smith," Lestrade said. "Looked into the files and whatnot. Seeing as you've only been in trouble in Christchurch once, four years ago, and no record of any other slips, I went down to the docks and had a word with your captain. He gave you a good recommendation and let me speak with your friend, Johnny. After that I pulled a string or two and your first officer here signed off on taking custody of you."

"I'm charged with taking you straight to the ship and you aren't to leave her for two days," grinned Mr. Polly. "I don't think that will be a problem."

"I'm free to go?" Smith asked, unbelieving.

"In Mr. Polly's custody, Smith," Lestrade said with a nod. "Merry Christmas."

"How can I ever thank you, sir?" Smith asked, gleefully.

"Don't try," Lestrade replied. "It's the least I can do for someone in your straights. Consider it a Christmas present, if you like."

"Thank you, sir!" Smith said and took Lestrade by the hand, giving it a firm shake.

When the two sailors left, Lestrade settled behind his desk and put his feet in front of his stove. His office had finally warmed to a comfortable temperature and he felt pleased with himself. He'd done a good deed and a family would be saved from uncertainty. He had good reason to feel pleased. A knock at his door roused him from his reverie.

"Come in," he said and smiled when Sergeant King opened the door. "What is it, Sergeant?"

"Tea, sir," said King and set another mug on the inspector's desk. "Would you care for a piece of cake, sir?"

"Cake?" asked Lestrade, picking up the mug.

"My wife bakes one every year, sir," King explained. "Tells me it's a little bit of home to bring with me."

"You work here every Christmas?" asked Lestrade.

"For the past eleven years, sir," confirmed the sergeant. "Children are grown, you see. Better I work than one of the others what has family at home, sir."

Lestrade smiled and nodded. "Yes, Sergeant. I think I would like a piece of cake, if you have some to spare."

"Back in a jiffy, sir," Sergeant King said with a smile.

"Better to be here than home alone," Lestrade mused. What would he have done with his Christmas, anyway? A long train ride to get to his parents' home and then another to get back to London. At least this way he was spending time with a sort of family, wasn't he?

The End