The London Particular

The Lancashire Rose:

“What in the name of God has happened to you?”

Clea had no qualms about scolding someone who deserved it so thoroughly. Bartram deserved it.

Her brother, had he the sense of a hedgehog, would have winced and come up with some ridiculous story involving a battle with a stampeding ox or a runaway train and then finished with his victory over the opponent. Seeing as how there was enough fog on the street that even their smart brother Myron would confuse a train for an ox, it would have nearly worked.

But Bartram didn’t try a semi-plausible lie. He told the truth instead.

“Fight went bad t’other night, Clea.” He grunted. "Had some of my face yanked out by the roots so I shaved the rest of it off." He reached up to touch his scalded-looking skin. By all appearances, the razor used for the job had been used to open tins in its spare time. “What’re you so upset for? It’s not like I’m sugaring violets for a living!”

“Sugaring violets, arsenic and all, might be less dangerous.” Clea closed her eyes for a moment, feeling the grain of flour on her skin. “Bartram, what is going on here…why did you shave? Are you working the pits again?” Bullish silence told all. “Oh, Bartram.”

“I don’t need your criticism, little miss.” He snapped, throwing himself down into the table by the chestnut barrel. “What’s to eat?”

Clea held her tongue as she dished up a mound of cabbage and potatoes, but when she thrust it on the table in front of him, she had all her words rehearsed. “The money you’re bringing home won’t do a bit of good if you’re dead!” She pointed out. “And a fine thing that’ll do to our father!”

“Da was a wrestler too.”

“Da quit when he began making mistakes.” She shot across the bow.

His broad face flushed under his black mustaches. “You sayin’ I’m making mistakes?” He half-rose out of his chair, just as someone cleared their throat.

Clea knew how it looked. Tempers flared under the muck of a London fog with people trapped indoors for hours on end. She was one-quarter Bartram’s size and just because she wasn’t afraid of him didn’t mean all could be well. Bartram was the strongest in a family of giants—Nature’s apology for making him one of the stupidest, she reasoned.

“Beg your pardon, Miss Clea.” Inspector Lestrade touched the brim of his hat gently with a forefinger. “I thought I’d apologize for not sending you word about your missing wares.”

Neatly done. Clea felt a moment’s respect for a man who could intrude upon a situation and make it look as though it had been preordained. She deliberately ignored Bartram, who was shifting side to side on his bulk, opening and shutting his hands.

“We’d heard you were injured, Inspector.” She said, taking in the fact that behind Lestrade was a second man, sitting casually with a newspaper blocking view of his lap--or the side pocket where a sap or gun would be kept. Despite the bland expression on his face, he looked about as solid and harmless as a cannonball. Doctor fellow, she recalled. Always polite, never tolerant of nonsense. “If that’s the case, Mr. Lestrade, we’re glad to see you back on your feet.”

“Not at all.” He smiled ruefully. “It will be a day or two before I’m back at the Yard if my physician has any say so.”

“He does say so.” The other man said from behind.

“We’ll be glad to hear of it, Inspector—“ Clea stifled her reaction to the sound of her brother’s rude nose-sound from behind. “Forgive me my manners, Mr. Lestrade. This is my brother, Bartram Cheatham.” She did not introduce him by his usual title.

“Mr. Cheatham.” Lestrade repeated his slow touch of his hatbrim—Clea caught on that he was moving gently from injuries. His doctor was scowling enough to frighten a Molly Maguire. “Pleased to meet you.”

“Hmph.” Bartram managed to mortally embarrass his sister by limping off with his tray.

Clea gritted her teeth. “If he doesn’t return that, washed, I’ll charge him double.” She swore under her breath. Lestrade’s lips twisted. He was trying not to smile. “My brother has the manners of a fatted ploughhorse.” She said by way of apology.

“Really, it’s not a problem.” The Inspector assured her. “Any time a person manages not to spit in my face for being a detective is quite a pleasant greeting.”

Clea had to laugh. “I think I said before, you’ve the more interesting job of the two of us. Get back to your palaver with your doctor; I’ll have Mr. John Dory up in a few moments.”

“I am most certainly impressed.” Watson commented as Lestrade—carefully—managed to sit down in a way that did his back the least amount of strain.

“One has to be careful with defusing tempers in a public place,” Lestrade winced slightly. “Sometimes the situation calls for simply flashing one’s credentials and acting like the Holy See, only without the humility.” He lowered his hand to his pocket where his pistol was kept. “And as long as I have a pocket, I carry my persuasions in it.”

“You did quite well.” Watson approved. “When I’m with Holmes I never know if he’s going to test his boxing skills on someone, or take them home as a new-found friend.”

“Hah…do you think he boxes just because no one expects someone of his weight to do so? Surprise being the great advantage and all that?”

“I wouldn’t even begin to guess with Holmes. I’ll die prematurely aged for certain…” Watson discreetly shut his mouth as Miss Cheatham strode up with John Dory and chips.

“Here you are, Inspector, doctor.” In the four weeks since meeting her, Lestrade had seen considerably less of Miss Cheatham than he’d hoped. It was a measure of his self-esteem to see her again. The cool weather had only pinked her cheeks and pulled crispness into the blue-black hair that escaped her cap. “It is good to see you again. Mr. Briggs let us know how you were doing after that waterfront business.” Her wide mouth stretched into a pleasant grin. Ladies smiled; their finer constitutions would stand for nothing more. But Miss Cheatham had much more starch to her fibres than a restrained form of expression. It was a good thing to see.

Watson cleared his throat again with a twinkle in his eyes. “Charming lady.” He noted.

Lestrade reached for a fork. “Oh?”

Watson’s coal-black eyebrows slid upward. It was neither as swift or rapier-like as a look from Holmes, but Lestrade felt the same kind of thought behind those dark eyes. “Oh? You didn’t notice?”

“It would be a waste of time to notice.” Lestrade muttered as he managed to sprinkle vinegar over the chips without hurting his muscles too much. “I promised to look into her missing goods over this waterfront case.”

Watson merely smiled. “Well, she’s a rare one. Here’s hoping her establishment remains here a good long time.”

“You and me both.” Lestrade unglued just a bit to agree on that common ground.

To Be Continued...

London Particular: Commoner's term for the infamous London Fog.