You buy land, you buy stones; you buy meat, you buy bones

You buy land, you buy stones; you buy meat, you buy bones.

--17th-century English proverb

January, 1884

This is a disturbing little piece that sets the stage for Lestrade’s partnership with Dr. Watson in my Hiatus: London series. Definitely too dark for the lighter vignettes I’ve been posting. I highly recommend the year 1882 for spackling the story-holes, as Watson’s writings are horrifically blank in that year.

Despite disparaging opinions to the contrary, Scotland Yard did possess the capacity for paying attention to minutiae. Time of death. Coroner’s reports. Factors in weather. The annoyances of one’s co-workers. Social events. The annual fluctuations in murder statistics. That kind of thing. The problem with all of them was the minutiae never seemed to end, or arrive at some stopping-point for rest and reflection.

Lestrade was feeling fairly good about himself that morning. Mrs. Collins had suffered one of her sporadic wild hares in the kitchen and her long-standing gratitude for having an Inspector as a boarder (guaranteeing a shield from all but the worst kinds of interference on Paddington Street), had inspired her to stuff a rather large parcel in his hands while he was out the door.

A typical February day in London is soggy with snow, slimy with the addition of the soot-soaked fog, and made raucous with the special kinds of traffic disasters that result from poor brakes, invisible ice, and people rushing far too quickly to get from one warm and dry place to another warm and dry place. A steaming hot bundle in one’s icy hands can only be an improvement thereof.

Inspector Bradstreet, on his way out, opened the door for Lestrade, then caught a whiff and stepped back inside. “Package from Mrs. Collins!” He bellowed. Before Lestrade could say or do anything, the big man ducked his head directly over the cloth and inhaled loudly. “Hah!” He said smugly. “Beef tongue with potato and garlic!” A puzzled look crossed his face and he sniffed again. “Hang about. Why are you bringing in cooking from your landlady, Geoffrey? The future Mrs. Lestrade should be doing this.”

Lestrade looked at the other man patiently. “There is no ‘future Mrs. Lestrade,’ and remind me again why you weren’t placed on the Bakery case, Bradstreet?”

Bradstreet grinned. “I love my food, Lestrade…I don’t take it to work with me. If I started investigating into what I ate, I’d be skinnier than Watson.”

“God forbid.” Lestrade commented. “But I think he’s starting to look a bit more natural. Ran into him at the Tavern the other day.” Lestrade struggled to maneuver the obstacle of eager detectives. “All right!” He lifted his voice. “You’ll all get some come luncheon! Didn’t any of you eat breakfast?!”

“I didn’t.” Barnes popped in.

“Barnes, you never eat breakfast. And if you did, I’d worry about you.” Barnes’ first walk was in one of the worser digs of London during the cat-eye shift. He seemed to have more than his fair share of lounging corpses as a result. Dumping one’s murder victim into the middle of the train tracks might be a fundamentally bad idea in the light of day, but in the gin-soaked moonlit nights, it was almost a reasonable notion to the criminal mind. Barnes hadn’t eaten red meat in a year.

Lestrade set the basket down with a gasp of relief. “All right, then. Now what?” He stared at the stack of papers on his desk. “And people say spontaneous creation is rot.” He muttered under his breath. “I’ll show them spontaneous—here now, what are you doing with that? My caseload is as full as it can go!”

Bradstreet held up the folder without apology. “You asked for this a week ago.” He pointed out.

“That was six cases ago!” Lestrade protested. “Where was that when I needed it?”

“First ordered, first served.” Bradstreet said without pity as he set the papers down. “Anyhow, you can pass it on to MacDonald if you’re feeling a bit spread thin.”

Lestrade’s annoyance threatened to metastasize. “Why MacDonald?”

“Oh, he’s still working a bit with Holmes, you know. Those loose ends about the pick-pocketing gang off Court Street.”

Lestrade shuddered. “There’s a story or five,” was his verdict. “I prefer to stick with the ordinary, wholesome London criminal—once they cross the waters, I’d just as soon as leave them to my betters.” He sank down in his chair and began fishing for a moderately-long pencil.

“Ugh.” Bradstreet agreed. “Save me some of that tongue, would you? I’ve got to deal with a missing husband case this morning.”

“Good luck with that one, Bradstreet.” Lestrade said with feeling.

“Is that all you can say?” Bradstreet sniffed.

Lestrade tilted his head, considering. “Missing husband?” He repeated.

“Aye.”

“Was he philandering?”

“Most definitely.”

“Check under the floorboards.” Lestrade suggested.

“Aren’t you the wag today.” Bradstreet walked away, shaking his head and muttering dire Gaelic imprecations under his beard. The little Inspector grinned at his retreating (and very broad) back.

He reached for the top paper on his desk purely by default. It was a request for a summary on a recent rash of stabbings involving coney butchers. Lestrade almost groaned aloud.

Three hours later Lestrade had completely lost his appetite—not to the sorrow of his cohorts, who were willing enough to do his landlady’s cooking justice. Unfortunately they added to his distraction by their long-running speculations on how the marvelous and saintly Clea would be cooking once Lestrade saw fit to let her make an honest man of him. Gregson had been particularly ungrateful for his free meal with discussing a Euclidian algorithm that he swore would calate1 Lestrade’s geometric shape from “rectangle” to “square” with a fortnight of decent cooking. By the time the door to his office opened again to show one of the clerk-boys, Lestrade was ready to crumple his papers until they were promoted from two- to a three-dimensional format, and ballistic-file them into the dustbin. “What is it, Toby?”

“Message for you, Inspector.” The boy produced a yellow square. “Dr. Watson inquires if you can meet him for an early supper at your favorite tavern.”

Lestrade realized Watson meant the ‘Keg. “Hang about, lad…” Lestrade scrawled a hasty answer on the cheap paper. “Send it right back to him, I can break free early today, seeing as how I’m missing dinner…” He caught the boy’s covetous eye to the basket. “Go ahead, help yourself.” He sighed.

Montague Street:

Watson was in the process of passing coin to a street urchin Lestrade recognized from Baker Street. “And please tell her there isn’t a bit of horse in this!” The inspector heard the doctor’s parting shot as the boy took off with a rope of sausage.

“Do I want to know what that was about?” Lestrade asked as he came up behind the other man.

Watson started slightly, and quickly relaxed. “I assume you have a strong constitution.” He retorted. “The usual rumors of horse in the pork sausage. Mrs. Hudson insists I give her order an inspection if I’m to have any peace at the breakfast table tomorrow.”

Lestrade folded his arms and roared. “I’m surprised she didn’t ask Holmes. Wouldn’t it be just like him to be on something like the Epping Sausage Forgery?2”

Watson sighed and looked skyward to the sooty clouds. “I’m afraid I accidentally let slip to Mrs. Hudson that I ate a few cavalry mounts during the War.” He said grimly. “If Holmes has experience with horsemeat, it isn’t on the culinary level.”

“Goodness. How was it?” They fell into step easily. Lestrade’s shorter stride could match Watson’s limp easily.

“Not at all disagreeable.” Watson said honestly. “Sweeter than one would be accustomed to in a red meat. Very lean, and without a doubt, tough.” He lifted the tip of his walking-stick to gently push a wandering dog out of the way. “At any rate, Holmes would have be interested in food to get involved.” His wry tone made Lestrade snort.

“Well, I started my day out with tongue under a crust, but now I’m planning oysters and Grozet.” Lestrade ducked quickly to avoid a wave of slush coming off the cab wheels. “Is that agreeable?”

“Rather much. Anything that would be hot would be welcome.” Watson said softly. His limp was still quite pronounced, but it had gotten so that in the rare perfect days, one barely saw him limp at all, and Lestrade knew for a fact the limp didn’t interfere with his ability to chase down someone who thoroughly deserved a Blackheath tackle.

The Keg was changed not at all during Lestrade’s month-long hiatus, and the inspector was glad for it. There were too few places in London where one could have a quiet meal and an even quieter drink. He suspected that was one of the draws for Watson, too, as he’d seen the man by himself on occasion, ordering one of the spicy Indian dishes the cook was famous for, or simply sitting with a drink in his hands and listening to humanity as it flowed about him. Lestrade had never met a man who was so content with simply watching and listening. It was as if the common man were something he was still trying to understand, and he was enjoying the study.

“I’m surprised to hear from you, actually.” Lestrade lifted his hand to indicate he wanted his usual plate of fried oysters; Watson opted for the curried mutton. “As miserable as this weather is, most decent men are staying indoors.”

Watson shook his head. “I was in Edinburgh on a medical convention.” He surprised the Inspector by saying. “A return to some of my older roots.”

“I trust it was informative.” Lestrade said carefully. Watson looked like he was about to confess to something that required no less than a discreet execution and a burial in an unmarked grave.

“Oh…it was informative.” Watson said in a strained voice. “And it is why I am here.”

“If this is business, then do go on. I’m available at any time, you know that.” They paused in silence as their food arrived, and Watson put his pay down without noticing he was over the mark.

Watson took a deep breath. “Inspector, I’m going to ask you a difficult question.”

“Go on.” Lestrade prompted while swirling an oyster in horseradish. “It can’t be any worse than what your flatmate has asked me in the past.”

Watson sighed. “Does Bradstreet have any missing kinfolk?”

Lestrade felt the words dry up in his mouth. He parted his lips, but just the action failed to bring any inspiration of words. He closed his mouth and watched as Dr. Watson’s face grew progressively glummer from across the table.

Lestrade cleared his throat. “Yes.” He said thinly. “Yes, I’m afraid he does.” He cleared his throat again, and a maelstrom of thoughts suddenly clotted in his mind. “Have you heard anything?” He lowered his voice although Bradstreet could have hardly heard from inside the station. “Have you seen anything?”

“Lestrade…I want to be wrong in this. Completely wrong.” Watson’s face was as grim and cold as Lestrade had ever seen. “I can’t speak to him until I’ve exhausted all possibilities.” The doctor set his drink down and leaned back, toying with his cufflink. “Does Bradstreet have or had in the past, a younger female relative with six fingers on both hands, vestigal extra toes, probably webbing between said digits, and a spine that was slightly bent forward due to an extra vertebrae?”

Lestrade watched the toneless, awful way Watson was speaking and began to feel sick. “She’s dead, isn’t she?” He whispered.

Watson nodded but said nothing.

“Her name is Elspeth Bradstreet.” Lestrade supplied. “She was his baby sister…they moved from Lerwick when Bradstreet was no more than an infant…” Lestrade picked up his Grozet and swallowed for something to do. “She vanished ten years ago…this was before he joined us down here…they were visiting family for Hogmany, and during the parade…she was simply gone. Bradstreet near ripped the Shetlands to pieces, and he hasn’t been back since.”

“I see.” Watson had his hand over his mouth in an expression of troubled and deep thought.

John…what have you and Mr. Holmes stumbled into.”

“Holmes has nothing to do with this.” Watson couldn’t have shocked Lestrade more if he had suddenly announced a membership to the Hellfire Club3. “It is something I…stumbled onto at my last medical convention.” The doctor had been leaning forward; catching himself with his bad manners of posture, he slowly leaned back, but the muscles of his broad shoulders were bunched under his jacket. Watson looked very much like he wanted to find someone and use them for bullet-practice.

“I’m sure, Inspector, you are no stranger to body thieves.” He began slowly, and wet his lips with his tongue. Lestrade had never seen the man so unnerved, and that unnerved him. “And I’m sure you are prescient enough to stay abreast of as many forms of illegality as you can. The medical field is rife with its possibilities…” He suddenly breathed out, a quick sound. “I came across a skeleton that was being exhibited by a man I am ashamed to call a colleague.” Watson looked ready to spew at having to use the word.

“This man was a fancier of the traces of physiology and pathology in folklore.” Watson managed to sound utterly disapproving as he spoke. “He went at some length at our dinner about the existence of a sub-species of humans—for lack of better term—that were known as selkies. Half-man, half-seal. This man held that mythological stories of a supernatural slant was merely the ability of the human imagination to account for different physiological attributes.” The doctor suddenly took a large drink. “Lestrade, there are a great many stories involving selkies among the Orkneys and Shetland isles and the coast of Scotland. A human is marked as having selkie blood by webbed fingers and or webbed toes, and sometimes, extra fingers and toes. This is nothing more than an afterthought of development in the womb, but the tendency does run in the family. There are times when a bit of Highland blood mixes with the Lowland strain, and the result is a slightly hunched back due to an extra vertebrae, or worse, an extra half-vertebrae which causes scoliosis of the spine.”

Lestrade was gnawing on his lip. He stopped. “Dr. Watson, I sense you have yet to tell me the worst part.”

“The man finished his lecture with a human skeleton.” Watson forced it out although it threatened to choke him.

“But…” Lestrade forced himself to eat a few bites, thinking hard. “Doctor…where does Miss Bradstreet come into this?”

“There was a single scoring mark on the neck vertebrae.” Watson drew his finger across an imaginary line at his jugular. “Exactly where one would commit murder. I asked where such an amazing specimen was collected, and my ‘colleague’ grew uncharacteristically vague for the first time that evening. I answered him with enthusiasm, professing such a fine skeleton would no doubt be the envy of any college, and after some minutes he warmed to my naivety—“ Watson’s voice turned sardonic at that point—“and he admitted to purchasing the remains somewhere in the Shetlands. I remembered Bradstreet telling me that his mother was a Roane, and that is a common Shetland name…Ron is Gaelic for seal.” He swallowed hard. “So you see, I hope to be proven wrong.”

“But how did you know Bradstreet had a missing female relative?” Lestrade forgot his manners—hang his manners—and leaned forward, mug in a death grip. “What tipped you off, doctor?”

Watson was very pale as he stared at Lestrade across the table. “Some people,” he whispered, “have the ability to look at a skull…and see the face that it once wore.” He did not blink. “The face looked like a younger, gracile version of Bradstreet.”

“Doctor Watson,” Lestrade said without thinking, “that is the most cursed talent I have ever heard of.”

Watson merely looked sad. “It is not one I would have chosen for myself.”

“I can’t imagine you would.” Lestrade topped his mug and signaled for another. His head swam with thoughts, all of them dark and polluted.

I will never, ever underestimate this man again, Lestrade vowed. Naivety, indeed. “How do you think he came about the…the skeleton?”

“How?” Watson glared at him as he picked up a forkful of rice. “I think he murdered the child. If you knew half the stories I heard when I was a student about what an ambitious, ruthless man who claimed to be a physician was willing to do in the name of his research or status…” He chewed grimly, too much a soldier to sacrifice nourishment when he had no idea what the next day would bring. “I’ve been party to many an autopsy of a murder victim, and I’m afraid quite a few of them were in the army. Cutting a throat is simple only if one has had practice.” Watson’s eyes narrowed, a portion of his mind pulling back and dredging up memory. “People go missing every day, Inspector. I for one can’t think of a better place to hide a corpse than where the corpses are normally kept.”

“I think, at the very least, we can get your…cohort…for obfuscation of the law.” Lestrade thought hard. “He failed to report the present of the skeleton when Bradstreet was turning the islands over to its last stunted sheep. But…as I recall, the worst part of body-snatching ended at 1854 when unclaimed corpses were turned over for the use of the medical students.”

“I know.” Watson said darkly. “It was the medical profession that supported this ghoulish business…it was the medical profession that made men and even women steal remains and sell them like so much merchandise. From the perspective of a medical man, Inspector, if I were to tell you how much the medical profession protested the law of 1854, you’d think me mad.”

“Why would they protest it?”

“They were afraid of their…brokers, for lack of better term, not being able to secure the bodies they really wanted.” Watson’s calm, stony voice stunned the Inspector. “An ordinary corpse for the students to study on, but for specialists and researchers who desired fame and fortune…well, not just any dead man or woman would do.” His expression did not waver. “My profession still has much to answer for, Inspector.”

Lestrade thought that if Watson could sit and eat, he could too. He took another drink first. “All right. We’ll go in from as many directions as we can. The first problem is proving your colleague’s role in either murder, or accessory to murder, and to prove it was Eslpeth Roane Bradstreet who was the murder victim. How would one go about doing that?”

Watson stabbed a potato. “Reconstructing faces from what lies beneath is such a new science it isn’t even systemized yet. It was only last year that anyone attempted to write a decent study on the subject. Man by the name of Welcker…There are a few others with the interest, but I’d be surprised if we see anything definite by the end of this century.”4 Watson stabbed another potato. “The problem is there are so many possible factors. You can reconstruct a face by looking at what soft tissues remain, and that is absurdly simple compared to reconstructing from a plain skeleton.”

Lestrade doubted it would be “simple” to figure out a face from mummified tissue, but medicine was not his field, not by a long chalk. “This wouldn’t be a case for Sherlock Holmes, then.”

Watson only lifted one eyebrow. “If this can be solved without another single human being learning of this, I’d be overjoyed.” He said quietly. “Holmes is personally as discreet as the grave, but his everyday personality is anything but. He stands out like a…like a lighthouse in the desert!” He seemed gratified when Lestrade choked on his drink at the description. “You’ve seen him work, Inspector—longer than I have. If someone refuses to cooperate with him, they have very good cause to regret that later. The medical profession is not where a person makes enmities. Politics and career sabotages and betrayals aside, there’s also the volatile subject matter itself: The last time there was a scandal involving murder victims and body thieving, a riot led to the death of some promising young students, a college was firebombed to the ground, the religious factions had a field day with a prime reason for keeping impressionable young minds out of school, and innocent men were forced to leave the country merely to save their honor at being accidentally associated with the perpetrators of such a heinous crime.” He held Lestrade’s gaze sternly. “That was considered one of the smaller riots. I don’t care that it happened in another country where morals aren’t supposed to compare with English law. A killer resurrectionist can easily escape by inciting a ravening mob.”

“Mmmmmn….” Lestrade tapped his fingers on the table thoughtfully. “I can too easily see the picture you paint.” He rubbed at his chin, feeling the new outgrowth of hair coming in for the evening. “Is there a way we can get our hands on this skeleton? Would it help our investigation in any way?”

“It would.” Watson said firmly. “And I know of several forensic investigators who can be trusted in their intelligence and their discretion. As to getting the skeleton…I debated on whether or not I should try to collect it for myself before I contacted you, but I wasn’t sure if you were disposed to listen to me from the depths of an Edinburgh gaol.”

“Well, it would have gotten my attention.” Lestrade admitted. “But it would have guaranteed your flat-mate would have gotten involved.”

“Again, I would rather it not come to this. Bad enough he’ll have deduced I had dinner with you, but I can explain that with a growing interest in police-surgeon techniques.”

“Careful.” Lestrade smiled for the first time. “Scotland Yard sees that as the opening chance to nab a poor victim for their own ranks…Police surgeons are few and far between with us. We’re always on the prowl for an unsuspecting doctor.”

Watson looked grieved. “I’m afraid you’ll have to wait until my life is a bit more destitute than it is now.”

Lestrade laughed very softly. “Very well. I have a few of the smaller cases I can offer to the newcomers…basic, straightforward stuff that’ll let the boys cut their teeth…This is something that requires nothing less than full focus.” He sobered and took a deep breath. “And we need to have a meeting with Bradstreet as soon as possible.” He hesitated. “This is a hard case, and a harder manner, but I know for a fact we can trust him to be nothing more than a professional.”

“I had that impression. I came to you because you’ve certainly known him longer, and if it were me, I would need another person with me on such a nightmare.” Watson suddenly remembered his mug and drained it dry. “But I would like to be very clear on this if we are to go further.”

“Speak freely, then.”

“First, do not mention how I divined the possible identity of this skeleton.” Watson’s eyes were utterly flat. “I know I am right, but there is no scientific means by which I can prove I am right. Avoid this all together. We can stick with the physical characteristics that the poor girl was famous for, but let us leave her face out of this.”

“Completely understandable.” Lestrade agreed.

“Finally, do what you wish to this monster.” Watson’s face was shadowed in the tavern, and Lestrade was suddenly glad. “But when this is finished and he is behind the bars that own him, I want to speak to him.”

Lestrade swallowed hard. “Easy enough to arrange.” He held out his hand, and the other man shook it.

End of Part One:

Part Two will be posted when some of my research-lures come back with their prey. I am a devout Sherlock Holmes fan and am only trying to fill in those wretched blank spots in the SH Universe: For one thing, there are barely any allusions to cults (Cardboard Box being an exception), and for another, Holmes had the pick and choice of all his cases, save the occasional persuasion on part of Watson and Mycroft. London was a city in which anything and everything was for sale, if only one had the right price.

1 Slang for calculate. Now only heard in Appalachia.

2 Counterfeit food quality—like imitation Stilton cheese

3 There are many Hellfire Clubs, and all are united in an anarchist approach to having a good time. Pagan worship and orgies are the most common charges, and “Do what thou wilt” is the unofficial motto of all the clubs.

4 Indeed, the first real work was in 1895.