A dog that will fetch a bone will carry a bone

A dog that will fetch a bone will carry a bone

--proverb

“body-thieves”

…market exists for human remains in part or in whole; market depends on the immoveable factors of 1) an unscrupulous buyer and 2) an equally unscrupulous dealer who is thus in contact with 3) the actual enactors of the crime. The latter is normally among the lowest ranks of London’s social order, somewhat akin to the Celtic sin-eater, and their emotional state is against all hope of redemption. For all their gruesome work, there is a pitiable element to these men, for they are firmly convinced that they exist in Hellfire.

The dealer is perhaps the most unscrupulous of the three. It is he that arranges for profit the actions between 1 and 3. He feeds upon the weakness of the buyer, convinces him of the necessity of his law-breaking and his departure from his moral code. His financial stability depends on this skill; you will find him a deceptive fellow, who dresses and acts inside a broad social definition, all the better to blend in with as many different circles as possible. To the buyer, he is deferential and politely subservient; to the hapless body snatcher he is a cold and sadistic bully. The German word schadenfreude, for one who takes pleasure in another’s pain could hardly be more apt…

(scrawled in the margins as an afterthought): Radfahrer: Ger. word for one who browbeats subordinates and flatters superiors…

Watson lifted his eyes from the fat book and watched tiny grey ice-balls throw themselves against the window-glass. It was turning into a depressing day; every time he looked out the window he regretted it. His subject content did not help his mood or the throb in his knee, which had grown from red and angry to sullen and purple.

His respect for Holmes grew the deeper he worked into the mystery of body-thieves and the world within. Holmes had more than the ability to observe the world around him; always he was seeking motive for the actions he noted. There truly was a deep need in him to prove the world was not as nonsensical, random, and illegal as it was often seen. Everywhere he wrote, there was an effort to see the underlying cause, the beginning.

Holmes scorned literature, and professed to be completely ignorant about it. Watson wondered if he had simply not yet drawn the proper conjecture, for there was the stirring of a true artist in these hasty lines. The overall mood was as evocative as it was gently cautious, informing and warning at the same time.

It reminded him a great deal of Rossetti’s Goblin Market, where a young girl tried in vain to warn her sister from the seductions of the freely-offered, yet venomous fruits (a greater allegory for the sweetness of danger could scarce be imagined):

"We must not look at goblin men,

We must not buy their fruits:

Who knows upon what soil they fed

Their hungry thirsty roots?"

And yet, for the sensible Lizzie’s efforts, the goblins continued to sing,

“Come buy,”

He wondered how much time the detective had taken to research the reams of paperwork before him—and how slow had his hand been in recording his lightning swift thoughts? Holmes’ hand was not the neatest in the world, the letters often segued into each other in an effort to save time and space on the paper. “Inartistic” a scholar would have decreed, but Holmes was one of the greatest artists Watson had ever hoped to meet.

The doctor rose with a wince, and limped severely to the table where the teapot remained warm. Holmes would be back within the next two hours. Off on whatever task his restless mind had driven him to. God alone knew what that would be; mortal man would not. Previous experience warned the doctor that his services might be required when he did return—hopefully for mundane purposes, such as a salve against the chafing of a filthy wool disguise, and not the profound, like last month’s split knuckles (Watson had removed a fragment of the foolish attacker’s tooth out of the ring finger).

Surely the government would have snapped up his talents had they known of him! His ability to mark people with the objective interest of a chessmaster would have been invaluable to the military minds and certainly to the political deciders of the world. What would his life have been then?

No doubt he would have risen quickly to be as famous as a Wellington or Nelson…but goodness knows, he would have had to employ a flotilla of secretaries to keep up with him! Watson shuddered at the vivid image in his mind of Holmes with a long-suffering aide-de-camp following in his wake, determining the particulars of battle and then pulling a secret surprise out at the last moment, saving Queen and country.

Watson sighed. When thoughts like that came to his mind, the only cure was a large pot of coffee. He rang the bell and politely requested it of Mrs. Hudson, who in lieu of his room-mate’s bizarre requests, never turned a hair. Tomorrow he would be at his usual rounds on at the hospital, and caffeine was not normally advised on the onset of a full day’s labor. But even pretending to rest when he didn’t know of Holmes’ whereabouts was ridiculous. It was easier to rest with a nervous system full of stimulant, knowing Holmes was safe, than lie awake ignorant.

-

St. Bartholomew’s Hospital:

Scotland Yard was accustomed to working with military men. At any given time they would have at least one man out of ten from the armed forces turn to law enforcement as a way of becoming a member of society that was productive to their thinking. It didn’t mean they were like the other men on the force; they had ways about them. Ways that were not easily explained, but had to be tolerated.

If forced to explain, everyone would admit sleeplessness was the most common thread that identified those men.

“Inspectors…”

Lestrade wondered at the look on Watson’s face as he limped down the hallway, folding up a long no-longer white coat marred with terrible-looking stains. He was losing the healthier tint of earlier: not even noon and the day was turning long for him.

“Forgive me,” he said by way of greeting, “we had ourselves a terrible mishap at the tracks at dawn.”

“That looks like mud, blood, grass, and…well I’m not sure what that is on you, Watson.” Bradstreet cocked his head to one side and looked the younger man up and down.

“It looks like chalk.” Lestrade smiled. “The cheap kind, like the earth pulled out of Dover and used by children.”

“Exactly.” Watson looked down at his clothing the coat had protected with minimal results. “To be precise, proof that someone was trying to sneak a dark horse in under a pale identity…Are you a fan of the races?”

“Er…” Lestrade was unsure how to proceed. “My family once cherished a fond notion that their youngest son would bring about fame as a jockey.”

“I’ve noticed your skill with horses. Was that the motive for that thinking?”

“Well, that and the fact that for some time it looked as though I’d never see an inch over five feet.” Lestrade shrugged, suddenly awkward. “I was never so glad as to gain six inches over the mark in my entire life.”

“Couldn’t have made a jockey with your weight anyway, Geoffrey.” Bradstreet rumbled. To Watson he explained: “Man weighs almost as much as I do. All muscle. Would have guaranteed a losing horse every time.” He grinned and whacked Lestrade on the shoulder with terrific force; the small man barely moved. “Of course, it means he can’t run as fast as most of us…”

“Can’t have everything, and it’s a small price to pay for not smelling horses all my life.” Lestrade snapped testily.

“I thought you liked the horses?”

“Not that well.” Lestrade muttered. “And I can’t enjoy the races much any more. I keep thinking of all the criminals that are in the crowds.”

“My greatest crime is an irrational weakness for the underdog at the tracks. It ensures I win no more than one out of six times.” Watson had signaled to an orderly behind Bradstreet. “If you gentlemen have a moment, there is a meeting-room we can use; it’s quite private.”

“By all means lead the way.” Lestrade agreed.

Watson took them to a small room lit with an ineffectual fireplace and a stained-glass window made up like a cluster of a spiky octopus-like plant with small blue flowers. The murky winter light cast only the palest stripes of color on the dark paneled wood of the walls and seemed to be at war with the small lamps. Watson picked up a dried wreath that looked like the plant in the window, and hung it over the doorknob as he shut it.

“Rosemary,” he explained to their puzzlement. “It’s a signal to anyone else on the floor that a private consultation is taking place and we are not to be disturbed.” He lifted his eyebrows to underscore the point. “Consultation of the bereaved.”

“’Rosemary, that’s for remembrance.’” Lestrade quoted the Bard suddenly. He now recognized the spiky plant in the window.

Watson smiled. “Exactly. Nothing short of a fire or an attack by drunken Dynamiters will disturb us now.”

“Neatly done.” Bradstreet heaved himself into the closest chair and let his head fall back with a short puff of breath. “Lestrade’s filled me in on all the details y’gave to him, Watson.”

“I’ve been trying to work a little research into my time,” Watson pulled out his cigarettes, and lit one with great relief. “I confess I’ve been nerve-wracked.” Anyone looking at him would have no trouble believing that; his cheeks were shaded with hollows that pulled shadows around his dark eyes. “It somewhat helps a bit that we are nearing the anniversary of the disaster of Maiwand. Everyone seems to look at me and draw their own conclusions for my appearance.” His matter-of-fact statement was a little off the usual demeanor they were used to witnessing.

“Have you found anything new?” Bradstreet opened his eyes and leveled the uncomfortable doctor with a look. “I can understand your unease, doctor. Please understand, I mourned for my sister years ago. I have always known she was dead, but it was the details I never knew. We are not discussing her, we are discussing her mortal remains, which was the least part of her.”

Bradstreet would have made a good soldier. Watson pulled hard on his cigarette. “I learned there were a few men who were interested in your sister’s medical condition. One was purely from the nature of a folklorist, the second was from his own work in genetic history…” Watson had managed to pull half the cigarette dry in five breaths. “One man had both interests, and a fourth was curious from a private project that studied pathological disease.”

“Diseases?” Bradstreet repeated a bit sharply. “She was hardly diseased.”

“Forgive me for not clarifying a point.” Watson stared at his smoke, and then defiantly rose to stand by the small fireplace. “There are very few causes of polysyndactyly such as your sister’s. The first and most well-known cause is simple inheritance; family traits handed down. All the other causes for this condition tend to be by the influence of rare syndromes or diseases; Mongoloid children, for example, can have the tendency.” He shrugged slightly. “I suspect it is simply inheritance in your family, but I do not have that proof.”

“It is.” Bradstreet nodded. “It happens in the Roane side of the family off and on. Not so much as one would think, but it’s a bit like…well, a bit like twins popping up. You know it can happen.” He lifted one of his big, normal hands up. “I don’t have a single trait, but let me tell you, I was certain to tell my future Mrs. Bradstreet all about it.” He spread his fingers wide apart. “Luckily she seemed to feel that not a problem.”

“But modern medicine is capable of dealing with some of the aspects of webbing, is it not?” Lestrade wondered. “Not like in the past.”

Watson winced. “That very much depends on the case. Often the webbing is split between the digits to allow freedom of movement. There are some disadvantages to this; the scar tissue builds up and becomes awkward. In many examples, the webbing will try to return. Superfluous digits can be surgically removed, but best that be done when the patient is as young as possible.” Smoking had calmed the doctor somewhat. He looked less like the burnt-to-the-bone young man they had met in the hallway. He exhaled smoke through his nose. “Part of the problem with research is, finding all pre-existing sources. Since our earliest days, polysyndactylys were sent to the famous courts of Europe. It was a mark of status to have a fully equipped Court, complete with not just the oddities such as dwarfs and cojoined twins, but folk such as albinos and the extra-fingered were a subject of study by the most learned minds of the time. Scientists congregated not just to Royalty because they were funding all the discoveries; they were going to Court because that was where all the studying was taking place.” For a moment, a very strange expression flittered over his face, as if some unique thought had occurred, and he discreetly buried it.

“I’ve been working peculiar research,” Watson looked chagrined at his admission. “There have been a few…” He hesitated, not knowing what to say. “Criminals that took Holmes’ attention in the matter of…unethical medicine.”

Bradstreet’s nearly-black eyes were square with tension. “Ye needn’t try so hard to spare my feelings, Watson.” He rumbled. “I tell you again. It’s something I thought of a long time ago, and I thought of it daily, it’s just that…well, there was never any proof.” He leaned sideways to better reach into his coat-pocket, and pulled out his notebook. “I drafted this up on the way over,” he leafed through the book and pushed the open pages over to the standing doctor. “There might be some more names; these are who I remember off the top of my head.”

“Hmn.” Watson’s brown eyes skittered down the list; twice they saw his brows go up, as if something interesting had struck him. “May I make a copy of this?”

“With my blessings.” Bradstreet answered.

Watson limped over to a vacant chair, pulling his own notebook out of his jacket.

“I say, doctor, what happened to you?” Lestrade wondered. “You weren’t walking like that last night.”

“I planted my kneecap into the street right after you left.” Watson explained. “I won’t blame you if you can’t believe this, but a rabbit took off running out of an alleyway with the most wretched scream, a dog at its heels, and I was shocked enough to lose my balance. The cry of a wounded rabbit is maddening to hear.”1

“I’ll bet that was someone’s livestock,” Lestrade commented. “This time of year, people try to get what they can in the way of a decent meal.”

Watson’s hand slowed over his transcribing. “Yes…” he murmured. “I can believe that.” Holmes had written the winter months had been ideal for body-snatching; weather, low traffic and financial need being all on the side of the ghoulish brokers. He chose to be silent.

“We await your information,” Lestrade cleared his throat; he and Bradstreet traded a concerned look. “I assure you, we’re not fond of the idea of exposing this…matter…in a way that would punish the innocent.”

“Innocent?” Watson muttered; his eyes had slid inward, watching something in another dimension. “I’m not convinced there are innocent parties in this. Not directly. But they have innocent friends and family.” He controlled himself with an effort. “Bradstreet, I have a rather unusual request to make of you.”

“Name it.” Bradstreet grunted.

“There might be another form of proof that would help with this.” Watson’s voice had turned strange. “I…you’ll think me mad for this question, I’m sure. But is there anything you possess that would contain your sister’s fingerprints, or even her handprints…a mold of her hands in any thing?”

Bradstreet leaned backwards in his chair, rubbing his mustaches in thought. “There…there may be.” He said at last. “I would have to look for myself to see…that would take a bit of time, you understand.”

“Yes…” Watson nodded. “I understand.” He looked down and rubbed his shoulder absently, completely without thought. The unknowing mention of his wound embarrassed the policemen for reasons they did not understand, as if they had spied him in a private moment. “It would be most important to find any proofs.”

1 ACD said almost exactly the same thing about hares when he came back from a hunt; his wife answered that if only his readers knew what a softie he was…perhaps that’s too good a story about Doyle to be true, but it is a good story!