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Scotland Yard is a busy, noisy place at all hours of the day and night, a chaotic environment that Lestrade clearly revels in. He loves the arguments between prostitutes drowning out the concerns of merchants demanding they arrest the ragged thieves they'd caught pilfering bread, the curses of drunks and the hard reprimands of their miserable, equally drunk wives. Gang members skulk in the dark corners of holding cells, whispering instructions to their younger charges who stopped by for a 'visit'. Likewise their women, self serving and oddly confident, eager to spend ill gotten gains. Every now and again, there would be a frightened Englishman of varying degrees of wealth clutching his bowler hat close to his chest and begging for someone to call his solicitor. Lestrade bore witness to every level of human ill will, and when it was routine, it was amusing.
This day was no different, but where Lestrade came away with rollicking stories of drunken crimes, Mycroft gained no thrill in dealing with the desperate masses of London's underground, most of whom had poorly evolved since Mayhew's day. He preferred to spend his afternoons in the enforced quiet of the Diogenes Club, listening to the rustle of papers and the wheezing coughs of old relics, retired judges and magistrates plunked before the library fire. He would be there now save for the insistence that both he and Lestrade counted as witnesses to the discovery of the body and a long explanation had to be written up for the court records. Wilhelm and Harvey were likewise involved, even more so as they were the ones who had unwittingly placed the luggage turned coffin into the boot of their motor car.
It was now 11:00 the following morning and no amount of strong coffee was keeping Mycroft alert. Lestrade made his tea as strong as varnish and gulped the overly strong brew with a wincing effort.
"Has anyone got a copy of that napkin yet?" Lestrade asked, meaning the London Gazette. He waved a haphazard hello to a young constable who was happy to see him back at his desk, giving Lestrade a wide smile full of uneven teeth. In the background , a frazzled prostitute vomited into a wastebasket.
Mycroft held his cane close to his chest. "I believe the article is to be displayed in the afternoon edition."
"Didn't get the morning, like all the good ones. I stand by my opinion. She's a hack."
"Gregory, you really must give up this vendetta you have against the girl, Jack has clearly got his sights on her and what will you do if he marries her?"
Lestrade swore under his breath. "Don't be ridiculous. He's smitten, not stupid."
"One can say each condition follows the other."
Mycroft dug his cane hard against the cement floor, readying himself for the fight. He eyed the door to Lestrade's office, wondering if it best to close it before the fury started. He found himself oddly eager to goad the man, and the simmering tension of Emily's presence in their lives needed it. The engagement of Jack and Ingrid was no more, and it was just as well. Lestrade had to accept it.
There was no chance for a row. A sudden, screaming wailing erupted throughout the main floor. Both Mycroft and Lestrade stood up from their places at his desk and stared in mute shock at the frantic woman who ran haphazardly towards every man in uniform, a sheet of long paper in her hand. It took Mycroft a moment to realize she was holding a torn section of the London Gazette, her words intelligible as wept over it.
"I believe the article has made its impact," Mycroft observed.
"My boy!" She crumpled the paper in her grip and held its ink against her forehead, her voice shaking. "Where is he? Oh please tell me this is all a lie! Please!"
Lestrade made a motion to a nearby constable to gather the woman up and direct her to his official office near the back of the large main floor, and to seat her just outside of it at Inspector Harding's desk. Being good at his job meant he earned a few perks and that private office had long been one of them. Chaos was part of the job, but even the Chief understood the importance of a quiet moment of reflection, especially for so keen a mind as Lestrade possessed.
The constable guided the weeping woman to a wheeled wooden desk chair, and Lestrade bid the lad to get a kettle on for tea and to scrounge up a few biscuits to help settle the weeping woman's nerves. Lestrade gently closed the door of his office, while Mycroft leaned on his cane for support. Lestrade eyed his closed door with a sense of both apprehension and hope.
"She's not impoverished, but she is certainly not wealthy. Her shawl is well worn, with a couple of holes in the fabric. Her shoes look well trod and the heel is worn down. But her skirt has no sign of tattering on the hem and she's wearing a wool jacket that looks like it's been tailored. She's got respectable employment, and it seems her husband is bringing home his salary on the regular. She's plump enough to be free of dinner worries. Yet for all this, you can be certain of one thing: She is illiterate."
Mycroft tapped his cane on the ground. "And how do you come to that conclusion? She has a copy of the newspaper in her hand."
"She saw the picture. It's elementary, and quite sad. If she had read the article, I fear she would have been too devastated to come into this place."
A large, burly man charged through the front door, his meaty hand slapping the wall as he called for a detective to help him. "My sister is here! What's this about my nephew? Is there word on him? What's going on? Damn you all, someone answer me! He's been missing for days!"
~.~
They finally had a name. The motive for the child's death remained as ethereal as the hint of a smile upon his face, his corpse waiting with Dr. Zieglar to be properly identified by the two adults weeping in Inspector Lestrade's office. Mycroft knew the formality was moot, there was no other dead child fitting his description, and he hoped he wouldn't have to endure their horrific grief, selfish as the wish was.
How many times had he borne witness to a crying mother, his heart full of empathy only to have it shattered when he read the detailed police reports of her case. Infants starved and left to die while the mother spent her time in local pubs, both plying her trade and getting drunk. Entire swaths of children wiped out due to negligence and catatonic poverty. Contrary to the good Christian view that God only gives us what we can handle, Mycroft had seen ample evidence this is not true. He'd witnessed countless families eradicated because of disease, the few remaining so stunned and racked with guilt that suicide was the final option.
This did not, thankfully, seem to be the case here, and the woman, the boy's mother, and the hulk of a man, the boy's uncle, were both genuinely at a loss why this would happen to such a promising child.
"James was supposed to be on a train to Yorkshire. That was four days ago." A young constable kindly poured a fresh cup of tea for her and she took it wordlessly, her tears dropping into the cup she held in shaking, gnarled hands. "He's a strong, hardworking boy, and we had such high hopes...The city life didn't suit him, and after the consumption took my other four children, I didn't want to see him earn the same fate. Natural death is a different thing, Inspector, that's full on God's will. But to find he's been murdered!"
She dropped the teacup with a clatter to the floor and buried herself into her shawl.
"He's a strong lad, like she says," the uncle, Jonathan Balfour, said. "He's kind and good to his brother and sister and the hope was they'd follow him as he got settled on the farm. London has been very unkind to my sister-in-law and I daresay the loss of the four children ahead of him has been a hard thing to bear all these years. I've been helping when I can, but she is married to my brother, who I'm sad to say prefers the pipe to taking care of his family."
"He provides well for us when he isn't having a turn," she defended.
Jonathan huffed, his huge bulk shifting uncomfortably on the small chair he was perched on. "A 'turn'. Is that what you call it?" He leaned closer to Lestrade to make his point. His huge, ugly face twisted into a sneer. "He's an educated man, my brother. Gets a fair bit of money working as an accountant for a tea company. But his work has some bad associations, and he's fallen in with a dangerous crowd."
This piqued both Mycroft and Lestrade's interest. "What kind of crowd?" Mycroft asked.
Jonathan shook his head, a mixture of sadness and rage. "There's a reason I'm here with Annette and he is not. Go find him. He'll be in the opium den down at the Limehouse, so completely sozzled he can't even dream properly."
"You think these associates had something to do with the boy's death?" Lestrade asked.
"Who knows? The only facts I can give you are that James was supposed to be on that train heading to Yorkshire on the pretence of work and within the month Annette and the wee ones were to follow him. We couldn't do it all at once without my brother falling into a rage and who knows what kind of action he'd commit in one of his opium induced states. He's a madman, I tell you."
This was now very familiar territory for Mycroft, who had plenty of such cases cross his desk comprised of drug induced hysteria and subsequent homicide. The fear suggested this had been attempted once before and Mycroft forced him to expand on it. "These other children who died of illness...Four is an especially high mortality among them. After how you describe your brother, I'm afraid I have to broach it: Is there something you aren't telling us?"
Jonathan paled. He clasped his meaty hands into fists. "I got my suspicions. They ain't living in no East End slum, like that article assumed. Them bairns are cared for, Annette makes sure of it. They get proper food and warm beds. So it's strange that they catch that sickness and die from it so sudden as they did. Dead within the week after a few symptoms, all four of them."
"Jim had nothing to do with that," Annette insisted. "Even the doctor said so."
"Those staggering quacks will say anything to make a bit of coin."
"Opium is quite an expensive hobby these days," Lestrade mused. "None of the Limehouse dens exist anymore, so I doubt that's where he's going to indulge. China itself has halted its production."
"The law was passed in 1909 that is illegal to use opium and any of its derivatives for anything other than medicinal purposes," Mycroft added.
"Pish! People will do anything to get around laws that prevent them from experiencing the damnation of reality. Opium use in all its forms is highly prevalent among the upper classes, and it seems the middle is tainted as well. It's no longer a cheap thrill for the slums. He will have low associates and rich friends giving him the stuff." Lestrade bid Annette Balfour to hand him the article that had been written about James that morning. The paper was wrinkled and near tatters, but the print was legible, as was the photograph of the boy. It was on the first page, just as Emily promised.
"I can't help but feel responsible," Jonathan lamented. "I mean, the lad was supposed to be with me, and I love him like a son. The missus and I, we can't have children and we concluded both that if Jim can't be bothered taking care of his own that we'll be happy to raise them all. Annette is like a sister to us. There's plenty of room up at the farm and it would be now't to build a small cottage for the lot of them, if they wanted that.
I should have gone and got a telephone for the farm. The lad could have called me if he felt he was in trouble. Do you think that would have helped? Would it have stopped him getting murdered if he could have called me right away, if the suspicion was there? I'm losing sleep over it every night, I am. I told the missus to get one set up while I'm here, even if it ends up nothing but a reminder of what I should have done."
Lestrade impatiently waved away the man's emotional concerns. "I daresay the evidence suggests the murder was premeditated and your nephew was drugged. You need not let guilt consume you, Mr. Balfour. You were not the villain who did this, nor could you have prevented it. This murder has all the hallmarks of an unsuspected lure, and it may be that his father's sins resulted in his death." Lestrade steepled his fingers and pressed them hard under his chin. "I will set Inspector Harding on the den circuit. Those under the influence of opium are hardly ones who can keep a secret if they are offered a poppy. Myself and his Honour will carefully retrace every step young James Balfour took the day he left to journey to Yorkshire. Not one second of his steps will be missed. Please rest assured, both of you, that I will do everything I can to wrap a noose around his murderer's neck."
It was a bold assertion, and Mycroft hoped Lestrade could keep his promise. The man had never had to admit defeat, the closest being his near miss with Irene Adler, who remained at large and who still, after over a decade, remained in contact with Mycroft regularly. Lestrade was still in the dark about this, and Mycroft paled at every distinctive letterhead, usually of high quality linen paper pilfered from the boardrooms of high-ranking officials. He was a judge, yes, but he did not step into the social circles of kings and queens. That remained Irene Adler's deadly territory.
Lestrade gave his instructions to the constable to inform Inspector Harding of his task and then bid Mycroft to follow him out of his office, leaving the weeping mother and her brother-in-law to grieve in private. He placed a light hand on Mycroft's elbow and leaned in close to whisper in his ear: "Something is off."
"Four dead children and now a fifth, and the husband has potentially bad associations. I should say that's obvious."
"No. It's her. I can't quite put my finger on it. Look, I'm certain she loved the lad and Jonathan Balfour seems likewise done in by his murder, but...I don't get why she was sending him away. She's of two minds on her husband, which tells me when he's not in an opium daze he's a good father and he works in a respectable job, enough to support them all easily. He's being painted the monster here, but I don't buy it. And as for Annette Balfour, there is a strange reticence about her when it comes to poor James. Like he's an extra child."
"She's broken by his death," Mycroft reminded him.
"Yes, but I can't stop having the nagging sense he is a compensation. Her remaining children are very young, and she is not an old woman. It seems strange for him to have so much distance in age. Like most London women, she had one urchin a year, which brings her marriage to seven years. How does she end up with a twelve-year-old?"
"Your feminine math is flawed," Mycroft said. "She could very well have married him when she was younger."
"A child bride? With that brother-in-law keeping tabs on the morality of his sibling? Unlikely. No, no, something is amiss..."
"Perhaps he had a different father? It is not unlikely."
Lestrade huffed at this. "A brother-in-law like that would have investigated her background, and she doesn't seem the sort to get into that kind of trouble. She's a dedicated wife, and god fearing. She has the cross at her neck to prove it, and her hands are constantly clasped in prayer. She couldn't so much as look at a man without having some hen check her for it. Really, Mycroft, are you so dim about women? She has no autonomy and her world is her children and her husband, no matter his severe faults. Hardly a working girl in the sense you suggest."
Mycroft found his criticism lacking. "Mistakes happen."
"Not with new men taking on old problems. They had plenty of their own children. James Balfour was no extra."
They grabbed their overcoats on the way out of the Yard, the long steps to the main street coated in a thin veneer of white snow. London never let the cold get to her and the streets were as busy as a summer afternoon, with the scent of roasting chestnuts added to the crisp, cold air that circulated around them.
"Where do we start?" Mycroft poised his cane on the sidewalk, a puff of snow pushed out in a gentle circle around it.
"From whence we came," Lestrade announced. "Back to Piccadilly, in the baggage section."
~.~
Thanks to his mother, tracking the boy's movements the last few days was fairly easy. He'd received word from his uncle to move to the farm in Yorkshire on the Monday, had packed up by Tuesday morning and was on his way that afternoon. The train didn't leave until 6:00 in the evening, so from the time he left his home in London at 2:00 until that time, it meant there was a four hour gap wherein he must have been murdered.
"It had to have happened at the station," Lestrade mused as he went over the various packages stacked at the baggage claim. "He seems to be a straightforward lad, driven to better himself even if means uprooting. He wouldn't be the type, even at his young age, to be loitering aimlessly around Piccadilly station for hours. He considered himself the man about the house as his father had diminished in that role, so he would have been especially precocious about this trip."
"Four hours," Mycroft considered. He made circles with his cane in the snow, connecting them up with a long scrape. "It suggests he was meeting someone there, perhaps to have a conversation. I can't imagine a twelve-year-old boy can have many mutuals willing to banter over coffee and a copy of the Gazette."
"Indeed. The circumstances are becoming more curious by the minute."
They couldn't use their motor car as it was still parked in the garage to be gone over for further evidence. Harding was set to have a busy day as he was given that detail, along with hunting down the drug associates of the boy's father. For their part, the walk to Piccadilly Circus Station wasn't far and the snow falling gently in London gave him the sensation of a muffled hug. He leaned a bit too close to Gregory, his cane haphazardly leading the way, and Lestrade steered him a little further apart, to keep the wagging tongues of Londoners at bay. One could be anonymous in this city, but it didn't do to outright court violence.
He chided himself and braced his shoulders, avoiding Lestrade's hand. Japan had spoiled them. Though they were enamoured with Western mores, the Japanese were not so silent about their sexuality, the geishas making both money and social clout and their entertainment rife with attractive 'women' who were forever one song away from becoming a concubine. They had met openly affectionate samurai couples, an elderly pair in particular, who claimed to have been together for over fifty years. They'd heard of Oscar Wilde and were confused over his plight. Even the Japanese liked hockey.
In London, such open display was relegated to the worst areas of the city, where vice was commonplace and decency held no property. If there was a lavender house, as could be argued that 221B indeed was, it was kept under strict silence and rules, those who lived under the roof, tenant and boarders, all of them separate until the front door closed behind them.
Still, Gregory's hand was warm on his shoulder as he steered him towards the street leading to Piccadilly Station, and even now, after all these years, this small gesture still sent warm tingling down his spine.
The area was at its busiest, reams of skirts and woollen coats dusted with snow bustling against each other as one set departed and another sought their spot on the train. The baggage claim, where they needed to go, was at the very far end where porters quickly emptied the baggage car into the sectioned off wall for the purpose. Racks of oversized luggage and crates heaved off of the plank leading from the train. Lestrade announced himself to the young lads working there, and they paused in their work, curious why Scotland Yard cared about what they did, when and how.
"I don't know if you've seen the Gazette this morning..." Lestrade began.
"Oh, I gets it!" The one young man, pimple faced and scrawny despite his obvious strength. "It's about that murder!"
"I saw the picture of that suitcase in the paper," his companion sagely replied.
"Yes, that's well and good, but you see, boys, we need to know where the luggage was when it was here. Please think hard. Did you see it at all in the last four days?"
"We give left behind luggage a week afore we get a hold of people to come and get it. You'd be surprised how many folks don't remember all they brought. Mostly the old ones, though. Bit dotty when they travel. They often leave behind boxes and small bags and the like. Bit unusual for a proper suitcase to sit here, though. People pay good money for those."
"Did you observe that particular suitcase here?" Mycroft pressed.
"I got one better than that," the pimpled porter exclaimed proudly. "I saw the boy!"
Mycroft and Lestrade exchanged glances.
"When was this?" Lestrade asked.
"The full four days ago, around two o'clock. He carried that suitcase and seemed to have a bit of trouble with it, seeing as how it was half his size. He wasn't a very large child. I was surprised when the papers said he was twelve."
"That was the Monday," Lestrade said. "Annette Balfour did not tell us his suitcase was his own, only that he came here."
"Perhaps it wasn't," Mycroft added. He turned to the porter. "Was he with anyone?"
"Oh yes," the second porter clarified. "With a man, I think. He had on country clothes, but his shoes didn't fit him very well. Everything he wore was just a bit too big or too small and I remember the lad laughed and remarked on it, like he'd met a clown." The porter shrugged. "I didn't get a look at the man's face, and even in that get up during the busy time like now, it's a wonder I noticed anything."
"Country clothes, you say?" Mycroft clarified. He could feel Lestrade agreed with him without speaking, for this suggested it was the uncle, Jonathan Balfour, who had met James at the station. The fact he was a relative and had been so convincing in his grief made Mycroft's stomach twist. "He was an especially large, muscular man?"
The porter laughed. "Oh, no! He looked like a small breeze would take him out. He was so rail thin. I never got a look at much of him, but what skin he had at his neck was pale and hairless. They were an odd pair, that was certain."
Mycroft felt instant relief that the well meaning uncle was still a morally good man. Lestrade tapped his bottom lip with his pencil, pensive.
"A disguise, Mycroft," he said. "Poorly executed but effective. The man could be anyone but what he purported to be in a farmer's garb. And the boy, James, laughing with him so freely...It suggests they knew one another..."
"A family friend," Mycroft added. "But there was no mention of them from either Annette Balfour or Jonathan Balfour."
"Perhaps they knew his father," Lestrade mused.
Lestrade shivered as the snow settled on the back of his neck. His gloves were off, and he waved them toward the exit. "I could use a good coffee. Haven't had a proper thing to eat since we got off at this bloody station last night. Damn typical that this squatting, bloated city has me run off my feet the second it can feel them on its cobblestones. We'll go to that new place in the Haymarket. I heard they have chamomile tea. You're a patron of that flowery crap."
He would have much preferred Bill's cafe, attached to the Diogenes Club, where he could slip away and park himself in a comfortable chair afterwards and recharge in the manner he knew best--In silence and gentle contemplation. He must have smiled as he thought on it, causing Lestrade to remark:
"You really are a prissy little old lady, aren't you? You fit right in with those dojo grannies in Japan, nibbling on rice balls and enjoying the tea ceremonies like a master."
"I can't help it if I appreciate those things that others overlook," Mycroft complained. "I don't need your harsh criticism of so innocent a pleasure. Herbal teas are good for my circulation."
Lestrade chuckled and gave him a hooded, but good humoured, glare. "Granny."
"If you see me with knitting needles, please knock them into the fireplace."
"On the contrary, we will have a serious row, for it will be proof you've traded me in for a sailor."
"That would have its merits," Mycroft perused. "Especially as he would be away at sea for most of the time."
"You're a rotter."
"We're here, Gregory. Oh, you weren't kidding. This is a lovely place."
"I never joke about important things. You should know that by now. And there is nothing more important in one's day than a good cup of coffee and a pressed newspaper."
They were directed to a small table near the back window, giving them a direct view of Piccadilly Station and its burgeoning population, a mixture of tears and joy evident on the expressions of the travellers. He watched a young woman in thick wool skirts hobble to the entrance, a small suitcase in hand, her ostrich feathered hat collecting and being ruined by the wet snow that fell onto it. She looked exhausted by her travels, her steps moving her towards an inevitable dread.
Some travellers were in the cafe, either waiting for a train or just arriving from one. Mycroft watched as the cafe was filled with newspapers obscuring faces, idle chatter reserved for young women gathering in groups at corner tables, their voices energetic and hopeful. It was still early December, the touches of Christmas decorating the counter with sprigs of holly and shiny tinsel. A mother admonished a small boy who toyed with the latter, wrapping the thin threads around his fingers until they were a tight cat's cradle. He loosened the tinsel, leaving red marks on his knuckles that quickly faded to a dull pink. The silver gossamer thread fell to the ground slowly, like a teased feather.
Hot coffee sloshed near his elbow and Mycroft recoiled from the heat, the side of his hand scalded. Lestrade pumped the table hard with his fist again, the newspaper in his hand rattled hard. "The blood cheek of it! This is outright obstruction!"
"Gregory, please, whatever is the matter?"
"That pen stroked hussy that our Jack has tangled himself up in has destroyed my investigation before it can even start!" The patrons of the cafe were staring aghast at them now, the eerie silence cutting into Mycroft like a knife.
The scrutiny seemed to force Lestrade into a bitter but quieter composure. Mycroft leaned forward, his voice quiet and gentle. "What seems to be the issue?"
Unable to talk lest he shout again, Lestrade shoved the London Gazette's evening edition at him and roughly pointed at the article smack in the middle of the front page.
FAMILY TAUNTED BY MURDERER:
'As if the shock of finding their beloved son murdered and folded into a suitcase like a pressed shirt wasn't enough, the poor Balfour family was forced to deal with terror in the post. A letter, addressed to them from the murderer, was dropped off this morning to the Balfour residence by post. The content is, as you would guess, disturbing.
On Monday evening, 11:00 p.m., a suitcase containing the body of James Balfour was discovered. The investigation has revealed the twelve year old boy was strangled to death and then disposed of in a black and tan suitcase which was left at the Piccadilly Station baggage claim. Had it remained there, the murder would not have been discovered for some time, however, the baggage fortuitously ended up in the trunk of none other than Inspector Lestrade's motor car. Yes, that Inspector Lestrade, accompanied by his Honour, Judge Mycroft Holmes.
It was after their interview this morning with the unfortunate family that the letter was discovered. I warn you, dear reader, the contents are shocking and you would be wise to exercise caution, especially those of you with weak constitutions as it describes a most gruesome fate with a glee that only a devil can possess.
The letter, in its entirety, reads as follows:
Dear Mrs. Balfour,
I did dispatch of your boy. He was a most tasty morsel for a hungry man such as myself, and you can be sure he was properly tenderized before I fried him up with a bit of bacon fat. I dipped my bread into the gravy of his cooked flesh and I will say, it was a most mouth watering steak and one which I commend you on creating.
--Him.'
Mycroft's hand went to his mouth, fighting the urge to be sick. "Oh dear Gregory, please tell me this letter has no substance."
"Delivered by post, my ass," Lestrade growled. He sipped his coffee and plunked the roughly folded newspaper beside him. "The public may be stupid, that harpy Emily White is doubly so for writing such unsubstantiated drivel, but I can see it as clearly as the words typed on that page...These are the words of Mr. Jimmy Balfour's debtors. They use language as foul as possible and infer the very worst. But they are plagiarizers, for though they are thugs, they aren't child killers. Do you remember not so long ago, another vile killer turned to the rag to post his prose? They are following on the lines of Old Jack. It's a wonder they didn't leave a cow's liver in the centre of Whitechapel."
"Do you think it's really that simple?"
"I'm sure of it. There was nothing about that body that suggested the perpetrator wanted the boy found. No, this is an unfortunate letter of opportunity to rattle Jim Balfour, and one penned by an especially stupid man. The postmark will make it easy to trace. We shall cut our little rest here short and make way to that bloody Gazette and rip it out of their hands. The cheek of her, not handing it over right away! I want her charged, I do."
"It should have gone through police channels first, I agree, but sadly, she has not committed a crime. The law has not caught up with her brand of interference."
Lestrade gulped his coffee while Mycroft delicately sipped at his tea. The gruesome overtones of the letter still rattled him, and he was reluctant to reread it as much as he dreaded visiting Mr. Balfour and confronting him about his addiction. The poppy had taken hold of many a young barrister in his youth, and though he had wisely avoided the drug at all costs, sometimes to his own health, he knew Lestrade had more history with it than he let on.
Japan had proven that.
"Inspector Harding is already investigating the drug angle of this case," Mycroft reminded him. "We need not go traipsing into dark alleys seeking half dead, pale Englishmen with pipes hanging lazily from their lips. Nor do we need to press on Mr. Balfour today, for I am sure the family has had enough shock. I suggest we go home to 221B. We relax at the kitchen table with Mrs. Hudson and her new stove, and enjoy hot tea and a sandwich with gravy. Our time has been extended enough as it is, and even with the fitful night's sleep we managed last night, I fear I am still in the grip of exhaustion and cannot make wise decisions. Nor, it will be said, can you." Mycroft swung his pinkie in a swirl around the spilled coffee that had scorched his hand, which was still blushed red. "You get overly emotional when you are overtired. We just got back from an extended stay halfway across the world and have been instantly plunked into the horrors of London. We need quiet."
He braced himself for an argument, but Lestrade was oddly complacent. He pushed his empty coffee cup away from him and tucked the London Gazette into a menu holder, heedless of how it creased.
"I agree. We cannot rush this case, especially when it seems there are plenty who are doing their best to muddy the suspects. Currently, I have none. Mrs. Balfour has lost several children supposedly due to illness, and we can probably start there to rule any infanticide habits out. You know how some of these big families are. They pump out children with no regard for their provision. I've never understood it."
"Because you are a man," Mycroft tersely reminded him. "Among the various classes, there is the ongoing theme that a wife must submit to her husband. It is his habits that create these problems. You can't blame a woman for what God and society demands of her."
"I bloody well can," Lestrade replied. He paid his lunch with a two-pound note and scraped his chair loudly as he stood, annoying the easygoing young women gathered in the corner. "You could say I make a career of it. You gamble, you lose. It's as simple as that. How many dead babes have we come across in our career to date? Far too many, Mycroft, and I doubt we will see the end of that in our lifetime. The orphanages are packed full and the workhouses are even more so. You ask any of my bobbies what they see on the regular in the East End and ask them how they sleep at night. The soaked prozzies leave the children to fend for themselves and infants are often rotting in damp basement corners."
There was a sharp intake of breath in the cafe's corner. The gaggle of young women had gone silent.
"But we aren't talking about an unfortunate infant in this case. We are reviewing a rather smart, self sufficient child who could easily navigate the chaos of Piccadilly Station at the height of its density. A child who could keep secrets and who seemed to have a worthy benefactor of some wealth. For it is not just anyone who has silk lying around to to strangle someone with, nor is it so easy to get the threads to dress up in a disguise.
In the end, it will not be about bad living, my dear Mycroft."
Mycroft leaned on his cane as he got up from the table with effort, his hips clacking loud enough to be audible. He winced at the pain. The London damp was already seeping into his joints.
"What do you believe will be the motive?" Mycroft asked him.
"Money, of course." Lestrade marched ahead of him, strong and certain, as he swung open the door of the cafe and stepped into the soft snowfall muffling the street before them. "In the end, it's always money."
He waited for Mycroft to catch up before they walked, side by side, towards Baker Street and the promise of yet another hot cup of tea and a warm coal fire. The streets were crowded, thick wool skirts taking up too much room on the sidewalks and pink cheeked children ran among the snowflakes, harbouring too much energy for ragged waifs. The charities were in full swing because of the influence of Christmas, and he could smell the rich flavours of kettle soup wafting out of the nearby churches, their charity feeding the masses their own doctrine created.
The front window of a new department store was fully decked out in Christmas toys, with a train running through the centre of a mountain of teddy bears and glass faced dolls. Children gathered around the well lit window, faces pressed against it tight enough to make nose prints, their breath steaming the glass. Now and then, a thick mitten would wipe the obscuring mist clean.
Christmas has been a muted affair when he was growing up, as it had been for most of his generation, but the eager faces of these children and the hope that was contained within them warmed him. They were different in their composition from his day. Stronger, it seemed, in both body and mind, adhering to innocence in a more logical progression.
This scene reminded him that he had to call his brother, who was currently housed at Dr. Watson's newest enterprise, the Watson Wellness Emporium, formerly Holmes Manor. It was currently under construction and Sherlock was busy assisting in many duties, from supervising the pouring of concrete to ensuring the new windows were installed properly. He had no expertise in any of this, of course, but his looming critique ensured the jobs were done on time and in a cost effective manner,or so Dr. Watson let him believe.
By the time they reached Baker Street, the soft snowfall had become a thick shedding that made it difficult to walk through without fear of slipping. The streets became quieter and less populated as the snow chased most inhabitants indoors, and carriages struggled through the blizzard onslaught. He felt a sense of intense relief at the recognition of their front door and the front window was awash in pine tree decorations and light, the flicker of the coal stove visible even here on the street. Lestrade had his key ready, but the front door opened of its own accord, and an angry Mrs. Hudson stood stiffly in the doorframe.
"And who do you two strangers think you are, coming and going as it pleases you? No word at all to me? I have a mind to change the locks. Gone for months and not so much as a postcard!"
Mycroft frowned. He was sure he had sent one.
Of course, they had been very busy, and Japan was so confusing and...No. Perhaps he hadn't sent one along. He'd brought home a gift, of course. Some pleasant teas she would enjoy. Or rather...Maybe they were for himself. It was so difficult to know what she would like from that strange, foreign shore. He was sure he brought back *something*.
Didn't he?
"Do I smell a stew roasting?" Lestrade asked, giving her a wide grin.
"No, you do not," Mrs. Hudson replied, though she stepped away from the door, allowing them in. "I don't run a restaurant."
Despite her anger, the air was replete with the mouthwatering aroma of roast lamb and fresh bread, suggesting Mrs. Hudson's larder was well stocked upon news of their return. Exhaustion had prevented him from noticing their rooms were cleared of dust and clutter, the plants that adorned the main hall well watered and the linens in their bedroom clean and pressed with a delicate lavender scent. Lestrade was already on telephone with Harding going over what his fellow inspector had gleaned from the dirty underside of London's drug dens. Mycroft slipped away back into their rooms, his appetite gone despite Mrs. Hudson's efforts to show how much she cared for both of them.
For certainly she did, as she often stated she was not their housekeeper and not their cook and thus, the rich gravy and soft bread that waited for them in the kitchen and the fresh flowers in a vase on the table near their front window in their sitting room confirmed her assertion, for she had performed these acts not out of duty but out of profound, genuine, friendship.
Though it was early evening, Mycroft collapsed onto his bed, grateful for its softness. The grime of London's misery clung to him. He would wash it off in the morning.