You Buy Bones (15 page)

“Anyone who gets hold of their protecting garment has the Finn in his power. Only by means of the skin can they go back to the water.

“Many a Finn woman has got into the power of a Shetlander and borne children to him; but if a Finn woman succeeded in re-obtaining her sea-skin, or seal-skin, she escaped across the water.

“Among the older generation in the Northern Isles persons are still sometimes heard of who boast of hailing from the Finns; and they attribute to themselves a peculiar luckiness on account of their higher descent.”

There was something about that account that... rang... strangely. Lestrade couldn't put his finger on it, but it likened him to being a child again, and being told a story that was edited in a way that made the whole matter fall... flat.

He scowled and pulled more smoke into his lungs. Imagine that murder could be committed over fairy tales, but at the same time, he'd seen worse committed over even less. Was it only last month they'd had to pick up the pieces of a man who had been dismembered by a mad butcher? The excuse for that death had been the man's choice of dress. It didn't even help that the butcher was clearly off to Hanwell.
[30]
The fact was clothing had been the factor that tipped him to his action.

I'm out of my depth. I know it. So is Roger and I daresay Watson too. But
there was a motive for
this
murder, and we have our own motives for seeing it ended.
Lestrade tapped ash absently; it gave his hand something to do.
For
whatever reason, Elspeth was murdered because of folklore. Folklore started it all.
There has to be some clue we can use in ferreting out this case...

Bow Street:

The Princess and the Goblin
sprawled under her long fingers, and on the floor, Mark Twain's
A Tramp Abroad
rested where it had slid off her lap. Hazel Bradstreet slept deeply, but for the first time a blush of colour touched her lips. Her husband smiled to see it, but blinked askance at the third book on the floor,
At The Back of the North Wind
.
[31]
He bent over the settee and kissed her cheek. Her skin was still quite pale; her freckles transparent. She smiled to see him and reached up to hold his hand. They shared a silent look of affection.

“How are you, dear?” Hazel asked softly.

“Glad to be home, Coll.” He kissed her hand. “Did you rest?”

Hazel managed to laugh, just a bit. “I hadn't any choice. Those girls of yours are tyrants!”

Roger laughed right back. “I wonder where they get it from.”

“There's no telling.” She moved aside and he circled the couch to sit at her waist. “They said they're making bread. If it works, that'll be our supper tonight.”

“Perfect.” Roger held her hand inside his big ones. Hazel wasn't a small woman; she was built along the lines of an Amazon should that fierce species choose bright plaids and wear their hair in Repentance Curls. Next to Bradstreet she was willowy.

Her warm eyes sank into his. “Roger, is something wrong? You're wearing your ‘work face' again.”

He sighed through his nose. “I'm sorry, dear. It's just that...” He took a deep breath. “We may have a clue for Elspeth.”

Hazel's face paled even further for a moment, and then her delicate colour quickly flooded back. “Oh...” She said faintly. Her hand rested over her mouth. “Oh, dearest.”

“I may have to leave for a bit, to find out the truth.” He warned. “Not now, perhaps not for a few days. I'm just... letting you know.” He wasn't going to tell her Watson's account. Lord, no.

Her fingers gripped his painfully. “I don't want you to get your hopes up, Roger. But... if this is so... then... then it can only be for the good.”

Roger was mute, gripping his wife's now-weakened hand inside his. The house had been his inheritance from his father, who had died before Elspeth. They took in roomers in summer to deal with the expenses, and he knew every long fitted plank in the floor, every inch of wall-paper and the smell of soft-coal with polish and soda. The house was their refuge and a reminder of how Elspeth's death had changed their lives.

“I don't want to leave you.” He warned. “If worse comes to worse, I'll let Geoffrey take the case alone. He as much as threatened to sever me if I didn't look to you first - and much I'd deserve it.”

“Roger, I'd be certain to let you know if things couldn't continue without you for a bit.” Hazel leaned up and kissed him through his beard, a gesture that always made him laugh. “Is there anything I can do?”

Roger bit his lip. “I don't know,” he said slowly. “Would the family speak with you?”

“They've always been willing to speak with me,” Hazel said with a coldness that was not directed at her husband at all. “I have simply chosen not to.”

Roger took a deep breath. “I need something of Elspeth's. If you asked for it... do you think they would give it to you?”

“We can but try.” She said simply. “And we will.”

4: Take my Bones

“Heaven take my soul, and England take my bones!”

-William Shakespeare

Hazel heard someone rap at the door in the early hours of morning. Before she could even rise up, Elena was pattering down the hallway in her stocking feet.
Goodness
. Elena was normally a late sleeper. She wondered if the full moon was rising again; mad dogs, madmen, and Elena always reacted to the shift in the lunar cycle.

She re-settled back down under the warm quilts at the girl's low giggles. A familiar tenor answered back.
Geoffrey
. Hazel smiled to herself. A week couldn't pass without Roger and Geoffrey seeing each other. A shame they didn't often work together.

Elena skittered back and popped her head into the sitting room. “Mum,” She beamed. “Uncle Geoffrey's here. Has Papa left?”

“He left at a quarter-past, dear.” Hazel told her daughter - and to the entering Geoffrey Lestrade. “Elena,
what
are you doing up?”

“I'm trying another loaf of bread.” Elena was put out. “It's not rising as well as yesterday.”

“There's less warmth, sweetheart. The slower the rise the better the bread. Why don't you take the time and create a filling to roll inside the dough when it has set? You have nearly an hour before school.”

Elena perked up and vanished as quickly as she had appeared.

Geoffrey traded a rueful adult look. “She never seems to operate under anything less than three horsepower.” He noted. “Roger's at Bow again?”

“A late case. He didn't give me details, save that he had to go take a lesson on the language of Flowers, even if it cost him ten shillings or seven days.” Hostess and guest shared mixed sighs. “And after that, a few telegrams, and then would see to some matters with the Bow Street Runners at the new station-house.”
[32]

“Tcha! He can't stay away! I'm lucky he spends three days at the Main Office as it is.” Geoffrey set down a paste-board box with an intriguing rattle and sank into his usual chair. “How have you been?” He asked.

“I shall be glad to get up.” Hazel said fervently. “I am tired of being tired.” She allowed her hands to twitch over the smoothly stitched fabric. “And I am close to nausea to think about sewing, or knitting, or tatting, or all of the other things.”

“How about glue?”

“Glue?”

Geoffrey opened the lid of the box and held it out. Hazel took it; the weight was more than expected. Inside rested a box of assorted shells in a wide variety. “I'll have you know, your loving husband sent me halfway to Cheddar to pick this up.”

“Oh, bless his big awkward heart.” Hazel said with feeling. “And bless yours for being so easily swayed.”

“Swayed, bosh. You're his sanity. That keeps
me
sane.” Geoffrey grinned.

“I shall make something creative.” Hazel decided. “Bring the lap-table over here.”

Geoffrey obliged; Hazel poured a handful of shells into the corner and began sorting “Geoffrey, what is this matter?” They both knew what she meant, and though she was a Northerner of the island and he from the Southern, they were both too old-fashioned and polite to mention the dead by name in a casual conversation.

Geoffrey never bothered prevaricating with Hazel. It did no good; it never did. He sighed and wished for a cigarette. “We were given some information from an unexpected source,” he spoke delicately. “It will be long and complicated, I fear. And I also fear for Roger's well-being. But if I hadn't included him...”

“He would have ended your friendship.” Hazel finished. “I know.” Her sharp eyes sank into his flesh like daggers. “And you have the look of someone already troubled?”

He stared at her without speaking, unsure of what to do. Long experience with Hazel finally won out. “I just...” His hands moved over the hat in his lap. “I'm already disturbed and that's because of things that necessarily ought not to do with the case.” His cheeks pinked under his normally sallow complexion, and he stared down to give the threadbare drugget a firm examination.

“Geoffrey, you are just going to have to explain yourself now.” Hazel's bright mind flared in the hope of something to think about.

“I've been studying a bit on... people with more fingers and toes than...” He cleared his throat hastily. “Than most.” That last was said out of consideration for the absent Bradstreet. “They're called polydactyls... I thought I might fathom the motive of someone who would want to kill a child because they were so... different.” He looked further past her, from the floor to the opposing wall. “I don't like to talk about it.”

“I shan't think anyone would be.” Hazel answered him. “And forgive my saying so, but this already sounds dangerous. If a person would kill a child for scientific edification, they couldn't possibly hesitate at killing a grown man.” Hazel Roane Bradstreet was a composite of all conceivable warm shades of golden browns. It made her eyes gleam like a fiercely intelligent cat's. “A policeman would be seen as the means for such a man's destruction. They will defend their sorry lives, Geoffrey.”

“I'm not about to let Roger stick his neck out any further than he must.” Geoffrey took a deep, deep breath as he spoke. “I am worried that he will journey into personal territory. I plan to be there at his side
the
entire time
.”

Hazel chuckled. “Good for you, but you know as well as I do; when my Roger is in action, nothing less than a freight train can pause his motion.” At her ersatz brother's grimace, Hazel laughed out loud. “He needs this, Geoffrey.” She sobered softly. “If this can help heal the rift in the family, he won't hesitate. “

“The rift should have never happened.” Geoffrey snapped. “I
am
sorry, Hazel, I know they're your cousins, but all of this was wrong.”

“
Far
cousins, thank you. But, no... Grief can take on forms as hard as a rock,” Hazel replied softly. “And one can dash themselves to death upon them. I would say the same about your own family, Geoffrey, but you seem to feel their censure is justified.”

He set his lips tight. He was not about to argue with Hazel. Not here, and especially not now, but this was their oldest argument, during which Hazel truly
did
sound like one of his actual sisters. Jenny, mostly... he missed her sharpest.

“And with that said,” Hazel said smoothly, “I know you will see to Roger. You're supposed to be a bit smarter than he is... but don't think you can persuade him of doing something if he doesn't want to do it.”

“How well I know.” Geoffrey sighed at the ceiling. “How well I know.”

Lestrade hesitated between the hard concrete of Bow Street's corner to Hart Street
[33]
and the dry awning of a tiny honey-stall. The vendor was an old veteran of the slums, a dark-skinned East Indian with foreign vowels in his speech. The men traded nods over the table of small casks and the old gentleman went back to instructing his art to a young boy in training.

The wind picked up, weak against the heavier weight of the mixed snow turning to rain. Lestrade pulled out “his” cigarette case (a beaten tin box he used for himself; the fancier one for showing amongst the social public was larger, engraved silver, and flawless). Smokers were never discouraged in these small establishments; their habit discouraged the equally filthy presence of small flying pests. The old man smiled and waved a greeting to a passing hawker bawling the mid-morning news: The end of the season's apples and pears were nigh, but Samuel's was happily taking orders for March's cucumbers, spring greens and onions and Polish radishes (guaranteed sweet meat with no pith). And not to fret, dear housewives - rhubarb was on its way!

“How goes the business, Mr. Husher?”

The old gentleman beamed under his turban, his mouth a tessellation of alternate teeth. “Right enough, Mr. Lestrade. Right enough.” He finished cleaning the bit of table, and showed the boy how to drizzle a continuous stream of golden liquor into a smaller cask for selling.

Lestrade hoped Mr. Husher kept his business. Hart Street was full of illegal brothels and very enthusiastic pubs and the markets were often of low value. The Bradstreets shopped here for the safety of the children and the quality of his honey, which was pure and single-cut.

“If you wish to buy some honey, Mr. Lestrade,” Husher announced, “I have just lowered the price.”

Lestrade turned his head to study the newly-chalked slate. “A tuppence pound?” He lifted his eyebrows. “Are you that worried about the Lyle's refinery?”
[34]