You Buy Bones (23 page)

“Are you trying for manslaughter?” Lestrade finally asked.

“Scotland doesn't have manslaughter.” Bradstreet said with infuriating calm. He took another bite of awful pie.

Anyone who didn't know Bradstreet would be worrying about his mental state; he appeared too calm and casual for the subject at hand. Lestrade knew better. The man simply reined in his emotions until the conclusion of a case. No matter how exhaustive or horrible, he remained coolly remote and professional. It wasn't until after the last report was written, stamped, and approved that he would blare up like a foghorn.

Lestrade had been around his friend before and after these events... and he honestly dreaded the conclusion of this one. For now he was relishing the quiet before the storm.

And he was studying the house in question.

Parker's address was... impressive; a three storey example of foggy stone and taut architecture with a ropework of vines climbing up the facing. Lestrade supposed it was a change from the usual ivy carpets...

Despite the clear age of the old relic it was well tended and money - lots of it - had been spent to keep it with the quality of its neighbors. MacDonald had given them a battered old booklet of Edinburgh's distinguished houses, and they knew it had served its time as a school twice, a hospital once, a mortuary, and, until Parker the Elder had gotten it as part of his wedding dowry, a place for the rebellious elites to mingle so they could discuss politics and art at the same time with the same officious tones.

That bit about serving as a mortuary, even briefly to meet the noble needs of the city during a Regency cholera epidemic, had Lestrade particularly interested.

“Mphm.” Lestrade tapped him on the arm. Both men studied the world from the top of suddenly-elevated newspapers. “Here he comes.” The little man whispered.

“He doesn't look like he's even looking for us.” Bradstreet muttered under his breath.

“Look at the way he's walking, Roger. This weather does nothing for those wounds.”

“I would say not. It's hard enough on my joints.”

The Yarders waited quietly. The doctor was dressed with a mind to the ways of Edinburgh, and they had never seen him look so anonymous in the crowd. His head hung down and his eyes barely looked up from the placing of his heavy feet on the sidewalk. Even from down the street, it was easy to see his tight, painful set of the jawline.

“Man's going to age before his time if he keeps that up,” Bradstreet murmured, almost too softly to be heard.

“Least he doesn't have far to walk,” Lestrade answered in the same voice. A moment later Watson was nearly abreast of their bench, separated by a sudden knot of cab-drivers who objected strongly to the rough game. The doctor stopped; his eyes barely flickered, and the Yarders knew he had seen them.

They saw him tighten as his wounds reasserted in his nerves, and he braced himself yet again, turned his back to his audience, and painfully plodded his way up the freshly-washed concrete steps to the carved door on the top.

Bradstreet hadn't realised he was holding his breath until Watson's patient knock was answered; the door parted to show a black gloom and a pale butler. The two consulted with each other a moment, and then Watson was stepping inside the large door. It shut with a mahogany tone.

Lestrade hissed next to him. “All right, he's gotten this far. Now we have the difficult part. Staying here and waiting for the signal.” ‘Staying put' meant ‘torture' for Lestrade.

“Or,” Bradstreet reminded him, “waiting until he's failed to come back out.”

“Let's just hope that doesn't happen.”

“Someone will notice if we don't. Surely?”

“This isn't like London, gentlemen. Anything going on in Edinburgh may be noticed... or it may not.”

The bearer of this cool advice from behind, Inspector Alec Macdonald had made his morning appointment.

Lestrade pretended to read a garrulous newspaper whilst eyeing the innocent-looking Brownstone that had swallowed up Dr. Watson. Bradstreet had all but abducted a tea-cart and enforced a promise of frequent returns for cups of the strongest brew the little detective had drunk outside a Gipsy caravan.

The tea-vendor had the look of one of those mixed-blooded Tinkers. Lestrade was tempted to patter at him just to see if there would be a reaction, but he wasn't certain of MacDonald's possible reaction. Local police
didn't
like it when outsiders talked with ‘their' people so much... it was like poaching. Or bigamy.

“Don't try what they're selling as coffee.” MacDonald warned softly.

“Why? What is it really?”

“There might be a few spoonfuls of the real stuff in it... but the rest is roasted dandelion and chicory.” MacDonald sipped blissfully. “A great favourite of our oldsters, who canna' have the stimulant. Not sayin' it's not good, but it doesn't wake a man up in the morn.”

“
Anything
on this bird at all?” Bradstreet wanted to know past the pleasantries. He didn't want to sound desperate, but last night was a courtesy for MacDonald; it was now their turn to get data, and he didn't like not having it.

Macdonald pursed his lips and shook his head from side to side. “Not
officially
.” He said quite carefully.

Bradstreet's eyes sharpened. “
Unofficially
?”

Macdonald shrugged. “That's the snorter,” he explained. “His father was suspected for extensive body-thieving. And he was friends what was some gentlemen caught up in the case over in Forest Hill - some snatchers wanted some money in a hurry, so they started turning fresh corpses over to sell to some of the doctors.”

That
was
a snorter. Lestrade shivered. Next to him, Bradstreet had stopped breathing. “Just how fresh were the corpses?”

“Let's just say one of the specimens was insufficiently dead when they got him. That was one of the reasons why the laws overturned the mandates against supplying schools with bodies.”

Bradstreet rubbed at his forehead. He was holding himself in as tightly as a piano-string. “But there's nothing on the son.”

“No. He pays his taxes, he goes to chapel, lives alone, lives simply in that dusty old house of antiques and everything his father handed down to him. Family investments keep him cozy - he doesn't have to do anything he doesn't want to. Mostly retired from teaching, but he does a two-day lecture once a term for the students on pathology. It's a lively topic, for all that his slides are a bit on the disturbing slant.” MacDonald sighed. “I take tutorin' when I can gentlemen, but one o' that man's seminars was all I could take.”

Lestrade took another drink of brew. He was going to keep his mouth shut on
that
as much as possible. “What's your reading of these particular tea-leaves, Mac?”

Macdonald scratched his new winter whiskers. “On or off the record?”

“Yes.” Lestrade speared him with an eyebrow.

MacDonald grinned, but quickly sobered. “There's something wrong with a man who is so... so
sterile
, gents. Nothing we've noticed outright. But I'll warn you now, that's how his father was. It was just luck and a tip and a policeman who wasn't too footsore and cold to answer up on that tip one night at the graveyard.” He rubbed at his new beard again. “You think of growing up in that house. He'd be seein' his father break the law to suit his own ends... would he think anything less of it?”

Anyone else would be asking why the police weren't keeping a tighter eye on the man. The Yarders knew better. Overworked and understaffed, a lowly constable was responsible for hundreds of citizens, or sometimes the entire population of a small town. The Inspectors had it no better, being responsible for the Constables and working liaison for victim, victim's family, criminal and criminal's family.

“Dr. Watson is dead certain this skeleton is an illegal possession.” Lestrade said carefully. “I haven't known the man long, but he doesn't make things up. He's as painfully honest as a tooth-ache.

“How queer,” he added in afterthought, “that this Dr. Parker would be so reluctant to talk about something he's so proud of.”

“There were accusations at Dr. Parker's father,” MacDonald cleared his throat, “I'm not trying tae taint the evidence in the case, mind you, but nothing was ever found.”

“His family seems awfully clean, doesn't it?” Bradstreet shook his head. “Wouldn't we all like to believe that families like that really exist.”

“We're in the wrong profession to say that.” Lestrade grouched. “Keep going, Mac. He was clean, but not so clean to the eye of the public, was he?”

“Several families were convinced he was behind the opened graves of their loved ones... but... no proof .” He sighed and pulled out a thin, sealed filing envelope from inside his coat. “This might help add to some illumination.” A blunt finger tapped the paper meaningfully. “The men will be patrolling about same as usual, but as soon as Auld Reekie goes dark, we'll have a few more on post in the shadows. When do you get your signal?”

“Tonight at dark.” Bradstreet answered.

MacDonald leaned forward on his knees. “This case you're on, you shouldn't have trouble getting your bird back to London. Dr. Parker claims English citizenry, especially when s'more convenient fra him to be English than Scottish - so that's a bit more in your favour. Also: Least little bit of a breath of a scandal and the school will
beg
you to pack up the cause of the trouble and trot him out of the city,
fast
. They don't want to be the site of an outraged scandal.” He cleared his throat. “And the fastest you do it, the better.”

That was an unexpected spot of luck. The two Londoners traded looks with each other. “We rather didn't expect that,” Lestrade confessed. “What about extradition?”

“Man, you're a Runner aren't you?” Macdonald grinned at Bradstreet. “Bow Street's still the only office in charge of extradition. And believe me, when it comes to avoiding the kind of screaming Edinburgh can raise, we
will
overlook procedure. Just this once. Until, that is, the next time Edinburgh threatens to scream.”

“That's odd.” Lestrade scowled. “I never heard so much as a dust-up over the way Edinburgh handles things.”

“Oh, you never were on the other side before.” MacDonald spoke so seriously they knew this was no light matter. “This is one of the largest cities on the island; it's the most eemportant city in Scotland.
The
most, gentlemen. One of the Seven Cities of Enlightenment; one of best places to live and all that... People come from all over the world to live here or visit here because they want the advantages of London without the disadvantages. It's not as crowded as London because there simply aren't enough chances to work up here.

“And you know, the University rather
likes
it all that way. It likes the reputation for learning and science and architecture; the literature and fine arts - and they operate under the very strong fear that if something makes the city look bad enough at the wrong moment, the Home Secretary might renege on his intention to work into the Scottish office; they say it might even be enacted as soon as ‘85.

“Anyway, if we lose status as the Jewel of Scotland, then Parliament, should-it-ever-be-restored-God-Willing, could go to
Dunfermline
!”

Lestrade exploded with laughter and just as quickly clapped his hand over his mouth at the glares from his companions. “I
don't
think that's all
that
likely,” he strangled. Tears were forming in his eyes. “
Really
.”

“Some people believe it, though.” Bradstreet pointed out.

“Some people also believe that England and the United States will reunite someday!” Lestrade pointed out. “It's
still
rubbish. It doesn't matter if you've got a person as smart as Mr. Holmes believing in it; that doesn't mean it's
going
to happen. Canada is as far as we're going to get, except for possibly that land Senator Webster gave back on the New England border in a drunken stupor. Why can't we have politicians like
that
anymore?”

“Oh, that is an extreme example.” Bradstreet admitted. “Besides, Canada's been prepared for another war with the States since 1812.”

“Good for them.” Lestrade snorted. “I'd be too. I'll bet the Red Indians will volunteer. Very well. So we can do some sneaking around and get this fellow over to London.
If
we can prove there's something on him. That's lovely. But in the meantime, we have a man in there who is
not
a policeman, whom we can only trust will confirm the proof is inside. Hopefully he won't be hurt in this.”

“He is from Baker Street.” Bradstreet grunted.

“And he's a Watson, eh?” Macdonald murmured. His eyes caught a faraway look; a memory perhaps, and his fingers tapped against his thigh in thought.

“You've met him, haven't you? At the Regatta Parade last year.” Bradstreet commented.

“He's a different one.” MacDonald said obscurely. “Not as different as the man he shares the rent with, but
still
. Different.”

Lestrade risked pulling his glance away from the front door. “In what way?”

“Man's a Scot. But have you eever noticed, he uses the word “Scotchman” and not “Scotsman?””

Bradstreet frowned, then his eyebrows slipped straight up as he realised what Macdonald was saying. “You're right. That is different.”

Lestrade needed a moment to catch up with them, but he soon enough grasped it: The word
Scotchman
was correct English in all ways, but it was almost exclusively used by people who were outside the race. Scots hardly ever used that word... save as a wry joke or a disparaging motion.