The Curious Case of Dr. Watson
by Lyrical Soul

Chapter Seven

Lestrade

While it would be easy to dismiss Mr. Holmes' claims of Dr. Watson's innocence as bias, I know he would not allow his relationship with the doctor to cloud his judgment. Well, at least not to this extent, as he has been known to be rather fiercely protective where Dr. Watson is concerned. Not that the two of them do not sometimes bend and skirt the law when it suits their need to do so, I do not believe they would actually break the law. Nor do I believe that it is possible that Dr. Watson would perpetrate such a crime. His very nature is gentle and kind, and he is held in high regard, both in his profession, and as Holmes' friend and partner.

Why then, would a woman who is being courted by such a man make such vile accusations? She would have to be in possession of some intimate knowledge of Dr. Watson's character that perhaps Mr. Holmes isn't aware of. I ponder this, then discard the notion. It doesn't seem likely that there would be things about the doctor that Mr. Holmes wouldn't know, if only by virtue of his profession and years of close contact.

I look at my watch, then at the four-wheeler waiting to take me home. As anxious as I am for this dreadful day to end, I cannot in good conscience leave things as they are. And though I can do without his high-handedness and sneering, I fear Mr. Holmes is right. There are incidences in this case that do not add up. And for all my comments to the contrary, and as loath as I am to admit it, I do put great stock in his deductive and analytical prowess. If his mind is not at rest regarding the facts of the case, mine should not be either.

"Constable Jones!"

The young man leaps down from the four wheeler and hurries to my side. "Yes, Inspector?"

"Take a message to my wife, if you would." I scribble out what I hope is a reasonable excuse for missing dinner with her parents and hand it to him. "And if you would be so kind as to stop by Mortman's, and retrieve the package he's holding for me. Please make sure it is delivered to Mrs. Lestrade personally." She will be more likely to forgive me if I send along her mother's favourite yarn, and her father's preferred cigars.

"Yes, sir. Should I return when I'm done?"

"I would appreciate it. I believe I'm going to have to take a few trips before ending my day."

"Of course, sir. I'll be back in say, fifteen minutes, sir."

"Good man, Jones." I watch him drive off, and hope my wife doesn't become too ill-tempered. The last time I disappointed her, I had to accompany her to the salt baths, and the men still talk about it to this day. I've no desire to repeat that experience.

With a sigh, I return to my desk, determined to go over the report more thoroughly.

***

According to the report, the two constables, Collins and Anderson, were summoned to the home of Miss Adelaide Beauchamp at close to half-past ten yesterday evening. The summons came by one of the stable lads, with word from Mr. Percy Phelps-Binghampton, Miss Beauchamp's fiancé. They were told that there had been a 'male with light hair and a moustache' attempting to burgle the house, but he was scared away by Givens, the butler. Givens, and a few of the house lads gave chase, but the man escaped. The men told the constables that they'd lost the man, but were quite sure he was headed down the main lane toward the Oaktree Inn. After the constables were assured that there was no damage to anyone's actual person, they went to the inn, and rousted Dr. Watson, who, according to Anderson, was the only gentleman in the place who fit the description. Collins reports that Watson attempted to escape, and received a cuff across the neck for his troubles. They managed to subdue him, and brought him to the Yard for questioning.

Dr. Watson's statement infers that he and Mrs. Langstrom had been gone from the gathering for at least an hour before the constables were summoned. The carriage driver, Burns, took Mrs. Langstrom home first, then informed Dr. Watson that he would take him back to Baker Street.  On the way, the carriage wheel became unhinged, and not wanting to wait in the fog, and at Burns' urging, the doctor walked to the inn, fell ill, and took refuge on a cot in the back room. Mr. Tarleton of the Oaktree Inn bears this out.

Why then, if the summons to the Beauchamp residence was for a male with light hair and a moustache, did one of the constables call Dr. Watson by name, as the doctor reports? And why did the carriage driver not return? Surely it did not take all night to re-hinge a carriage wheel. I shake my head, wishing I'd looked at this more closely before now.

Then there is the matter of Mrs. Langstrom.

She was found in Rexford, fifteen miles from home. The milkmaid came upon her in the barn at five in the morning, in a state of disarray and hysteria. The maid, Lucy, took Mrs. Langstrom into the house, alerting the owners to the emergency. At Mrs. Langstrom's insistence, the Rexford constabulary was not contacted. Not wanting to shame her more, Mr. Smith, the owner of the house, did as she requested, and sent an urgent message to Miss Beauchamp. Mr. Phelps-Binghampton and Miss Beauchamp came to fetch her, along with the Beauchamp family doctor, T. Jameson Davies.

When I conducted the interview with Mrs. Langstrom, her face and hands were heavily bandaged, leaving only her eyes visible. She appeared to be in great pain. She was most tearful, and utterly incoherent when I attempted to question her, but she was quite clear that Dr. Watson was her abuser. She did admit that they are rather close, and that there was an understanding between them, but the liberties taken were "an affront to the very nature of their relationship". She seemed reluctant to besmirch the doctor's good name, but in the interest of justice, she felt he should be punished. Though I was reluctant to hear such things about someone I knew in a personal and professional capacity, I asked for the intimate details of the crimes upon her person. She tearfully began recounting the events that lead up to her assault, but after a few faltering sentences, she started to shriek in sheer terror, and actually frothed at the mouth through her bandages. Dr. Davies immediately administered a heavy dose of morphine, and she fell into a deep sleep, thus ending my interview.

Mr. Phelps-Binghampton spoke to me of the party, of the lending of the carriage, and his summoning of the police. He acknowledged offering his carriage to the doctor to see Mrs. Langstrom home, but denies that Dr. Watson was abandoned at the inn. Burns is adamant that Dr. Watson had no further use of the carriage. Mr. Phelps-Binghampton begged off further questioning, saying he was to appear in court on behalf of a client.  I had no choice but to let him go, but did ask that he call on me, should he recall anything else that would be helpful to the case.

I was unable to speak to Miss Beauchamp, as she had also been given a heavy dose of morphine due to hysteria.

At the time, I did not consider that anyone was being untruthful, though I was rather perturbed at being unable to conduct a complete interview with anyone other than the servants. For what purpose would they set up so elaborate a hoax? The very nature of the accusation is heinous, and I cannot fathom that persons of genteel upbringing should sit about, concocting such a lurid account to gain… gain what, exactly? I dismissed this notion immediately, and returned to the Yard.

But now, in retrospect, I fear I have erred greatly. Why did I readily accept Dr. Davies findings as fact without being able to see Mrs. Langstrom's injuries for myself? Am I so eager to conclude that Dr. Watson is guilty that I tossed aside all semblance of my duty in an attempt to be right? Why would I allow myself to be swayed by circumstance, even when I know intuitively that things do not add up? 

I sigh and drop my head into my hands. A fool, indeed.  

In my haste to finish up what appeared to be an open and shut case, I have dismissed both my intuition and the facts.  

I think about this for a long moment, and wish for the millionth time that I had one iota of the deductive powers Mr. Holmes possesses. But then, one does not have to be Sherlock Holmes to know that there is indeed something rotten in Denmark.

Heavily bandaged victims, witnesses given high doses of morphine, constables with inside information, and a good man like Dr. Watson in the centre of it all.

The hair on the nape of my neck is standing up. A sure sign that things aren't right.

I snatch up my hat and the report. I despise inconsistencies, and this case if rife with them. My two constables have much to answer for. As do Mr. Phelps-Binghampton, Miss Beauchamp, and Mrs. Langstrom. If there is a conspiracy, I will get to the bottom of it.

 
Chapter Eight