"All my life," Lestrade said as he wiggled the bedside table against the wall. "Our families were close, and her father used to work with my father and grandfather."
"Where did you serve?" Joe handed him a lamp for the table.
Lestrade hesitated, spinning the lamp on the table a few times. "I didn't, through no decision of my own. I'd made Detective Inspector the year prior, and rose to a supervisor position. My family had connections through the government, so when all my constables were scooped up by the services, I was tasked with overseeing the remaining force, making sure things ran smoothly here. Worked out for the best, as far as I'm concerned. I kept an eye on Irene, employed her, and made sure she got to a shelter when the sirens went off during the Blitz."
Joe handed Lestrade a few novels to place on a small shelf, taking in his words. Joe could've had that chance too. Stay in London, keep his practice open. But instead, he'd volunteered.
Unfortunately, he endured a certain hell he didn't want to think about right now.
"I imagine that caused you some grief," Joe said. A colleague of his received a white feather in his mailbox for staying in London to take care of his ailing mother, and it pained Joe to think of the names he'd been called.
"It still does, occasionally," Lestrade said. "But I've risen the ranks and have enough respect from my men to cease any grief before it starts. I do hope this doesn't impact our friendship, though."
"Oh heavens no," Joe said. "I'm just glad it's all over."
Lestrade sighed, looking immensely relieved. He pointed to a heavy bag by the end of the bed.
"What shall I do with this?"
"Closet," Joe said. "It's my old service items."
Lestrade grabbed the bag. "Medals and such?"
Joe shook his head. "Instruments and tools."
Lestrade cast a forlorn look at the bag. "You must've seen hell out there."
"More than I could even begin to describe."
* * * * *
A few hours later, once the whole flat was settled, Lestrade left, needing to wake early for work the next day. Joe wandered around the sitting room, shifting whatever couch, chair, or shelf Irene directed him to.
As they rotated the dining table for the twelfth time, she threw her hands in the air.
"It looks the same," she exclaimed. "Everything ended up the same."
Joe surveyed the room, figuring out a different configuration, but every piece of furniture was tucked neatly into place. A couch sat across from two chairs with tables beside each, made cosy by the fireplace. A bookcase full of novels and texts stood tall against the wall by the entrance, and two desks were evenly spaced under the dual front windows. The kitchenette was full of dishes and a kettle Miss Hudson found in her storage closet. A dining table, with three chairs, sat in the centre.
"We can move things around again." Joe leaned on the table. "But this flat seems made for this particular set up."
"Made for this set-up, indeed," Irene mumbled.
A knock came from the door, and Miss Hudson stepped in, a tray of food in her hands. Joe grabbed the tray from her, setting it on the table. The smell of stew drifted to his nose, and his stomach growled with hunger.
Irene hadn't taken her eyes off the living room, not even when Miss Hudson stood beside her.
"Well done, dear," she said. "Looks like you never left."
Joe winced as he set the plates on the table. That's probably the last thing Irene needed to hear.
Irene let out a dramatic groan and threw her head back. She pivoted and trudged to her bedroom, shutting the door hard behind her.
Joe stared after her, a spoonful of stew in one hand. Was she in her room for good? He looked at Miss Hudson, who tut-tutted.
"Her father's daughter," she said. "Oh, don't worry, Doctor. She'll come out soon enough. If there's one thing she can't ignore, it's my stew. I broke a two-day hunger strike with this recipe. And over what? Getting herself grounded for sneaking to the docks to dig up some sand to put in a jar."
Joe stared at the closed bedroom door. Should he wait for Irene to reappear before he ate? His belly ached, and after all the exertion today, he wanted to eat then enjoy his evening with a book and a cup of tea.
"Go on, dear," Miss Hudson said. "She'll come out eventually. The trick is to go about your day and let her go about hers."
Miss Hudson left, and Joe tucked into the stew. After the first bite, he didn't care if Irene ever emerged from her room. The last time he'd eaten a home-cooked meal this delicious was years ago, before the war. He shovelled the meat and potatoes into his mouth, burning his tongue. As he finished the last bite, the bedroom door opened.
Irene emerged, housecoat wrapped tightly around her. She'd unpinned her hair, letting the dark curls bounce around her shoulders. She sat at the table and started on the stew.
After dinner, Joe considered a walk in the evening light, but putting on his shoes and jacket didn't seem worth the effort. Instead, he settled in the armchair farthest from the fireplace, breaking the spine on a new novel. He'd made a pot of tea, leaving a cup for Irene on the table by the couch.
He read halfway through the first chapter when Irene shuffled around the couch. She moved back and forth, arms overflowing with cushions and a blanket. She piled the blanket, two cushions, and a small pillow on the chair closest to the fireplace, then stared at them for a long while, chewing the inside of her lip.
Satisfied with her work, she picked up her tea, drank half in one swallow, set the cup on the table, and fell backwards on the couch. She stretched out on her back, feet propped on the armrest. She linked her fingers together, resting her hands on her stomach, and she stared at the ceiling.
After about ten minutes, Joe put his book down, question poised on his lips.
"Irene," he said.
She turned her head to look at him.
"When we first met," he said. "You called out my profession and my service history without knowing a thing about me."
"Why do you assume I knew nothing about you?"
"We'd never spoken," he said. "Except for the brief interaction at my previous lodging, and I don't recall exchanging words with you, only Lestrade."
She smiled and moved a large wave of hair from her face, tucking the section behind her ear.
"Words deceive," she said. "Observation rarely does."
"And what did you observe about me?" He asked, both curious and worried. She hesitated for a second, perhaps giving him a chance to change his mind on the question. When he stayed quiet, she spoke.
"Sleeves rolled up," she said. "Either a nervous habit or used to pushing them out of the way for medical procedures. Hair growing out from a short military cut. Medical bag from the university. Your trousers were let down, then re-hemmed to lengthen them using an overly large surgeons stitch. Curious, but not unusual. You were also injured. The scar on your left forearm indicates a cart ran over you. I have many follow-up questions for that. You don't put effort into your appearance, yet you don't dress so tatty as to draw attention, meaning you want to blend in, go unnoticed."
"Extraordinary." Joe was not prepared for her level of analysis. Even though she touched on specific details, she didn't seem to judge him from any of these observations.
"Not quite," she said. "Any young, healthy-looking man most likely served, the trick was observing how you served."
She propped herself up on her elbow and gulped down the rest of her tea.
"Deduction is second nature to me, Joe," she said. "A character trait I would be foolish not to employ. To hone in on someone's weakness or to catch someone in a lie is infinitely useful, especially when my gender makes some people assume I can be easily fooled."
She noticed his concerned expression and smiled.
"Don't worry," she said. "You have not tried to deceive me, and I doubt you ever would. Your heart seems too kind, plus your emotions run across your face as effortlessly as the wind blows."
Joe laughed. "You don't exac
tly hide your true feelings either."
A smile spread across her face, crinkling her dark eyes. "Something we have in common. Now, Doctor Joe, you must have observed a few things about me."
"Oh," he said, genuinely surprised at the turn of the conversation. "I suppose there were a few things."
She faced the ceiling again and closed her eyes, waiting.
Joe cursed himself. What did he notice about her? She only wore minimal make-up.
"You wear hats." His stomach turned at how ridiculous he sounded. He took a breath and tried again. "You wear hats presumably to hide your face, yet you pin your hair back. You wear trousers instead of a dress, though I do not know why. You are bold, not shying away from topics not fit for a lady."
Eyes still closed, Irene smiled again. "Excellent, Doctor. Though you missed several items of importance. Actually, I shall give you credit for pairing my hat with my pinned back hair. Everything else was so general you could've been speaking about anyone. Pay attention to the smallest details. Fingernails: worn, polished, dirty. On the trousers: hair, dust, food. Are the bottoms hemmed, worn, or crisp? Shoes are most important. People often neglect their shoes when trying to make an impression, or covering something up. You have potential, though, so I could not ask for a better foil."
Joe stared at her, certain that if he sifted through her words, he could find a compliment or two. Instead, he called it a night. His mind whirled with the information she'd fed him, and he needed a good night's sleep. He regarded her for a minute longer, as if she were a curiosity. Perhaps she was. A smile played on his lips. She was arrogant and frustrating and yet clever and charming in her own way. He left her on the couch and bid her goodnight.
* * * * *
The next morning, Joe woke later than usual. At almost half-past eight, he made his way down the stairs and into the main room. As he entered, he heard Miss Hudson on her way with morning tea.
Irene hadn't left the couch. She laid on her back as she had the evening prior.
Joe accepted the tea from Miss Hudson and remembered the landlady's words. Go about your business. He sipped his tea and attempted to straighten his hair.
During the war, his head was shaved against his will, and since then, he'd refused to shore his hair. He knew nothing about hair-styling though, so he combed the shaggy mop on his head and hoped for the best.
As the morning went on, he sat on the floor in front of the bookshelf reorganizing his medical texts. He flipped through one and hit on the section regarding sutures. When he'd hemmed his pants, he'd done the quickest and toughest stitch he knew, one strong enough to knit the flank on a horse after a bad injury.
As he tucked the book back on the shelf, the faded scar on his left arm glinted in the light. A shiver went down his spine as the phantom pain ran through him. He'd received that scar a few months before the war officially ended, as punishment for not following directions. He squeezed his eyes shut, willing the painful memories to pass.
He stood and looked out the window at the dreary weather. The sun shone behind the clouds, but the rain threatened to fall within a few hours. Joe could get a quick walk in to explore the new neighbourhood. As he went for his coat, a knock came from the door. Lestrade poked his head in.
"Good morning." He entered the flat and spotted Irene, then raised an eyebrow at Joe. "How are we doing today?"
Joe glanced at Irene, whose eyelids hadn't even blinked. He motioned for Lestrade to follow him to the kitchen. Once both men were tucked beside the counter, Joe spoke.
"She hasn't moved," he kept his voice low. "At all. I left her shortly after ten last night. I can't imagine she slept on the couch. It would be so uncomfortable."
Lestrade gave him a grin. "Relax, dear fellow. This is all in her way. I've seen her do this for days on end. Luckily, today, I've brought news that shall have her up and out of this house within minutes. Observe."
He leaned confidently on the counter.
"My visit today is a professional one," he announced. "A body has turned up in an empty house, with a note written in some red substance no one can figure out, and a man with no visible signs of how he died."
For a second, Joe thought the detective's words were lost in the room, but Lestrade held up three fingers and counted down.
Three.
Two.
One.
"Ha!" Irene said from the couch. "There are always signs. Didn't we learn that last night, Joe?"
Her head popped up over the couch, hair tousled and curly, masking part of her face.
"You've succeeded in intriguing me," she said. "I require a distraction. Give me ten minutes to prepare myself and ask Miss Hudson if she has any biscuits for us to eat on our way."
Lestrade threw Joe another grin and headed out the door.
Irene leapt over the back of the couch, heading straight for her bedroom. As she passed Joe, she paused and looked over his clothes.
"Good," she said. "Trousers not too loose, sleeves rolled up, as usual. Excellent dress for a crime scene. I've got some gloves, and you should tuck a pair in your pocket. No one ever has gloves, and while I'm aware of most things that could harm me, there's always that chance of an unseen substance."
She continued to her room, leaving Joe gaping after her.
"Hold on," he called. "You wish me to come?"
"Of course," she said. "If you have nothing better to do. Think of it as a continuation of our lesson in deduction from last night. Besides, having a medical man around is always useful."
She went into her bedroom, and before Joe was aware of what his feet were doing, he headed to the door again.
Chapter V
A Message on the Brick and A Silver Pin
Irene hadn't solved a murder in quite some time and couldn't contain her excitement as she slid into the cab. Joe followed, and as soon as he shut the door, they were off. From the front seat, Eddy passed a small handful of shortbread biscuits to Irene.
"The corpse," he said. "Is in-"
"Eddy," she snapped. "I shall hear no data until I've asked for such at the crime scene."
"You don't want to hear anything?" Joe asked.
"It is a capital mistake to theorize before you have all the evidence." She held out a biscuit for him. "Here. We shall arrive soon."
The three of them enjoyed the biscuits as the cab navigated the London streets. Irene stared out the window for most of the ride, trying to keep the case from her mind. The clouds were breaking up, any sign of rain slowly fading, the sun attempting to shine on the war-torn city.
As they approached the neighbourhood, Irene tugged her hair scarf tighter, securing her snood. Hats were appropriate for common wear, but a crime scene called for something more practical to keep her hair out of her face. She'd learned that lesson the hard way when her lovely green beret slipped off her head and fell onto a decomposing man's chest.
At her instruction, the cab parked down the street from the house. As soon as she stepped from the vehicle, her eyes darted about the scene.
The house sat in a set of five, all newly constructed, waiting on final touches. Last week, London had nothing but rain, and the mud and dirt left on the road made for excellent clues, the recent sun preserving the mud perfectly. Eddy mentioned that construction had halted on these houses a few months ago, the materials redirected to other, more pressing projects downtown.
Irene wandered down the pavement, paying close attention to the tracks on the road. She picked up a set and found where the back and front tires were paralleled.
Twelve feet apart. A long, large car.
The tracks meandered, bumping the curb several times, leaving flecks of red paint, then stopping approximately fifty feet down the street.
She approached the garden entrance and spotted a configuration of multiple footprints. Eddy should know better than to let this many people compromise the crime scene. She followed the footprints, taking stock of the different tracks.
A pair went halfway to the hou
se and appeared to walk in a few erratic circles, before entering.
Two sets walked directly to the house, close together. A large pair of square-toed boots and a small pair of round-toe boots, not much bigger than hers. She approached the door, keeping her eyes down on the prints. Both sets went into the house, but only the smaller one came out, walking quickly, with a purpose.
Time to locate the body.
She continued to the front steps, hunched over, following the tracks. A tall, pale man blocked the door, and she recognized him by his trousers alone. Orange cat hair dotted the material, and his boots were of the most expensive kind.
Irene straightened and faced the man.
"What good fortune," she said. "Two of London's finest detectives. Is this case competition like the previous, or are we all going to get along?"
Thom Gregory narrowed his blue eyes at her and pushed himself off the door frame.
"We always get along, Holmes," he said. "You tag along with Ed?"
She nodded. "Thought you boys could use the help."
He spat out a cuss word, then lowered his voice as if revealing a secret. "I have all the facts I can gather, but I can't bloody well put them together. Ed and I have already agreed I get first claim to the accolades, but help is welcome."
"Glad you sorted out who gets the credit." She patted his shoulder hard. "Very important during a murder investigation."
Thom was one of the best-dressed men in London, and even Irene would admit that he was conventionally handsome. His smart dress and obvious intelligence were only hindered by his somewhat off-colour language, no doubt common in the trenches of war.
Thom held up his hand, stopping the person approaching behind Irene.
"Who are you?" he asked.
"This is my colleague," Irene said.
Joe extended his hand. "Doctor Joe Watson, a pleasure to meet you."
Thom took Joe's hand and laughed. "Watson? You sure know how to pick them, Irene."
She scowled and swatted Thom's arm. "A dead body is waiting. Move, Thomas."
He obliged and let her pass, chatting with Eddy.
A Study in Victory Red Page 4