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holmesticeTitle: A Mouth of Ivy
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
karstcrystal
Recipient:havlockvetinari
Character/Pairings: Lestrade/Gregson friendship (and grudging it is).
Rating: PG
Warnings: Hungry children at Christmas, poverty, destitution. Murders lurking in the background.
Summary: Mr. Lestrade has to go undercover to investigate a very strange sort of Christmas murders. Unfortunately for him, Gregson is helping the investigation. The information about holly-sellers is all too true. Toby Irish is my own creation.
A/N: This fic turned into a monster, and it is going to be a mini-epic posted to my lj before Christmas. So, without further ado (and realizing I have to let the go for now), I produce the first chapter that started it all. Thanks much to havlockvetinari for giving me the challenge fic:
“Granada, ACD or RDJ Holmes. Or any mishmash of the three, providing Lestrade is Granada/ACD!Ferret!Lestrade. (You can probably tell where this request is going.) Super extra bonus points to anyone that can swing The Great Mouse Detective refrences. Lestrade fic. Lestrade/Gregson is my favorite, but him in the middle of a H/W/L would be cool too. Or even Lestrade/Yardie-of-Your-Choice. Can you convince me of Lestrade/Mycroft? Go for it! I just want Lestrade being a BAMF. Love seeing his touch of OCD mentioned, him bickering with Gregson, getting into fights and trouncing guys twice his size because he's vicious and fights like a sewer rat. I like watching the Yardies be competent, not in a 'we don't need Holmes' way, but showing off that they are good cops and have their jobs for a damn reason. I like Lestrade and Gregson showing off why they're "the best of a bad lot". I like watching the Yardies bitch about Mister Holmes.
On more plotty notes: I adore casefic, especially stuff that requires Lestrade to go undercover, because I think he has a hard time losing himself in it. Involvement of Mycroft and a SuperSekritMission would be loved. History!geek is a history geek and loves incorperation of period events/cases, but it's not required at all because I know it's a pain. While smut is never turned down, plot will be greeted with great squee and need not even include shippyness. I also love character-study stuff, and relationship analysis (why/how things work)and would lovelove something where Gregson and Lestrade have to admit that they're at least friends (in a 'I swear if you die I'll kill you' way) and maybe something more.”
This is what ze doesn't want: “Het ships of canons (Watson/Mary excepted), watersports, non-con between two canons (so traumatized!past is fine), BBC 'verse.”
I hope my little pun about Basil and the mouse will make them happy.
A Mouth of Ivy
Even after decades working for the badge, most policemen (either plain-clothed or uniformed) wouldn’t doubt the innate goodness that rests inside most people.
They just wish people didn’t have to fight so bloody hard for that goodness to get anywhere.
In a city the size of London on the Year of Our Lord, 1880, fighting is the common mathematical denominator.
Christmas in London ironically means more fighting than what would be considered. Money might appear to flow like water for a precious few days or weeks, but the money has to get to the hands first if the holiday is to be paid for. To this end there was more than a bit of creative thinking put to work, and some of that thinking was of the illegal nature. Adding to this change in the usual London scheme is the fact that the already-large city of millions is filled to bursting with the superfluous members of the English population. Relatives may return, but the true influx is in the poor and desperate among the outerlying areas. Work is a hope to bring the most jaded of mindsets to the dirty streets, and for the most part even a small, menial wage is possible. That it lasts only for a few weeks is unimportant. Work is always needed. Unfortunately, not all forms of work were legal.
Toby Irish felt the chill soak through his cheap shoes into the bones of his feet. The boy stamped hurriedly, and shuddered as he wrapped himself deep within the layers of his battered little coat. Normally he wore the largest-sized clothing that could be had, but that didn’t mean much this time of year and until the next week’s coal came in, his older sister could use that coat while she tatted her laces. The way things were going, her lace would bring more money in than he would by the coming morn, and the thought depressed him both as a brother and as the standing man of the house.
He was too cold—and anyway, too big—to join the other children shrieking down the streets in their collection of paper-rubbish. Even the ones off barefoot could dodge the traffic and nip around the horses faster than he could today. The sight made him pull a face. It was an expressive face, but he never thought about it. Being dumb meant he had to show what he was thinking and feeling.
It was why he was uneasy about his hopes for work. Strangers needed to be taught his form of language. That took time, time he didn’t have. Not only was Christmas coming, but so was the need for money.
He was ten years old this winter…at least he thought that was his age. In the Irish clan, the numbers of coin and fee were important, not the numbers for marking years. He had sisters and a brother still alive, and a mother and uncle but his father’s passing left him half-orphaned in more ways than one. His only benefactor was a feared grandmother who had no idea the pence she sent for his schooling went to pay for their rented room by the poultry yards. That 7d a week was going into things that took on urgency with the freezing fogs.
It would have been better, he knew bitterly, if Uncle Winnie hadn’t gone back to carving his loaded tatts. They could have made so much money off the pheasants…they had every year. But Winnie would be doing his drag in the box past Christmas and all the way through New Year’s and probably even Candlemass too.
The family survived from year to year making do with what they had, but game-poaching was the once-a-year, glorious venture that brought them in just enough to get by and eat as much as they wanted to for the cold months. Toby’s father, “Blue Johnson” had been the best in the art, but he was dead and Winnie didn’t have the same gift. It made Toby weary to think of it, for he missed their Christmas dinners with always a plum pudding and twice he could remember the luxury of a turkey at the table.
Toby sadly pulled out the small bit of butcher’s-paper hiding in his pocket for extra warmth. He’d been carrying it all week, and it was still the same, sobering list as ever:
Goose club: 4d, ¾
Plum Pudding Club: 2d
Coal; 1/2/2
The rest of the paper was covered with his many attempts to write off what he had left. The weekly fee for the plum pudding was the first one he could finish, but it made him sick to think the family would sit down at the table and have a pudding without the goose. He knew Mr. Hartwell enough that he knew that a lifetime of supplying the man with illegal pheasant, pigeon, and grouse wasn’t enough to call fair if they fell short of the last payment for the goose club by a week. Six bob for the brute, and they were running out of time to buy it.
He wondered if they had trapped themselves by joining the goose club. Pigeons might have been better for the table…there wouldn’t have been much meat but his mother made a soup with the birds using potatoes and just a bit of parsely…he gnawed his lip to think of that soup now.
The boy hunched inside his layers of dirty cloth, all the clothing he owned in his name, and took small steps through the patches of ice and frozen garbage that clogged the ways. His shoes were thinned wood and thinner with use; the ice was slowly shaving the bottoms to splinters but the three layers of ratty wool beneath ought to help him until they finally fell through.
Although his belly growled, he ignored it. People went hungry in London to often it wasn’t even worth a note. Being tired and cold was more important. Most of his day had been spent trying to run errands for the usual clients who needed a swift boy, but his usual luck was failing him.
It wasn’t unexpected. London was crammed to bursting this time of year with people. Even in the feverish heat of the Huntley regattas he wouldn’t see as many people on the streets as now. They weren’t here just for the Christmas, or to see their families, but to find work.
The wind chopped across the boy’s face and he burrowed further down into the remnants of his tattered collar and muffler. Soot-cinders could dig under the eyelids if one wasn’t careful, and Toby had no desire to celebrate the holiday with pinkeye. He was forced to stop at a funeral procession crossing the High Street; he waited impatiently as the black-plumed horses finished their jaunt, stamping his feet in place like a trotting horse himself. Sometimes a person had money thrown to the poor on their way to the last resting-place. It was clearly not one of these people.
“Toby Irish why aren’t you in school?”
Toby nearly jumped from the shock and half-spun on his slippery heels to find a spectacle looking back at him. The man was average-sized for London, which meant he was smallish-sided with a lean, sallow face framed about two snapping dark eyes. A slick of grease coated every exposed bit of skin against the cold and he wore a brilliant red muffler about his neck, a dark green frock-coat about his shoulders. A battered bowler perched over his dark hair and he wore country-style trousers tucked inside the tops of his boots. None of this was the least bit interesting, however, compared to the man’s choice of ornament. A sprig of berried holly depended from his hat-brim, at his exposed tie like a tie-pin, the front pocket of his coat, and even upon his tin watch-chain.
Toby forced himself to recover and managed to shrug. This was how he normally dealt with questions, but the man wasn’t fooled.
“Does Mr. Gregson know where you are?”
Toby forgot himself and swallowed hard.
“Toby…” A trail-off and a sigh, a shake of the head was the summary. As Toby watched he leaned backward against a beaten-looking wooden push-cart filled to the brim with holly, and rolled out a cigarette. Toby thought about it, and pulled out the fag-end of his own collection from his sleeve. His companion smoker lifted an eyebrow at the sight of a young boy with the shreds of a Spanish cigar, but permitted the sharing of the match. Man and boy cupped their hands against the fey winds nipping around the corners and puffed until there was no telling if their natural breath or the smoke was the source of the blue-white plumes.
“He’ll be furious, you know. And you can’t argue with him the way you can with me.”
Toby grinned sheepishly, even though it meant some of the smoke escaped.
The Holly-man muttered something under his breath and put his hands on his hips, cigarette hanging off his lips. Toby stared, fascinated at this display of utter slovenliness.
“Could use you for a job, lad. London needs a-Christmasing. Are you busy with anything right now?”
Toby pretended to think, but his heart beat fast. The chance for money was good if it meant Christmasing. He’d thought of it longingly enough but it was dangerous work for a single boy—more so if that boy was mute.
Agreeing to work on the hollies meant a chance for a bit of money and also it would keep the ire of Inspector Gregson off his neck. The man was a terror, especially if he thought you needed keeping.
“Watch out for that little scamp, Galvin.” A passing bobby offered—Toby too late remembered him as PC Golden, a man who was missing a handkerchief thanks to Toby and a dare from the Paddington Street Gewgaws. “And you, young Mr. Irish,” a sharp stare peered out from the brim of a blue helmet, “I’ll not be seeing you fanning the pockets of Galvin. The Tinkers have quite enough to deal with without your help.’
Toby gulped hard and shook his head, sending a cloud of louse-powder from his short-cropped hair. Both men sighed and the gipsy man shook his head one more time. “I can put him to work, you never fear, sir.” The little man assured him with the broad, white-toothed grin known among the Tinkers. “Hard to be dishonest when pounding on a drum, lad. What say you?”
Toby had never been able to try the Christmasing trade before. It was interesting. First Galvin gave him the mentioned drum—it was pounded metal inside a wooden hoop—and he beat upon the surface with a balled stick as they went down the street. Galvin bawled at the top of his lungs the presence of the holly, a penny a sprig, come sprig the puddings, come bring Christmas to the door, a ha’penny if not a penny, and come for a lot, only sixpence. They sold as they went, man, woman and even a child—a girl about Toby’s age who wanted half a lot to take home for her sisters. Toby blushed to pass the prickly greenery to her, and was glad she didn’t notice him.
Galvin cocked an eyebrow when she left, and said pointedly, “If you want to make sure a pretty lass never notices you, keep forgetting how to bathe.” He clucked his tongue at the boy. “Almost to the greengrocer’s and we can stop for a bit.”
Toby soon learnt this meant one greengrocer in particular: A plump woman with a strange accent mixed up with cant. She had grey hair pulled into a bun and three aprons over her wool dress and carried enough mixed greens to bewilder a boy. It all spilled over the sides of wooden boxes inside the closed-in shop and pungent onion-like things hung from the tops of the ceiling with hot-pepper strands.
Galvin got along famously with the woman, for she bussed him on the cheek like a mother and scolded him for not eating right, one didn’t dare get thin in winter, and although the Gipsy tried his best to get a word in edgewise, she ignored his attempts until she had the pot off the coals and hot cups of tea before them both.
“And leaving a young boy out in this,” she charged the man in front of the few customers examining the leeks and lettuces. “Ashamed you should be. Just ashamed. Have a biscuit, I made them myself.” And off she went to demonstrate the quality of her sage-bundles to a worried-looking housekeeper.
Toby was ferociously hungry at this point, but the biscuits were long and thick and as hard as frozen shoe-leather and it took time to gnaw on one end while holding the teacup. His jaw was hurting when Galvin noticed and the man cleared his throat and dunked his biscuit into the tea. Toby thought that was passing strange, but he copied Galvin and found the biscuit had grown soft and pleasant. It tasted sweet and something like the little paper cups the Italian ice man left behind on the streets of a hot day.
“Here you are, I’ll just have my tea. I et a scone earlier.” Galvin passed his portion to the boy, who quickly stuffed it up his sleeve for safekeeping. Galvin never blinked, lifting his voice to the greengrocer: “Did you get the garlands, Missus?”
‘Of course I did.” She shiffed back. “Bays and rosemary both…what do you take me for, young man? What you should be asking me is, have I changed my prices since we last talked?”
“If you had, I would have trusted you to tell me as soon as we crossed your doorway.” Galvin grinned insolently and propped his elbow on the side of a wooden crate marked SALSIFY. Toby didn’t know what it was and the label, that of a realistic-looking painting of a large green plant growing oysters like flowers, gave him no clues. “Did Mr. Gregson tell you to give me a hard time?”
“As if the likes of you needed help with a hard time, you rascal. I declare upon you. I’ll be sure to tell the good Inspector myself…he comes in with the Missus every evening, you know.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” Galvin chuckled at the panic on Toby’s face. “Walk a bit and get yourself warmed up.” He advised.
Toby did, eyeing the strange explosions of growth that was hanging or in boxes or sometimes even growing. In the warmth of the shop a cluster of something that smelled spicy and sweetish was growing in a broken wine-cask. He frowned trying to place the smell and caught himself looking into the tiny, bright eyes of a mouse behind the woody stem. Mouse and boy stared at each other, and with the lazy confidence of an indoor rodent, the little creature slipped back into the shadows.
“Do you like my basil?” the old woman had come up behind him, smiling with her remaining teeth. “Difficult to keep in the cold, but good. The vermin they cannot stand it, no.”
“Here we are, Hettie.” Galvin lifted up a small packet. “What say you to these as part of the bargain?”
Hettie sniffed, her wrinkled face carving strange lines in the firelight. “I suppose if you want me to take your money from you.” A clucking sound emerged from her throat. “Christmas fools and no doubt, no doubt.”
“Not bad.” Galvin said as they returned to the cold. The tea had been black and strong, heavy with honey instead of the usual cheap treacle. Toby felt full to bursting under its power and hammered with the drum eagerly for another half-hour as grey snowflakes filtered down the sky.
He was surprised when they stopped for bread and more tea, the tea from a metal can kept under Galvin’s shirt like the sort the Bobbies carried. Galvin flashed a quick grin at the boy and sprung up, one hand on the metal lamp-post, tucking the can next to the low-burning white glow of the gaslight. While it heated he barked a quick order to another Gipsy with a passing cart of wax-wrapped slices of bread. Galvin haggled, passed over a ha-penny sprig for two of the packets and wrangled a promise to get a cheaper deal on his next order. Toby tore open the paper and bit into the bread with a starving relish, but Galvin put a heavy hand on his shoulder, stopping him.
“Go ahead and give us the rest of it, Hob.”
Hob chuckled at the boy and pulled out a warm metal pot that curled steam from under the tiny lid.
Galvin caught Toby’s confused stare. “You’re in for a Gipsy treat.” He promised. “Hold out your bread there.” The little pot proved to be a hot measure of drippings that smelt of mutton and rosemary. Toby forced himself to chew slowly, hoping the taste would stay with him for the rest of the day. When they finished Galvin pulled down the tea-can and they shared the hot liquid.
The rest of the evening was uneventful, if a little strange. The police gave them a little trouble here and there, asking about the source of the hollies, but Galvin took it in stride and answered calmly with just enough cheek that showed he was starch enough to stand by his words. But even more queer was the presence of the other men with the Christmasing carts. A few looked nervous as they wheeled by, and their greetings were quick and curt. Two failed to look Galvin in the eye at all, and one, a scrawny man with twin girls to help, paused on the connector to Paddington Street and struck up a conversation.
“Didn’t I tell you to be more careful, Galvin? The gents will be hard on you if you don’t do what you’re told.” He passed an odd look to Toby. “Me, I’ve got little’uns to feed…I didn’t know you did too.”
“Shut your gob, you old mother hen.” Galvin chuckled and lit another cheap fag. “He’s not mine, I’m just borrowing him a bit. I need a boy who can do as he’s told.”
With that passing of words, Toby was more confused than ever, but his belly was growling again (he didn’t know why it behaved worse after a little food was in it), and the lamps were taking the place of the pressing darkness.
Galvin smoked in silence for half the length of the fag and exhaled the last through his nostrils, passing the nearly-dead end to Toby’s eager fingers. Toby had room for one good puff before the bit was twisted dead and hidden inside a pocket.
“What have I told you about making use of these orphans, Galvin?”
At the gruff sound of Inspector Gregson, Toby flinched almost into the cart but Galvin’s eyes only narrowed, and he stared fearlessly up at the much-taller man.
“Not a making if giving a boy honest work, am I Inspector?” He almost whined in a voice that would have deserved caning on a boy. “He’s just helping me along with my sales.”
Mr. Gregson’s pale face flushed red and square under the brim of a soft-crowned bowler, and he thrust large gloved hands inside his pockets before he spoke again. Around them people scurried, keeping to their business and hoping no one noticed them.
“And where would you be getting this fine crop of holly, Galvin? Been poaching the greens of the estates again?”
“Sir!” Galvin squawked, but Mr. Gregson was already lifting one hand up, his face composed and bored.
“I don’t need telling you that any man with the holly is a suspect right now, sir. Unless you’d like a conversation about your day with Mr. Lestrade I recommend you keep to a straight road. The man’s much less reasonable than I am, and you know for a fact he’s not as smart.”
“Well, right I know sir,” Galvin sounded quite abashed. “Right I know.”
Gregson’s glittering blue eyes swept over Toby. “So that’s where you are instead of school.” Toby cringed. “Are you earning honest wages, lad?”
Toby considered the food he’d eaten and had no qualms with nodding eagerly. Galvin’s share of the evening—half a crown’s worth of money—jingled in his palm.
“Hand it over, my lad.”
Toby blanched but did as he was told. Mr. Gregson pocketed the coins without pause. “Then off you go with Galvin. I’ll take this to your good mother and assure that you’re in good hands for the next few days. Christmassing will be over and done with before you know it, and you’d best take advantage of your time.” Mr. Gregson sniffed. “You might sell better if he’s clean.”
“I was already planning on that when I got back.” Galvin said hastily.
“Good.” Mr. Gregson lumbered away, his large form riding over the mass of walking men and women.
“That puffed-up, conceited…” Glavin grumbled under his breath. “That fat-handed…”
They went to Paddington Street through a route that was far more trouble than it was worth. Galvin led them through a maze of snickets and back-alley paths until the boy was dizzy, and he hurried the holly-cart up to a narrow gate with strange looking carvings. Galvin boosted Toby up and the boy scooted over the top of the brick wall and hopped down, un-latching the door from the inside so Galvin could get through. The Gipsy breathed an outside puff of relief—absolute relief—and set the cart up against the wall as Toby locked the door.
“Thank goodness,” he said in a much different tone. “All right, my lad. I have to get this inside the small shed ahead of you…can you carry a good arms-load of that holly into the kitchen for me?”
They stumbled in with the last of the cart’s contents, and the housekeeper fluttered with her apron and fussed over Toby, asked Galvin why he was so late getting home and didn’t he know the poor boy was half-knackered?
“He’s strong as a little French horse, Mrs. Collins.” Galvin stopped as he gently lowered the berried branches to a work-table, and yanked off his hat, muffler, and thin gloves with a deep breath. Out of his disguise it was hard to imagine he had ever been a Gipsy.
“Mr. Lestrade, you are fortunate I have an extra supper built up. As soon as the two of you are cleansed of your day on the road I shall bring it to you.”
Toby liked being warm, but being warm in a bath-tub was a new experience. Mr. Lestrade told him in blunt words that he’d best get clean and he didn’t care how many changes of water or turns of the geyser it cost; if he failed the lice-comb he was going to head straight to the paraffin and newspapers to take care of the little loafers.
Toby was glad to pass the lice-comb test.
Warm and clean, he sat wrapped up in a long wool shirt of Mr. Lestrade’s that came down to the tops of his knees and a pair of socks that fit his feet quite well. Mr. Lestrade carved up a dish of fried apples and onions and thin slices of real salted pork. He didn’t seem to mind that Toby ate like a wolf, but he pressed more bread and butter into the boy as he ate the other things. Much later with a groaning belly, Toby guessed he was wanting to take matters carefully and not let him fill on all the salt. The tea in the pot was red and tasted like the brew his mother used to make, back when his father was still alive.
“You’re looking better now, Toby.” Mr. Lestrade mused. He had stopped smoking once he was inside, but his dark eyes were thoughtful upon the boy. “How do you feel? Are you ready for bed yet?” A no was his answer. “Fair enough, lad. Would you be interested in helping me with a case?” The Inspector’s mouth smiled rarely, but it was smiling now. “It won’t be pleasant. You’d have to be with me as a step through cold fields and cut holly…probably some mistletoe as well. We have to collect a wagon of holly and that will take most of the day all by itself, but you can be paid for it, and you’ll be paid for it well.”
Toby thought of that, the half-crown, and the food he’d eaten that day and nodded without a doubt.
“Good lad.” Mr. Lestrade grinned. “We don’t want to upset Mr. Gregson, do we?”
Toby wondered about that as Mr. Lestrade bundled him into a sleeping pallet against the fireplace. The coal hissed and smelled like metals and the boy was comforted at how familiar it was. It reminded him of his home.
Mr. Gregson was always around, he thought a bit resentfully. Always around, always getting in his way and asking his business. It was hard to keep track of the man and yet he fussed too. He almost forced Mr. Lestrade to bring him home tonight, and wanted him to be cleaned up.
He didn’t understand, but he supposed if he was clever and careful the answers would come to him by the morrow.
Tomorrow came earlier than expected. He was still blinking awake over tea with lots of milk when a loud rap rattled the door.
Mr. Lestrade swore. “Ease off, Gregson!” He snapped. “We’re not deaf here!”
Mr. Gregson ignored that. He swept in with his face pink. “We’ve found him.” He announced. He passed a glance and a nod over to Toby. “There’s no doubt about it.”
Mr. Lestrade swore again. “What kind of proof do we have?”
“All circumstantial. Even Mr. Holmes can’t get anything concrete.”
“Heavens of all the times not to want a Christmas miracle.” Lestrade rose to his feet and Toby noted he almost absently put a fresh bit of bread down for Mr. Gregson. The bigger man bit into the hot roll without so much as a thank you. “So now what? Did I freeze my face off all week for nothing?”
Gregson smirked. “Wouldn’t say that…it still has some freezing to go to fix your profile, Ratty. No, we’re sticking to the plan.”
Mr. Lestrade looked straight at Toby. “What about the lad?” He wanted to know.
“You told him much?”
Toby shrugged at them, stuffing more porridge into his mouth. With his free hand he spelled the letters in the air: J-O-B.
“Well a job it is.” Gregson said soberly. “We’ve got a funny gang running around, scaring the Christmassers half to death and demanding they turn over part of their money or part of their holly. That’s a lot of money. Do you know how much?”
Toby shook his head, no, and mimed a heap of coins on the floor.
“Try a hundred and fifty pounds at least for the amount of holly bought for the big church by Bow.” Mr. Lestrade said softly. “It’s enough to kill for.”
Toby gulped at the thought of all that money.
“But we could use a bright boy like you.” Mr. Gregson added. “You’re smart, you’re quick…and you see a lot. What we can’t figure out is who the people really are behind this, or why they’re going after the greensmen.”
Toby made a question sign.
“We’re not certain.” Mr. Gregson looked at Mr. Lestrade and for once, the two didn’t look angry at each other. “We think they’re hiding something bigger behind the thieving…you know, how you used to lift someone’s pockets and people would chase you, leaving the rest of your little gang to take care of the rest of the gulls.”
“At least, we hope this is what you aren’t doing any more.” Mr. Lestrade added dryly.
“Ha.” Gregson said. “Mr. Lestrade’s been gussied up as Galvin the Gip for a week. He’s been carting off to several estates with their permission, stripping down the hollies, the ivies and the mistletoes, and he’s been making note of who comes and goes. But its rough work and its hungry work. He could use some help, an extra pair of eyes and ears. Most holly-men have a boy or two to help them anyway. It would help with the disguise—“
“Stop it, Gregson.” Mr. Lestrade snapped. “Toby, this could be dangerous. Some people are missing that shouldn’t be. The only thing they had in common was they were a-Christmassing for money and taking the greens to the churches and large-houses. We have a good idea on what’s happening, but we don’t have proof, and we certainly don’t have a good description of all the people concerned.”
“Interested?” Gregson grinned.
Toby thought it over quickly. He was ten, too old for the street-urchins now, and while he was quick for an adult he wasn’t quick enough to compete on the street. So far he’d been paid in food and something to do, and Mr. Gregson had sent the money on to his mother.
He held out his hand to shake.
First Mr. Lestrade, then Mr. Gregson took it to seal the deal.
Author:
karstcrystalRecipient:
havlockvetinariCharacter/Pairings: Lestrade/Gregson friendship (and grudging it is).
Rating: PG
Warnings: Hungry children at Christmas, poverty, destitution. Murders lurking in the background.
Summary: Mr. Lestrade has to go undercover to investigate a very strange sort of Christmas murders. Unfortunately for him, Gregson is helping the investigation. The information about holly-sellers is all too true. Toby Irish is my own creation.
A/N: This fic turned into a monster, and it is going to be a mini-epic posted to my lj before Christmas. So, without further ado (and realizing I have to let the go for now), I produce the first chapter that started it all. Thanks much to havlockvetinari for giving me the challenge fic:
“Granada, ACD or RDJ Holmes. Or any mishmash of the three, providing Lestrade is Granada/ACD!Ferret!Lestrade. (You can probably tell where this request is going.) Super extra bonus points to anyone that can swing The Great Mouse Detective refrences. Lestrade fic. Lestrade/Gregson is my favorite, but him in the middle of a H/W/L would be cool too. Or even Lestrade/Yardie-of-Your-Choice. Can you convince me of Lestrade/Mycroft? Go for it! I just want Lestrade being a BAMF. Love seeing his touch of OCD mentioned, him bickering with Gregson, getting into fights and trouncing guys twice his size because he's vicious and fights like a sewer rat. I like watching the Yardies be competent, not in a 'we don't need Holmes' way, but showing off that they are good cops and have their jobs for a damn reason. I like Lestrade and Gregson showing off why they're "the best of a bad lot". I like watching the Yardies bitch about Mister Holmes.
On more plotty notes: I adore casefic, especially stuff that requires Lestrade to go undercover, because I think he has a hard time losing himself in it. Involvement of Mycroft and a SuperSekritMission would be loved. History!geek is a history geek and loves incorperation of period events/cases, but it's not required at all because I know it's a pain. While smut is never turned down, plot will be greeted with great squee and need not even include shippyness. I also love character-study stuff, and relationship analysis (why/how things work)and would lovelove something where Gregson and Lestrade have to admit that they're at least friends (in a 'I swear if you die I'll kill you' way) and maybe something more.”
This is what ze doesn't want: “Het ships of canons (Watson/Mary excepted), watersports, non-con between two canons (so traumatized!past is fine), BBC 'verse.”
I hope my little pun about Basil and the mouse will make them happy.
Even after decades working for the badge, most policemen (either plain-clothed or uniformed) wouldn’t doubt the innate goodness that rests inside most people.
They just wish people didn’t have to fight so bloody hard for that goodness to get anywhere.
In a city the size of London on the Year of Our Lord, 1880, fighting is the common mathematical denominator.
Christmas in London ironically means more fighting than what would be considered. Money might appear to flow like water for a precious few days or weeks, but the money has to get to the hands first if the holiday is to be paid for. To this end there was more than a bit of creative thinking put to work, and some of that thinking was of the illegal nature. Adding to this change in the usual London scheme is the fact that the already-large city of millions is filled to bursting with the superfluous members of the English population. Relatives may return, but the true influx is in the poor and desperate among the outerlying areas. Work is a hope to bring the most jaded of mindsets to the dirty streets, and for the most part even a small, menial wage is possible. That it lasts only for a few weeks is unimportant. Work is always needed. Unfortunately, not all forms of work were legal.
Toby Irish felt the chill soak through his cheap shoes into the bones of his feet. The boy stamped hurriedly, and shuddered as he wrapped himself deep within the layers of his battered little coat. Normally he wore the largest-sized clothing that could be had, but that didn’t mean much this time of year and until the next week’s coal came in, his older sister could use that coat while she tatted her laces. The way things were going, her lace would bring more money in than he would by the coming morn, and the thought depressed him both as a brother and as the standing man of the house.
He was too cold—and anyway, too big—to join the other children shrieking down the streets in their collection of paper-rubbish. Even the ones off barefoot could dodge the traffic and nip around the horses faster than he could today. The sight made him pull a face. It was an expressive face, but he never thought about it. Being dumb meant he had to show what he was thinking and feeling.
It was why he was uneasy about his hopes for work. Strangers needed to be taught his form of language. That took time, time he didn’t have. Not only was Christmas coming, but so was the need for money.
He was ten years old this winter…at least he thought that was his age. In the Irish clan, the numbers of coin and fee were important, not the numbers for marking years. He had sisters and a brother still alive, and a mother and uncle but his father’s passing left him half-orphaned in more ways than one. His only benefactor was a feared grandmother who had no idea the pence she sent for his schooling went to pay for their rented room by the poultry yards. That 7d a week was going into things that took on urgency with the freezing fogs.
It would have been better, he knew bitterly, if Uncle Winnie hadn’t gone back to carving his loaded tatts. They could have made so much money off the pheasants…they had every year. But Winnie would be doing his drag in the box past Christmas and all the way through New Year’s and probably even Candlemass too.
The family survived from year to year making do with what they had, but game-poaching was the once-a-year, glorious venture that brought them in just enough to get by and eat as much as they wanted to for the cold months. Toby’s father, “Blue Johnson” had been the best in the art, but he was dead and Winnie didn’t have the same gift. It made Toby weary to think of it, for he missed their Christmas dinners with always a plum pudding and twice he could remember the luxury of a turkey at the table.
Toby sadly pulled out the small bit of butcher’s-paper hiding in his pocket for extra warmth. He’d been carrying it all week, and it was still the same, sobering list as ever:
Goose club: 4d, ¾
Plum Pudding Club: 2d
Coal; 1/2/2
The rest of the paper was covered with his many attempts to write off what he had left. The weekly fee for the plum pudding was the first one he could finish, but it made him sick to think the family would sit down at the table and have a pudding without the goose. He knew Mr. Hartwell enough that he knew that a lifetime of supplying the man with illegal pheasant, pigeon, and grouse wasn’t enough to call fair if they fell short of the last payment for the goose club by a week. Six bob for the brute, and they were running out of time to buy it.
He wondered if they had trapped themselves by joining the goose club. Pigeons might have been better for the table…there wouldn’t have been much meat but his mother made a soup with the birds using potatoes and just a bit of parsely…he gnawed his lip to think of that soup now.
The boy hunched inside his layers of dirty cloth, all the clothing he owned in his name, and took small steps through the patches of ice and frozen garbage that clogged the ways. His shoes were thinned wood and thinner with use; the ice was slowly shaving the bottoms to splinters but the three layers of ratty wool beneath ought to help him until they finally fell through.
Although his belly growled, he ignored it. People went hungry in London to often it wasn’t even worth a note. Being tired and cold was more important. Most of his day had been spent trying to run errands for the usual clients who needed a swift boy, but his usual luck was failing him.
It wasn’t unexpected. London was crammed to bursting this time of year with people. Even in the feverish heat of the Huntley regattas he wouldn’t see as many people on the streets as now. They weren’t here just for the Christmas, or to see their families, but to find work.
The wind chopped across the boy’s face and he burrowed further down into the remnants of his tattered collar and muffler. Soot-cinders could dig under the eyelids if one wasn’t careful, and Toby had no desire to celebrate the holiday with pinkeye. He was forced to stop at a funeral procession crossing the High Street; he waited impatiently as the black-plumed horses finished their jaunt, stamping his feet in place like a trotting horse himself. Sometimes a person had money thrown to the poor on their way to the last resting-place. It was clearly not one of these people.
“Toby Irish why aren’t you in school?”
Toby nearly jumped from the shock and half-spun on his slippery heels to find a spectacle looking back at him. The man was average-sized for London, which meant he was smallish-sided with a lean, sallow face framed about two snapping dark eyes. A slick of grease coated every exposed bit of skin against the cold and he wore a brilliant red muffler about his neck, a dark green frock-coat about his shoulders. A battered bowler perched over his dark hair and he wore country-style trousers tucked inside the tops of his boots. None of this was the least bit interesting, however, compared to the man’s choice of ornament. A sprig of berried holly depended from his hat-brim, at his exposed tie like a tie-pin, the front pocket of his coat, and even upon his tin watch-chain.
Toby forced himself to recover and managed to shrug. This was how he normally dealt with questions, but the man wasn’t fooled.
“Does Mr. Gregson know where you are?”
Toby forgot himself and swallowed hard.
“Toby…” A trail-off and a sigh, a shake of the head was the summary. As Toby watched he leaned backward against a beaten-looking wooden push-cart filled to the brim with holly, and rolled out a cigarette. Toby thought about it, and pulled out the fag-end of his own collection from his sleeve. His companion smoker lifted an eyebrow at the sight of a young boy with the shreds of a Spanish cigar, but permitted the sharing of the match. Man and boy cupped their hands against the fey winds nipping around the corners and puffed until there was no telling if their natural breath or the smoke was the source of the blue-white plumes.
“He’ll be furious, you know. And you can’t argue with him the way you can with me.”
Toby grinned sheepishly, even though it meant some of the smoke escaped.
The Holly-man muttered something under his breath and put his hands on his hips, cigarette hanging off his lips. Toby stared, fascinated at this display of utter slovenliness.
“Could use you for a job, lad. London needs a-Christmasing. Are you busy with anything right now?”
Toby pretended to think, but his heart beat fast. The chance for money was good if it meant Christmasing. He’d thought of it longingly enough but it was dangerous work for a single boy—more so if that boy was mute.
Agreeing to work on the hollies meant a chance for a bit of money and also it would keep the ire of Inspector Gregson off his neck. The man was a terror, especially if he thought you needed keeping.
“Watch out for that little scamp, Galvin.” A passing bobby offered—Toby too late remembered him as PC Golden, a man who was missing a handkerchief thanks to Toby and a dare from the Paddington Street Gewgaws. “And you, young Mr. Irish,” a sharp stare peered out from the brim of a blue helmet, “I’ll not be seeing you fanning the pockets of Galvin. The Tinkers have quite enough to deal with without your help.’
Toby gulped hard and shook his head, sending a cloud of louse-powder from his short-cropped hair. Both men sighed and the gipsy man shook his head one more time. “I can put him to work, you never fear, sir.” The little man assured him with the broad, white-toothed grin known among the Tinkers. “Hard to be dishonest when pounding on a drum, lad. What say you?”
Toby had never been able to try the Christmasing trade before. It was interesting. First Galvin gave him the mentioned drum—it was pounded metal inside a wooden hoop—and he beat upon the surface with a balled stick as they went down the street. Galvin bawled at the top of his lungs the presence of the holly, a penny a sprig, come sprig the puddings, come bring Christmas to the door, a ha’penny if not a penny, and come for a lot, only sixpence. They sold as they went, man, woman and even a child—a girl about Toby’s age who wanted half a lot to take home for her sisters. Toby blushed to pass the prickly greenery to her, and was glad she didn’t notice him.
Galvin cocked an eyebrow when she left, and said pointedly, “If you want to make sure a pretty lass never notices you, keep forgetting how to bathe.” He clucked his tongue at the boy. “Almost to the greengrocer’s and we can stop for a bit.”
Toby soon learnt this meant one greengrocer in particular: A plump woman with a strange accent mixed up with cant. She had grey hair pulled into a bun and three aprons over her wool dress and carried enough mixed greens to bewilder a boy. It all spilled over the sides of wooden boxes inside the closed-in shop and pungent onion-like things hung from the tops of the ceiling with hot-pepper strands.
Galvin got along famously with the woman, for she bussed him on the cheek like a mother and scolded him for not eating right, one didn’t dare get thin in winter, and although the Gipsy tried his best to get a word in edgewise, she ignored his attempts until she had the pot off the coals and hot cups of tea before them both.
“And leaving a young boy out in this,” she charged the man in front of the few customers examining the leeks and lettuces. “Ashamed you should be. Just ashamed. Have a biscuit, I made them myself.” And off she went to demonstrate the quality of her sage-bundles to a worried-looking housekeeper.
Toby was ferociously hungry at this point, but the biscuits were long and thick and as hard as frozen shoe-leather and it took time to gnaw on one end while holding the teacup. His jaw was hurting when Galvin noticed and the man cleared his throat and dunked his biscuit into the tea. Toby thought that was passing strange, but he copied Galvin and found the biscuit had grown soft and pleasant. It tasted sweet and something like the little paper cups the Italian ice man left behind on the streets of a hot day.
“Here you are, I’ll just have my tea. I et a scone earlier.” Galvin passed his portion to the boy, who quickly stuffed it up his sleeve for safekeeping. Galvin never blinked, lifting his voice to the greengrocer: “Did you get the garlands, Missus?”
‘Of course I did.” She shiffed back. “Bays and rosemary both…what do you take me for, young man? What you should be asking me is, have I changed my prices since we last talked?”
“If you had, I would have trusted you to tell me as soon as we crossed your doorway.” Galvin grinned insolently and propped his elbow on the side of a wooden crate marked SALSIFY. Toby didn’t know what it was and the label, that of a realistic-looking painting of a large green plant growing oysters like flowers, gave him no clues. “Did Mr. Gregson tell you to give me a hard time?”
“As if the likes of you needed help with a hard time, you rascal. I declare upon you. I’ll be sure to tell the good Inspector myself…he comes in with the Missus every evening, you know.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” Galvin chuckled at the panic on Toby’s face. “Walk a bit and get yourself warmed up.” He advised.
Toby did, eyeing the strange explosions of growth that was hanging or in boxes or sometimes even growing. In the warmth of the shop a cluster of something that smelled spicy and sweetish was growing in a broken wine-cask. He frowned trying to place the smell and caught himself looking into the tiny, bright eyes of a mouse behind the woody stem. Mouse and boy stared at each other, and with the lazy confidence of an indoor rodent, the little creature slipped back into the shadows.
“Do you like my basil?” the old woman had come up behind him, smiling with her remaining teeth. “Difficult to keep in the cold, but good. The vermin they cannot stand it, no.”
“Here we are, Hettie.” Galvin lifted up a small packet. “What say you to these as part of the bargain?”
Hettie sniffed, her wrinkled face carving strange lines in the firelight. “I suppose if you want me to take your money from you.” A clucking sound emerged from her throat. “Christmas fools and no doubt, no doubt.”
“Not bad.” Galvin said as they returned to the cold. The tea had been black and strong, heavy with honey instead of the usual cheap treacle. Toby felt full to bursting under its power and hammered with the drum eagerly for another half-hour as grey snowflakes filtered down the sky.
He was surprised when they stopped for bread and more tea, the tea from a metal can kept under Galvin’s shirt like the sort the Bobbies carried. Galvin flashed a quick grin at the boy and sprung up, one hand on the metal lamp-post, tucking the can next to the low-burning white glow of the gaslight. While it heated he barked a quick order to another Gipsy with a passing cart of wax-wrapped slices of bread. Galvin haggled, passed over a ha-penny sprig for two of the packets and wrangled a promise to get a cheaper deal on his next order. Toby tore open the paper and bit into the bread with a starving relish, but Galvin put a heavy hand on his shoulder, stopping him.
“Go ahead and give us the rest of it, Hob.”
Hob chuckled at the boy and pulled out a warm metal pot that curled steam from under the tiny lid.
Galvin caught Toby’s confused stare. “You’re in for a Gipsy treat.” He promised. “Hold out your bread there.” The little pot proved to be a hot measure of drippings that smelt of mutton and rosemary. Toby forced himself to chew slowly, hoping the taste would stay with him for the rest of the day. When they finished Galvin pulled down the tea-can and they shared the hot liquid.
The rest of the evening was uneventful, if a little strange. The police gave them a little trouble here and there, asking about the source of the hollies, but Galvin took it in stride and answered calmly with just enough cheek that showed he was starch enough to stand by his words. But even more queer was the presence of the other men with the Christmasing carts. A few looked nervous as they wheeled by, and their greetings were quick and curt. Two failed to look Galvin in the eye at all, and one, a scrawny man with twin girls to help, paused on the connector to Paddington Street and struck up a conversation.
“Didn’t I tell you to be more careful, Galvin? The gents will be hard on you if you don’t do what you’re told.” He passed an odd look to Toby. “Me, I’ve got little’uns to feed…I didn’t know you did too.”
“Shut your gob, you old mother hen.” Galvin chuckled and lit another cheap fag. “He’s not mine, I’m just borrowing him a bit. I need a boy who can do as he’s told.”
With that passing of words, Toby was more confused than ever, but his belly was growling again (he didn’t know why it behaved worse after a little food was in it), and the lamps were taking the place of the pressing darkness.
Galvin smoked in silence for half the length of the fag and exhaled the last through his nostrils, passing the nearly-dead end to Toby’s eager fingers. Toby had room for one good puff before the bit was twisted dead and hidden inside a pocket.
“What have I told you about making use of these orphans, Galvin?”
At the gruff sound of Inspector Gregson, Toby flinched almost into the cart but Galvin’s eyes only narrowed, and he stared fearlessly up at the much-taller man.
“Not a making if giving a boy honest work, am I Inspector?” He almost whined in a voice that would have deserved caning on a boy. “He’s just helping me along with my sales.”
Mr. Gregson’s pale face flushed red and square under the brim of a soft-crowned bowler, and he thrust large gloved hands inside his pockets before he spoke again. Around them people scurried, keeping to their business and hoping no one noticed them.
“And where would you be getting this fine crop of holly, Galvin? Been poaching the greens of the estates again?”
“Sir!” Galvin squawked, but Mr. Gregson was already lifting one hand up, his face composed and bored.
“I don’t need telling you that any man with the holly is a suspect right now, sir. Unless you’d like a conversation about your day with Mr. Lestrade I recommend you keep to a straight road. The man’s much less reasonable than I am, and you know for a fact he’s not as smart.”
“Well, right I know sir,” Galvin sounded quite abashed. “Right I know.”
Gregson’s glittering blue eyes swept over Toby. “So that’s where you are instead of school.” Toby cringed. “Are you earning honest wages, lad?”
Toby considered the food he’d eaten and had no qualms with nodding eagerly. Galvin’s share of the evening—half a crown’s worth of money—jingled in his palm.
“Hand it over, my lad.”
Toby blanched but did as he was told. Mr. Gregson pocketed the coins without pause. “Then off you go with Galvin. I’ll take this to your good mother and assure that you’re in good hands for the next few days. Christmassing will be over and done with before you know it, and you’d best take advantage of your time.” Mr. Gregson sniffed. “You might sell better if he’s clean.”
“I was already planning on that when I got back.” Galvin said hastily.
“Good.” Mr. Gregson lumbered away, his large form riding over the mass of walking men and women.
“That puffed-up, conceited…” Glavin grumbled under his breath. “That fat-handed…”
They went to Paddington Street through a route that was far more trouble than it was worth. Galvin led them through a maze of snickets and back-alley paths until the boy was dizzy, and he hurried the holly-cart up to a narrow gate with strange looking carvings. Galvin boosted Toby up and the boy scooted over the top of the brick wall and hopped down, un-latching the door from the inside so Galvin could get through. The Gipsy breathed an outside puff of relief—absolute relief—and set the cart up against the wall as Toby locked the door.
“Thank goodness,” he said in a much different tone. “All right, my lad. I have to get this inside the small shed ahead of you…can you carry a good arms-load of that holly into the kitchen for me?”
They stumbled in with the last of the cart’s contents, and the housekeeper fluttered with her apron and fussed over Toby, asked Galvin why he was so late getting home and didn’t he know the poor boy was half-knackered?
“He’s strong as a little French horse, Mrs. Collins.” Galvin stopped as he gently lowered the berried branches to a work-table, and yanked off his hat, muffler, and thin gloves with a deep breath. Out of his disguise it was hard to imagine he had ever been a Gipsy.
“Mr. Lestrade, you are fortunate I have an extra supper built up. As soon as the two of you are cleansed of your day on the road I shall bring it to you.”
Toby liked being warm, but being warm in a bath-tub was a new experience. Mr. Lestrade told him in blunt words that he’d best get clean and he didn’t care how many changes of water or turns of the geyser it cost; if he failed the lice-comb he was going to head straight to the paraffin and newspapers to take care of the little loafers.
Toby was glad to pass the lice-comb test.
Warm and clean, he sat wrapped up in a long wool shirt of Mr. Lestrade’s that came down to the tops of his knees and a pair of socks that fit his feet quite well. Mr. Lestrade carved up a dish of fried apples and onions and thin slices of real salted pork. He didn’t seem to mind that Toby ate like a wolf, but he pressed more bread and butter into the boy as he ate the other things. Much later with a groaning belly, Toby guessed he was wanting to take matters carefully and not let him fill on all the salt. The tea in the pot was red and tasted like the brew his mother used to make, back when his father was still alive.
“You’re looking better now, Toby.” Mr. Lestrade mused. He had stopped smoking once he was inside, but his dark eyes were thoughtful upon the boy. “How do you feel? Are you ready for bed yet?” A no was his answer. “Fair enough, lad. Would you be interested in helping me with a case?” The Inspector’s mouth smiled rarely, but it was smiling now. “It won’t be pleasant. You’d have to be with me as a step through cold fields and cut holly…probably some mistletoe as well. We have to collect a wagon of holly and that will take most of the day all by itself, but you can be paid for it, and you’ll be paid for it well.”
Toby thought of that, the half-crown, and the food he’d eaten that day and nodded without a doubt.
“Good lad.” Mr. Lestrade grinned. “We don’t want to upset Mr. Gregson, do we?”
Toby wondered about that as Mr. Lestrade bundled him into a sleeping pallet against the fireplace. The coal hissed and smelled like metals and the boy was comforted at how familiar it was. It reminded him of his home.
Mr. Gregson was always around, he thought a bit resentfully. Always around, always getting in his way and asking his business. It was hard to keep track of the man and yet he fussed too. He almost forced Mr. Lestrade to bring him home tonight, and wanted him to be cleaned up.
He didn’t understand, but he supposed if he was clever and careful the answers would come to him by the morrow.
Tomorrow came earlier than expected. He was still blinking awake over tea with lots of milk when a loud rap rattled the door.
Mr. Lestrade swore. “Ease off, Gregson!” He snapped. “We’re not deaf here!”
Mr. Gregson ignored that. He swept in with his face pink. “We’ve found him.” He announced. He passed a glance and a nod over to Toby. “There’s no doubt about it.”
Mr. Lestrade swore again. “What kind of proof do we have?”
“All circumstantial. Even Mr. Holmes can’t get anything concrete.”
“Heavens of all the times not to want a Christmas miracle.” Lestrade rose to his feet and Toby noted he almost absently put a fresh bit of bread down for Mr. Gregson. The bigger man bit into the hot roll without so much as a thank you. “So now what? Did I freeze my face off all week for nothing?”
Gregson smirked. “Wouldn’t say that…it still has some freezing to go to fix your profile, Ratty. No, we’re sticking to the plan.”
Mr. Lestrade looked straight at Toby. “What about the lad?” He wanted to know.
“You told him much?”
Toby shrugged at them, stuffing more porridge into his mouth. With his free hand he spelled the letters in the air: J-O-B.
“Well a job it is.” Gregson said soberly. “We’ve got a funny gang running around, scaring the Christmassers half to death and demanding they turn over part of their money or part of their holly. That’s a lot of money. Do you know how much?”
Toby shook his head, no, and mimed a heap of coins on the floor.
“Try a hundred and fifty pounds at least for the amount of holly bought for the big church by Bow.” Mr. Lestrade said softly. “It’s enough to kill for.”
Toby gulped at the thought of all that money.
“But we could use a bright boy like you.” Mr. Gregson added. “You’re smart, you’re quick…and you see a lot. What we can’t figure out is who the people really are behind this, or why they’re going after the greensmen.”
Toby made a question sign.
“We’re not certain.” Mr. Gregson looked at Mr. Lestrade and for once, the two didn’t look angry at each other. “We think they’re hiding something bigger behind the thieving…you know, how you used to lift someone’s pockets and people would chase you, leaving the rest of your little gang to take care of the rest of the gulls.”
“At least, we hope this is what you aren’t doing any more.” Mr. Lestrade added dryly.
“Ha.” Gregson said. “Mr. Lestrade’s been gussied up as Galvin the Gip for a week. He’s been carting off to several estates with their permission, stripping down the hollies, the ivies and the mistletoes, and he’s been making note of who comes and goes. But its rough work and its hungry work. He could use some help, an extra pair of eyes and ears. Most holly-men have a boy or two to help them anyway. It would help with the disguise—“
“Stop it, Gregson.” Mr. Lestrade snapped. “Toby, this could be dangerous. Some people are missing that shouldn’t be. The only thing they had in common was they were a-Christmassing for money and taking the greens to the churches and large-houses. We have a good idea on what’s happening, but we don’t have proof, and we certainly don’t have a good description of all the people concerned.”
“Interested?” Gregson grinned.
Toby thought it over quickly. He was ten, too old for the street-urchins now, and while he was quick for an adult he wasn’t quick enough to compete on the street. So far he’d been paid in food and something to do, and Mr. Gregson had sent the money on to his mother.
He held out his hand to shake.
First Mr. Lestrade, then Mr. Gregson took it to seal the deal.
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