Commonplace Crime (6 of 7)
Dec. 12th, 2011 09:37 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
capt_facepalmAuthor: ![[info]](https://capt-facepalm.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif?v=1)
capt_facepalm
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes (Gaslight)
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, Dr John H. Watson
Summary: Ambulance chasing, Victorian style!
Warnings: adult themes, off camera violence
Word Count: This chapter: 660 (6914 total)
Author's Notes: MiniWriMo
.oOOo.
Still damp from the night’s dreadful weather, Gregson’s shoes squeaked as he made the short but lonely walk from his Chief Inspector’s office.
Chief Fennis had been very succinct. Gregson had failed on many levels. He had failed to solve the crime and he had failed to catch the murderers. He had failed to lead his men. The constables had complained about his methods and his conduct. London was changing so quickly, Scotland Yard must present a professional and unified front, he was told. Whitechapel was still a bed of unrest; a blight upon a shining Empire, and there was pressure to clean out that den once and for all. Failure here could not be tolerated.
To add insult to injury, the press had gotten wind of the murder and had reported that Lestrade had once again prevailed. If not for Lestrade, the case would surely been lost with the evidence destroyed. His superiors knew this, and by this time, the news would have spread throughout the lower ranks.
Only after secluding himself behind his office door did Gregson allow his broad shoulders to sag.
capt_facepalmRating: PG-13
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes (Gaslight)
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, Dr John H. Watson
Summary: Ambulance chasing, Victorian style!
Warnings: adult themes, off camera violence
Word Count: This chapter: 660 (6914 total)
Author's Notes: MiniWriMo
Upon their arrival at Scotland Yard, Holmes discharged Sid with enough coin to cover his next day’s wages. After such a long night, neither man nor horse would be fit for work in the morning.
In the bowels of the old building, Lestrade emphasised that Lilly Sheppard was a witness, not a suspect, and needed to be detained for her protection. The night matron led the tired and confused girl down the hall to the women’s’ holding cells, promising her a set of dry clothes and a safe, warm bed for the night.
The inspector made some inquiries as he rounded up three available constables. Inspector Gregson and his crew had not returned and Lestrade figured that his colleague and rival had opted to stay at the crime scene with the evidence. A fresh horse and carriage were drawn from the police livery and once again Holmes was bound for Whitechapel.
Lestrade’s familiarity with the district was invaluable. After tracing their way through numerous anonymous passages, they stopped at one of the laneways and forced the door into a damp grotto of a cellar. The inspector’s lantern light fell on one of the sleeping inhabitants and his men were quick to haul the bewildered man outside.
“Mr Holmes, this is Hugo, a friend of Danny Finch. He’s going to tell us where his mate is, if he knows what’s good for him.’
Before Hugo could reply, the constable holding him wrenched his arm almost to the point of dislocation. Another copper punched him hard in the face. Lestrade stepped in.
‘Is Danny Finch down there?’ he asked, referring to the cellar.
‘Nah, Finchy sleeps high and dry tonight,’ he gasped, gesturing to the upper storey of the building. Lestrade handcuffed him and left him in the custody of one of the constables.
The stairs to the upper garret were too rickety to allow for stealth. Instead, Holmes, Lestrade and two constables thundered up them and bashed in the dilapidated door. From under his thin blankets, a bleary-eyed Danny Finch raised his arms in surrender.
‘Well, Finchy, you’ve finally gone too far. Small crimes lead to bigger crimes and now you’ve graduated to murder.’ Lestrade growled.
‘M..m..murder? No, please, Inspector... not me! Never!’
‘Shut it, Finch! Your luck has run out. We have an eyewitness!’
Finchy squirmed and begged. It had not been his idea. Howie had planned it all, and Howie had struck all the blows, including the fatal one. Finchy pleaded that he did not even want to be there, and that he had not stolen anything. He was so frightened that he gave Lestrade the location where Howie would be staying the night.
All hopes of clemency were dashed when Holmes’ search of Finchy’s coat pockets revealed some coins and the bloody stump of a man’s finger, complete with wedding band.
‘Danny Finch, you’ll swing for this,’ Lestrade vowed, ordering his constables to take him away.
In the end, Howard Wells, sometimes known as Howie, after a wild chase, chose to risk the Thames rather than try his chances with Lestrade’s constables. His body was recovered in the early morning light.
In the bowels of the old building, Lestrade emphasised that Lilly Sheppard was a witness, not a suspect, and needed to be detained for her protection. The night matron led the tired and confused girl down the hall to the women’s’ holding cells, promising her a set of dry clothes and a safe, warm bed for the night.
The inspector made some inquiries as he rounded up three available constables. Inspector Gregson and his crew had not returned and Lestrade figured that his colleague and rival had opted to stay at the crime scene with the evidence. A fresh horse and carriage were drawn from the police livery and once again Holmes was bound for Whitechapel.
Lestrade’s familiarity with the district was invaluable. After tracing their way through numerous anonymous passages, they stopped at one of the laneways and forced the door into a damp grotto of a cellar. The inspector’s lantern light fell on one of the sleeping inhabitants and his men were quick to haul the bewildered man outside.
“Mr Holmes, this is Hugo, a friend of Danny Finch. He’s going to tell us where his mate is, if he knows what’s good for him.’
Before Hugo could reply, the constable holding him wrenched his arm almost to the point of dislocation. Another copper punched him hard in the face. Lestrade stepped in.
‘Is Danny Finch down there?’ he asked, referring to the cellar.
‘Nah, Finchy sleeps high and dry tonight,’ he gasped, gesturing to the upper storey of the building. Lestrade handcuffed him and left him in the custody of one of the constables.
The stairs to the upper garret were too rickety to allow for stealth. Instead, Holmes, Lestrade and two constables thundered up them and bashed in the dilapidated door. From under his thin blankets, a bleary-eyed Danny Finch raised his arms in surrender.
‘Well, Finchy, you’ve finally gone too far. Small crimes lead to bigger crimes and now you’ve graduated to murder.’ Lestrade growled.
‘M..m..murder? No, please, Inspector... not me! Never!’
‘Shut it, Finch! Your luck has run out. We have an eyewitness!’
Finchy squirmed and begged. It had not been his idea. Howie had planned it all, and Howie had struck all the blows, including the fatal one. Finchy pleaded that he did not even want to be there, and that he had not stolen anything. He was so frightened that he gave Lestrade the location where Howie would be staying the night.
All hopes of clemency were dashed when Holmes’ search of Finchy’s coat pockets revealed some coins and the bloody stump of a man’s finger, complete with wedding band.
‘Danny Finch, you’ll swing for this,’ Lestrade vowed, ordering his constables to take him away.
In the end, Howard Wells, sometimes known as Howie, after a wild chase, chose to risk the Thames rather than try his chances with Lestrade’s constables. His body was recovered in the early morning light.
.oOOo.
Still damp from the night’s dreadful weather, Gregson’s shoes squeaked as he made the short but lonely walk from his Chief Inspector’s office.
Chief Fennis had been very succinct. Gregson had failed on many levels. He had failed to solve the crime and he had failed to catch the murderers. He had failed to lead his men. The constables had complained about his methods and his conduct. London was changing so quickly, Scotland Yard must present a professional and unified front, he was told. Whitechapel was still a bed of unrest; a blight upon a shining Empire, and there was pressure to clean out that den once and for all. Failure here could not be tolerated.
To add insult to injury, the press had gotten wind of the murder and had reported that Lestrade had once again prevailed. If not for Lestrade, the case would surely been lost with the evidence destroyed. His superiors knew this, and by this time, the news would have spread throughout the lower ranks.
Only after secluding himself behind his office door did Gregson allow his broad shoulders to sag.
