Nightmarescape: A Review


by Jonathan Fortin

Mocha Memoirs Press

This is a writer to keep an eye on. Perhaps both eyes. You can find him on Twitter.

This is almost hypnotically frightening. I kept reading out of my own free will even though I knew things were really bad and possibly could get even worse. The POV of the protagonist is strong and clever writing creates full-fleshed characters out of people we barely know. Mr. Fortin’s style is smooth, walking you along silently to the conclusion, everything painted in the dark colors of mental landscapes with layers of meaning that I go back and read several times.  I’m impressed and hope to read more from this author.
Published in: on February 7, 2019 at 11:16 am  Leave a Comment  

I am digging up gorse.

It is not a task for the weak or the hesitant.

Specific tools were made for this task. They are painted orange, heavy as a million bricks when hoisted upon the shoulder, and though square, seem to possess extra sharp corners within corners.

Volunteers, interns, and workers such as I have to deal with them every day we work. Few other things reach, clutch the base stalk, and hold fast. After all the positioning, it is a heave of the shoulders and a dig-in-deep of the foot atop the pedal, and the entire bush of scotch broom, or gorse, or even the Himalaya Blackberry, pulls out of the Pacific Northwest soil in a POP.

One day is barely enough to scratch the surface.

Please, folk, respect the people who do this for a living.

Published in: on November 18, 2018 at 12:20 pm  Leave a Comment  

De-constructing Sherlock Holmes

It is hard for me to be enthusiastic about the latest wave of pastiches out there. I can list all of these complicated, thoughtful, essay-inspiring reasons but it boils down to this:

When the Emperor asked his thoughts about human sacrifice, P.G. Wodehouse’s George answered he didn’t like them.

I heartily concur, and I confess, the current trend to deconstruct Sherlock Holmes strikes me as a strange form of sacrifice. Bear with me.

There are too many writers that lack love and respect for not just Sherlock Holmes, but for Arthur Conan Doyle himself.

What Doyle did was amazing. More to the point, it was on target. He illuminated with his cases the deep, emotional need for the public to believe that there are Sherlock Holmes in this world.

Doyle wrote plenty of other things–he tapped into our ability to wallow, delightedly, in a good ghost/monster story, and scandalized us with his tales beneath the red lamp. He gave us sympathetic villains and completely repulsive “good guys” and people who simply didn’t exist in the black and white of law, order, and society.

There were outsiders in his stories; the disenfranchised; the people who were important because Sherlock Holmes was on the case. The stories demonstrated that it was so easy to abuse and mis-use the vaunted ‘softer emotions’ which were held up as the virtue that separated us from the beasts–he showed us one can feel with logic and protect with reason.

In a world determined to live in a fairytale, Doyle was a Grimm who collected stories. They could both tell in unflinching words the cost of Dickens’ Want and Ignorance upon humanity. Both wrote pools of blood, and terrible crimes to befall the wicked and innocent alike. But unlike the Grimm his ‘unhappy endings’ were left open–perhaps reminding the reader that as long as we possess indignation for injustice, a crime is never escaped, nor a case completely closed. Will we, the reader, be the next person to speak up?

Like Hans Christian Anderson, Doyle could illuminate the beauty within humanity–and his characters ability to appreciate what they had or cast them aside was a major bone of their contentions. The little girl with the yellow face was a beautiful swan all along–the Greek Interpreter’s voice was the only thing that saved his life.  What was Mary Morstan but a real, breathing princess–who would have traded it all to have her father, and who accepted the theft of her father’s stolen treasure with the freedom to marry?

Like Madame d’Aulney, Doyle was born of nobility and did rather un-noble things by embracing outside thought. They invented words that needed to be created. She is the generatrix of “fairy tale” he, “the smoking gun”. Both were ahead of their time. Both were criticized for their willingness to write approach-ably to the common masses.

Like Joseph Jacobs, Doyle’s inspiration was drawn from all over the world; his stories can be centered in London…but just as likely in a raw, wild land the readers had only heard of–and many, many crimes, we learn, began elsewhere only to come home to their own land–a quiet comment against the belief that one may escape one’s past.

And, like Andrew Lang, Doyle found a bottomless well of creation for stories in the world before him–and like Lang, one always had the potential to seize victory from the jaws of defeat–if one was willing to face what they feared the most, and more bizarrely for convention, bow to ask for help.

So, I ask, why is it, are pastichers suddenly so committed to breaking down what made Doyle’s creation so great, and splicing him willy-nilly on an unmatched rope? Why is it, they have to break down someone in order to raise up another character?

I’m sad about this.

Why can’t we put Doyle’s toys back on the shelf when we’re done with them? I’ve read what feels like a metric ton of “alternative facts” stories, where Mrs. Hudson or Lestrade or (_____) are the real stars of the show. Some of these are still enjoyable–mostly because there is still a respect for the creations.

But any time you build up a character by knocking someone else down you add to a nasty tradition that begins and should have ended with how Hollywood gave the role of Watson to Nigel Bruce and said, “This is what you have to do.”

As a kid I adored the Rathbone films, and I cringed at all the cringe-worthy Nigel Bruce moments. But as I grew up I realized I wanted something more; there are only so many escapades where you can be the only working brain in a crowd of misfits. Solar Pons got us through a few dry spells but books were rare and you never knew if you were going to crack open a cover and find a Super Sherlock Saves the Day/Universe or a loving tribute written in the style and tradition of the original. In this era, we see re-made plotlines constantly. I’ve lost count of how many times we’ve seen remakes of stories that haven’t grown cold yet.  Honestly, I’m not talking about HAMILTON here. HAMILTON is brilliant for how it makes people think. And yet there is some sort of odd belief that in order to tell “your own, unique version” of Sherlock Holmes’ universe, you have to bash it into pieces first.

I disagree. That’s sloppy and you’ll get a D in English class. “Deconstructing” seems to be the in-thing now. It wouldn’t be half as awful if the so-called writers were actually reading the stories they were butchering with such crazed, addict-grade glee.

They’re not reading the stories!

These lazy people, who have enough wherewithall to get out of bed and whack out a novella in 30 days and get it published are still somehow inexplicably too mortgaged in time to learn about the world of Sherlock Holmes. There’s no excuse for this! Why is The Speckled Band considered such a masterpiece? Did they think about the multitudinous layers of plot, character, and atmosphere? Why do we cheer when Violet Hunter escapes? Did they think about the inescapable threads of human sadness in HOUN? They aren’t paying attention to these creations, who are all believable in their failures and successes.

I’m nauseated when this crowd avoids full exploration because it is condemned as “old and boring”. It isn’t, but you are, and you’re about as welcome as a bridal party in a gay bar.

Repeating previous statement: a loving tribute in the style and tradition of the original.

You can’t claim to “love” Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson and all the others in this world and write contrary to that purpose.

His stories are written for a purpose.

If we write Holmes like a super-hero, then we are writing for swift gratification for a problem that won’t be duplicable by mere mortals. Besides, that goes completely against the message of Sherlock Holmes: He wanted to prove to the world that his methods were replicable; that anyone, if they so chose, would apply his methods and solve crimes.

That was terribly important to Holmes. He knew that his mind would break apart without stimulation, and what better, endless career than that of crime? Crime never ends. Crime never sleeps. It merely goes into hiding. There will always be a need for such a man who wants this work!

Consider that context, where if we write Watson as a vainglorious idiot, then we sell Holmes short for putting up with him. We make Holmes a poor, petty man who keeps a pet biographer, someone for his personal gratification and vainglory.

(It shakes me up when people think the police in the Rathbone films are just like the police in Adam West’s BATMAN series–no they are not. Commissioner Gordon and the other police were fine actors playing parodies. The police in the Rathbone films were fine actors playing once-respected characters as though they were idiots. There’s a difference).

If we write Holmes for satire, then we’d best be as clever as Oscar Wilde–cleverer, actually. Because satire means being on top of world events and how we’re really all related to each other in the grand scheme of things.

If we write a supernatural villain against Holmes, then we had better ask ourselves why we want to make it Holmes, instead of other perfectly fine creations of Doyle–and while we’re at it, have a friend look at the manuscript and tell you if it sounds like a plot out of Dark Shadows. Nothing says obvious like lining up a parallel plot with the show that stole ALL the plots in theatre.

But in the long run, it comes down to this: What is the writer getting out of this? Why are they doing what they want with the characters? What is the emotional investment? Too often it is just laziness–plucking another’s toys off the shelf and role-playing with them with all the grace of playing PLANET OF THE APES with STAR WARS action figures. It doesn’t quite cut it.

You can call them Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson, but unless they are true to the spirit of Doyle, they will just be cheap mannikins recycled into a plot and pay for your ticket at the door.




Published in: on July 24, 2017 at 9:07 am  Leave a Comment  

It’s not what you think

Very well put. I could frame parts of this.

The First Ten Words by Rich Larson

Chris Cornell, 1964-2017

Chris Cornell died early Thursday morning. He hanged himself in the bathroom of his hotel room in Detroit.

For two days, I’ve been working on a piece to pay tribute to him, and it’s been a struggle. Usually when I have a problem like this it’s because I’m staring at a blank screen trying to figure out what I want to say. That’s not the problem this time. The problem is I have way too much to say.

I’m not going to sit here and claim to have been a huge fan of Soundgarden. I didn’t dislike them, I just had to take them in small doses. I was a fan of Cornell. I love “Seasons,” the solo song he had on Cameron Crowe’s movie, Singles. It’s a droning acoustic song about isolation and the meaningless passing of time. Your basic nihilistic statement written at what was…

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Published in: on May 22, 2017 at 5:06 am  Leave a Comment  

Why You Can Give Me A Bad Review

If there’s one valuable lesson a creator can learn, it’s not to engage with reviewers. With very few exceptions, railing against a negative review reflects most poorly on the reviewed, who are likely to come off as petulant, not the reviewer.

–Susana Polo, [Anne Rice Sics Her Fandom on Unaffiliated Lone Blogger for One Poor Review] 11:45 am, April 30th, 2013 

Once Upon A Time…

…There was a writer who worked really hard, did some hardcore personal PR, and broke into print with a major bestseller. It was a Cinderella-grade story. With sociopathic vampires. Then in an attempt to re-create success, they created a series of books that were increasingly off the wall and disconnected. And when I say it is actually possible to disconnect from both the Regular Realty, and the Reality That Has Vampires, Werewolves, Relentless Dub-Con and Underage Squeamish Bits, trust me, it is.



For the 6th Volume of MX New Sherlock Holmes Stories!


Published in: on February 15, 2017 at 3:15 am  Leave a Comment  

The Case of the Christmas Star: A Review of S. F. Bennett

First off, a brief explanation about S.F. Bennett. Many people (though far too few in my opinion) know of Bennett’s work from the glory days of, where it was quite possible to find rich, interesting, and grammatically correct short stories along the rules of traditional Canon. Bennett was one of the few, the proud, who knew those rules inside and out. Google this name and you may be pleasantly surprised to find it in The Sherlock Holmes Society of South West of England, as well as a few other lovely publications.

Bennett stood apart. We all checked FF.NET daily in hopes of a new story, and even as we read we thought, “But how will I read this again if the power goes out?” Some few of us were smart enough to save the stories for non-electric reading. I’ll say frankly that I was not one of them because organization happens to be one of the monsters that lives under my bed…under my sink…inside my garbage disposal.

In “The Case of the Christmas Star,” Bennett pulls together some of her richest and appealing elements: the humor that was an inherent portion of ACD’s creation; the inability of The Knight to create dull characters; crackling dialog that allows even a lazy student of the period to know a joke when they hear one, and the casual cruelty inherent in all societies. Consider yourself warned. Bennett isn’t going to call the remains of last night’s dinner a noble work of art. She will make you conscious of the moral failings in the system.

Watson’s loving marriage to Mary is fond and gentle. It also has its occasional frustrations (not unlike the frustrations of living with the equally strong-willed Sherlock Holmes) as Watson forgets that women just may have different priorities and aesthetics. In this story, Watson has purchased a very necessary bit of equipment (or vanity) for his medical office. Thanks to the gasps and wheezes of the Royal Mail and less-than-honorable purchasers, the good doctor finds himself in the middle of the Victorian version of “I bought it on eBay, honest, officer.”

And folks, if you have ever bought or known someone who bought on the Internet, you know where this is going.

Believe me, I am not doing this scenario justice. It doesn’t even fall under “spoiler” it is so under-justice.

But adding to the problem is the fact that Watson purchased the item with his old address with Baker Street attached to it. Co-incidentally or not, London is not so appreciative of the good doctor’s woes because they are all set for an upcoming honoring of the Queen, a regrettable lapse in stupidity within organized crime, and the local charity drive for Police Widows and Orphans is attacking all door-bells in their demands for human kindness. And who, pray tell, is imitating a Vicar? And during the Christmas season no less? No one is ever ‘perfect’ in Bennett’s London. We love the people because we understand their flaws as well as their admirable strengths.

One of my favorite bits about this story is the scene where Inspector Lestrade is clearly frightened for the safety of Holmes and Watson; he’s trying to protect them from a stone-cold murderer without openly letting them know their lives hang on a thread. Whilst he draws a full confession out of the iciest criminal we never hope to meet, Holmes quietly makes his own calculations from the sidelines. Of course knows just how much trouble they’re in but if he says the wrong thing it will all go quite badly.

But if you asked me, the crowning glory is Mrs. Hudson. Those of us who have relished Bennett’s stories from the very beginning know Mrs. Hudson is no light character to be dismissed upon a whim. She comes across as fantastically as ever, which is 30% mother hen and 60% dragon with just enough 10% inscrutable to keep you guessing. She is firm, she is compassionate; and she leaves a hard-bitten policeman in awe as she leaves her lodgers in cowed admiration.

Perhaps I’m jaded and speaking within the restrictions of my generation, but I am sick to death of lazy writers who are genderswapping Holmes and Watson, making them into beings they are not because they think it is better to take strong male protagonists and turn them into strong female protagonists. Why do you want to re-write feminist males and turn them into females? Don’t we need both? How can you do better than look at the already existing strong, female characters, with minds of their own and initiative and nerve? 

For those of us who like respect in our Holmes, Bennett’s work is the perfect remedy. Take this story and call me in the morning.

To read this–and other Christmassy treats–go here straight to the horse’s mouth (which not only supports the author and publisher, but also fails to give Amazon your support for their political bias: GO HERE.

and here: (non-UK) (Great Britain)



My life as a Synesthete.


 “When you come apart, the pieces you put back together won’t be the same. They can’t be. I’m terrified that I will forget this, that if I do exactly that, I will forget I’ve been re-shaped. I freeze up at the thought of re-setting my life back to an earlier point without all this hard-earned learning.”
Published in: on December 12, 2016 at 1:53 pm  Leave a Comment  

Associates of Sherlock Holmes: A review

George Mann Edits

Click on the image above to see the Amazon Books Page, or go to this link for the direct Titan Books source (remember folks, the author gets more appreciation when you buy from the source!)

…a collection of coolly polished short stories in which Sherlock Holmes is seen through the eyes of other characters in the Holmesian canon. Many of these are former clients; the rest are those who simply have the cause and means to have crossed paths with the Great Detective or know him from their personal circles. Not only do these Associates have their own story to tell with Mr. Holmes involved in it in some way, they are all people who  can no longer claim to live outside the limelight: knowing Mr. Holmes has changed their lives forever. A few will tell you their lives were changed for the worse, but the reader can make that call for themselves.  This is their chance, and these are the stories they choose to tell us.

I’m reviewing this partially because this book qualifies for the “what ho, geekery” and “poke your librarian” categories. Having lived as a library minion in a previous job incarnation, the search to find actually good tribute fiction for ACD’s characters was at times…deeply unsatisfying. My old boss at NRCTC would approve of this, as well as give a few choice passages some satisfied snickers. Are you reading this, Bob Coston?


A Very Good Month for Fog


Meme Challenge: Colin Jeavons’ Birthday.

Because I am a FIRM believer in not crossing the line between actor and character, I made up a birthday for this particular character:

  • Brumaire: Month of Fog.
  • Day of the Service tree
  • English calendar: 19 November

The servicetree is not the one we know in North America, beautiful, impossibly tall and slender with snowball-blossoms in the lime-green light of spring sunlight. This is one of the rarest trees in the UK, but much-loved by its fans. Lestrade is more likely to know it by the common English name of Whitty Pear—whitty because of the shape of the pinnate (featherlike) leaves; they would look amusing to the English eye, and the “pear” because some of the species’ fruits are pear-shaped. A “garth” is an enclosure, so when Lestrade is standing in an apple-garth, he’s standing inside an enclosed cluster of fruit trees.

For perspective, this is also a tribute to whoever mentored Lestrade through the troubled era of the 1870’s…the unknown iron-clad officer who believed he could stand within the corruptions Scandals and stand clean if apart of his fellows. Lestrade was confident, but not in the way a bully is confident: whoever taught him the ropes on how to be a copper also knew the strength that lives within gentleness.


There were a few places where one could forget, if briefly, one lived in London. This place was as far as one could get and still claim the address. He couldn’t smell the Thames and that made him feel oddly disconnected. He couldn’t think of the city without the river.

Lestrade shivered inside the protection of his winter coat—it would do until Christmas—and watched the slow skiff of snow fall upon the dying gardens. Thousands of millions of minute grains of ice fell upon the wood and earth and remaining dry leaf.

Before long the estate would be covered in a thin blanket of gritty white.

He told himself it didn’t matter. Clues couldn’t be found if they never existed.

Whitty pears ringed the apple-garth; even they looked to shiver in the thin curtain of snow with their skeleton-leaves and last-clinging fruit. They weren’t the most practical thing to grow; he studied them a moment, thinking if he’d even seen the trees more than a few times in his life. They were pretty. The small red fruits clustered together on the brittle branches and he knew from childhood experience what would happen to the inside of his mouth if he bit down on one fresh off the tree: gritty as sand and sharp enough to draw the tongue up. Older brothers were a never-ending source of creativity when it came to showing a boy the way of the world.

Gloomy, he thought to himself. Just the time of the year and the dull cast to the sky. Too much snow. He wasn’t used to it. Too much snow; too much clammy damp with the snow. He could feel the rising fog coming in from the warmer territories. When it finally mixed with the cold here, it would be a freezing fog and worse than ever.

And that poor Constable had been out in it for half the day.

He lifted his hand in a silent command and they walked across the sleeping garden. Sad little bits of summer resisted burying: spiky green rosemary, struggling violas and hearts-ease grew low and half-tilting pots and outdoor crockery caught thin drifts against the bottom of the walls.

Constable Swann quivered blue inside his heavy wool coat, the wider-cut winter sleeves catching the snow even on the inside whenever he lifted his large hands. When he thought the Inspector wasn’t looking, he shook his arms as fastidiously as a two-yard-tall cat.

“Try putting the gloves on first.” Lestrade said at last. In this bitterly cold day, he wanted to feel pity for something that could feel it back.

“Sir?” Swann flushed awkwardly behind his thick collar.

“Try putting your gloves on first, and then your coat.” Lestrade put his own hands inside his pockets. They clenched coldly around his notebook and pencil. Behind them on the other side of the high brick wall and two acres’ pasture, the train whistled its way to south Wales. “It seals your wrists up from the outside.”

Swann thought about it. “Yes, sir.”

Poor youngster. They always spent their first year wobbling between absolute exhaustion and fretting about losing their position from the smallest infraction of rules—that didn’t count the horrors of fighting out their own space among the older, harder, and not-necessarily-good-influences.

The cold was sinking into the very earth around them, bending down the thin grassblades like fine hairs. Tiny ice-balls rattled and bounced over the tops of his shoes and he was grateful again for the extra price put into the leather. It had meant living on oven-baked cereal for a month, but how could he care now that he was finally warm?

“Nothing else of note, Constable?”

“No, sir.” Swann’s very tone of voice was apologetic. “Clear-cut, sir.”

“Clear-cut.” He repeated. “We can only hope so.”

Their soles crunched loudly over the tops of the brittle grass and occasional spots of exposed paving-stones. Behind them the fog was rolling down with the slight slope of the earth.

Before they could reach the heavy oak door, it opened from the inside. Cast iron hinges squeaked and shed rust-powder.

Chief Inspector Davids was tall enough that he had to fold himself down to get through most doorways built before King Henry VIII. They gave him space as he re-lengthened his long limbs beneath the folds of his coat and tailored trousers. Unfortunately the man had to take off his hat every time. He had to.  The taller Welsh Princes of the Hill had mixed with the Giants of Ulster and made something Very Tall Indeed.

In his youth, Davids had been known to battle through a riot without pause.  Now he couldn’t walk a Roman Mile without stopping to take a breath at the end. “My lungs are at a higher altitude,” he would say as he mopped his face.  When Lestrade was a green Constable he smiled to be joked with.  The older and wiser new Inspector was not smiling.

“There you are, gentlemen.” Davids smiled wryly from behind a face scored with weariness. Under the tin-coloured sky his skin was scarce darker. “We’re all finished up here.”

“I think we are too, sir.” Lestrade touched his brim out of deference, even if he wasn’t certain which loyalty pulled him the more: Davids his teacher, or Davids his dying friend.

“Constable, if you wouldn’t mind giving your friends a hand…”

Swann left eagerly to join his companions inside. Lestrade couldn’t blame him. The inside was a horror, but it was sheltered from the outside.

The little detective waited with slowly freezing feet as Davids closed his eyes and took a deep breath. The abnormality that made him so tall and strong in his youth was now the stamp of his growing weakness.

“Let’s take a walk, shall we?” The Chief asked the younger man.

Davids led them out of the crumbling garth and down the uneven road. The soft soil of the night before had frozen to glass and they minded each step.

It was absolutely silent. Nothing chirped or sang; there was no bark of a restless dog or even the sound of a faraway horse further down the road or in the stables outlying the land before one got to London. The train was gone like a ghost. Lestrade couldn’t begin to guess where the lines were if he hadn’t heard it the first time.

No sound but themselves…the crunch of ice and occasional wet sound of a heel-slip against the fog-kissed stones. And their breathing…

Lestrade burrowed into the muffler about his neck, hoping Davids would take the hint but he didn’t. Despite the air the Chief Inspector was refusing to protect his dwindling lungs. He was breathing light and shallow in concession to human weakness…but that was it.

They were gone a quarter-mile before Davids finally spoke. “The Missus gave me some of the sorbs. Good and ready, she said.” He pulled out a pocket-handkerchief wrapped delicately around a double-handful of small objects. “When was the last time you had one of these?”

“Years, I think.” Lestrade took the top one off the pile. “We’d blet them on a wooden plank.”

Davids made a sniffing sound that meant something amusing had just happened inside his brain.

“Penny for your thoughts?”

“You’d be getting a ha’penny back.” Davids told him. “Funny when you think of it…we can’t eat these things until they’re overripe and starting to get a little…alcoholic.”

“I can’t say this qualifies as imbibing on duty.” Lestrade let the small fruit dissolve on his tongue. It tasted as good as he remembered; sweet as one of those fancy dates in the market but hardly as expensive.

“It just strikes my funny bone that something has to be past ripe before it’s fit to eat.”

“That does sound funny.”

Davids put one in his own mouth. “What did you think?”

“Of the case?” Lestrade snorted to himself. “Why did they call us? Anyone could tell it was an accident.”

Davids chuckled lightly. “When an unpopular man dies, his enemies want to know they won’t be held responsible for it.”

“True enough.” Lestrade pulled his hands out of his pockets and rubbed at them through the thin leather. “I suppose it is part of being a public servant.”

“Too often our duties aren’t actually useful, dear fellow. They’re just…being a sugar-pill for the public.”

And Davids began to cough.

They kept walking. Lestrade stared at the frozen pebbly road the entire time, reminding himself that he had to mind his step; that the weather was turning dangerous, and night was falling.

“What weather, eh?” Davids gasped at last. His face was wet with sweat. He coughed one last time and pulled a metal flask from his pocket.

Lestrade wished it were brandy in that flask, and not medicine.

I am not ready for this, he thought for the thousandth time that year. I can’t be.

“You have to wonder about November.” Davids wiped his face with an icy sleeve and pulled tiny sips from the flask. “I don’t think I’ve ever witnessed a single November that wasn’t carried to extremes.”

“No…I’d say you’re right.” Lestrade admitted. Davids had the right of it. It was a very good month for ice; for fog. For the passing over of lives…

…an unsurprising time for a man to step down from his office.

“You’re quiet, Geoff.”

“I’m out of sorts, I’m afraid.”

“I can tell, dear fellow. But is it something you can express?”

“I don’t know. This was your last case…I half-expected it to be something… bold…”

“And it wasn’t.”

Davids chuckled ruefully. “I can’t say I’m sorry. It is a wearying thing to have such a reputation. A difficult one.” His lips were bright red in the growing darkness, red like the high spots upon his cheeks. “This was only my nineteenth case in five weeks. I’m leaving just in time, I think.” He announced. “Before my fellows have to start carrying me.”

We would have carried you gladly. Lestrade did not trust himself to speak of such things.

“They used to call this the Blood-Month, you know.” Davids mused. “Sometimes you’ll still hear one of the very oldest people use it…the time of year to cull the cattle that couldn’t be fed through the winter…burn the fields and clear the pastures. And yet I never liked that name. I always liked the French word for November myself.” He looked at his protégé just as he looked up in curiosity. “They called it the Month of Fog. Fitting, isn’t it.”

“Yes.” Lestrade’s gaze had dropped again, studiously concentrating on his steps.

“You’ll come and see me?”

Lestrade coloured and swallowed hard. “Of course.” He strangled. “Of course I will.”

“Good.” A smile was his reward. “You’ll keep me up on the gossip, and I’ll be your consultant. How does that sound?”

“That sounds perfect.”

Death was walking between them, a slow, painful death that devoured the vitals from within, but it had not blocked them off yet. Davids was offering an extension to their relationship; from mentor to student to something more frail and enduring.

And Lestrade was glad. He was not ready to bury the man who had been like a father to him. Not yet.

“What a very good month for fog.” Davids commented in wonder. “Just wait until the morrow, Geoffrey. When you wake up, the world’s going to look like it’s been set in diamonds. Only a winter fog can do that, you know. Bloody inconvenient as hell for us right now, but tomorrow it will be a sight to behold, and too beautiful for us to hold a grudge because it incommodated us.” He chuckled; it rattled inside his chest. “Always makes me wish I’d taken up photography. It’s a frightful cold, a terrible fog…and it makes London beautiful for a few hours. What you’d call a conundrum.”

Lestrade felt something lift off his shoulders; he knew what he could say. “Something to make us think? A conundrum, is it? ?” He smiled.

“A conundrum.”

“One of your favourite words.”

“I know. Who will use it when I am gone?” Davids asked wistfully.

Lestrade laughed out loud. It shattered the cold-curdled air like a stone through glass. “I’ll give it to Gregson. He likes big words like that.”

Davids clapped him on the back. “Come on. There’s some hot tea waiting for us back at the station.”


Published in: on October 20, 2016 at 4:17 pm  Leave a Comment