If brevity is the soul of wit, then it is pretty clear that I am witless. Corroboration of this fact can be found below (i.e., my ‘drabble’ for
capt-facepalm) where I am neither concise nor coherent. My apologies. It wouldn’t be 100 words. Or 221 words. I tried. And then I got impatient. So here is the best ‘drabble’ I can offer you.
Price of Conviction
A thank you response for
capt-facepalm’s
drabble meme. The request was for… LESTRADE!
Beta thanks (and the general kind as well) to
haplessweasel for advice and all-around awesomeness!
“I think, Inspector, a brief pause for reflection will reveal that you have arrested entirely the wrong man.”
As a consulting detective, Sherlock Holmes never billed the Yard for his services.
“A somewhat understandable mistake given the brother - a butcher from Nichol Street in Bethany Green and, quiet clearly, the actual perpetrator - made an adequate attempt at incriminating him.”
And though there was no monetary fee.
“Of course, if you had taken a moment to examine the striation patterns of the wounds it would be abundantly clear that only a man with superior upper arm strength and slaughtering experience could have possibly committed the crime.”
Pride was the price to be paid.
“None-the-less you have apprehended the perpetrator, even if it was under the misapprehension that he would act as character witness for his innocent brother. My congratulations on your success.”
Though droll and immensely self-amused, Holmes was right. The ending to this case could have been much worse.
“If Gregson had been leading the investigation, the perpetrator would be two days asea on the Atlantic right now. How fortuitous his promotion has been.”
A sigh was the only rejoinder from the inspector, followed by the crackle of the fire as it consumed a morning’s worth of paperwork that indicted an innocent man.
Despite these provocations, Lestrade would continue to seek assistance from Holmes; though his ‘sallow rat-face’ might become a little leaner once Doctor Watson published this newest adventure. The new Chief Inspector had recently acquired an enthusiasm for detective stories. This interest often manifested itself in heated speeches about maintaining the reputation of the Yard and abrupt shifts in the pay scale for its inspectors.
Lestrade could little afford ‘The Strand’. It might prove a relaxing pastime when you’d an armchair and a fire roaring in the office grate but it wasn’t something you could carry with you through the bitter chill of the dockyards or to the downtrodden tenements of the wretched poor. The back alleys of his beat had no wasted gaslight for comfort reading.
Yet, if these small indignities were the price for a conviction, Lestrade would gladly pay. His untold adventures rarely ended so well.
So there you have it,
capt-facepalm. I ended up ignoring most of your instructions BECAUSE I FAIL. This isn’t a drabble and I think it sometimes veers into noir (whoops!). None-the-less, it is the best I could do and, let’s be honest, any of my efforts would pale in contrast to your
incomparable work. Thus, I will leave the writing to the experts and stick to lurking.
Edit: Now cross-posted to
dispatch-box