Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Ewen Montagu stepped through the ornate gates of the Ringwood property, already regretting not having taken a thick overcoat. It was much colder by the sea than it was in the centre of London, he was learning. He could hardly complain about it, though; the maid who’d called him to the property was wearing only her uniform and didn’t so much as shiver.

Ms. Jean Leslie, her name was, and she walked with purpose along a small path that broke off from the grandiose main entrance. Montagu followed her more slowly, taking note of everything around him. The tall trees, well-tended garden, bright green grass and glistening sea that could just be seen past the Manor’s immense form. It was all very picturesque. Montagu didn’t deal in the picturesque, though.

He’d read about the incident of Brightcliff Manor, how a Bill Martin, a guest at the house, had washed up on the rocky beach that marked the edge of the property after he’d mysteriously vanished. The police had ruled it a drowning, and called it an accident, and Montagu had had his hands full at the time with a case of missing diamonds to question it. Then, a week or so after the police investigation, Montagu got a call from a housemaid at Brightcliff Manor, who was convinced the case wasn’t properly closed.

“Where are we going?” Montagu asked as they walked away from the house itself and further into the neat little copse to its left.

“I’m taking you to meet the groundsman, sir,” Ms. Leslie replied. “He wants to speak to you, and he’ll be able to show you around.”

Montagu frowned, picturing an old man with a scowl and a bad back who tended to these grounds. He’d never met a groundsman he found tolerable, they were all too focused on their work for his tastes. He preferred people with a bit of adventure, a bit of curiosity, who’d be able to tell him what they saw through the windows and not how well certain patches of land were growing.

“Ms. Leslie,” Montagu said. “Can’t we just go inside the house first? I’m sure I’d love to speak with your employers about this whole affair.”

“Please, just call me Jean,” the maid said. “And I’m afraid it really is important to speak to Charles – the groundskeeper. I just need to find him, is all.”

“Find him? How does one lose a groundman?”

Almost as if by magic, there was a tall, mustached man standing in front of him, eyes wide behind round glasses like a frightened deer. He was wearing a striped white shirt and suspenders, and cupping a handful of what appeared to be dirt.

“Hello?” the man said. He sounded more nervous than any man ought to be.

“Charles,” Jean said, addressing the man. Was this the groundsman. “This is the detective I said I was hiring to talk about Martin’s death. PI Ewen Montagu.”

“Lovely to meet you,” Montagu said, holding out his hand for a handshake. Charles just stared at him, gesturing a little helplessly with his dirt-filled hands. Montagu retracted his hand. “You are…?”

“Charles Cholmondeley, groundsman.”

“Can I just ask,” Montagu said. “Why have you got a handful of dirt?”

“Oh, well, I just noticed the land over here was really lacking in worms,” Charles replied. “I want to see if it's a problem with the soil, and if I should bring more worms over from my bins.”

“Of course.” Montagu turned to Jean, begging her to move things along. She did nothing, apparently content to hear about worms. “I thought this case was solved,” he said after an uncomfortable pause. “Not sure how I’ll be able to help, no matter how good I am.”

“We think the police were wrong,” Jean said. Charles, stood beside her, nodded. Montagu really wished he’d put the worm dirt down. It was hard to focus on much else. “Bill Martin didn’t drown, he can’t have.”

“What makes you say that?”

“The cliff,” Charles said. He let out a little sigh before letting his soil fall to the ground, dusting his hands together. “He can’t have fallen into the water to drown, he’d have hit the rocks. I’ve seen lots of animals fall, break bones and sometimes die, but none have ever fallen in the water. This way, sir.”

The three of them set off across the land, towards the sound of crashing waves. Brightcliff Manor really did have impressive lands. It seems impossible that Charles is the one who cultivated it all, he hardly seemed fit for manual labour. Still, Montagu knew better than to make judgements based on people’s appearances. Rash decisions like that got detectives killed, and he wasn’t stupid enough to let that happen.

“See, there’s no way you could fall into the water,” Charles said as they reached the edge of the cliff, pointing down. There was still dirt on his fingers. Montagu found himself ridiculously intrigued by the nervous groundsman.

Following his finger, Montagu realised that he was right. There was just too much beach for it to be possible. But that wasn’t really enough to warrant them calling in a detective. “How do you know he wasn’t in a boat? Or swimming? It looks quite nice out there, if cold. I don’t think it’s so much of a stretch of the imagination.”

“No boats taken out,” Jean said. “And he was found with his belt, tie, and watch on. I don’t think many people swim like that.”

“So, just so I’m clear,” Montagu said. “What we’ve got here is a possible murder that the police completely cocked up?”

“Uh… Yes,” Charles said.

“Excellent! Then we’ll get to work.” He clapped his hands together, then shivered. “First of all, does anyone have a coat I could borrow?”

“Why don’t we go to your home, Cholmondeley? We can get things sorted from there.”

“And you know he didn’t drown, how…?” Montagu asked Charles. Jean had needed to return to work, leaving him alone with the groundsman in his homey little annexe. It was a small, squat building, and the interior consisted of neat bookshelves and messy tables. Cholmondeley had made them both tea, and was discussing the case with him.

“There just wasn’t enough water in his lungs,” Charles replied. “He wouldn’t have drowned from that little, it doesn’t happen. Plus, there was some bruising and bleeding from the ears, but no broken bones. It seemed like an internal problem more than physical trauma.”

“Why do you know this?” Montagu wondered if he should be suspicious of this man. He seemed a little too clever for his own good, and was incredibly invested in the case, but had also talked about the root system under the grounds for longer than Montagu had bothered to pay attention to, and had a mug with his face because people kept stealing his. All in all, Montagu was fairly sure he was just some intelligent recluse, of which he’d met many. Maybe none quite so odd, though.

“Well, I read the coroner’s report, sir. And I got a good look at the body before the police arrived.”

“Just Monty’s fine,” Montagu said.

“Come again?”

“You don’t need to call me ‘sir’, you can call me Monty. Everyone does.” That was a lie. He wished people did, but the nickname just wasn't sticking.

“Right. Monty.” Charles looked around, like he was seeing his own home for the first time, trying not to meet Montagu’s eyes. What a flighty man. He had the nerves of a prey animal, caught in a lion’s den.

“So, what else has been going on around here?” Montagu asked. “It can’t be all murder.”

“We’ve been going through a really dry period,” Charles replied. “It’s been bad for the vegetation, but I’m trying my best to keep up. Otherwise, uh… I saw an owl I didn’t recognise last night, that was exciting. I try my best to keep track of them, so it's always so exciting to see a new one!”

“I meant in the house.”

“Oh, I’m not really invited in there,” Charles said with a nervous laugh. “I stay out here with my plants, that’s my thing.”

“But do you know the other staff?”

“Of course. They don’t know me though. Except Jean.”

“You seem very smart,” Montagu said. “What led you to being a groundsman?”

“I really like nature,” Charles replied. “I like cataloguing plants and animals and keeping this land as healthy and beautiful as it can be. After seeing… It doesn’t matter. Anyways, it is a job that requires a lot of smarts. Plants aren’t easy to manage, you know.”

“Of course, sorry.” Montagu paused, taking a sip of tea. “Care to have a little fun, though?”

“Pardon?”

“Come on, Charlie,” he said, testing out the nickname. Montagu was an expert at giving people nicknames they didn't ask for, he did with such ease that no one ever had time to say anything. Charlie especially, he was staring at Montagu with wide eyes and pinched eyebrows. “Live a little.”

“W-What do you mean by that?”

“I could use your smarts, my boy,” Montagu said, leaning into Charlie’s space. Usually, this would all be lovely little lies, couched in his signature charm, but Charles was clearly intelligent. More so than Montagu was, certainly. He's been wanting a sidekick for a while, and he could see a very fun future with Charles trailing behind him on cases. “I'm brilliant, but you're some kind of genius. What do you say? Yup for solving a murder?”

Charlie gnawed at the inside of his cheek, looking slightly to Montagu’s left. “Yeah,” he said. “I mean, uh, that sounds good. I'll help as much as I can, Monty.”

“Excellent!” Montagu, thrilled he'd finally gotten someone to call him Monty, clapped Charles on the back. “To work!”

“So this is the kitchen,” Charles was saying as he led Montagu around the house. “It's usually pretty busy, but you can pop in and grab some food basically whenever.”

“They make extra food? That seems like a waste.”

“Oh, no, they don't. Everything’s very carefully measured out so as not to waste anything, actually. But if you're happy eating the scraps, you're set.”

“I take it you eat the scraps.”

Charlie just stared at him in damning silence.

He'd put a tie on and grabbed a jacket that looked distinctly military (had Charlie served? He didn't seem like a military man, but looks could be deceiving) before leaving his little groundsman’s hut, insisting he look more put together when entering the Manor. Montagu hadn't pointed out the dirt still caked under his nails. It did make a difference from the man with rolled-up sleeves and a handful of dirt, though, and Montagu realised Charlie wasn't without his charms. He was, in a strange way, almost handsome.

“How long was Bill Martin here for?” Montagu asked, moving on with the tour. Charles scampered behind him to catch up. “Can you take me to his room?”

“Um, yes. He was here for three days before going missing, and then another fourteen hours elapsed between his last sighting and when he was found,” Charlie said. “As for his room, I can show you the guest rooms, but you'd have to ask a butler or someone to know exactly which he was staying in.”

“You know the house quite well for someone who doesn't usually enter it,” Montagu commented.

“Well, yes. I studied the plans when I started working here,” Charlie said. “For the lands and the house itself. I don't like being lost, and I don't like surprises.”

“I’m glad I found you, Charlie,” Montagu said earnestly. “You're going to be such an asset.”

“Thank you.” He seemed uncertain, shoving his hands into his pockets. Before Montagu could figure out how to pivot back to the case, Jean came rushing down the hallway towards them, another woman in the same uniform behind her.

“Montagu!” she called, as if he'd be able to miss her, practically sprinting towards him. “And Charles, hello.”

“Yes, hello, Jean,” Montagu said. “What can I do for you?”

“This,” Jean said, stepping aside to reveal the other maid. “Is Bella Sharrock. She's my friend, and I think she can be helpful to the case.”

“How so?” Charlie asked, perking up.

“I saw Mr. Martin,” Bella admitted. “The night before he went missing.”

“Oh?” Montagu said, before turning to Charlie. “Is there anywhere nearby we could go to conduct an interview?”

The groundsman shrugged helplessly, but Jean stepped in. “There's an office just down the hall, Lord Ringwood never uses it.”

“Thank you, Jean,” Montagu said, ushering Bella in the right direction. Jean seemed reluctant to leave her side, and he let her walk them to the office door.

Before Montagu could follow Bella in, Charles stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. “Monty,” he said. “Do you want me in there with you?”

“That would be excellent,” Montagu said, but Charles just kept nervously babbling.

“I know it's probably not etiquette, but I could take notes of what's said, or something. Oh, nevermind, I’ll just—”

“Charlie,” Montagu cut in. “It would be great if you could take notes, and ask as many questions as possible. You're my genius, I need you with me.”

Charles nodded bashfully, slipping into the unused office, Montagu right behind him. Clearly, no one had put his smarts to proper use in quite a while, and Montagu was ready to leap onto that opportunity. It was always good to have someone smarter and quieter to turn to in times of need.

“So, Bella Sharrock, is that right?” Montagu said, sitting down in one of the tables in front of the desk, so he was companionably close to Bella. “What is it you have for us?”

“You’re a detective?” Bella asked Charles, peering over Montagu’s shoulder. “I could’ve sworn… you look a lot like the groundsman.”

“Ah, no, I am the groundsman,” Charlie replied. “I’m just helping Monty– PI Montagu with this investigation.”

“Ms. Sharrock?” Montagu said gently, reclaiming her attention. “You saw Mr. Martin, is that correct?”

“Well, we all did,” she replied. “But I saw him the night before he vanished, yes.”

“And why was this important enough to bring to our attention?”

“He seemed… off,” she said. “He was walking around in the dark with a notepad, and he looked shifty. He was sneaking around, but I don’t know what he was heading for. He saw me watching him and said he was trying to find the loo but… I don’t know.”

“When was this?”

“Around three in the morning, I think.”

“And where?”

“On the first floor, near the drawing room. He seemed to be heading towards the stairs before he noticed me, but I’m not sure.”

“So he could’ve been heading anywhere,” Montagu said, trying to keep the frustration out of his voice. “Charles, do you still have those plans for the house?”

“Of course,” Charles said. He then opened and closed his mouth a few times, like he was trying to speak, before saying, “Can I just ask, Bella, why you were wandering about at three in the morning?”

Bella looked to Montagu, as if for confirmation that she should answer the question. He nodded. “I sleep here, me and a few of the other staff members, so whenever things happen at night, it’s my job to deal with them. I heard this crash from downstairs, so I went to investigate. That’s when I found Mr. Martin.”

“A crash? What from?” Montagu asked.

“It looked like he’d run into something,” Bella said. “He was rubbing his shin and, as I said, was walking about in complete darkness.”

“And no one else heard this crash?”

“No one else woke up. Or, if they did, they didn’t want to be the one to deal with it.”

“You said Mr. Martin was sneaking around,” Charlie commented, tapping his notebook with his pen. “Would you say he was looking for something? Did it look like he was snooping? Or maybe getting ready to steal? There are a lot of valuables in this house, after all.”

“I– I don’t think he was stealing,” Bella answered. “The Ringwoods are very precious about their things, if he’d taken anything they would’ve mentioned it. I suppose he could’ve been looking for something, then. Why, what do you think he was after?” She was looking at Montagu again, as if Charles was hardly in the room. He was starting to understand why the poor man felt unwelcome in the house.

“We don’t have any theories yet,” Montagu said. “The investigation has only just started.”

“Right, of course.”

“Charles, anything else?” he asked his new partner, who scanned his notes before shaking his head. “We have what we need for now, thank you Ms. Sharrock.”

“Of course.” Bella left the room with a courteous duck of her head, shutting the door firmly behind her. Montagu turned to face Charles, who’d been lingering right behind his shoulder, scribbling away.

“Alright, Charlie boy, what’s the theory?” he asked.

“She’s lying about why she was up late enough to run into Bill,” Charlie said. “She said he injured his shin by making a loud enough crash to wake her from one floor up. But the body had no bruises on the shins, which, if he ran into something that hard, are bound to happen. Even if we broaden our scope a little, it doesn’t match with any of the bruising on the body.”

“I knew I was wise to keep you,” Montagu commented. “Now we just need to figure out why she lied.”

“And what she was doing instead.”

“I think you’ll find that the ‘why’ is often far more interesting than the ‘what’. ‘Why’ gives us motive.”

“You think she killed him?”

“I don’t think anything yet, I hardly have any information at all.”

Charlie nodded slowly, tucking his pen into his breast pocket. The notebook fit nicely into the pockets of his coat, large as they were. His brow was furrowed, and he appeared deep in thought, but Montagu figured it was better to leave him to his own devices until he was sure enough to speak. He didn’t want to startle the poor man by pushing him too much.

“I don’t suppose I could talk to the Lord and Lady of the house, and however many of the staff you can grab?” Montagu said instead, standing up. “I’ll need everyone's accounts.”

Chapter Text

Montagu groaned and rolled over in bed, trying to shake off the shrill ringing from his dream, forceful enough to force him into waking. Peering out the window, he could see the darkness of the sky beyond, lit only by the London street lamps. It was far too early to be awake.

Blinking a few times, it occurred to him that the ringing hadn’t gone away and was, in fact, coming from his desk across the room. His phone. With a sigh so dramatic it would’ve won him an award, Montagu hauled himself out of bed and over to the phone. He picked up the receiver and grumbled something into it that could almost be construed as ‘hello’.

“Monty!” a horrendously excited voice greeted him in return. There was only one person he’d gotten to call him that.

“Charlie? It’s midnight, can’t this wait?”

“Oh, I– um…” He didn’t sound chipper anymore, and Montagu winced. “It can wait. Sorry to have woken you.”

“No, no, don’t worry. I was awake anyways,” Montagu lied. “I can never sleep during cases. What is it you called about?”

“Well, I was tending to the dirt – remember, from yesterday? Because there weren’t anywhere near enough worms in that area, and that’s never a good sign, since worms are so crucial for decomposition and fertilisation.”

“What did you find?” Montagu cut in a little sharply. He didn’t want to hear about worms at midnight when he had a case to solve the next day. He didn’t want to hear about worms at midnight ever, in fact, no matter how thrilled Charlie sounded, and how oddly charming he found it.

“Yes, right. I found papers. They’ve been partially burnt and scattered, but I found a few bits of what look like sentences. I think I can work out what they say with a little time. They were written by Bill Martin, I think. I’ll check the writing with the guest book in the morning, but I’m quite certain.” “I take it those weren’t just lying around with your worms yesterday.”

“Definitely not. They’re new.”

“Let's assume they are Bill’s notes. Someone’s panicking, trying to get rid of evidence.”

“We interviewed Jean, Bella, the kitchen staff, the butlers, and the Ringwoods themselves yesterday,” Charles reminded him. “But I’m sure everyone in the house knows about your investigation. It could be anyone.”

“No, it couldn’t…” Montagu mused. “How often do you check on your worms?”

“I have other duties, of course,” Charlie said, a little defensively. “But I’ve been worried about them. I was walking around there before going to sleep, and then I woke up and decided to go for a little stroll, to clear my mind.”

“And the papers weren’t there before you went to sleep?”

Montagu was now needed to be fully, horrifically awake. He turned his desk light on and grabbed a block note and a pen to start scribbling down what Charlie had told him, desperately wishing he could curl back up in his bed without feeling like a bad person for leaving both the case and his new partner hanging. Ewen Montagu didn’t need beauty sleep, and thank the lord for that, because he never got any. He was too naturally stunning for exhaustion to weaken his charm. It did make him feel angry and sad, though, and he wasn’t looking forward to a day of work like that.

“Someone must have gotten rid of them between when I went to sleep and now,” Charlie said. “So… So they have to live at the Manor. Otherwise, why dispose of evidence so close to the crime scene?”

“Very good, Charlie,” Montagu said. “So we can rule out everyone who doesn’t live on site for this particular piece of the puzzle.”

“It could be two people working together.”

“Exactly.” Montagu stifled a yawn.

“You should get some sleep, Monty,” Charles said. “I’ll figure out what these sentences mean, and we can put it all together in the morning, when you get here.”

“You ought to sleep too. Why are you even awake?”

“I…” Charlie sighed down the line and the was the sound of rustling, like he was shifting in place. “I had a nightmare. I can never go back to sleep after one, so I’ll just work. It’s the best thing I can do with my time.”

“A nightmare, eh?” Montagu said. “What does Charles Cholmondeley have to fear?”

“Uh, well—” Charles cut off. “It’s nothing, really. I’ll see you in the morning, Monty.”

“See you in the morning.” Montagu set down the receiver and looked down at his notes. It was mostly empty, though his tired mind had managed to note down ‘Charlie – nightmares?’ under the header of evidence. He let himself melt against the chair for a moment, unwilling to move, before shutting off the light and stumbling back into bed.

Montagu stared at the ceiling and sorted through all the case details he had so far, which were quite few. After a few minutes, Montagu realised he wasn’t fully awake anymore, and that he was thinking about Charles again. He was worried about him, he discovered. All alone out there, tormented by nightmares and ignored by everyone but the owls, the poor man must be going mad. He was such an odd character, there were many more captivating facts about Charlie to turn over than about the case. His extensive knowledge of all sorts of subjects, his nervous stammering, his ability to follow along with all of Montagu’s leaps of logic. It was all perplexing, and Montagu loved a mystery. He fell asleep thinking about Charlie, his new partner, and had lovely, warm dreams that he couldn’t for the life of him remember come morning.

Brightcliff Manor was just as grandiose as it had seemed the first time Montagu walked up to it. Even the sky hadn't changed, seemingly frozen in a mass of soupy gray clouds, heavy with the threat of rain. This time, though, the person waiting at the gate for him wasn't Jean but Charles. He was bundled up in his jacket, staring into the middle distance tiredly, and Montagu could just spot dark rings under his eyes.

“How goes it?” Montagu asked as he walked up. Charlie’s eyes snapped to him and he seemed to shake off his tiredness, gaze suddenly sharp.

“Brilliantly,” he replied. “I checked the handwriting against the guest book, it's the same. And I managed to decipher some of the text, it seems that he was looking for something, like Bella said. Whoever burnt the paper didn't do a very good job, I assume they were in a rush and thought throwing it outside would dispose of it well enough.”

“Wonderful work, Charlie,” Montagu said. “Did you gather all the notes?”

“I doubt it,” Charlie said, leading Montagu through the grounds to his home. “It was dark, and I haven't been out again since dawn, but there's probably more, right?”

“We can go looking for them. It's certainly light enough now.”

“Yes, and I’m worried about those clouds…” Charlie said, looking up. “But I did find some important information.”

“Well? Share!”

“Right, yes. Bill wrote about running into Bella, see,” Charles explained. It was amazing how his nervous tension lifted when he was confident in what he was saying. He pulled out his notebook, flipping through the pages. “He says, uh, ‘I was halfway to the stairs when I heard a crash and there was this maid, watching me.’ And then he asks her what she's doing and she says something about her job, he doesn't specify. But then he says this about her leaving, ‘I noticed a heavy bag over her shoulder, and two of the candlesticks were missing.’ He seems to talk a lot about the candlesticks – he thinks they're dumb. Thought they were dumb, I suppose. Uh…

“That's excellent, Charles!” Montagu exclaimed. “We have to get Ms. Sharrock back and interrogate her again. She's the closest thing to a suspect we have.”

“Bella? No, she's so sweet! Jean talks about her all the time.”

“Anyone can do anything with enough motive,” Montagu said. “We know the Ringwoods are very watchful of their possessions, she told us herself. Bill could've told them and gotten her fired, and she wouldn't be living here if she could afford to live elsewhere, I’ll bet.”

“I just don't think Bella could kill.”

“Charlie, my boy, anyone can kill.” Montagu turned and saw Charlie make a sort of pained expression, one hand coming to rest on his thigh for a moment. He hardly seemed aware of it, but Charlie was full of nervous habits, so it didn't strike Montagu as particularly odd.

“I'm well aware,” he replied quietly.

Montagu peered at him curiously. It would make sense that Charlie had served in the War, he was a young, healthy man. There was no reason Montagu could determine that he wouldn’t have fought, unless he was hiding a secret similar to his own. But no, Charles had a mustache and was tall enough that Montagu was sure that wasn't the case. Had something happened? Montagu had heard all sorts of stories about soldiers coming back home completely shattered, both mentally and physically. Was Charlie hiding battle scars?

“I think we ought to search for more notes,” Montagu said, changing the subject. He'd ask later, when the clouds weren't so low, threatening to destroy excellent evidence. “We can question Bella later.”

“Alright.” Charlie nodded, spinning on his heel, then turning back around again, and finally whirling to face Montagu. “Do you mind if I just grab some tools? I do have a job to be doing.”

Montagu couldn't help but sigh. He liked this suit, and he was sure working beside Charlie in the dirt would all but ruin it. Still, he gestured in the direction of Charlie’s home. The poor man was right, he wasn't being paid to investigate.

On that note. “Where are the funds coming from?” Montagu asked as they walked along the path to Charlie’s. “To pay for my services, that is. Jean is technically the one who hired me, bu tI have to assume maids don't make enough to spend hiring PIs on a hunch.”

“Ah, uh, Jean said she had it covered,” Charles said. “I think one of the Ringwoods is paying for it?”

“John and Ada? They seemed quite surprised to see me.”

“Must be Myriam, then. Honestly I didn't want to pry too much into Jean’s finances. It felt… crass.”

“Sorry, who's Myriam?”

“The daughter,” Charles said. “Sorry, I assumed you knew? She was– I think she was in town yesterday, you didn't run into her.”

“Right, I’m going to need to speak with her, especially if she's paying for my services.”

“Oh, she's rarely home.” Catching Montagu’s annoyed look, Charlie continued, “B-But I can ask Jean to speak with her? She’ll want to know you're here, right?”

“Right.”

They'd reached Charlie’s little shack of a house and he fumbled with his keys, putting some weight against the door so it opened. Charles stumbled a little, as if one of his legs had given out slightly, but quickly righted himself.

“Right, uh, you can wait out there Monty?” he offered. “Or come in, it's really up to you, but I’m just grabbing my things.”

“I’d take a coat if you had a spare.”

Charlie blinked at him before tossing him a worn black overcoat from deep within the closet by the door before dashing off into the house. Monty prepared himself for a long day of watching a man garden.

Monty hated being unkempt. He hated seeing untidy, hated ruffled hair and rumpled suits and scuffed shoes. He had a reputation to uphold, after all. He was Ewen Montagu. He didn't get all the big name cases for nothing. And yet, at that moment, Montagu was standing in the main hall of Brightcliff Manor with ruffled hair, a rumpled suit, and scuffed shoes. He and Charlie had been scrounging through a garden for hours, and they'd managed to find quite a lot of pages before the clouds finally opened up and unleashed a torrential rain. Charles had seemed annoyingly pleased, despite the fact that they'd almost certainly lost good evidence.

“No, she's not home right now,” Jean said, eyeing Monty and Charles curiously. “Myriam Ringwood is… a spontaneous woman. I think she's staying with her friends in London right now.”

“Oh, how convenient,” Monty said. “I live in London.”

“Really?” Charles turned to him, eyes wide. “You commute here from London? Isn't it a little long?”

“Not many accommodations out here, my good man.” “Ahem,” Jean interrupted. “I do know where Bella is, though, if you want to see her.”

“Yes, fetch her,” Monty said. “We’ll be in the same office as last time. Charlie, you have your notepad?” Charles nodded, patting his pocket. “Then we’ll meet you there, Jean.”

He started walking towards the unused office, Charles rushing to catch up with him.

“If you're commuting from London,” he said. “That seems really inconvenient.”

“It is,” Monty replied. “But that's the job.”

“I just– There's extra rooms in the Manor, you know,” Charles said. “And, uh, I have a comfortable sofa, so you could take the bed. If you– I mean, maybe you prefer to sleep in your own bed. I’m just offering.”

“Charlie,” Monty interrupted, not breaking his stride. “Calm down. I’ll consider your offer, but I’d need to go home anyway, to get my things.”

“Yes, of course, you're right.”

“Now, are you ready to talk to Bella? We can't let her leave until we've gotten the truth out of her.”

“Ah, right. Sure?”

Monty sighed. What was he going to do with this man? “That’ll do!”

Bella looked more nervous this time, as she stepped into the room. Monty heard Charles shift behind him, pages flipping as he got ready to take notes.

“Ms. Sharrock, great to see you,” Monty said courteously. “We just had a few more questions for you, if that's alright? We need to confirm some things we’ve heard.”

“Of course,” Bella said.

“That crash you heard, it was while you were still in your sleeping quarters?”

“Yes. It woke me up.”

“Right,” Monty said, nodding. “It's just that someone said you were already out of the room before they heard it? We're a little confused here.”

“I, uh, I don't know what that's about. Who even said that? I bet it was Helena, she's always trying to make me look bad.”

“We can't tell you who told us what, I’m afraid. You're saying you definitely left the room afterthe crash?”

“Definitely.”

“Okay, thanks for the clarification.”

From his spot behind Monty, Charles cleared his throat awkwardly. “Can I just ask something?”

“Always, Charles, my genius,” Monty replied, and Bella shifted so she was facing Charlie’s way.

“Well, it's just that you said the Ringwoods are very particular about their property? And we were running inventory – we noticed two candlesticks missing near the drawing room. You said you thought he wasn't stealing, but are you sure?” Oh, clever man, Monty thought. Bella seemed set on her lie, but if they could catch her out…

“Uh, yes. I mean no – I'm not sure. He might've been stealing, I guess, I must've been wrong, ha…” She was sweating now, eyes flicking around the room. “I’ll keep a lookout though, if I see anything, yeah? Maybe someone just moved them, you never know. Two silver candlesticks, right? Yeah, I’ll… ask around… I'm sure they're somewhere… ha…” She trailed off, noticing Monty and Charlie’s keen stares on her. Bella shifted a little, and attempted a shaky smile.

“We never said the candlesticks were silver,” Monty said. They hadn’t even known the candlesticks were silver, she’d given them wholly new information, and doomed herself in the process.

“Well, I just guessed, because a lot of the candlesticks around are silver, and I know this house, so it was just— an educated guess,” Bella stammered.

“Ms. Sharrock – Bella, please talk to us,” Monty cajoled. He was excellent at being charming when he needed to be. Frankly, he was excellent at being charming all the time. He was Ewen Montagu. The name only meant something to a select few people, but he was sure all those people thought he was very charming. “We won’t tell your employers anything about what you did, we just need to know exactly what was going on. Please.”

Bella stared at them in silence for a moment, eyes flicking to Charlie and back a few times. She gripped her hands together in her lap, and said, “I’m not paid much. I have… debts, and I certainly can’t settle them on my wages. And I know the Ringwoods well enough by now to know what they will and won’t notice, so sometimes I… pinch things. Little things. A mirror, a vase, or… candlesticks.” She took a deep breath, steeling herself. “When I ran into Mr. Martin, I was… I was stealing. I got up in the middle of the night, when I thought no one else would be awake, but I saw him and jumped, dropping one of the candlesticks. That was the crash. Everything else was true though, I swear it!”

“We believe you,” Monty said, keeping his expression fixed in compassion. “Do you have anything else for us, Bella?”

“I… I don’t think so.”

“Alright, don’t worry. And you, Charlie? Any additional questions?”

“Do you know where Mr. Martin’ room was? I assume it’s been cleaned out, but can you point us to it?” Charlie asked.

“Cleaned out? Oh, it might be,” she sounded genuine, but Monty already knew that she could lie. “I certainly wasn’t tasked with that. I can show you the room though?”

“That would be lovely,” Monty said. “May I just have one quick word with Charlie here?”

Once Bella had shut the door, Monty whirled around to face his companion. “Did she do it?” he asked.

“You’re the detective!” Charlie protested, tucking his pencil into his notebook. “And it’s– it’s too early to tell.”

“What’s the point of having a genius around if he won’t help!”

“I’m trying.” Charlie sounded so meek, hands clenched around his notebook, and Monty sighed.

“You’re right,” he said. “You are helping. Thank you for that.”

“I, uh… Any time, Monty.”

“Right, now let’s go solve a murder!”

Chapter Text

“I don’t suppose I could take you up on that offer?” Monty asked Charlie as they walked back to his small home.

“Which?”

“To stay with you,” he clarified. It was absolutely miserable to haul himself out of bed every day to then catch the train for three hours at the crack of dawn. Sure, the countryside was lovely, but Monty would much rather be sleeping during that time.

“Oh! Well, of course,” Charlie said with a smile. “You’re very welcome! As I said, I’ll move to the sofa, and you can sleep in my bed.”

“Great,” Monty said. He’d brought some clothes to change into, which might have been presumptuous, but he was nothing if not presumptuous. And, frankly, he didn’t think Charlie would say no to him, if he hadn’t wanted Monty in his home. It was a little reassuring that he was smiling, though, because he would feel a little bad if he was imposing on Charles.

It had started raining the day before and not stopped. According to Charlie, this was a good thing, because it had been exceptionally dry before, but Monty had been hoping to find any more evidence. Ah well, he needed to hole up and get some research work done on deciphering the notes they had found the day before. The only suspect they had so far was Bella Sharrock, and Monty hated getting too hung up on one suspect for too long. It limited his ability to see other perspectives.

“H-How was the trip?” Charlie asked awkwardly, shoving his hands into the pockets of his coat, which only served to remind Monty of the chill. He, once again, had neglected to bring a coat, maybe because he found Charlie’s to be much warmer and more comfortable than any of his own. The man was much more used to being outside than he was, he supposed.

“Fine,” Monty replied. “It’s getting a little old.”

“Ah, I can imagine…” he chuckled. “I’ve only been to London a few times. I don’t leave these grounds often.” They’d reached the door, and Charlie fumbled to slip the key in for a moment. Monty noticed the rainwater splashed on his glasses, and wondered if that was what was impeding his hand-eye coordination, or if was the slight nervous tremor he always seemed to have.

“You should come up some time,” Monty offered. “We can hit up the bars! You don’t look like you’ve had a good time in years.”

“I really don’t think we have the same definition of a good time,” Charlie stammered, showing Monty into his home. “I quite like being out here, on my own, watching the newts.”

“Charlie, my genius, that is very sad to hear.” Monty placed a hand on Charlie’s shoulder, ignoring the way he jumped and blinked owlishly at him from behind his glasses. “We’re going to fix that.”

Charlie cleared his throat, inching minutely away from Monty’s touch. “Before, uh, that, we have work to do.”

“Yes, quite right,” Monty said. “Work, work, work. Never any leisure with Charles Cholmondeley.”

“Come now,” Charlie replied, shrugging off his coat. It was definitely military issue, Monty was sure of it. He was quite sure he had fought, even, from the occasional haunted moments he’d glimpsed. Monty really couldn’t picture nervous, gentle Charlie on the battlefield, surrounded by shrapnel and death while he searched for frogs or sparrows. “I can be fun.”

“I’ve not seen it.”

“No, well, we… We've been working. So…”

Monty laughed. “I’m going to make you fun, Charlie. That’s my goal here. No one can go through life as frightfully skittish as you without letting off a little steam.”

“Your goal here should be solving the murder.”

“Oh, I’ve already worked that out,” Monty said casually. “I’m just humouring you to see if you can solve it too.”

“Really?” Charlie turned towards him with awe, which quickly morphed into annoyance. “You’re playing with me.”

“Yes,” he confirmed. “But that would’ve been impressive, right?”

Charles didn’t respond, simply shooting him a disapproving look. It was by far the coldest look he’d ever given him, and it felt like a refreshing breeze on a summer’s day. Monty wondered what it would take to properly upset him. He seemed too mild-mannered to ever be angry, but every anxious person like him had a fire squashed very deep down.

Monty noticed the partially burnt notes spread out across Charlie’s table, and set all his things down carelessly at the door. He noticed his partner tidying up behind before quickly joining him. Oh, it was going to be fun to drive him mad. One of Monty’s greatest skills was being a pest.

“So, Charlie boy,” Monty said, dropping his pencils and notebook onto the desk. “Anything new? It looks like you’ve been working.”

“Ah, yes. Well, I couldn’t sleep again,” he said, neatly rearranging his things on his side of the table, as if to make up for Monty’s presence. “I found part of a signature on one of them, but here’s the thing: it doesn’t say Bill Martin. At least, I don’t think it does.”

“Was someone else writing in his papers?” Monty asked.

“No, it’s the same handwriting,” Charlie explained. He absentmindedly pushed his glasses up his nose, and Monty noticed there was still water smeared on them. “I checked it multiple times. So, for some reason, Bill Martin is signing his notes under a fake name.”

“Or Bill Martin is a fake name,” Monty said. “Which page is this? …Oh, I see it. You’re right, that looks like a G for the first name. G-L?”

“Glen? Gl… Gloria?”

“For a man? I think not, Charlie.”

“Right. I think the last name starts with an M, or maybe an N? It looks like an M-I-C.”

“Good work! I’m glad someone stayed up all night doing this.”

Charlie ducked his head, focussing on his notebook page, but Monty noticed a smile on his lips. All alone all the time, the man probably didn’t get as many congratulations as he deserved. Monty wasn’t usually one for gratuitous praise when it wasn’t directed at himself, but he felt he ought to offer Charlie some. Not that it was unearned, he wouldn’t call him a genius for nothing.

“You don’t happen to know any G-L-blank M-I-C-blanks?” Charlie asked.

“No, I’m afraid I don’t.” He peered out the window at the pouring rain and felt dread coursing through his body. No, he’d go with plan B. “Do you have a telephone?”

“Uh… yes? Why?”

“I need to call an archivist.” The way Charlie’s face lit up was deeply embarrassing for him. Uncharacteristically, Monty didn’t call him out on it. “Let’s hope she’s in, or we might have to wait a while for our Glen fellow.”

Charlie led Monty to the phone, which was in the kitchen. The detective hopped up onto the counter and told the operator Hester’s number. It wasn’t her number, really. It was the London archives’ number, but Monty had never used it to call anyone else.

“Her name is Hester Legatt,” Monty told Charles. “She’s got a gift for finding information like no one else. Don’t look like that, she’s far too old for you.”

“I wasn’t—”

“Sure, sure. You were just excited by a thorough filing system.”

“I really was.” Were it anyone else, Monty would’ve pushed, but Charlie seemed so genuine. He sighed and let it go right as the phone rang in his hand.

“Hello?” Monty said into the phone.

“Montagu?” came Hester’s voice in reply. Thank the heavens. “What can I help you with?”

“You have just about everyone on record, right?”

“I’m still not sure you know how archives work.”

“Can you find me a name?”

“I can certainly try.”

“We’re fairly certain the first name starts with G-L, and the last name starts with M-I-C.”

“He seems to be some kind of writer,” Charlie commented.

“Montagu, who’s that?”

“Charles Cholmondeley,” he said, unabashedly proud of his new partner. “He’s helping me on this case.”

“Alright,” Hester said, then paused for a moment. “It’s good to see you working with someone.”

“What does that mean—”

“G-L and M-I-C you said? And what was it Mr. Cholmondeley said?”

“Our man is probably a writer, apparently,” Monty said, then turned to Charlie. “Where did you get that from?”

“He drafts like someone who’s taking notes to write them out,” he explained. “There’s a style to it. And there was a mention of print, I think.”

“Right, okay,” Monty returned to the phone call. “So he’s probably a writer, the genius said so. He's got some connection to Brighthill Manor or the Ringwoods who live there, and he died almost two weeks ago.”

“I’ll try to find your man, then,” Hester said. “Good bye, Montagu.”

“Bye-bye, Hester!” She’d hung up.

Monty stayed on the counter, putting the receiver back in the cradle. Outside, the storm had gotten worse. It was pounding on the roof, and he heard thunder in the distance. Monty had always loved a storm, he found it exhilarating. It was always raining, but a proper storm was its own thing. The clouds, the noise, the drama of it all… it really spoke to him.

“Right,” he said to Charlie. “Recap.”

“Uh… Of what?”

“Of the case, Charles.” Lightning flashed through the window, which was obviously perfect for solving a murder.

“Ah, yes, okay well–” he readjusted his glasses and notably clenched his fists at his side, looking more tense than ever. “A body was found on the beach, it was ruled death by drowning, Jean thought it was—” a crash of thunder, and he winced. “Thought it was a murder, so she called you.”

“Charlie,” Monty said slowly, interrupting him. “Are you afraid of thunderstorms?”

“N-no!” he protested. “I love nature, in all it’s— it's forms…”

“You're allowed to be scared of thunderstorms,” Monty said, overly gracious. “I'm sure a lot of people are.”

Charlie sighed. “The thunder just reminds me of… Ah, well you know what it reminds me of.”

“No, I really don't.”

Charlie looked at him a little oddly. “The war?”

“Oh, of course!” So Charlie had fought. It only made sense, his eyesight couldn't be that bad. “The war. You were in the trenches?”

“Yes. Weren't you?”

“Ah, no,” Monty said with a practiced smile and a practiced lie. “Conscientious objector.”

“Really?” Charlie’s eyebrows shot up above his glasses. “I wouldn't have taken you for one.”

“I’m full of surprises.”

“Indeed, you are.” He smiled, then balled and uncurled his fists a few times.

“Your nightmares,” Monty said. He'd spotted a window of vulnerability, and he was going to make use of it. “They're about the war?”

A sigh. “Usually. It was… I wasn't out for long, really, not compared to some. But it was still… horrific.”

“I've heard.”

“The things I saw, nothing can prepare a man for that. The things I did, too. It was all… It was all so stupid. You don't realise how foolish all the fighting is until you're pulling shrapnel out of your leg, surrounded by dead companions.” He sagged against the counter, like all the strings in him had been cut. “I was just thinking– this is what they're feeling, too. The Germans. The enemy. They're also losing friends and companions and they've also been told they're fighting for the right cause, and we're killing them just like they're killing us. But you just can't stop once you're that deep in it. The second someone so much as twitches, the other side has to retaliate, because there's really nothing else to do out there. I've never been more relieved than when I heard it was over.”

“I’m so sorry,” Monty said gently, moving over to the other man. He placed a tentative hand on his shoulder, and Charlie leaned into him. “That's awful.”

“I made it out mostly undamaged,” Charlie said with flimsy levity. “All my limbs are attached; all I got was nightmares and a leg that aches on occasion.”

“I'm glad,” Monty replied. “I'd be gutted if I never got to meet you.”

“Thank you, Monty.”

They stood in silence for several minutes, both lost in thought. Monty, who's been unable to picture Charlie in the war, could see it very clearly now. It was frighteningly easy to slot him into all those horror stories Monty had heard about the war.

“So…” Charlie said after a little while, moving away from Monty’s hand. “Back to work?”

“Back to work.”

The ringing of the phone drew Monty from his helpless staring at the piles of half-burnt papers. He'd been tugging at his hair, not caring if he messed it up. They were making no progress, and Monty was very close to slamming his head into the table.

“I’ll get it,” Charlie said. He'd pushed his glasses up onto his head and had been staring at the wood, clearly feeling no more useful than Monty, which was reassuring.

Monty followed Charlie into the kitchen, praying for something else to do. Charlie put his ear to receiver for a second before nodding and passing it over to Monty. “It's Hester,” he explained.

“Hester!” Monty exclaimed. “What have you got for me?”

“I think I've found your man,” Hester replied, all business as always.

“Amazing! Who is it?”

“I've found you a Welsh journalist called Glyndwr Michael,” she said. Monty repeated it all to Charlie, who furiously scribbled it down. “In one of his last publications, he mentions a Ringwood mystery, but there's been no news from him for three weeks, when he usually published weekly.”

“That sounds like our guy,” Charlie said. “It all lines up.”

“Quite right,” Monty said. “Brilliantly done, Hester.”

“Let me know if there's anything else I can help with,” Hester said politely, then hung up.

“Glyndwr Michael…” Monty breathed, peering at Charlie’s notes. “Well, that makes up for our lack of progress.”

“We need to get our hands on his writing,” Charlie mused. “Just to make sure. Plus, maybe there's something of use in his articles. A Ringwood mystery could be huge for us.”

Monty was about to set off for the table where they'd been working when his eyes caught on the window – more specifically, on the pitch darkness beyond. He checked his watch and realised it was appallingly late for them to be working.

“Yes,” he said. “We’ll have to take a trip to see Hester in London at some point. For now, though, I think it's time for us to get some shut-eye.”

“W-what?” Charlie, genuinely baffled, looked over at the clock on the wall, and blinked. “Yes, I suppose it is. I’ll uh, I’ll point you towards the bedroom? I changed the sheets while you were working, don't worry, and it should all be nice and tidy. Let me know if you need anything, of course. I probably won't sleep much. I don’t… sleep much. But the bathroom is down there, there's a shower, and here's the room, and I’m just– Well, I'm just out there—”

“Charlie,” Monty interrupted, placing a hand on Charles’ chest. He'd been led through Charlie’s little shack in a flurry of movement im until he was finally shown to the room, Charles standing outside with one hand clutching Monty’s bag. “You're fretting. Stop it. I’m fine, you're fine, thank you for the room. Good night, now.”

“Good night, Monty…” With a nervous smile and a little nod, Charlie gave him his bag then shut the door behind him, leaving Monty alone in the darkness.

Charlie’s bedroom was perfectly clean, and Monty knew it was only because he was there. He was sure that under normal circumstances it would be the same mix of cluttered surfaces and tidy shelves that seemed to make up the rest of Charlie’s home. Briefly, Monty wondered if he should have a rummage through his host’s things, just to get a better sense of the man, but that felt like a step too far. He'd already kicked the poor fellow out of his own room, after all.

Monty clicked on a bedside lamp and settled on the mattress. It was small – certainly too small for Charlie – and uncomfortable, nothing like his own, but he sank into it nonetheless. He hadn't realised quite how tired he was until he fell onto the mattress, head already on the pillow.

It had been a while since Monty had spent the night in another person’s home. He travelled a lot for cases, of course, but rarely stayed anywhere other than his own flat or a swanky hotel. It was fascinating to see the little touches of Charlie illuminated by the dim lamp. A bedside table piled with neatly sorted books, a mug filled with various pens and pencils next to a well-worn notebook. A few drawers the were slightly out of place, worn handles that indicated which he used most often. Monty was even sure he could spy a pot of gardening equipment in the corner, though it was past the illuminated ring.

Charlie himself was a fascinating figure. The naturalist who'd gone to war, the gardener who solved murders. He seemed so harmless and twitchy, but was full of more mysteries than their dear, dead Bill Martin, and Monty wanted to unpick each and every one of them carefully until he knew everything about his new companion. He'd love to work with Charlie again, he realised. Having a genius on his side at all times would be excellent, and it wasn't like the man was unattractive. Monty had the charm for both of them, but Charlie was appealing in his own odd way.

Once he'd changed for the night, Monty climbed under the covers and clicked the light off, letting the sounds of the storm that was still raging ease him to sleep.

Chapter Text

Waking up, Monty had a terrifying moment of not knowing where he was. Nothing around him looked familiar, shrouded in complete darkness, and he was too tired to remember why he'd be somewhere new.

Of course, he then blinked a few times and kicked his brain into gear and remembered where he was and why. Faint morning light was filtering through the curtains that he only then realised were drawn, and he could hear birdsong outside. This must be Charlie’s dream world.

Once Monty had changed, he ventured out of the room and found his host in the kitchen, making coffee with squinted eyes and no glasses. Monty sidled up behind him, silently as he could, then leaned over Charlie’s shoulder, right into his space. Charles jumped about a foot in the air, eyes wide, before shakily going back to what he'd been doing.

His short hair was surprisingly disheveled in the morning, and he looked like he'd only partially managed to pull himself together before going to make coffee. Monty was surprised the uptight man was even capable of looking that sloppy.

“Enough for two?” Monty asked casually, leaning on the counter beside Charles.

“Uh, yes, of course,” Charlie said, clearly still recovering from the fright Monty had given him. “I didn't know if you wanted… but I did make… Yes, here you are.”

Monty silently took the cup of coffee, letting Charlie stammer himself out. Surely there had to be a limit to how worked up one could be first thing in the morning?

“So, we’ve found this Glyndwr guy,” Monty said, sipping the coffee. It was fine. Passable. He'd have to teach Charlie better.

“Glyndwr Michael.”

“Indeed. My proposal: we go up to the London archives and visit Hester in person. I'm sure the two of you together can have this whole case cracked in half an hour, and then we can hit the town.”

“I don't know if parties are really my thing, Monty—”

“You can't know until you try it my way! Trust me, you're in good hands.”

Charlie seemed to deliberate, but Monty knew he'd win. There was no way this man could resist the promise of Hester’s archive, and the partying was a non-negotiable. If Monty was supposed to be seen with him back on his own turf, Charles would learn to have a good time.

“Fine,” Charlie conceded. It’s what makes the most sense. I can’t exactly help much from here.”

“So pleased to see you disregard your job for me,” Monty teased. “How do your employers feel about it?”

“Sometimes I wonder if they even know I work here… I can take some time off.”

“Good! I’d recommend packing for the night, it can get pretty wild and I wouldn’t want you wearing the same clothes tomorrow. I have an image to uphold, and wrinkled shirts don’t fit it.”

Charlie smiled at him a little nervously, clutching his own cup of coffee. He ducked off to get his own things together while Monty compiled all their work and evidence into a neat folder. He may not be as uptight as Charlie, but it could rarely be said that he was bad at his job.

An hour later, they were on a train to London, and Monty was already mapping out which joints they’d hit later that night.

The London archives, in Monty’s opinion, were nothing special. A building full of old papers where one remarkable woman who partially tolerated him worked. Seeing Charlie’s reaction, though, one would’ve thought he’d just encountered something profoundly holy. He was beginning to regret the mere idea of putting Charlie and Hester in a room together.

After so many despairing walks to Hester’s desk, Monty was sure he could do it in his sleep, but now it was like dragging an excitable puppy along with him as well. He hadn’t known human beings could be so thrilled about filing systems. He was starting to wonder if Charlie was even human.

Stopping in front of Hester’s office, Monty turned to his partner. “We’re going to meet Hester now, please don’t freak out,” he said. “You two are going to be sorting through files and reading old articles while I stand brilliantly behind a desk and work the whole case out. But don't get too invested; we have plans for this evening, and I’m not going to cancel them for your studying.”

“Yes, Monty. Okay, Monty,” Charlie replied, in the tone of a bored child being lectured by a parent. “Shall we?”

“Indeed, we shall,” Monty replied. He rapped his knuckles against Hester’s door and waited for a response.

“Montagu?” Hester said, poking her head out. “I don't often see you around here. And you must be Mr. Cholmondeley, pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

“Oh, you can just call me Charles, ma'am,” Charlie said as they shook hands. “And the pleasure's all mine.”

Ugh, those two were going to be insufferable together. “So, Hester,” Monty interrupted. “This Glyndwr fellow, I don't suppose you have any more information on him?”

“Yes, actually,” Hester said, leading the two of them into her office. “I was expecting another call from you so I sourced as many of his articles as I could from the London papers he wrote for. We mainly have the Daily Telegraph, but there's some Evening Standard from several years ago. As I’m sure you can imagine, it was harder to obtain the Welsh ones.”

“That's a lot to go through,” Monty commented.

“Yes, and I do have my real job to do, so I’m afraid I haven't even touched them yet. But here is the box, for your perusal.” She gestured to a box resting on one of the shelves in her office. The size of it worried him.

“You won't be helping?” Oh, no. “Poor Charlie here will have to go through all of those himself…”

“I'm sure you can help him, Montagu,” Hester said. “Now, I’ll leave you boys to it.” She then grabbed a few files and a clipboard and swept out of the room, leaving Monty alone with a box full of dull articles he'd have to read. He was fairly certain he'd had this nightmare at some point.

“Let's get to it?” Charlie said hesitantly, and Monty jumped. He'd somewhat forgotten he was there, caught up in the despair of having to read.

“Of course, Charles!” Monty said, snapping into action. “Why don't you get that box open, I’ll start writing us a list.”

“A list?”

“Clues, suspects, theories! Every good detective needs a list.”

“I'm fairly certain good detectives have those in their heads.”

“Oh! Cheeky. I didn't know you had it in you!” Monty nudged Charlie with his shoulder gently.

“N-Nor did I.”

“Well, don't stop now.”

They fell into companionable silence as Monty rummaged through Hester’s desk for some blank papers and a pen and Charlie started sorting through the articles. He neatly filed them into stacks that would surely make sense if Monty bothered to ask the rhyme or reason. Part of him wanted to bother the other man, distract him from his meticulous work – this was the part of him that liked kicking up dead leaves raked to the sides of paths or putting library books in slightly random places; there was something fun in ruining careful organisation. But he didn't. Instead, Monty sat down next to Charlie and, tucking the pen behind his ear, grabbed a stack to start reading through it.

Mostly, it was incredibly dull. All things that Monty already knew, because he'd read the news when they happened. In fact, he specifically recognised a few of the articles, having read Glyndwr’s writing before he even knew the man would ever be important to him. Funny how that happened.

Glyndwr also seemed to have a penchant for restaurant reviews, Monty discovered with horror several hours into his reading. He'd been taking notes dutifully on everything that seemed interesting (which wasn't much) but threw his pencil down in protest when he got to the pile of reviews.

“Charles,” he said. “You can’t make me read this.”

Charlie just looked up at him, surrounded by his own mountain of papers, before adjusting his glasses and wordlessly going back to work. This was the worst thing Monty had ever been subjected to.

His eyes were about to fall out of his skull, having to read about the cleanliness and taste profiles of more establishments than he'd ever visited in his life, and he was a breath away from setting fire to Hester’s office and watching it all burn when he spotted something. “Hey, what was the name of the Ringwoods’ chef?” he asked, grabbing his notepad, which had been discarded in a fit of despair earlier.

“Denis Pelham,” Charles replies. “Why? Have you found something?”

“This is his name here, right?” Monty slid a paper Charlie’s way, careful not to wrinkle it.

“It is indeed. I'm surprised you remembered.”

“I'm a detective, Charlie.” He'd been doing a lot of reading and learning in the past few days, more so than usual. It was Charlie’s fault.

“Well, what does it say?”

Monty took it back and cleared his voice dramatically. He did everything dramatically. The man had a natural aptitude for it. “It says: ‘Denis Pelham’s establishment may have been one of the worst I’ve ever visited in all my years of reviewing.’ Harsh. ‘It is my opinion that this place should be thoroughly inspected, if not shut down on the spot. I sincerely hope no poor souls venture to this restaurant if they are hoping for food that is, in a word, edible.’”

“Yikes,” Charlie commented. “When was this?”

“4th of May, 1919.”

“That's not that long ago. I'm surprised he even got hired by the Ringwoods…”

“I imagine few reputable chefs were willing to live out on that dreary cliff.”

“It's not that bad— Oh, nevermind. Does he mention what happened to the restaurant?”

“I assume it was thoroughly inspected. I'll look.” Monty stared at the pile he still had to sift through. There were months of reviews here, and he'd already found his lead! Still, Monty sighed and got to work. He couldn't bear to let Charlie down – it wasn't even his case, but Monty felt like he owed it to him to work as hard as he could to solve it. Charlie was doing it and it wasn't even his job.

After what felt like hours of slogging through perfectly pleasant restaurants in the greater London area, Monty found something. A tiny mention, but it stood out to him like a bloody handprint on a clean wall. “Shut down!” he exclaimed, shooting up.

“Pardon?”

“Denis Pelham’s place,” he explained. “It was shut down. That's a motive! How about you, did you find anything?”

“No, he seemed to largely stick to what everyone else was reporting. Not many editorials, no toes stepped on. You seem to have struck gold with those restaurant reviews.” A sentence Monty had never even fathomed before.

“We've got ourselves a lead, Charlie my boy. And it's a good one.”

“You're still here?” Suddenly, there was a third voice in the conversation and a tall, striking shadow cast over their papers.

“Hester!” Monty said. “Lovely to see you, we've found ourselves a lead.”

“I'm surprised you're still working, Montagu, and not drunk somewhere.”

“I'm not that bad.”

Hester made a face he didn't like. “Charles must be having a good effect on you. How much longer do you think you'll be? My work day is over.”

“Is it really?” Monty said. “My, I hardly noticed the time passing… We should probably go, Charlie.”

“But— what if there's more we can find out?”

“We’ll do it tomorrow, my genius. Now come. I warned you about this: we have plans.”

Reluctantly, Charlie got up and started cleaning up all the articles, putting them back in their box in the near piles he'd made earlier. If there was one thing to be said about Charlie, it was that he was invested in the accuracy of his work. Everything in its place, everything thoroughly checked and by the book. He'd probably have a heart attack if he saw how Monty usually kept his files.

“Come on, then! Night on the town with good old Monty, what is there to look so glum about!”

It was positively thrilling to watch Charlie’s inhibitions lower as he got drunk. He couldn’t handle his liquor nearly as well as Monty, which was fine because one of them needed to be able to get them back home that night, which wouldn't be happening if they were both as far gone as Charlie was at that moment.

“You know,” Charlie said, waving a hand at Monty. He'd pushed his glasses up onto his head since apparently they weren't making things less blurry and had rolled up his sleeves. “You know… You know.”

“I'm afraid I don't.” Monty himself was still drinking. He’d tried to cut Charlie off, but those eyes of his were hard to resist. He himself was by no means sober, but it was nowhere near as egregious. For one thing, he still knew words like egregious.

“You know,” Charlie said with finality. “When I was a boy. I discovered a fish.”

“You… what?”

“Discovered– A fish. Fish. Fish.” He'd said it right all three times, but didn't seem to think so.

“Tell me about that.”

“A trout. I was kayaking, I was a… a naturalist. As a boy. And a fish jumped into my kayak and it slapped me, Monty, but it was a whole new fish.”

“A… whole new fish?” Monty wasn't really following. His father had tried to take himself and his brother fishing at one point, but he'd not been able to make himself care then. Now, watching Charlie drunkenly try to get his point across, he decided he could hear about fish until the world itself ended.

“A new type of trout. It made the local news, they wrote an article about my fish.” Charlie smiled. It was a wide, unguarded thing, like he had not a care in the world. Monty wished he could see him this relaxed more often. “I think that's the best thing I’ve ever done.”

“I disagree,” Monty said, leaning in. He wanted to be close to Charlie. If he could, he'd crawl into the other man’s arms and press himself into his skin until they were one mess of bones and muscles and viscera. These were the kinds of thoughts he only ever had drunk, and he only ever realised why they were a problem come morning.

“Really?” Charlie replied, also moving into Monty’s space. His breaths were soft, steady, and Monty could feel them moving a few loose strands of dark hair that had fallen into his eyes.

“I think… meeting you. Working together. It's the best thing.”

There was a moment, a terrible, tempting moment, when they were so close, staring into each other’s eyes, and the alcohol had Monty convinced it would be so good to just close that gap – take what he wanted. He moved his hand to rest right by Charlie’s, fingers brushing over each other, the heat of his skin almost as intoxicating as the drinks.

But then a particularly loud group settled into the seats next to them, and the spell was broken. Monty cleared his throat, moving his face away. He couldn't bring himself to look Charlie in the eyes, for fear of what see there. Regret, horror, wanting?

“More drinks?” Monty offered, voice going funny.

“Is that a good idea?”

“Let me tell you a secret,” he said, carefully not leaning in, despite his instinct to bring their heads together again. “It's always a good idea to drink more.”

“If you say so…”

Several gins later, Monty had washed away the tension he'd gained after their moment of closeness and they were stumbling out of yet another establishment. Charlie looked completely lost; gait uneven, pupils completely blown, and hands helplessly clutching at Monty’s coat to keep him upright. Monty wasn't used to being the more sober one. Maybe he shouldn't have encouraged Charlie, who clearly wasn't very experienced, to drink so much.

“I'm taking you home,” Monty said. Charlie blinked up at him, then smiled. “You're… too drunk.”

“Ah, but a wise man said it's always a good idea to drink more,” Charlie said, slurring atrociously. “So that's what I did.”

“Yes, it is,” Monty said. “I think you shouldn't listen to that wise man so much.”

“But he's ever so clever,” Charlie said, dragging his feet as Monty walked them down the street (not that what they were doing could be called walking). “A charming detective. Good conversat– conversss… Conversationalist. Handsome, too.”

“Charlie…”

“He's got… eyes.” Charlie was mostly muttering, words mumbled and slurred, but for the life of him Monty couldn't tune him out. “Pretty eyes. And lovely hair and a face. Wow! Uh… yeah.” Suddenly he was back to full volume, looking animated again. “My point is! Uh… My point is…”

Thankfully, Monty managed to hail a cab before Charlie got around to stating his point. His heart was racing and his face felt hot and his mind was reeling and it was from more than the alcohol. He was starting to regret letting himself and Charlie get so close, when he knew that he found the strange, gangly man attractive. It was a recipe for disaster. Especially since, apparently, Charlie thought the same of him.

Monty gave his address to the cabby and rested his head on the back of the seat in front of him. Charlie was slumped over beside, partially leaning on Monty for structural stability. He was smiling like a fool, and couldn't seem to sit still. Hopefully, he was too drunk to remember all of this the next day. Hopefully, all their charged moments would be lost to that dark, drunken fog that seemed to devour half of Monty’s memories without fail.

Getting to his flat was an ordeal. First, he had to find his wallet to pay the cab driver, then he had to find his keys to unlock the building, then he had to get himself and Charlie up the stairs, since his building didn't have that lift they kept promising. Finally, he fumbled with his keys in the lock and got the door open by slamming his weight into it. Everything felt clumsy.

It only occurred to Monty once he'd thrown his coat and shoes halfway across his flat that Charlie was seeing it for the first time. It was nowhere as neat as his little groundsman’s hut. There were a few too many dishes left out, a few too many half-read books on the table, a few too many papers from old cases left up on the walls. He wasn't a slob, but it wasn't tidy by any standards.

“I should've cleaned up,” Monty said half-heartedly.

“No, no, don't worry,” Charlie insisted. He was swaying like reeds in a breeze.

Suddenly feeling a bolt of nerves, Monty took his guest’s coat and hung it carefully, unlike his own. This felt important, now. He wasn't sure what had changed. They were breathing the same air, no longer left to their own devices in the great outdoors. It was just Charlie and Monty, trapped together in an – admittedly spacious – flat. Both drunk, both tired, both looking at each other for slightly too long.

Monty took a step closer, feeling the urge to close the distance between them. He wanted to feel Charlie’s hot skin under his own again.

It was like blinking, like tripping, like falling asleep. One minute they were standing – so close, so close, tantalisingly close – and the next they were pressed together, lips on lips, eyes closed. Hands on backs, hands in hair, hands on faces. Breaths mingling as they let the moment go on for as long as they could. It felt natural, it felt easy, it felt good.

The kiss was gentle, tender. Monty was no stranger to drunkenly kissing other men, hands wrapped around their shoulders, but this was nothing like that. Usually, there would be other intentions, a fire driving their passions and frantic movements. Now, with Charlie, it was sweet. It felt like romance. He wasn't sure what to make of that – it scared him. Monty pulled away, stepping back.

“We should probably… sleep.”

“Aw,” Charlie pouted, and Monty had to stop himself from thinking it was adorable. “I could drink more.”

“No, you really couldn't. Let's get you to bed.”

Charlie heaved out a deep sigh, the most dramatic thing Monty had ever seen him do. “Fine. Where's your sofa.”

“Ah.” Monty should really have planned ahead. He didn't have a sofa. Most of his flat was an office, with the back room that he occupied as his own space. Really, all Monty had that could reasonably be slept on was his own bed. He considered asking Charlie to sleep on the floor for a moment before sighing in turn. “We’ll share.”

“What?”

“My bed,” Monty said slowly, trying to get his point across. “We’ll share it.”

“Sure!” Charlie smiled. “That sounds lovely.”

“Did you bring… Sleeping clothes?” Monty asked, gesturing vaguely at Charlie’s bag. The other man stared at him blankly. “Uh oh.”

”I'll sleep in this.”

“You'll do no such thing. You'll sleep… uh…” Why was this happening to him? Monty generally tried to be a good man, he didn't deserve this. “Well, in boxers. Ah. I… suppose.”

He shut his eyes, and suddenly was lying in his bed, staring up at the ceiling. This, Monty decided, had to be one of the best parts of drinking. He turned and saw that Charlie was lying next to him, already dead to the world. He was only wearing his boxers and had stretched one arm across the mattress while falling asleep so his hand rested on Monty’s hip. This was probably one of Monty’s best dreams, which meant it was a waking nightmare.

Forcing himself to go to sleep all the way across the mattress from Charlie proved to be impossible. His whole body seemed to pull him towards the other man like a magnet, and he let himself be drawn in. Monty rolled over and wriggled so he was pressed up against Charlie’s side, draping one arm over his bare back. Charlie's deep breaths ruffled Monty's long, loose hair, and the steady rhythm of them soothes him into sleep. He'd never fallen asleep quite so quickly as he did then. Waking up, he'd surely be horrified, but in that moment, it felt like bliss. Hopefully, neither of them would remember any of it come morning.

Chapter Text

“Chop chop, Charlie!” Monty exclaimed, standing at the door. “Time waits for no man! Trains even less so.”

After having the briefly horrifying experience of waking up wrapped in the other man’s arms, Monty sprang into action and started getting ready to head back down to the Manor. Really, it was an excuse to wring his memory out like a dish towel in the hopes that some context for why they’d been in the same bed would trickle out. He'd easily concluded they hadn't slept together, but that only raised more questions, really.

It had come back to him while he was brushing his hair. A powerful memory of Charlie’s hands in his hair and cradling his face came to him, and Monty had to set down the hair brush. Fuck. Hopefully Charlie wouldn't remember that, he wasn't sure what it would do to their blossoming friendship.

“I’m coming,” Charlie groaned, dragging himself out of the bathroom. He was fully dressed, though his hair still looked a mess and his eyes were the most miserable things Monty had ever seen. Clearly, this was not a man who could handle a hangover. Monty doubted he’d had many before, if his general disposition was anything to go by.

“We've got a long day of work ahead of us, my genius, I hope you're ready.”

“Why wouldn't I be?” Charlie replied, lifting up his glasses to rub at his eyes tiredly.

“That's the spirit!” Monty went to grab Charlie by the shoulder, then thought better of it and reached for the door instead. He'd need to be more careful around him, now. Part of Monty desperately wanted to ask what he remembered from the night before, but he worried what that might do.

This was all so unlike him, worrying about what Charlie might think or say or what might happen to their friendship. He was a confident man who said what he thought and didn't think about the consequences, but something about Charlie made him want to be careful. For the first time in his life, Monty was attentive to putting a person's feelings over his own wants, and trying not to damage a relationship. He didn’t like it.

They made their way to the train station mostly in silence. Charlie was clearly dealing with an awful hangover, and Monty was too busy introspecting to make conversation. On any other day, he would’ve been as loud and annoying as possible to piss his companion off but… not now. He couldn’t. The feeling of Charlie’s hands on his skin, lips pressed together in a tender kiss, tugged at his heart and made him want to take care of the other man. Preposterous.

“Denis Pelham,” Charlie spoke for the first time once they were seated on the train, half an hour out of London. He was watching out the window as the country flew past, though his eyes still seemed a little hazed over.

“Come again?”

“That was our lead, remember? Denis Pelham. We need to speak to him.”

“Quite right, my genius.” Monty said. “We’ll speak to him and get back in touch with Miss Leslie. I imagine she’ll be able to do some digging we couldn’t. Not without being noticed, at least.”

“Do you not want to be noticed?” Charlie turned to look at him. “That surprises me.”

“Sometimes stealth is key!” Monty said. “But you’re right, my dear boy. I do love being the centre of attention. If it were up to me, no one would look at anything else.” Charlie smiled warmly at him and let out a little breathy laugh, which made Monty’s heart do this terrible shuddering thing. He cleared his throat and looked out the window. A man is dead, Montagu, he chided himself. Compose yourself.

“I think I’m going back to sleep,” Charlie grumbled, leaning back in his seat. “You’ll wake me when we get there?”

“Of course, Charlie.”

Monty spent the train ride staring out the window so he wouldn’t look at Charlie, peacefully sleeping across from him.

“I didn’t even speak to the man,” Denis Pelham was saying. He’d hardly shut up since Monty asked to interview him, and it was really getting on his nerves. “I make the food, I don’t serve it, I don’t see the guests. And anyways– didn’t he fall? This Martin bloke, the police said he fell off a cliff. Why are you questioning me?” He finally seemed to notice Monty’s annoyed expression, and shut his mouth.

“Right, can we start?” Monty asked. The man in front of him wasn’t burly, but he was clearly strong. He had a square jaw and angry eyes and a scowl, though that may be because Monty was interrogating him for murder. That had a habit of making people unhappy. He carried on as if he’d gotten an enthusiastic nod. “Excellent. I’m Ewen Montagu, PI, and this is my companion, Charlie.”

“Aren’t you the groundsman?” Denis Pelham asked Charlie.

“Y-Yes, but I’m helping Detective Montagu on this investigation.”

“How come?” It didn’t feel like a question. It felt like a threat. Denis had surmised – with little difficulty – that Charlie was the weaker of his two interrogators, and was putting pressure on him. It was good, because it meant he felt cornered enough to need to defend himself. It was bad, because Monty didn’t like seeing Charlie nervous. He’d been loosening up, too.

“That’s enough of that,” Monty cut in sharply, catching Denis’ eye. “You will address me, and leave my colleague alone. Clear?” The cook grumbled something unintelligible, but seemed to acquiesce. “And I’m the one asking the questions here. Now, if we could start?”

“Fine. What is it?”

“Recently, there’s been a death on these grounds. A man named Bill Martin, a socialite guest of the Ringwoods’, from what I hear. Absolutely tragic,” Monty said, watching his suspect like a hawk. “Of course, you don’t hire a PI if there are no secrets to be uncovered, and my good friend Charlie and myself have found out something rather interesting about Mr. Martin. Do you have any idea what that may be, Mr. Pelham?”

“No,” the chef replied cagily, crossing his arms across his chest.

“Ah well, I’ll just tell you, then,” Monty said, leaning back casually. “His name wasn’t really Bill Martin. The real man is one Glyndwr Michael, a journalist based in London. Now, let’s drop the act. You know what he wrote, and so do we. So tell us,” Monty angled his head lazily towards Denis. “Did you kill Glyndwr Michael?”

“No,” said Denis.

“No?” Monty echoed incredulously. “Because I’ll tell you what I’m seeing here. A man who shut down your restaurant stays in your employer’s home under a false name, but you recognise him. I’d be angry, it’s only natural. What isn’t natural is our friend the journalist turning up dead from injuries that can’t be explained from a fall. He’s got some strange form of damage that appears internal, and you’re denying you even knew the man.”

“I didn’t kill him.”

“Murderers always say that.”

“I didn’t kill him!”

“But you knew who he was, right? You recognised Glyndwr Michael. Otherwise you wouldn’t have been so defensive when we asked to speak to you.”

Denis went silent, scowling at Monty. He worked his jaw a little, like he intended to speak, but couldn’t bring himself to. Monty waited patiently. In a more cordial social situation, he’d pick up the conversational slack with a charming smile, but he was working. None of his suspects needed to know how good of a conversationalist he was.

“Of course I knew who he was,” Denis finally admits. “The man ruined my career, I know what he bloody looks like.”

“I’d say he gave you a whole new career, out here.”

“What, you think this is better than London? You think I’m happier out here, away from everything and everyone?”

“So, you’re unhappy with your new job, you’ve got a vendetta against Michael, and you… What? Do nothing about it?” Monty leaned in closer. “You don’t strike me as that kind of man.”

“I was pissed with him, that doesn’t make me a murderer.”

“You’d be surprised at what makes people into murderers.” Monty switched gears, pitching his voice higher and adopting a more empathetic expression. “Now, I want to believe you. In fact, I think I do. But I don’t have any other suspects right now, so you understand why I need you to convince me you didn’t do it.”

“Well, I don’t know how to do that,” Denis replied. “Since all I can do is tell you I didn’t kill him.”

Monty sighed. “Alright then, I’ll let you go for now. But don’t go anywhere, yeah?”

“Where do you expect me to go,” the cook snapped. “I spend all my time here.”

“That’s true. Keep your schedule open, then. Thank you for your time, Mr. Pelham.”

Waiting for the suspect to have fully walked away, Monty leaned over Charlie’s shoulder to peer at his notes. They were very thorough – of course they were, it was Charlie. He’d expect nothing less. Finally, when the footsteps had fully drawn away, Monty properly twisted in his chair to face his companion.

“He’s very suspicious,” he said.

“Oh, certainly.”

“We’ve got two big suspects, then. Bella and Denis.”

“She’s still a suspect? I mean, isn’t he much more probable?”

“I don’t rule out suspects until I’m completely certain there’s no chance it could be them,” Monty explained, stretching out so one arm dangled over the back of the chair and his feet nudged against Charlie’s ankles. This was impossible, he was driving himself mad over the most inane of things. He shook his head and refocused his thoughts on the case. “Plus, we don’t have much right now, as far as suspects go. Unless you choose to think of the whole home as a suspect, but I do hate doing it like that. It gets so tiring.”

Charlie ran a hand down his face, letting out a sigh. “I’ve got the worst headache.”

“Not used to hangovers?”

“No, not really… That’s not exactly my scene. And, uh, people don’t usually want to spend their free time with me.”

“I disagree, I thought you were marvellous company.” Montagu! What do you think you’re doing? he chided himself.

“Is that so?” Charlie looked up at him, and there was hope in his eyes which made Monty’s heart swoop. “I don’t really remember any of last night, if I’m honest.”

Oh, joy of joys. “Really? Nothing at all?”

“Well, it-it gets blurry after the first bar and then…” Charlie scowled, like he was trying to recall. “Nothing. I guess I’m not that good with alcohol, sorry.”

“No need to apologise, my genius,” Monty assured him. “We’ve all had nights like that. I assure you didn’t forget anything particularly interesting.”

“Well, at least there’s that.”

Before Monty could decide how to change the topic and soothe his poor racing heart, the door to the office they’d been using for questioning opened and Jean stepped in, holding a piece of paper triumphantly. He’d never been more grateful for someone barging into a room.

“I found you something, boys,” she announced, slapping the page down on the desk. “The kitchen inventory of the night before Bill died.”

“Why is this important?” Monty asked, holding it closer to his face to read the small details.

“Well, the Ringwoods hate waste. They’re very practical people; they have the amount they need and they leave it at that. No excess, not here,” Jean explained.

“I suppose when you’ve got a home and grounds this ostentatious, there’s no need to show off all that much more…” Monty mused.

“Quite,” Jean said, barrelling on. “But what’s interesting is that this night – the night before Bill was killed, that is – the family is having duck. So you’d think each person gets their own, and they share the extra dishes. But there’s an extra duck marked as missing from the inventory. Now, that could be nothing, but I had a hunch, so I asked around the kitchen.”

“And?”

“And. No one was even aware this happened. If a duck had been burnt or cooked wrong, the whole kitchen would know. Everyone was really confused though.”

“Could whoever was doing the inventory have noted it down wrong?” Charlie asked, reaching to take the page from Monty’s hands and consult it.

“Maybe, but that’s an odd coincidence. There’s a surprise extra duck that wasn’t cooked like the other and the next day a man dies? Plus, the boy who does the inventory doesn’t even work in the kitchen. There would be no reason for him to know how many should have been prepared, so he noted down the number he actually saw.”

“Wonderfully done, Jean,” Monty said.

“So you think he was poisoned?” Jean asked, settling down in one of the empty chairs. “You think Denis did it?”

“We can’t confirm anything—”

“I think it was poison,” Charlie interrupted, surprisingly bold. “We don’t know who did it yet, though.”

“Who was serving the table that night, do you know?” Monty asked.

“Uh, I wasn’t there, so I’m not entirely sure,” Jean tapped her fingers as she thought. “Prezzo, she was there. Italia too, I think… Oh, and Bella, of course.”

Monty shot Charlie a look, as if to say see? Then, to Jean, he said, “Bella Sharrock, you mean?”

“Yes, of course,” she replied. “Why? Has she done something?”

Chapter Text

“Right,” Monty said. “I need to speak to Denis again, and Bella, too, if you can find her. This is good, this is excellent! We’ve got a whole new lead.”

“I-Is there any chance we could eat before any more interviews?” Charles piped up, timid. “It’s just that, well, we haven’t eaten all morning and– and it’s already nearly noon…”

“Quite right,” Monty said. Now that Charlie had mentioned it, he was feeling quite hungry. “Though maybe we don’t go bother the chef for a meal, hm?”

“Ah, yes,” Charlie said. “I think I ought to have some food? Since I didn’t eat at home yesterday.”

“Sounds lovely.”

Charlie turned to Jean and said, “Care to join? I can’t guarantee a gourmet meal, but it’s something.”

“I’d love to,” she replied with a big smile. She led them through the halls of the large house, talking all the while. It was fascinating to see how at ease Charlie looked in Jean’s company – which was to say: not much for a regular person, but astounding for him. For a man so awkward, it was impressive he’d made friends with Jean, who was so opinionated.

“I assume you can’t tell me much about the case,” Jean was saying. “But what’s this about you spending the night with the detective?” Things could not possibly be worse. Monty felt like he was balancing on a razor’s edge with Charlie, all the while trying to juggle the case and his own infuriating feelings towards the man, and he was by no means a circus performer. It was all going to come crashing down at some point, he just hoped it was some point after he’d sorted it all out himself.

“Oh, yes!” Charlie replied, unaware of Monty’s dilemma. Which was for the best, really. “Well, we went up to London to get some more information on— uh. The case?” A furtive look back at Monty, checking that he’d done the right thing. Monty nodded, forcibly pushing down the thought that it was adorable. “And I met this lovely woman who helped us quite a lot. She’s an archivist, and apparently a friend of Monty’s. And then, ah, I got a good bit too drunk to remember the rest of the night.”

“Charles!” Jean exclaimed with shock, a surprised grin on her face. “I never took you for that type of man.”

“I’m really not,” Charlie insisted. “But it was Monty’s idea and, well, it was fun. Though I’m not sure I’d drink quite so much again.” This last bit was directed at Monty.

“Oh, you’ll be fine!” Monty said, waving a hand dismissively. “You develop a tolerance, eh, Jean?”

“Indeed you do,” she said, seemingly unsurprised that he’d assumed she’d been the type to party. Then again, it was a good assumption, and most of his job consisted of making good assumptions.

They’d reached Charlie’s little hut, and he pushed the door open, ushering Monty and Jean inside. Monty tidied their notes off the table as Charlie bolted into the kitchen, stuffing them into his briefcase. Most of their theories were nonsense, it was alright if he crumpled them, and all the more delicate notes had gone into a file.

“So, how does one become a private detective?” Jean asked, sitting down at the table. “Get kicked out of the police?”

“No, no it was a choice,” Monty replied with easy confidence. In truth, he’d not wanted to take the risk of employers who could find out about the lengths he went to to appear as a man, so private detective had seemed like a perfect fit. “I’m not suited to having higher-ups.”

“I can’t imagine that… Are you in need of any help, by any chance?”

“Uh, well, I’ve got Charlie.”

“Yeah, but he’s no good with people,” Jean pointed out, which was quite fair. “And he can be quite dense sometimes.”

“I don’t think I’ve run into that problem yet.”

“Oh, trust me,” Jean said. “He once panicked and told me he’d never known anything in his life. The man gets flustered and panics. I, on the other hand, am always on my game. And I’m incredibly professional. And what’s a private detective without his smart female assistant, haven’t you seen the pictures?”

“Are you trying to get hired, Ms. Leslie?” Monty said. “Because you’ve already got a job, unless I’m mistaken.”

“Yeah, but I hate it,” she groaned. “I’d quit in a heartbeat. Charles, though, he loves this garden too much to leave it.”

Monty pursed his lips, pretending he was considering Jean’s offer. He’d not thought about the fact that when this case was over, he wouldn’t be seeing Charlie any more. It somehow hadn’t occurred to him, like Charlie would always be at his side now that he’d finally found him. Having an assistant was working out excellently for him, and he was sure Jean could easily fill the role – she, too, was quite bright – but Monty wanted Charles. Which made him sound somewhat like a petulant child, but he couldn’t bury the thought. He didn’t want their time together to end.

“Tell you what,” Monty said, pulling himself out of his thoughts. “I’ll let you in on this case, and you can try and prove yourself to me, how does that sound?”

“Really?” Jean practically shrieked, before regaining her composure. “That sounds lovely, thank you Montagu.”

“Call me Monty,” he said, and the young girl beamed like an absolute fool. He found it rather charming.

“Okay, so what’s the scoop? What’s going on here?” Jean asked, leaning across the table.

Once Charlie had returned with food – which ended up being some reheated stew, a few slices of toast, and beans – Monty explained the intricacies of the case to Jean, who listened attentively. She chimed in occasionally with a word or an idea, all of which proved to be excellently helpful. Yes, Monty could certainly work with this.

“Right,” Jean said when they had finished giving her the run-down. “So what we need to do is question Denis about the duck, since he did admit to knowing Glyndwr. And then we can ask Italia, Prezzo, and Bella if they noticed anything. If their stories match up, we’ve got our man! If they don’t…”

“We’re back to square one,” Monty completed. “But not to worry! You hired a good PI, my dear, I’ll sort this out for us.”

“Aren’t we sorting it out together,” Jean retorted. “Otherwise why loop Charles and myself in? We’re here to help crack this case.”

“Quite right, quite right,” he muttered. He wasn’t used to being spoken back to, though Jean seemed to have a propensity for doing so. Still, she might prove useful enough to keep around despite that. “Well, Jean, I don’t suppose you could go track down Denis for us? I suspect he ought to be done making lunch for the family.”

“Of course,” she said, standing up.

“Oh, and while you’re in the house,” Monty added. “Can you see if you can find the daughter? Myriam Ringwood. I’d love to speak to her.”

“I’ll see if I can find her anywhere,” Jean said. “Is that all?”

“Yes, I think so. For now.”

“Right.” She turned to Charlie with a smile, and Monty suddenly realised she hadn’t been smiling much at him in the past hour or so. He wasn’t sure quite what to make of that. “Thanks for lunch, Charles.”

“Of course, Jean,” he replied. “And thank you for lending a hand, you’re a great help.”

With a brief goodbye, the maid left to go back to the main house, leaving Monty and Charlie alone. It took a moment for Monty to remember why he’d been stressed around Charlie, but those nerves slowly settled back in as the silence stretched on.

“How’s your— uh. How are you feeling?” he asked.

“Eating helped,” Charlie said. “Shall we get back to work?”

“Indeed. Good thinking, my genius.” Monty was absolutely horrible at this ‘distancing himself’ thing.

“Hello again, Mr. Pelham,” Monty said.

“You’ve stolen even more of the house staff,” Denis commented, gesturing to Jean. She’d taken a post by the door, arms crossed across her chest.

“We’re not doing this again,” Monty said. “Look, Denis, did you poison Glyndwr Michael?”

“No!” Denis protested. “Stop saying that.”

“Well, I was going through the kitchen records, and there’s one too many ducks noted for that night. What’s interesting is that none of the kitchen staff can remember anything going wrong that would warrant a new one being cooked,” he said. “So you can imagine why I’m suspicious, given that one of the dinner guests turns up dead the next day.”

“I didn’t poison him.”

“Do you know anything about this duck, then?” The chef blanched, looking away. “Come on, just tell me what happened. If you didn’t poison him, I have to know what did happen to be able to believe you.”

“It looks bad,” he admitted.

“I’d imagine. But if you can explain, then I’ll listen.”

Denis let out a deep sigh, readjusting his posture. His eyes flicked between Jean and Charlie before settling on Monty. “I didn’t poison him, I just wanted to make him… a little sick. I grabbed an extra duck, didn’t cook it enough, and handed it to the girl who was serving Bill – Glyndwr. It wasn’t enough to kill him, really. This is my job, I know what kind of meat is edible. He would just have been a little ill, is all,” he admitted, staring dead into Monty’s eyes. “I really didn’t want him dead. He said I was an awful chef so I wanted to… prove it to him. Make him regret what he’d done to my career. When he turned up dead, I was horrified, but it wasn’t my fault.”

“How can you be so sure?” Monty asked, tone gentler than before. “Maybe you misjudged, maybe he had some kind of reaction.” Admittedly, Monty knew very little about cooking. It simply wasn’t something he’d ever bothered with.

“I’m sure because the serving girl, she brought it back,” he said. “She’d noticed it was undercooked and assumed it was a simple error. I gave her the one that was originally prepared for Bill, and she returned to the table with it. He never ended up eating the undercooked meat.”

“This serving girl,” Monty said, feeling the hope of closing this case slowly drain from his body. “What was her name?”

“Uh…” Denis scratched his chin. “Bianca or Birdie or something… Something with a ‘B’.”

Monty looked over at Jean. “There’s Bella and Beatrice, but she’s been out for weeks since she had her daughter,” she said. “Mr. Pelham, do you mean Bella Sharrock?”

“I suppose I do,” he replied. “That sounds about right.”

“Right, thank you very much, Denis,” Monty said.

“You believe me?”

“I can’t confirm anything yet, but you’re free to go back to work for now,” he said.

Monty watched the chef leave the room, then collapsed into his chair, hanging his head. This was going horribly. He’d really assumed he had it with Denis or Bella, but if this story was true, then they had no real suspects anymore.

“Monty?” Charlie said.

“All’s swell, Charlie,” he replied, unconvincingly. “We need to speak with Italia or Prezzo and see if they can confirm this. Bella might lie.”

“No, she’s a terrible liar,” Jean said.

“You’d be surprised how good people can be under pressure,” he replied. “Go speak to the girls, would you?”

“Are you sure you’re alright, Monty?” Jean asked.

“Oh, fine, just watching a case fall apart in front of me.”

“It’s not falling apart,” Charlie said. “We can always go back to Hester, and I’m sure there’s more on those notes we didn’t manage to decipher.”

“Yes, well. You can do that.” Monty stood up, fixing his hair, though none of it had fallen out of place. “Jean, let’s go hunt down some housemaids.”

He ignored Charlie’s sound of protest and instead followed Jean through the house as she spoke to seemingly every member of the house staff in search of Italia and Prezzo. Eventually someone pointed them towards the laundry room, and Jean started leading him all the way back through the house.

“Myriam isn’t home, by the way,” she said as they walked. “I checked, but she’s still in London.”

“She’s supposed to be paying me, isn’t she?” Monty said. “How does she expect to do so if she’s never here.”

“Well, I figure I’ll have someone call her…” Jean said, unsure. “But you got your advance payment, didn’t you? So clearly, she’s got some way of making it happen.”

“Yes,” Monty agreed. “The money showed up rather mysteriously in my office after I accepted your offer over the phone.”

“Hm…” Before she could say anymore, they arrived in the laundry room. It was a large room, though his view of most of it was obscured by hanging clothes and women bustling about. In the corner stood two women who Jean made a beeline for, Monty trailing behind her.

“Italia, Prezo!” she exclaimed, greeting them cheerily. The two women greeted her in return, all smiles and warmth. “This is Detective Ewen Montagu, and we’d like to speak to you for a second? You’re not in any trouble, I promise, but we just have a few questions.”

“It’s about Bill Martin, the dead man,” Monty said. “If we could speak somewhere more private?”

The two acquiesced, and Jean led all three of them back out of the laundry room and into a fairly spacious supply closet a little ways down the hall. When Monty shot her a look, she replied that she figured he wouldn’t want to trek all the way through the house to get to the office he usually used, which was fair enough.

“Right,” he said, facing Italia and Prezzo. “As Jean here said, I’m Detective Ewen Montagu. I want to know what you remember of the night before Mr. Martin died? Specifically, the meal he had.”

“Why not get Bella, too?” Italia – or maybe Prezzo, Monty wasn’t clear on which was which – said. “She was also serving the table that night, wasn’t she?”

“We already spoke to her,” Jean jumped in. “You’re really not in any trouble, just tell us what you remember.”

“Right, okay,” Prezzo-or- Italia said. “Well, we brought out the starter course, which was… some type of salad, I don’t remember which. It was all fine, Mr. Martin was a lovely man, and we’re used to the Ringwoods eccentricities, so we know how to deal with them.”

“The main course was duck,” Italia-or-Prezzo continued. “We brought everyone at the table one each.”

“Though Mr. Martin didn’t get his for a little longer, right?” the other chimed in.

“You’re right… Bella was supposed to bring him his duck, but she had to go back to the kitchen for some reason – apparently something was wrong with the food.”

“Luckily they’d made an extra. Mr. Pelham gave it to her, apparently it had just been lying around.”

“Which is odd.”

“It is odd.”

“And then we brought out the second course—”

“Yes, that’s enough, thank you very much,” Monty interrupted. He felt a little like he’d lost control of the situation. “You’ve been a great help, both of you.”

“That’s all?” asked Italia-or-Prezzo.

“That’s all,” Jean replied. “You can go back to gossiping now.”

“We were working!”

“Sure you were.”

She showed them out of the closet, then turned back to Monty. “So Denis didn’t do it.”

“And nor did Bella.”

“How can you know that?”

“If she wanted him dead or ill, she had a perfect opportunity to serve him food she’d noticed was undercooked,” Monty said. “It would have been the perfect opportunity, since no one could even blame it on her: it would be Denis’ fault.”

“So Bella’s innocent?”

“Yes, yes. Unfortunately.”

Jean paused for a moment, clearly thinking. “That means we have no suspects, she said.”

“Quite right, Jean,” Monty agreed somewhat hopelessly. “We have nothing.”

Chapter Text

Charlie had disappeared. Realistically, he’d either retreated to his sad little hut or actually gone to do his real job, but Monty couldn’t deny that he’d felt a little hurt when he found the office empty upon returning to it.

It was the worst thing that could happen in a case: he had no leads, and no real ideas where to get new ones. Jean had tried to assure him that something would come up, and that they’d be able to solve it, but Monty hadn’t really wanted to hear that. What he wanted was to catch a train back home to London and get completely pissed, and there were incredibly few things stopping him from doing so. One was that he wouldn’t want to leave without at least telling Charlie where he was going, and maybe inviting him along.

“Monty,” Jean said. “What are you thinking?”

“I wish I was getting drunk right now,” he said. Jean sighed.

“I know you think it’s bad,” she said. “But what’s the point of giving up the second things get difficult? You have a good reputation as a PI, you know.”

“Clearly you don’t know my methods,” Monty bit out, sharper than he’d intended. “Because I get all my best work done after having had a night on the town.”

“Evidently not,” Jean shot back. “Since you lost both your leads today, and had been drinking with Charles the night before.”

“That was out of my control,” Monty snapped. He took a deep breath, settling himself, before responding to Jean. In a very short time he’d realised that she a) had very little respect for him as a figure of authority, and b) had a gift for riling him up. “For someone who wants a job, you’re awfully combative.”

“I don’t think it would do you any favours to have someone who just goes along with everything you say,” she said confidently. “And you can’t deny I’ve been helpful.”

Monty stared at Jean for a moment, assessing her posture and expression. She was confident, self-assured, and wasn’t about to back down. Usually, this sort of attitude would have sent Monty into quite the mood, but there was something about Jean… Monty sighed and hopped up onto the desk.

“Yes,” he conceded. “You’re quite right, my dear.”

“Look, it’s frustrating,” Jean said. “But something will turn up. And if it doesn’t, we – you, Charles, and I – will find something. Because for now, on this case, we’re a team. But you have to stop moping and get back to work; you’re the professional here.”

“Right.” Monty was at a loss for words. It wasn’t often anyone – nevermind a woman – had the gall to speak to him in that way. “Something will turn up eventually—”

“Hello?” a stranger said, popping their head into the room nervously. “Are you PI Montagu?”

“Uh,” Monty looked at Jean, who shrugged. “Yes, I am. Who are you?”

The stranger stepped into the room. He was a scrawny young man, wearing an ill-fitting page’s uniform. “My name is Rick Hellmer,” he said. “And I, uh, have something to tell you? About… I heard you’re investigating Mr. Martin’s death.”

“Well, you’ve come to the right place,” Monty exclaimed, suddenly back to his regular self. Things were all coming up Monty. “Jean, would you mind taking notes?”

He settled into his usual chair, with Jean in Charlie’s usual spot. He gestured to Rick to take the chair opposite, and the young man sat down. Jean had grabbed some blank papers and a pen and folded them over on her knee to take notes.

“So,” Monty started, voice gentle. “What is it you have for me?”

“Well, I overheard some of the maids mention that there was a detective investigating Mr. Martin’s death, and I just thought… I hadn’t thought it was suspicious, but… I mean, it might be nothing at all, but I thought it was better to mention it than not, right? I’m certainly not a detective, I don’t know what’s important—”

“Yes, what is it?” Monty said, slightly sharper. Good grief, was this how everyone saw Charlie? Part of him could see why so few people like him now. He wouldn’t want to be friends with this Rick fellow.

“Mr. Killingworth – the valet, that is – was arguing with Mr. Martin,” Rick said. “The day before he died, I think. He’s, well, he’s an angry bloke, he argues with a lot of people, but he– I’ve never seen him so upset at a guest.”

“And that didn’t strike you as suspicious at the time?” Monty asked.

“Well, a lot was happening,” Rick said, shifting nervously. “And I– I just– I didn’t think anything of it. He argues a lot, as I said. Mr. Killingworth is… Yeah. But if you’re investigating, it seemed like it might be important?”

“Yes, it might be,” Monty said.

“Did you hear what they were arguing about?” Jean asked.

“Oh! Uh…” Rick scratched the back of his head. “Something about… uhm… Mr. Martin was somewhere he shouldn’t have been, I think? Mr. Killingworth is very particular about that; he doesn’t like people wandering about. But I’m not very sure.”

“Was there anyone else around that heard this fight?” Monty asked.

“I think Tom – Thomas Harper, I mean, another page – was there as well? But we, well, we were hiding. You don’t want to be seen by Mr. Killingworth when he’s in a mood, so we were waiting until we could pass.”

“Wonderful, thank you,” Monty said. “Anything else, Jean?”

“Where was this?” she asked.

“The third floor,” Rick said. “Near the master’s room, I think. Which is odd, really, since the guest rooms are on the second storey.”

“Odd indeed…” Jean mused, taking note.

Monty said, “Is there anywhere we’d be likely to find Mr. Killingworth?”

“Uhm…” Rick scratched the back of his head again. “Nowhere in particular I can think of, but if you walk around you’ll run into him… He’s rarely in his office, you see, he likes to keep an eye on everything. He’s a tall man with uh, well, sort of a face, a… sharp face? And he’s got hair like—”

“I know what he looks like,” Jean interrupted, mercifully. “Alan Killingworth.”

“You… What? Aren’t you… uh…” Rick stammered.

Jean sat up proudly. “I work here, but I’m helping PI Montagu on this case at the moment.”

“Oh. Okay.” Rick sat in awkward silence for a moment, eyes flicking between just about everything in the room, before he said, “Was that helpful? Was it… I mean, can you do anything with that? Do you think it’s murder, what happened to Mr. Martin? The coppers said it was an accident, you know. Oh, can you… Can you not tell Mr. Killingworth that I told you that? It’s just, I need this job, since my father died in the War, my ma needs the help and I—”

“We won’t tell him, Mr. Hellmer,” Monty cut in. “That will be all, thank you.”

“Right, of course, any time,” Rick said, standing awkwardly and shuffling out of the room with a few hesitant goodbyes. Monty and Jean exchanged a glance as they heard him stumble into something right outside the door, cursing quietly as he wandered away. What a mess, their looks seemed to say.

“There you go, then,” Jean said when the poor man had finally exited earshot. “Your new lead.”

“A real deus ex machina,” Monty commented.

Surprisingly, Jean let out a little laugh. “Quite,” she said, handing him the notes she’d taken. Her handwriting was neat and perfectly legible, and Monty felt oddly jealous. She was just… so competent. He’d worked hard to get to her level, dragged himself over hurdles and calamities to get to where he was, and Jean Leslie showed up with a clever smile, good penmanship, and no respect for his authority as if it came naturally to her. No doubt it did.

“Why don’t we try to find Charlie, then?” he said, shaking off the unpleasant feeling. “Update him on everything we’ve learnt.”

“Yes, good idea,” Jean said, leading them out of the office. He hated that he still needed to follow her around so much, but she really did know the enormous house much better than he did, and Monty swore the path changed each time. So he fell in line and let Jean guide him out the main doors and along the path to Charlie’s home.

Thankfully, Charlie was home, hunched over the kitchen table and studying Glyndwr’s notes with intensity. He was wearing his overcoat and a pair of gardening gloves had been discarded to his side, as if he was about to go out and do his job. When he heard Monty and Jean enter – why did he leave his door unlocked when they were actively hunting a murderer on the very grounds? – he shot up like he’d been electrocuted.

“Whoa, Charlie,” Monty said. “Easy, boy. It’s just us, you can relax.”

“Charles,” Jean said. “We have news. Italia and Prezzo confirmed Denis’ story about Bella—”

“Yes, which was quite depressing,” Monty took over. “But before anyone could fall to despair, this fidgety chap called Rick showed up and told us all about Alan Killingworth, the valet. Apparently he had quite the row with our friend Glyndwr before he kicked the bucket.”

“Oh, yes,” Charlie said. “That man is… terrifying.”

“They fought because Glyndwr was somewhere he shouldn’t be,” Monty continued. “And, based on what we know of the man, we can assume he was snooping around for something. The question is: what for?”

“Yes, about that—”

“Rick says this confrontation happened on the third storey, which is where the Ringwoods themselves stay, is that right Jean?” Monty said, waiting for Jean’s nod.

“I know, I found—”

“So we can assume Glyndwr was searching for something to do with the Ringwoods, and Killingworth caught him. Why would he be looking into them, though? They’re just fusty rich people, I’d never heard their names before this whole ordeal.”

“If I could!” Charlie exclaimed, uncharacteristically loud. “I was reading through the notes, since I was sure there was more to them, in the burnt bits.” He held up a paper onto which he’d clearly laid out the various ways Glyndwr wrote his letters, and then a page of notes which was almost entirely singed. It had been too hard for Monty to read the first time, so he’d set it aside for a later date. “In this one – I’ve managed to work out what it says. Here, mentions of a ‘Ringwood secret’ he’s trying to uncover.” He held up another paper. “And here, right in these fragile bits, he mentions that someone caught him searching in Lord Ringwood’s room. I couldn’t make out the name, it appears to be spelled wrong, but I wouldn’t be surprised if it was Alan Killingworth.”

“Oh,” Monty said. “Excellent work, Charles! You really are a genius, my boy.”

“I’m really not…” Charlie attempted, setting the papers back down. “I just… read the notes. Carefully.”

“A secret?” Jean said, stepping over to Charlie’s side to peer at the notes. “That’s news to me.”

“Well it wouldn’t be a secret otherwise, would it?” Monty said, feeling the sudden frustratingly possessive urge to wrap his arm around Charlie’s shoulders. He gave in to it, of course, but that didn’t make it any less annoying that Jean could bring up such emotions in him. Especially when it had been less than twelve hours since he and Charlie had kissed.

“But usually there’s rumours that circulate with the staff,” Jean said. “We have all sorts of stories about Myriam Ringwood, for example. But I’ve never heard mention of a Secret. It sounds like something everyone would be all over.”

“Good point, Jean,” Monty said. “They must have gone to a lot of trouble to not have anything circulating. I myself hadn’t heard anything suspicious about them, even when Bill Martin was first reported dead on the property. If there was some big secret, you’d think the newspapers would have been all over the opportunity.”

“Killingsworth must know, though,” Charlie said. “It makes sense, given he’s so territorial. He can’t stand people being… anywhere, really. I got yelled at once, when I was just hired, for simply trying to do my job.”

“So there’s some secret, something our Glyndwr has caught wind of somehow, and the family has gone so far to bury it not even the staff know,” Monty said. “You know the man, the two of you; do you think this Alan fellow would have it in him to kill, if he knew someone was getting close?”

“Without a doubt,” Jean said instantly. “He’s an old soldier, so he’s not baulking at killing anyone, and he’s fiercely loyal to Lord Ringwood.”

“Well there we are, then!” Monty exclaimed. “We have a new suspect. His name is Killingworth: he undoubtedly did it.”

“Is that all there is to being a PI?” Jean asked. “Picking out suspicious names?”

“Obviously not,” Monty said. “But I won’t deny it’s a part of it. Sometimes, things are easy. If there’s a suspicious man called Mr. Death, you might as well investigate him a little closer, right?” He hopped up onto the table, careful not to sit on any of the notes, and addressed his little ragtag team. “Now, the plan of attack: we need to interrogate Mr. Death, as well as that other bloke Rick mentioned – Tom? Then I’d like to see if I can’t get into the Ringwoods’ room and have a little poke around.”

“That all sounds good,” Jean said. “But maybe we wait until tomorrow? It’s gotten rather dark out.”

Monty looked out the window and realised she was right. He’d hardly noticed the time passing, wrapped up in the case, but even looking at the Manor itself, he could see that a lot of the windows were dark. It would be hard to track down everyone he needed if the staff were heading off to bed, and obviously the room he wanted to have a poke about would be occupied.

“Quite right,” he said. “We’ll let you go then, Jean.”

She caught his eye, a strange expression on her face, before nodding. “Good working with you. I’ll see you both tomorrow, boys.”

“Have a good night, Jean,” Charlie said warmly.

Finally, Monty and Charlie were alone again.

Oh no, Monty and Charlie were alone again.

“Supper?” Monty said, a touch too loud, sliding off the table.

“Sounds good to me,” Charlie said. “Though I can’t guarantee I have much…”

“That’s alright, my dear boy. I’ll eat anything.” Then, what was undoubtedly a horrible, bad idea occurred to him. “Say, you don’t have anything to drink, do you?”

Really, he should have expected this was how this would turn out. They’d had nowhere near as much to drink as the night before, since all Charles had was an unopened bottle of wine he’d been gifted as a sort of house-warming gift, but it hadn’t helped much. Somehow Monty had still managed to convince Charlie to share the singular small bed with him.

Charlie seemed to have a gift for simply shutting down the second his head hit the pillow, though Monty imagined that was the effects of the alcohol moreso than his own natural state of being. He seemed like the kind of person who would toss and turn for hours, with how fidgety he was.

Still, Charlie was dead to the world, pressed up against Monty. The mattress was far smaller than Monty’s so there was really no space for them to lie separately – which, of course, Monty wasn’t wholly opposed to. It was a miracle he’d managed not to kiss him this time, at least. They were both far too sober for that to go unremarked upon.

Lying so close to Charlie, he allowed himself to take in all the details of him that he could. It was hard to see in the darkness, but Monty had spent enough time tracing Charlie’s profile to know the slope of his nose and the curve of his lips. It was the same when he was asleep, but the tension that he constantly held in his body fully evaporated. Monty had been present enough to take in the details of Charlie as he was getting ready for sleep, too. He’d tried very hard not to stare when the other man returned to the room dressed in his pajamas, but it had been a frankly futile endeavour. A lot more of his skin was covered this time, of course, but Monty appreciated what he got. He had a large scar on his right leg, which explained the weakness Monty had occasionally noticed, and a few stray freckles on his upper arms.

He was going to regret this in the morning, but Monty rolled over and wrapped his arms around Charlie. Almost automatically, Charlie’s arms twitched to hold him closer. Ah well, it wasn’t like they hadn’t woken up like this before. They’d just have to try to not make a habit of it. No matter how much Monty loved the feeling of Charlie’s arms around him.

Chapter Text

“Shit, shit, shit,” hissed Monty, scampering down the stairs, Jean hot on his heels. “Do you think he saw us?”

They stopped on the first floor, panting, and Monty peered up the stairs behind them. They were empty, and there were no sounds of footsteps following them.

“I think we're safe,” Jean said. “We made it.”

“Right, brilliant,” he said, checking the papers he'd tucked into the inside pocket of his jacket. Any good detective had at least one deep pocket inside every good coat. “Let's get this to Charlie, then.”

They'd broken into Lord Ringwood’s office while the couple were in London fetching their daughter, and had only escaped in the nick of time. Monty hadn't really believed how scary people said Killingworth was until he'd heard the man coming down the hall as they made their escape from the office. The man had the intimidation level of a hellhound.

He turned to Jean and saw her beaming brightly. He couldn't help but return her smile, letting out a little chuckle. It quickly devolved into breathless laughter as they made their way to the ground floor and out on the path to Charles’ hut.

He was sat at the table, carefully tending to a sad-looking little plant that he'd placed in a pot. Monty expected he'd be hearing all about this very soon, but it was delayable.

“We found papers!” he announced, pulling them out of his pocket and slamming them down in front of Charlie.

“Are they useful papers?” he asked, picking through the stack with curiosity.

“Not a clue!”

“We were hoping you'd be able to tell us that, Charles,” Jean said diplomatically.

“Right,” the groundsman said awfully brightly for someone who's just been given a pile of paperwork to read. “I’ll get to that!” He looked up at Jean and Monty. “What will you be doing?”

“Well, the Ringwoods should be back with the elusive Myriam in a few hours,” said Monty. “Until then… Kick back, maybe read a book?”

“I have a real job to do,” Jean said. “Which I can only excuse so many absences from. But call me when things get interesting!”

“Of course,” said Monty, waving her out the door. He then found a reasonably comfortable spot to settle into and watch Charlie work.

“You could help,” said Charlie, not looking up from the papers now taking up his attention. “No, no, I respect your work too much,” Monty said. “I might take a nap, actually.”

“You woke up later than I did—”

“Breaking and entering really wears a man out, you know.”

“I—” Charlie sighed. “Okay. You rest, I’ll do all this by myself.”

“There's a good man,” Monty said, settling in and shutting his eyes. He really was quite tired, he'd not slept particularly well the night before. Which of course had nothing to do with the fact that he’d been awake for most of it, thinking about how close he was to Charlie and how warm the other man was. No, that was unrelated. “Wake me up when the Ringwoods get back, yeah?”

“Of course, Monty.”

You really do sleep better when the man you've been horribly obsessing over isn't cuddled up to you. Really, you don't, because it's objectively a loss, but at least you don't spend the whole time thinking about him instead of sleeping. Did Charlie feature somewhat in Monty’s frankly terrifying dream, however? Who was to say.

“Monty,” Charlie said. “I just saw the car, they're home.”

He shook himself awake, trying to look dignified while rubbing his eyes. There was a blanket over his shoulders, which Charlie must have placed over him. Monty very carefully chose not to dwell on this.

“Thank you, my boy,” he said, stretching. “I don't suppose I could have a cup of tea? Then I’ll go hunt down Ms. Ringwood.”

“Of course,” Charlie said, scurrying off into the kitchen. The papers were spread out in a few careful piles which Monty couldn't begin to parse, and there were a few sheets of notes in Charlie’s handwriting left to the side.

Taking the moment alone to gather himself, Monty pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes and scrunched up his face. He really needed to get ahold of himself, this… infatuation with his case partner Charles would do him no good. It was distracting. It was inconvenient. It was unhelpful—

Charlie offered him a cup of tea, the perfect shade of brown, and something in Monty melted.

Pull yourself together, Montagu, he told himself, taking the cup of tea. He forced a smile off his face as he took a sip.

“Right, I’ll go find Jean,” said Monty. “Then we’ll interview Myriam. You keep working at…” he gestured vaguely at the piles. “All this.”

“I—” Charlie sighed. “Okay, then.”

“Good lad.”

Before he could have any other distracting thoughts, Monty turned towards the door and pulled his shoes on as quickly as he could. The air outside was biting, and helped clear his thoughts. He needed to get back on track, focused on the task at hand. There was a murder to solve, he couldn’t get caught up in the complicated feelings he had for Charles.

Monty had already questioned the Lord and Lady of the house, who had provided very bland and entirely unhelpful information. He hated people like that; fusty, old, and too caught up in their own self-importance. But they hadn’t seemed too suspicious to him – no more so than any old rich family. The daughter, however, was interesting. She had never been home, despite being the one who had hired and was paying him.

Monty walked into the house, fixed his hair quickly, then stopped one of the staff and asked where he could find Jean Leslie. And then, once he’d grabbed her, he let her lead him to the lounge, where Myriam Ringwood was likely to be.

She was a striking woman. Young, with sharp features and large eyes, face framed by carefully styled short dark hair. Myriam’s face was coated with stylish and modern makeup, and she was dressed to the nines; clearly not a girl suited to dull life in the country. She looked like a flashy London neighborhood come to life – and smelled like one too. Her smoke and perfume hit Monty the second he stepped into the room.

“Hello,” he said, with a charming smile. “I’m PI Ewen Montagu, I’ve been investigating the Bill Martin case.”

“Of course, Mr. Montagu,” said Myriam. “Have a seat.”

He sat in one of the comfortable chairs, listening as Jean settled down beside him. Now that he was closer, Monty could see some tension in Myriam’s shoulders and a slight shake in the hand elegantly holding her cigarette.

“Care for a smoke?” she said, holding out her packet. He graciously accepted, pulling his own lighter from his pocket and lighting the paper.

“I have a few questions to ask you,” he said. “You’ve made yourself rather hard to catch, Ms. Ringwood.”

“Can’t stand to be here,” she said, blowing out an impressive cloud of smoke.

“Why is that?” Monty asked conversationally, and felt Jean shift beside him. She was paying keen attention, as always.

“It feels… suffocating. You know how it is with family homes.”

“Oh, I do.”

“You said you had some questions?”

“Well, firstly, why haven’t you been home? I know how family can be, but I also know that if I were to hire an investigator, I’d want to make sure my money was going to the right man.” Jean shifted beside him again. “You don’t mind if my assistant here takes notes, do you?”

“Oh, of course.” This seemed to set Myriam even more on edge, which was great for Monty. People were sloppy when they were nervous, they let all their secrets spill out without even realising. “Well, as I said, I don’t particularly enjoy being home here. My parents are… quite a lot to handle, and I prefer to stay at my home in London. I can let loose there, you know? I don’t have to worry about… all sorts of things. As for your talents, Mr. Montagu, I’ve heard a lot of good things about you. In fact, you helped a dear friend of mine recover some stolen jewellery not three months ago, so I thought you were a decent bloke who I could put my faith in.”

“I’m pleased to hear of your confidence in me,” Monty said. “You said you worry about things when you’re here? Those ‘things’ surely can’t only be the death of Mr. Martin, or you would have been here for the investigation.”

“Bill Martin— I mean, his death really upset me. A guest, dead in our own home. It’s absolutely awful!”

“Not to belabour the point, but if it upset you so much, why not be present for the solving of the crime?”

“I just— I can’t stand to think about it. Mother insists I ought to keep it together, because she doesn’t want people… Looking at us, but I just— It’s terrible.” There was a slight sheen of tears in her eyes.

“It was a horrible tragedy, of course,” Monty said gently. He let silence reign for a moment, calmly smoking, before he continued as if the thought had only just occurred to him. “What made you think it was a murder?”

“Pardon?” There was a flash of what Monty clearly recognised as fear in her eyes.

“Well, the police said he died from a fall, and I don’t see why one would call in a PI for an unfortunate accident. Unless, of course, you noticed something that seemed suspect?”

Myriam had smoked the cigarette down the filter, and nervously ashed in the small tray on the side table. She momentarily reached for her pack, before clearly redeciding and instead nervously resting her hand on her leg.

“I didn’t notice anything, really, I just… It seemed odd?” She looked between Monty and Jean with poorly disguised panic.

“Did it?” Monty said. “If you hadn’t gotten Miss Leslie to call me, I wouldn’t have thought anything of it.”

“Well, you weren’t there.”

“Quite right. What about being there made it seem so suspect.”

“He didn’t seem like the kind of man to be so foolish. And he… Well, he’d eaten something strange, I think. Have you interrogated the cook yet?”

“I have, and he confirmed that Mr. Martin ate the exact same food as everyone else. Should I reinterrogate him? You seem quite certain he’s eaten something odd.”

“Well, he just— he had this look about him, like he was going to be ill, so I thought…”

“No one else reported that.”

“Ah.” She finally lit another cigarette, nervously bringing it to her lips. The stylish air she’d given off when he’d entered had evaporated. “Well, maybe they didn’t see him at the right time? Or I might be wrong. He seemed very pale, is all.”

Monty nodded, and noted the sound of Jean furiously scribbling. Good. “I see,” he said. “And you thought this was suspicious enough to hire a PI? And not an inexpensive one, either.”

“Well, it weighed on my mind. I couldn’t let it go, you know how it is.”

“Of course.” Monty grinned playfully; the easy-going smile of a joke. “And that was it? No… deep family secrets, or anything?”

Myriam reacted like she’d been punched, eyes flying wide. “Wh– What? No, of course not!”

“I kid,” said Monty. “But really, are you sure nothing else seemed off to you? Something that could have weighed on your conscience? Anything helps.”

Myriam gulped. “No,” she lied.

“I’ll leave you for now, then,” Monty said, dropping the butt of his cigarette in the ashtray. “Enjoy your time with your family. I may have more questions for you later.”

He nodded to Jean and they headed out of the room. They were halfway down the staircase when Jean turned to him, notebook in one hand. “Why did we leave her? She was panicking!”

“Exactly,” Monty said confidently. “If we leave her to stew, that panic only grows. Clearly, she knows whatever this ‘secret’ is, and her relationship with her parents is already strained. I can’t imagine hiring a PI helped matters, either.”

“But why would she hire you if she killed him?”

“You think she killed him?”

“Well, she’s awfully suspicious…”

“Indeed she is.” Monty turned down the stairs to continue on his quest for Charlie’s little annexe. Jean hastily followed behind him, tucking her notepad into her pocket.

“You don’t think she did it?” Jean said.

“As you said: why hire a PI? No, but I do think she feels guilty about something, and I need to figure out what that something is.”

“And you think that’s the secret?”

“It very well may be,” said Monty, stepping out into the fresh air once more. “After all, aren’t parents always trying to hide their daughters’ choices?”

Before they could even reach Charlie’s door, the man himself was hurrying up the path, a file under his arm. He nearly collided into Monty, who grabbed him by the arms and spun him around to slow his momentum.

“Charlie, my genius!” he exclaimed. “Slow down, or you’ll knock us over!”

“I found something,” Charlie said, not even acknowledging what Monty said.

“What is it?” Jean asked, grabbing at the folder. Charlie glanced around before leading the two of them back to his home.

“I don’t know if it’s anything, really–”

“I suspect it must be, if you had such a reaction to it,” Monty said.

“There’s a secret room in the Manor.”

A pause. No one breathed.

“Come again?”

Chapter Text

There was a child. A young boy, by the looks of it, sitting at a desk and flipping through a colourful book. He was clean and well-clothed and otherwise would fit perfectly into the Ringwood family, were it not for the fact that he’d been locked away in a hidden room on the property.

“Hello there,” Monty said, and Jean slapped him on the arm then made a shushing gesture. “I’m PI Ewen Montagu, who are you?” he continued, ignoring her.

The boy turned around to face them, eyes wide. Monty was unsure how to proceed; he’d not really been expecting to find a boy who couldn’t be older than seven. He took a step closer to the boy, who didn’t move.

“We’re here to help,” Jean said, much more softly than Monty had. “Can you tell us your name?”

“No,” the boy said.

“Okay,” Jean replied, stepping closer. “Why not?”

“I’m not supposed to talk to strangers.”

“I introduced myself first,” Monty said. “Which means I’m not a stranger. Right?” Jean nodded patiently, making the same face at him that she’d been making at the boy. He scowled.

Monty had brought Jean to break into the hidden room since he knew she was capable of it, and since Charlie had nearly started hyperventilating at the mere thought. He’d been put on lookout, which Monty had thought was stupid: the man couldn’t see anything. He was perfectly capable of calling for help if anything went wrong, though.

The boy was staring up at Monty, unconvinced. “Mummy says I’m not to tell strangers my name,” he said.

“Oh!” Monty exclaimed. “Who’s ‘mummy’?”

“My mummy,” the boy said, looking at him like he was stupid. Monty really didn’t like little children, they never seemed to respect him like they should.

“Can you describe her for us?” Jean asked sweetly. “Then we can go find her!”

“My mummy’s got black hair, and it’s short like mine. And she’s got sparkly dresses, and she smells bad a lot.”

“Well, I think we may just know her,” Monty said. “Do you think she’ll be coming in soon?”

The boy looked at his book, then up at Jean and Monty. “I dunno,” he said. “I don’t like visiting Nan and Grandpa, I have to stay in this stupid room. Mummy said she’d be back when I was done with my book. I’m almost done, see?” He held up the colourful book, and the two adults nodded.

“So she’ll be here shortly, then?” Monty asked. “Why don’t we wait here with you? We know your Mummy, it’s okay.”

“Okay… I’m going to read my book.”

The boy went back to his reading. From what Monty could glean, it appeared to be a story about a farm of some kind. Bored of that, he turned to Jean, who was looking at him with some kind of intent, which he couldn’t begin to parse. This was going to be a horrible wait— “Ben, honey, I’m back,” Myriam said, stepping into the room. Monty nearly leaped a foot into the air, startled. She responded in kind, slamming the door behind her. “What— How— I, uh… Hello, detective.”

“Hello there,” he said. “Care to tell us what this is about?”

Myriam looked at the boy, hands clenching nervously. “He’s my son.”

“Yes, I’d pieced that together. Why is your son in a secret room?”

Now that he was looking, it was obvious this boy was Myriam’s. They had the same eyes, the same hair, the same nose – he should’ve seen it from the start. Jean leaned against the wall, gesturing with a hand to prompt Myriam into speaking.

“I was in love,” Myriam finally said. “Tony, his name was. We wrote each other letters and I’d sneak out to see him, drink with him… Well. Mother and Father had found me a good match, though, a man of our standing. They didn’t know about Tony. I was supposed to marry in ’14, but then the War started and Andrew – he’s who I was to marry – joined the fight. Benjamin here was born just after.

“We never knew each other, not really, but he wrote me letters. I responded – I wanted to give him something to have with him while he was away, even if my heart wasn’t in it. He was a positively lovely man, I think we could’ve been good friends. But he died in 1915. I was sent a letter from his Sergeant, telling me of his passing. His last words were to his mother. I remember being so relieved they weren’t for me, I couldn’t bear to know he’d loved me like that when I couldn’t reciprocate.

“Then, in June of ’15, Tony enlisted. Obviously, my parents had found out about him when I gave birth, and they’d sent me away with baby Ben for a year. I didn’t even know he’d gone until I got back home and found the letters. He…” Myriam choked up, covering her face with a hand. “He died three months later.”

“I’m sorry,” Monty said.

“Yes, well.” She cleared her throat, dragging a hand across her face to wipe away the tears. Her makeup was terribly smudged, which Monty chose not to point out to her. “I refused to abandon Ben: he’s my son, and he’s all I have left of Tony. My parents weren’t happy about it, and said they’d never be able to marry me off now. As if there were any men left after the War. I’ve had to hide Ben his whole life, everyone knows I was never married, and the secret would ruin my family’s standing.”

“Why do you care? Your parents don’t seem to care much about you.”

“That’s— I don’t know. I still love them, I don’t want to hurt them more than I already have.” Myriam took a shuddering breath, and picked up her boy, placing kisses on his cheeks. “There, now you know. The family secret.”

“Are you going to kill us now?” Monty asked.

“What?”

“Come now, I’m not a fool. We know Glyndwr Michael – that’s Bill Martin to you, I imagine – was trying to find out your family secret, and then he was murdered. So, tell me: did you kill him?”

“Of course not! I would never!”

“Then who did? Come on, Myriam, I just need a name.”

She petted Benjamin’s dark hair and hissed, “Can we not do this in front of my son?”

“No, I think not. The second whoever finds out Jean and I know about him, there’s a target on our backs as well, and I don’t want to risk it.”

“I didn’t know he was going to die!” she exclaimed, tightening her hold on her son. “I didn’t know, I thought they would just buy his silence!”

“They.”

“Mr. Martin was here. Ben told me about him, so I warned my parents and they said they’d handle it. I assumed they’d just flash some cash at him and get him to stay quiet! Why would I ever expect that he’d die!”

“Mr. Michael, who went by Bill Martin when he was here, was a journalist,” Monty said. “He was specifically trying to find out your family’s secret. Buying him out wouldn’t have worked, and your parents would have had to resort to more drastic measures.”

“He… what?” Before Monty could answer, though, the door opened again, and Lord Ringwood stood in the doorway. He was a tall, imposing man, but Monty refused to back away.

“Lord Ringwood, perfect timing—” Monty was cut off by the click of a gun and Jean’s squeal. “Oh, really?”

“I’d drop this case if I were you, Detective,” Ringwood snarled. “Or she gets shot.”

“You killed Glyndwr Michael,” Monty said, casually slipping his hands into his jacket pockets. His fingers curled around cold metal, ready for action.

“I didn’t do anything of the sort.”

“If I may, sir, you’re pointing a gun at one of your own staff members and your daughter’s just confessed. I’m not inclined to believe you’re not guilty.”

“Shut up,” he said. “I know your family, you know. Montagu, I knew the name was familiar. You’ve got quite the pedigree, Ewen. Or, should I say —”

Monty pulled out his gun and clicked off the safety in the blink of an eye. Benjamin yelped from somewhere out of his field of vision. “Let’s have a civil conversation, shall we? No petty name calling. I tell you what I know, you tell me what you did, and we all leave unharmed.”

“I could shoot the maid.”

“No faster than I could shoot you. I’ve timed it.”

Ringwood sized him up, scoffed, then lowered the weapon slightly. “Alright. What is it you know?”

“I know who Glyndwr Michael was, I know he was looking for your little family secret. I know he was poisoned, but not by any of the kitchen staff. I know your daughter warned you about him, and that night he died,” Monty enumerated. “Now it’s your go.”

“I didn’t do anything. Myriam told my wife and I about Glyndwr, and we tried to buy him. When he said no, Ada suggested we take drastic measures, and what good husband denies his wife? She got some rat poison, put it in his tea. Then Killingworth took him out to the beach. I had no hand in any of it.”

“Yes, and I’m sure the police will find you completely innocent,” Monty said. “Speaking of, would you like to call them, or shall I?”

“You can’t be serious.”

“Deadly.”

Suddenly, Jean was lunging towards Ringwood and wrestling the gun from his hands. A shot rang out in the room, and everyone flinched. Benjamin started crying loudly, immune to Myriam’s gentle reassurances. Well, now everyone in the house knew about the child.

The door slammed open and there stood Charlie, panting slightly. “Is anyone hurt?” he asked anxiously, rushing towards Monty.

“No,” Monty said sharply. “Now call the police. And get eyes on Lady Ringwood and Mr. Death!”

“Uh, okay, yes! On it, right away!” Charlie babbled as he scurried away, leaving the five alone in the room again.

“Now what?” Jean asked.

“Now we wait,” Monty grumbled, keeping his gun aimed at Ringwood. This was the worst part of the job by far.

“Sorry I got your employers arrested,” Monty said, standing in the driveway with Charlie and Jean as they watched the police cars disappear down the road.

It had started raining, but he’d not really wanted to head back into that home. Myriam and Benjamin had also been taken by the officers.

“It’s okay,” Jean said. “I was about ready to quit anyways. Don’t suppose you have any need for a glamorous assistant?”

“I have always wanted one,” he said, and Jean smiled. Her hair was plastered to her face from the rain, but her grin was as bright as the sun.

“I’m going back inside,” she said. “It’s freezing out here. Coming, boys?”

Monty shot a look at Charlie, then said, “We’ll be with you in a minute.”

Jean raised her eyebrows. “Alright, then.”

Then Monty was alone with Charlie, in the pouring rain, and he hated how much it felt like an ending. The Ringwoods getting arrested was probably not a job-ruining event for Charles – he could just as easily work for the next owner, and they’d probably not fire a man who knew the lands so well.

“I just—”

“You know—”

Monty and Charlie stared at each other in silence for a moment.

“You go first—”

“What was that—”

Another pause. Monty took a breath, signalling that he was about to speak.

“It was a pleasure working with you,” he said. “And if you’re ever in London… Let me know, yeah?”

“Oh…” Charlie took his glasses off, attempting to dry them with his tie, which was equally as wet. “Thank you, Monty. I appreciate it.”

“What were you going to say?”

“Well, I know you just hired Jean,” he said, placing the smudged glasses back on his nose. “But I was wondering if you’d maybe… You can say no, it’s probably ridiculous, you don’t—”

“Charlie,” Monty interrupted. He reached up and plucked Charles’ glasses off his face “I have a job offer for you! How serendipitous.”

“Big word.”

“I’m smart and handsome.”

“You know, the night we were in London…” Charles started, stepping closer to Monty. He suddenly found it difficult to breathe properly. “Did I… Did we…?”

“I think so,” he said quietly.

“Can I, uh, do it again?”

Monty looked around, but everyone with a brain had run inside when it started pouring. So he grabbed Charles by his lapels and pulled him down into a kiss. His skin was cold but their mouths were warm where they connected, and Monty could spend an eternity in a downpour if it meant he got to kiss Charlie some more.

When they pulled apart, Monty slipped Charles' glasses back onto his face and flashed him a smile. “Can’t wait to work with you, Mr. Cholmondeley.”

“Y-yes. I… same,” Charlie stuttered, face red. Monty couldn’t help but laugh before pulling him in again. Tomorrow he’d return to his flat in London with two new colleagues. Tomorrow the world would move on. But he’d solved a case, damn it, and this was how he was choosing to celebrate tonight.