![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
asymphototropic.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
discoveredinaljI tried to post from the Rescue Squad, and it didn't work. Will try again now. Asy, coming off 12 hour night shift ambulance duty, is extremely sleepy due to car wrecks, sick patients and fire alarms. So forgive if this comes out strangely.
Holly Golly and the Strange Case of the Purloined Idol
Part 1
On the fifteenth of December, there was quite a snowstorm in Berwick-upon-Tweed.
Ray Doyle considered it a jolly good thing, therefore, that he was nowhere within several hundred miles of the place. In contrast, Agent 6.9 was busy freezing his sugar plums off in Berwick-upon-Tweed, where Cowley had sent him to interrogate a wayward counterfeiter detained by the local constabulary there.
By Doyle's reckoning, this seemed to support the hypothesis that Father Christmas might exist and was keeping track of who'd been naughty and nice. After all, it had been the invidious Agent 6.9 who'd first called Doyle the Jolly Green Holly Golly.
Bodie merely had asked the collective restroom occupants, "Where's the golly, then?" Simultaneously in the background, the news announcer on BBC Radio 1 had been saying something seasonal in a report on commercial holly nurseries. The comparatively innocuous nickname "golly" had been seized instantly by Agent 6.9, embellished to hilarious effect and ruthlessly exploited, much to Doyle's continuing discomfort. Likely the name wouldn't die a natural death anytime short of Hogmanay.
True, the A-squad had originally offended 6.9, by suggesting his numeric designation was received from Cowley as a tribute to the junior agent's talent for giving good head. However, it was utterly unfair of Agent 6.9 to single out Doyle for retribution. Hence Ray's satisfaction over 6.9's frosty punishment in Berwick-upon-Tweed.
Thank you, Father Christmas. Ray worried his nether lip between his teeth a moment before he caught himself and thrust it out in a pout of distaste.
Doyle had been on crutches for a while since that Soviet spy had shot him. Yeah, well Terkoff, now mere ashes six feet under, wouldn't even be getting coal in his yuletide stocking, would he? So there, take that! Ray nodded his head in grim acknowledgment of justice done.
Altogether, Doyle felt grateful to be alive and on the mend. Still, he found work amidst the file folders at CI5 headquarters somewhat less than inspirational. With his muscular forearm, he clutched a bundle of paperwork against his ribs as he hobbled toward the general ops room. It might be noisy there, but more interesting than at his private desk. After a long morning in the silent archive, he craved company.
The good news was that Ray now could limp along with just one stick. The bad news? Well, surely it was just a matter of time before some wag thought to call him Tiny Tim, with sly innuendo including crotch shots whilst joking about meager Christmas packages. Yeah, he was anticipating that, ready for a right cross in return and a righteous brawl. And then Cowley would sack him, and he would find himself on the beer money for the holidays.
Glad tidings and bah, humbug. Time to withdraw from Dickensian reflections; not at all healthy. He laughed inwardly, marvelling at his talent for self-offense.
He approached the ops area on silent plimsolled feet. It was surprising what you could hear in CI5's corridors if you were bored enough to sneak up on your fellow agents.
"He'll never do it," Bodie's voice stated with expert assurance.
Murphy responded, "What, not even for a cash bribe?"
"Especially not for money. Crafty little toad will suspect your motives instantly."
"Then we'll plead friendship and throw ourselves on his mercy."
"Hmph."
Doyle braced himself to be vastly put-upon. His mates' forthcoming request might be anything from asking Cowley to okay a stripper at their holiday office party, to trawling the secretarial pool for hot dates. As Bodie and Murphy had mentioned repeatedly, Ray's current pathetic appearance was great for sympathy and constituted almost guaranteed success in the realm of outrageous demands.
Doyle crept up behind them, then intentionally struck a chair with his crutch. Riding the resultant heart-stopping clatter, Bodie and Murphy leaped synchronously from their seats and whipped out their weapons, drawing a lethal bead upon Doyle.
He tsk-tutted them when they belatedly recognized the interloper. "Serves you right," Ray declared.
Murphy shook his head and Bodie grinned winningly, as the pair smoothly holstered their firearms. Then they cornered Doyle with his bum against the edge of the conference table. Intimidation? Huh. Ray rolled his eyes, unimpressed.
"Lead poisoning. Not a pretty way to go," Bodie admonished with a jovial nudge.
"Come on, Doyle, you know you want to," Murphy smiled seraphically from on high.
"Do I? Right, let's hear it then."
"You'll love it," Bodie cajoled. "Right up your street, this is."
"Hands off me street."
"Why? I'm quite fond of it. Rather scenic."
"Ahem," Murphy interrupted before the aside got too out of hand. "We should like to retain your services as private detective."
"You what?" Doyle didn't need to feign astonishment.
"Secret inquiry into matters most peculiar," Bodie explained.
Doyle wrinkled his nose. "Are we talking about an incident of criminal activity?"
Murphy nodded, "Rather."
"And why not report it to the police, then?"
"We require someone who'll stay stum, who wont insist on knowing all the details. Someone with expertise in fact-finding and deduction. Who then better than yourself, former Detective Constable Raymond Doyle?"
"And what about me day job, eh?"
"Come on. You're only working part time here, light duty."
"And meant to be resting me dollypeg the remainder of the day. How'm I to explain to Father, bout meself trudging all over town, searching for leads?"
"We'll do the leg work," Bodie assured him.
"We will?" Murphy looked startled.
"Yeah."
"We will," Murphy concluded cheerily.
"And I'm in charge?" Doyle began to warm to the situation.
"We'll be at your beck and call," Bodie vowed.
"Staunch loyal soldiers at your command," Murphy agreed.
"Under those conditions, I accept," Ray said with a wicked twinkle in his eye. "You've just hired yourselves a sleuth."
****^^^^****
It was Bodie's idea to meet in the basement supply room.
"Talk about close quarters." Murphy had to crouch so that his hair didn't dust the ceiling.
Doyle was perched on a crate containing one hundred count of bog roll, with his bad leg elevated on a carton of typing paper packages.
"Comfy?" Bodie asked.
Doyle's "Yeah," and Murphy's "No," sounded in chorus.
Bodie handed over a photo. "This is the missing item we'd like for you to retrieve. An ob-jet d'art, see?" He mangled the pronunciation on purpose, sounding like he was talking about a military aircraft instead of an ancient piece of sculpture.
Doyle stared at the image in fascination, then whistled.
The pursing of Ray's lips made Bodie squirm.
Murphy elbowed him to get him back on track, then turned again to Doyle. "That's from the appraisal for insurance coverage."
"How much is it worth?"
"At a Sotheby's auction? Who knows? More than the lot of us makes in a year, I'd imagine."
"Looks to me like it's not just an antique. A museum piece, yeah?"
"A private owner's, but yes, it probably could be called museum-quality."
"Said private owner being?"
"Colonel Malcolm Mestairs, SAS, retired."
At the mere mention of the SAS, Doyle scowled. "Explain to me the need for secrecy in this case."
"Can't, old son," Bodie declared with grave determination.
"Then you might as well chuck in the inquiry straight away." Doyle scooted off his cardboard throne, knocking it sideways and losing his crutch in an awkward fumble to achieve uprightness.
"Steady on," Murphy grabbed him before he could tumble to the cement floor.
Doyle tried to appear unconcerned about the existence at CI5 of a certain exclusive soldierboy club, and particularly his lack of membership therein. He imagined he might be failing in his endeavour to appear disinterested. "Ever read 'The Moonstone'?" he asked as a distracter away from the fact of his green eyed jealousy.
Murphy's face scrunched as he recalled some distant literature lecture or other. "Dickensian mystery by Wilkie Collins?"
"Ripping good yarn!" Bodie's expression revealed far more enthusiasm.
But Murphy, who perhaps had only read the York Notes and so had fewer befogged memories to review, got the reference first, arriving at Doyle's unspoken accusation of unscrupulous military pillaging in foreign climes. "Not to worry. This piece of sculpture is Roman British, centuries old, been handed down in proper fashion. Actually belonged to the widower Colonel's first wife, see? Strictly legitimate."
"Yeah," Doyle still had his suspicions. "And the secrecy?" he returned to the point of his grievance.
"Told you so," Bodie nodded emphatically at Murphy. "Like a barnacle once he latches onto something. You'll never shake him now. He'll finish knowing more about it than we do, see if he doesn't."
Murphy chuckled acknowledgment. "The right man for the job. So long as he doesn't get the gory details from us, we're off the hook, aren't we?"
"Swore an oath, yeah?" Bodie came close to pleading for Doyle's understanding. "Question of honour and all that stuff, you know, Ray?"
Avoiding his partner's appealing blue eyes, Doyle grumbled as Murphy gathered his crutch for him.
****^^^^****
They resurfaced, to the sound of Cowley's impatient, "4.5, where the devil's that background material I wanted on 6.9's counterfeiter ring?" Doyle handed over a neatly edited file folder with appended summary of his conclusions.
"Good work," their Controller murmured, already sinking into triple think as he devoured his wily agent's abstract. Since Cowley had turned away, Doyle missed his boss' expression, as the Old Man reflected he would keenly miss 4.5's support at headquarters, whenever his agent was declared again fit for active duty.
By the Old Man's grace then, Bodie and Murphy had an hour's break to shuttle the presumed-pale and wan Doyle home to his flat for a reviving kip. In mutual accord, they paused at their favourite local. Well the pub was on the way, wasn't it? And a convalescent man had got to eat to keep up his strength, hadn't he?
At the crowded establishment, Bodie intimidated some malingering office types into vacating their table, and Murphy levered Doyle into the first available seat, before reconnoitering for comestibles.
Oblivious to the bar noise, Ray examined the detailed photograph.
"Figured it all out yet, sunshine?" Bodie asked, winking across the table at Murphy, who'd returned with food and drink, and now was gratefully savouring a first long swallow of stout.
Doyle smirked smugly. "The way I see it is this. I reckon your Colonel, you and Murph are members of a secret Mithraic Society of Soldiers, sworn to secrecy in some underground ritual of doom. This 'ere is a picture of yer cult's tauroctony, which has got itself nicked for fun or profit, more likely the latter. How'm I doing so far?"
Bodie choked on a bit of sausage roll while Murphy blew some partly inhaled beer foam halfway across the room.
"Impressive," Murphy opined, as soon as he could stop coughing.
"Knew he was good," Bodie spluttered, with proprietary pride in his golly.
"Was nothing," Doyle offered a self-deprecating shrug, privately basking in the understated praise.
"How do you know about tauroctonies, then?" Murphy asked.
"There's a little carven idol to the north of the British Museum."
"That's a paraphrase of a poem, 'The Green Eye of the Yellow Idol'," Bodie helpfully informed Murphy. "By J Milton Hayes."
"Eh? I thought it was Kipling."
"Oh, do you like Kipling?"
"I don't know, I've never kippled."
Ignoring their panto exchange, Doyle continued his reminiscence, with a somewhat dreamy expression smoothing his crumpled features. "Was in art school. We had an assignment, to choose any display in the British Museum. First draw the part you could see. Then draw the part hidden by the display case, using your imagination to supply the missing bits. I sketched a study of the museum's tauroctony, then got interested in the history of it. Got talking to the curator, who'd noticed me drawing. Old gent was quite an expert on Mithraic cults. Reckon I may be the second- best informed bloke on the subject in all of London."
"So how did you do on the art assignment?" Murphy wondered, quite interested to hear a few details about Doyle's reportedly misspent youth.
"Ech," Ray shrugged dismissively. "I suppose I made up in weird imagination for what I lacked in artistic talent."
"I'd quite like to see your drawings," Bodie said with a wistful appeal that appeared only slightly calculated.
"Come up to my place and I'll show you me etchings instead," Doyle retorted, wriggling his eyebrows lubriciously.
"So, Detective Doyle," Murphy intruded. "Now the game's afoot, how do we proceed?"
"I'd like to speak with your Colonel Mestairs, SAS, retired."
"Could be arranged," Murphy looked thoughtful, but somehow uncomfortable as well.
Bodie grabbed Doyle's elbow. "But not until after your kip, me lad."
****^^^^****
"Colonel," Doyle said upon introduction, shaking the man's hand, which felt like hydraulic machinery, even though the ventral flesh thereon was beginning to wrinkle and yield with advancing age. Ray looked up into a stern countenance. This man must have stood well over six feet tall in his prime. He was still an impressive physical specimen, and fierce withal, despite his demeanor meant to depict the jovial host welcoming guests to his manor.
"Murphy and Bodie speak well of you. In my experience, neither one is easily impressed."
Doyle stifled a frown, managing to maintain a neutral countenance but no more. Here was another card-carrying member of the soldierboy club, with an overt 'us versus them' attitude. Drawing a little more inside himself, he sighed inaudibly. "If you wouldn't mind explaining in your own words what has occurred, sir?"
The space between them shifted, and the Colonel responded unwittingly in the role of victim addressing a cop. Portraying two sentiments, the first was slightly defensive, 'This wasn't my fault,' and the second, moderately offensive, 'If only you police would do your job properly, none of this sort of thing would happen'. Both were altogether too familiar for Doyle's comfort.
Straight to business, the Colonel ushered him into a large library, a drafty place boasting a venerable fireplace in full roaring service, furniture in leather and oak which occupied a niche somewhere between 'comfortably old' and 'decidedly antique', plus enough well used books to justify the name of the room. The place also claimed a half dozen grizzled, retired foxhounds who greeted Doyle with slobbery enthusiasm.
Bodie, who had gone starkly cold, silent, and nearly invisible as he crossed the threshold of his former commanding officer's house, jumped to intervene.
Doyle, leaning heavily on the crutch, meanwhile turned his injured side toward the wall in self defense, and warded off the overwhelming canine jubilance with grimacing laughter at his plight.
"Mabel!" the Colonel bellowed.
Doyle thought it might be the name of the foremost dog, which his host had collared and was dragging out of the room.
But Mabel proved to be the Colonel's wife, who with one piercing whistle got the entire pack's attention, making it perfectly plain who was the keeper of the larder keys in this establishment. Suddenly meek and whimpering, the hunters followed their rightful goddess to the kitchen.
The slamming of the stout library doors heralded a return to peace.
"Do have a seat." The Colonel sounded quite suddenly human, with just a hint of apology in the invitation. "Murphy mentioned that was in the line of duty," he added, gesturing vaguely toward the injured leg.
Doyle dodged any embarrassing need to reply, by sinking into the comfort of an armchair that whiffed vaguely of almond oil and equine equipage. He clutched his stick between his knees, in case there arose any further friendly assault.
Bodie melted into the wall by the window.
Taking the hint, the Colonel began his tale. "We have a good, secure safe, Chubb's TDR, top of the line, state of the art, you know."
Doyle nodded agreement. "Behind the Vermeer," he stated casually.
The Colonel's face portrayed astonishment. "Absolutely correct," he confessed.
Bodie busily hid a pleased smirk.
"It's the only painting in the room that's a copy; the remainder are original oils," Doyle explained. "And the angled shadow indicates a hidden hinged side mounting on the left, rather than the usual hung mounting behind the top of the frame. If I can spot it, any visitor in this room could as well."
"I damn well doubt there's anyone of my acquaintance would notice such a thing," the Colonel declared, now in open admiration.
Ray felt a childish urge to preen, which he ruthlessly suppressed. "So the tauroctony was stored in the safe. What was the date it disappeared?"
At the word 'tauroctony', the Colonel went suddenly icy, glaring across at Bodie, a look with lethal intent if ever there was one.
"I didn't say a word to him about it, sir," Bodie replied evenly, with far less resentment than Ray would have imagined of his mate when faced with a military accusation of blabbing to the enemy. "Only showed him the photo and said the object was missing. Same as Murphy. Doyle's drawn his own conclusions."
The old man's suspicious stare now refocused on Doyle.
With considerable dignity, Ray responded, extracting a print of the photo from his jacket pocket. "I've been trained as an artist. It's a classic sculpture of a familiar symbol. Unmistakable, really."
The Colonel contemplated that information a full minute by the tocking ten day clock in the corner. At last nodding, he fielded the question. "I'm not certain when it went missing. That's part of the problem, you know. It was in it's special protective case, and the box is still there on the shelf in the safe with just the, ahem, artwork itself missing. How was I to know it was empty?"
Doyle tried not to look triumphant when he heard the information. Already guessing the answer, he nevertheless asked, "And anything else taken, sir?"
"Not a single solitary thing. There's the mystery, eh? The rest of the safe's contents not so much as touched, so far as I can tell. In fact, even now I wouldn't have noticed the Mithras was missing, if I hadn't gone to the safe specifically to get it."
"Which you do each year at this time," Ray offered a small, hard-edged smile.
The Colonel responded to this assertion with clench jawed silence.
Bodie turned away to avoid any appearance of collusion with his partner.
Typically tenacious, Doyle continued. "I'm sure you've already considered this, but who else has usual access to the safe?"
"That's rather an impertinent question, isn't it?"
"Not in my expert opinion, no."
"Well then, if you must know, three others: my wife, my son, and my niece. And surely you already realize, you are entirely off target there; none of them would have taken it. Mabel keeps her better jewelry in the safe, so naturally she has the combination. Willby never goes near it except when he's shuffling papers for me. And Aellwyn is away to Durham, at university, though she does have a few baubles in there as well."
"Then I should speak to Mrs Mestairs next."
"I'll see if she's 'at home'," the Colonel conceded starchily, implying that, if the lady denied the request, there would be no further questions permitted.
As it transpired, however, Mabel was quite delighted at the suggestion of a tete a tete with Ray. They met in the 'morning room', even though it was afternoon.
"This time of year, it's the only part of the house that gets any decent light," she explained, perching on the velveteen cushioned window seat, and eying her visitor with evident curiosity. "So, you're a detective. How very exciting."
Doyle was attempting to classify the second Mrs Mestairs without being too obvious about it, wondering how she compared to the first Mrs Mestairs before she was ten years deceased of course. He supposed at nuptials, this version might still have looked to be a 'trophy wife', her appearance having faded since then, and sagged slightly. She seemed a healthy middle-aged woman, very well turned out, moderately intelligent and pleasant, comfortable with her social position, born to it rather than a climber.
"Of course I'm familiar with our heirloom Mithras," she replied to his pointed question, chuckling wryly. "It used to lurk on the mantelpiece for all to see. Took me three years of wedded bliss before I got up the nerve to ask Mal to hide the thing away. Would you like a sherry?" She rose to pour one for herself.
"Sorry, cant, but thanks anyway. Doctor's orders and all that." The business of sadly shaking his head while shifting his crutch and easing his injured thigh was intended as a subtle bid for sympathy. If she sided with him, she'd be more likely to speak freely, he reasoned. "You're not a fan of Roman archaeology, I take it."
"Not particularly. And that statuette was rather awful, you know." She gave a ladylike shudder before sipping her sherry. "Mind you, a good looking manly figure in it, and the whippet was quite handsome. Fascinating when you think about it, that whippets haven't changed much over the centuries, isn't it? A sound breed. But the knife and the bull bleeding barley out of it's slashed throat, with a horrible scorpion about to bite him in the, you know, sweetbreads, shall we say. And to garnish it all, a great slithering snake. Ugh. Quite gives me the creeps, just to talk about it."
"And now it's disappeared," Doyle added. "What do you think has become of it?"
"I can't imagine. Lucky for us, you've arrived to be brilliant and solve the puzzle."
"If you were guessing, who would you say was most likely to have taken it?"
"No one. Though it is quite valuable. Really, I don't know. Unless Malcolm is getting a bit absent minded, went and carried it off to the bank for security's sake and forgotten?" She pondered the possibility a moment, head tilted. "He certainly seems his usual self."
"Anyone else? Household staff?"
"Not likely. They've all been here for simply ages. The only other thing I could suggest," and she stopped abruptly.
"Yes?"
"A member of the Colonel's former command, I was going to say. His men, you know, trained to do all sorts of stealthy things, aren't they? Well, it's a thought. Actually, a frightening idea, isn't it?" And she shivered again, this time rather more realistically, as she thought about a trained assassin creeping around her home in the dark.
"I'll look into it," he told her in reassuring tones.
****^^^^****
Ray noticed the presence of a demon, and thoughtlessly loosed it to dance a jig at twilight. "How well do you know Murphy?"
The car veered slightly over the steaming streaming road, but Bodie compensated with commanding accuracy. "Quite." The wipers slicked over the windscreen several beats. "Know him quite well. Why do you ask?"
"Where was he this afternoon? Set up the interview with his old C-O and then pulled a runner."
"Dogging Cowley in case our absence was noted. Ready with interference."
"Know that for a fact, do you?"
Silence.
"I asked Mrs Mestairs who she thought was most likely to have taken the tauroctony. Her answer? One of the Colonel's men. What do you think of that, eh?"
"That maybe she took the damned thing herself and flogged it for a bit of the ready, and now is fecklessly looking for a fall guy. Did you ever think of that, Detective Raymondo, hey?"
"Course, that was my first thought. My second was that one of the Colonel's men might have nicked it. My third was, it might have been Murphy."
"I suppose you'll be accusing me next," Bodie sneered.
"Not accusing anyone. Just playing idle mind games."
"Well you want to stop that right now, boyyo, before I do something contrary to me naturally peaceful disposition."
"Yeah, alright." Ray flashed an impish wink at his partner.
Bodie made that face of his, the one Doyle had yet to name aptly. The handsome phiz was positively charming. But there was a dangerous glint to a fathoms-deep blue eye, the slightest purse of the lips, subtly calculating, a dimpled cheek nestled on a muscularly set jaw. All of this alerted Ray to impending action. Bodie might be ready to rough or fondle him, crack a joke at his expense or scold him to ruddy blazes.
Doyle braced himself for something, anything.
Bodie did nothing.
Doyle blinked.
"Bloody hell," Bodie said, glaring out at the road.
Doyle glanced out there, distracted.
Suddenly Bodie was all over him. Ray got shoved sideways, tickled under the armpit, tweaked on the nose. And as he pulled back in outrage, he got his curls tousled for his trouble.
All the while they were driving at speed. "You are so easy," Bodie taunted.
"Am not."
"Trust me you are."
"Trust you I do."
That shut up Bodie instantum. Now Doyle worried that he'd trespassed too far into the realm of mush. He wasn't yet sure how much deep affection his partner could tolerate. Superficial, matey, humorous, even bawdy, yes, but what about the more profound loyalties? The limits seemed precariously set but well camouflaged, and Ray felt the necessity of treading lightly on treacherous ground.
"There's some history there, if you must know," Bodie said.
"Huh?"
"Murphy and Aellwyn."
"Oh, yeah, the niece. Well carry on, will you?"
"They were."
"Carrying on?"
"Exactly."
"And the Colonel found out?"
"Inevitably."
"He objected?"
Bodie laughed, a delectably wicked sound. "Quite the contrary."
"Sorry, I don't quite take your meaning."
"Ruined it for her, didn't it? Forbidden passion was her thing. The hard rubber stamp of approval from proper old Uncle Malcolm dampened the sizzle of the sheets for Miss."
"Ha."
"Murphy was devastated."
"Can see he's quite pining away. Almost nothing left of the lad, is there?"
"No, really. Flaming embarrassed he was. Plus the unwelcome news, that it was the lowliness of his military rank rather than the ardency of his heart the mare fancied."
"Rough."
"And to top it all."
"No pun intended."
"Har. To top it all, what could Murphy possibly say to Mestairs? 'Sorry sir, but your niece wont let me tumble her again unless you object. Could you possibly find it in yourself to order me twenty lashes and house arrest for daring to glance at her, lest I wither for lack of getting me end away' ?"
"Yeah, right."
"Sad, sad story." In a quick glance, Bodie grinned at Doyle.
Ray sagged with relief against the car door. It seemed he hadn't triggered any traps yet, mucking about over the sentimental sap of friendship.
[continued in Part 2; which I shall attempt to post after taking a kip meself.]
[Wiki has a summary, including the British museum's tauroctony, (use that as the keyword) if you'd like a refresher course on Mythraic Mysteries.]
Holly Golly and the Strange Case of the Purloined Idol
Part 1
On the fifteenth of December, there was quite a snowstorm in Berwick-upon-Tweed.
Ray Doyle considered it a jolly good thing, therefore, that he was nowhere within several hundred miles of the place. In contrast, Agent 6.9 was busy freezing his sugar plums off in Berwick-upon-Tweed, where Cowley had sent him to interrogate a wayward counterfeiter detained by the local constabulary there.
By Doyle's reckoning, this seemed to support the hypothesis that Father Christmas might exist and was keeping track of who'd been naughty and nice. After all, it had been the invidious Agent 6.9 who'd first called Doyle the Jolly Green Holly Golly.
Bodie merely had asked the collective restroom occupants, "Where's the golly, then?" Simultaneously in the background, the news announcer on BBC Radio 1 had been saying something seasonal in a report on commercial holly nurseries. The comparatively innocuous nickname "golly" had been seized instantly by Agent 6.9, embellished to hilarious effect and ruthlessly exploited, much to Doyle's continuing discomfort. Likely the name wouldn't die a natural death anytime short of Hogmanay.
True, the A-squad had originally offended 6.9, by suggesting his numeric designation was received from Cowley as a tribute to the junior agent's talent for giving good head. However, it was utterly unfair of Agent 6.9 to single out Doyle for retribution. Hence Ray's satisfaction over 6.9's frosty punishment in Berwick-upon-Tweed.
Thank you, Father Christmas. Ray worried his nether lip between his teeth a moment before he caught himself and thrust it out in a pout of distaste.
Doyle had been on crutches for a while since that Soviet spy had shot him. Yeah, well Terkoff, now mere ashes six feet under, wouldn't even be getting coal in his yuletide stocking, would he? So there, take that! Ray nodded his head in grim acknowledgment of justice done.
Altogether, Doyle felt grateful to be alive and on the mend. Still, he found work amidst the file folders at CI5 headquarters somewhat less than inspirational. With his muscular forearm, he clutched a bundle of paperwork against his ribs as he hobbled toward the general ops room. It might be noisy there, but more interesting than at his private desk. After a long morning in the silent archive, he craved company.
The good news was that Ray now could limp along with just one stick. The bad news? Well, surely it was just a matter of time before some wag thought to call him Tiny Tim, with sly innuendo including crotch shots whilst joking about meager Christmas packages. Yeah, he was anticipating that, ready for a right cross in return and a righteous brawl. And then Cowley would sack him, and he would find himself on the beer money for the holidays.
Glad tidings and bah, humbug. Time to withdraw from Dickensian reflections; not at all healthy. He laughed inwardly, marvelling at his talent for self-offense.
He approached the ops area on silent plimsolled feet. It was surprising what you could hear in CI5's corridors if you were bored enough to sneak up on your fellow agents.
"He'll never do it," Bodie's voice stated with expert assurance.
Murphy responded, "What, not even for a cash bribe?"
"Especially not for money. Crafty little toad will suspect your motives instantly."
"Then we'll plead friendship and throw ourselves on his mercy."
"Hmph."
Doyle braced himself to be vastly put-upon. His mates' forthcoming request might be anything from asking Cowley to okay a stripper at their holiday office party, to trawling the secretarial pool for hot dates. As Bodie and Murphy had mentioned repeatedly, Ray's current pathetic appearance was great for sympathy and constituted almost guaranteed success in the realm of outrageous demands.
Doyle crept up behind them, then intentionally struck a chair with his crutch. Riding the resultant heart-stopping clatter, Bodie and Murphy leaped synchronously from their seats and whipped out their weapons, drawing a lethal bead upon Doyle.
He tsk-tutted them when they belatedly recognized the interloper. "Serves you right," Ray declared.
Murphy shook his head and Bodie grinned winningly, as the pair smoothly holstered their firearms. Then they cornered Doyle with his bum against the edge of the conference table. Intimidation? Huh. Ray rolled his eyes, unimpressed.
"Lead poisoning. Not a pretty way to go," Bodie admonished with a jovial nudge.
"Come on, Doyle, you know you want to," Murphy smiled seraphically from on high.
"Do I? Right, let's hear it then."
"You'll love it," Bodie cajoled. "Right up your street, this is."
"Hands off me street."
"Why? I'm quite fond of it. Rather scenic."
"Ahem," Murphy interrupted before the aside got too out of hand. "We should like to retain your services as private detective."
"You what?" Doyle didn't need to feign astonishment.
"Secret inquiry into matters most peculiar," Bodie explained.
Doyle wrinkled his nose. "Are we talking about an incident of criminal activity?"
Murphy nodded, "Rather."
"And why not report it to the police, then?"
"We require someone who'll stay stum, who wont insist on knowing all the details. Someone with expertise in fact-finding and deduction. Who then better than yourself, former Detective Constable Raymond Doyle?"
"And what about me day job, eh?"
"Come on. You're only working part time here, light duty."
"And meant to be resting me dollypeg the remainder of the day. How'm I to explain to Father, bout meself trudging all over town, searching for leads?"
"We'll do the leg work," Bodie assured him.
"We will?" Murphy looked startled.
"Yeah."
"We will," Murphy concluded cheerily.
"And I'm in charge?" Doyle began to warm to the situation.
"We'll be at your beck and call," Bodie vowed.
"Staunch loyal soldiers at your command," Murphy agreed.
"Under those conditions, I accept," Ray said with a wicked twinkle in his eye. "You've just hired yourselves a sleuth."
****^^^^****
It was Bodie's idea to meet in the basement supply room.
"Talk about close quarters." Murphy had to crouch so that his hair didn't dust the ceiling.
Doyle was perched on a crate containing one hundred count of bog roll, with his bad leg elevated on a carton of typing paper packages.
"Comfy?" Bodie asked.
Doyle's "Yeah," and Murphy's "No," sounded in chorus.
Bodie handed over a photo. "This is the missing item we'd like for you to retrieve. An ob-jet d'art, see?" He mangled the pronunciation on purpose, sounding like he was talking about a military aircraft instead of an ancient piece of sculpture.
Doyle stared at the image in fascination, then whistled.
The pursing of Ray's lips made Bodie squirm.
Murphy elbowed him to get him back on track, then turned again to Doyle. "That's from the appraisal for insurance coverage."
"How much is it worth?"
"At a Sotheby's auction? Who knows? More than the lot of us makes in a year, I'd imagine."
"Looks to me like it's not just an antique. A museum piece, yeah?"
"A private owner's, but yes, it probably could be called museum-quality."
"Said private owner being?"
"Colonel Malcolm Mestairs, SAS, retired."
At the mere mention of the SAS, Doyle scowled. "Explain to me the need for secrecy in this case."
"Can't, old son," Bodie declared with grave determination.
"Then you might as well chuck in the inquiry straight away." Doyle scooted off his cardboard throne, knocking it sideways and losing his crutch in an awkward fumble to achieve uprightness.
"Steady on," Murphy grabbed him before he could tumble to the cement floor.
Doyle tried to appear unconcerned about the existence at CI5 of a certain exclusive soldierboy club, and particularly his lack of membership therein. He imagined he might be failing in his endeavour to appear disinterested. "Ever read 'The Moonstone'?" he asked as a distracter away from the fact of his green eyed jealousy.
Murphy's face scrunched as he recalled some distant literature lecture or other. "Dickensian mystery by Wilkie Collins?"
"Ripping good yarn!" Bodie's expression revealed far more enthusiasm.
But Murphy, who perhaps had only read the York Notes and so had fewer befogged memories to review, got the reference first, arriving at Doyle's unspoken accusation of unscrupulous military pillaging in foreign climes. "Not to worry. This piece of sculpture is Roman British, centuries old, been handed down in proper fashion. Actually belonged to the widower Colonel's first wife, see? Strictly legitimate."
"Yeah," Doyle still had his suspicions. "And the secrecy?" he returned to the point of his grievance.
"Told you so," Bodie nodded emphatically at Murphy. "Like a barnacle once he latches onto something. You'll never shake him now. He'll finish knowing more about it than we do, see if he doesn't."
Murphy chuckled acknowledgment. "The right man for the job. So long as he doesn't get the gory details from us, we're off the hook, aren't we?"
"Swore an oath, yeah?" Bodie came close to pleading for Doyle's understanding. "Question of honour and all that stuff, you know, Ray?"
Avoiding his partner's appealing blue eyes, Doyle grumbled as Murphy gathered his crutch for him.
****^^^^****
They resurfaced, to the sound of Cowley's impatient, "4.5, where the devil's that background material I wanted on 6.9's counterfeiter ring?" Doyle handed over a neatly edited file folder with appended summary of his conclusions.
"Good work," their Controller murmured, already sinking into triple think as he devoured his wily agent's abstract. Since Cowley had turned away, Doyle missed his boss' expression, as the Old Man reflected he would keenly miss 4.5's support at headquarters, whenever his agent was declared again fit for active duty.
By the Old Man's grace then, Bodie and Murphy had an hour's break to shuttle the presumed-pale and wan Doyle home to his flat for a reviving kip. In mutual accord, they paused at their favourite local. Well the pub was on the way, wasn't it? And a convalescent man had got to eat to keep up his strength, hadn't he?
At the crowded establishment, Bodie intimidated some malingering office types into vacating their table, and Murphy levered Doyle into the first available seat, before reconnoitering for comestibles.
Oblivious to the bar noise, Ray examined the detailed photograph.
"Figured it all out yet, sunshine?" Bodie asked, winking across the table at Murphy, who'd returned with food and drink, and now was gratefully savouring a first long swallow of stout.
Doyle smirked smugly. "The way I see it is this. I reckon your Colonel, you and Murph are members of a secret Mithraic Society of Soldiers, sworn to secrecy in some underground ritual of doom. This 'ere is a picture of yer cult's tauroctony, which has got itself nicked for fun or profit, more likely the latter. How'm I doing so far?"
Bodie choked on a bit of sausage roll while Murphy blew some partly inhaled beer foam halfway across the room.
"Impressive," Murphy opined, as soon as he could stop coughing.
"Knew he was good," Bodie spluttered, with proprietary pride in his golly.
"Was nothing," Doyle offered a self-deprecating shrug, privately basking in the understated praise.
"How do you know about tauroctonies, then?" Murphy asked.
"There's a little carven idol to the north of the British Museum."
"That's a paraphrase of a poem, 'The Green Eye of the Yellow Idol'," Bodie helpfully informed Murphy. "By J Milton Hayes."
"Eh? I thought it was Kipling."
"Oh, do you like Kipling?"
"I don't know, I've never kippled."
Ignoring their panto exchange, Doyle continued his reminiscence, with a somewhat dreamy expression smoothing his crumpled features. "Was in art school. We had an assignment, to choose any display in the British Museum. First draw the part you could see. Then draw the part hidden by the display case, using your imagination to supply the missing bits. I sketched a study of the museum's tauroctony, then got interested in the history of it. Got talking to the curator, who'd noticed me drawing. Old gent was quite an expert on Mithraic cults. Reckon I may be the second- best informed bloke on the subject in all of London."
"So how did you do on the art assignment?" Murphy wondered, quite interested to hear a few details about Doyle's reportedly misspent youth.
"Ech," Ray shrugged dismissively. "I suppose I made up in weird imagination for what I lacked in artistic talent."
"I'd quite like to see your drawings," Bodie said with a wistful appeal that appeared only slightly calculated.
"Come up to my place and I'll show you me etchings instead," Doyle retorted, wriggling his eyebrows lubriciously.
"So, Detective Doyle," Murphy intruded. "Now the game's afoot, how do we proceed?"
"I'd like to speak with your Colonel Mestairs, SAS, retired."
"Could be arranged," Murphy looked thoughtful, but somehow uncomfortable as well.
Bodie grabbed Doyle's elbow. "But not until after your kip, me lad."
****^^^^****
"Colonel," Doyle said upon introduction, shaking the man's hand, which felt like hydraulic machinery, even though the ventral flesh thereon was beginning to wrinkle and yield with advancing age. Ray looked up into a stern countenance. This man must have stood well over six feet tall in his prime. He was still an impressive physical specimen, and fierce withal, despite his demeanor meant to depict the jovial host welcoming guests to his manor.
"Murphy and Bodie speak well of you. In my experience, neither one is easily impressed."
Doyle stifled a frown, managing to maintain a neutral countenance but no more. Here was another card-carrying member of the soldierboy club, with an overt 'us versus them' attitude. Drawing a little more inside himself, he sighed inaudibly. "If you wouldn't mind explaining in your own words what has occurred, sir?"
The space between them shifted, and the Colonel responded unwittingly in the role of victim addressing a cop. Portraying two sentiments, the first was slightly defensive, 'This wasn't my fault,' and the second, moderately offensive, 'If only you police would do your job properly, none of this sort of thing would happen'. Both were altogether too familiar for Doyle's comfort.
Straight to business, the Colonel ushered him into a large library, a drafty place boasting a venerable fireplace in full roaring service, furniture in leather and oak which occupied a niche somewhere between 'comfortably old' and 'decidedly antique', plus enough well used books to justify the name of the room. The place also claimed a half dozen grizzled, retired foxhounds who greeted Doyle with slobbery enthusiasm.
Bodie, who had gone starkly cold, silent, and nearly invisible as he crossed the threshold of his former commanding officer's house, jumped to intervene.
Doyle, leaning heavily on the crutch, meanwhile turned his injured side toward the wall in self defense, and warded off the overwhelming canine jubilance with grimacing laughter at his plight.
"Mabel!" the Colonel bellowed.
Doyle thought it might be the name of the foremost dog, which his host had collared and was dragging out of the room.
But Mabel proved to be the Colonel's wife, who with one piercing whistle got the entire pack's attention, making it perfectly plain who was the keeper of the larder keys in this establishment. Suddenly meek and whimpering, the hunters followed their rightful goddess to the kitchen.
The slamming of the stout library doors heralded a return to peace.
"Do have a seat." The Colonel sounded quite suddenly human, with just a hint of apology in the invitation. "Murphy mentioned that was in the line of duty," he added, gesturing vaguely toward the injured leg.
Doyle dodged any embarrassing need to reply, by sinking into the comfort of an armchair that whiffed vaguely of almond oil and equine equipage. He clutched his stick between his knees, in case there arose any further friendly assault.
Bodie melted into the wall by the window.
Taking the hint, the Colonel began his tale. "We have a good, secure safe, Chubb's TDR, top of the line, state of the art, you know."
Doyle nodded agreement. "Behind the Vermeer," he stated casually.
The Colonel's face portrayed astonishment. "Absolutely correct," he confessed.
Bodie busily hid a pleased smirk.
"It's the only painting in the room that's a copy; the remainder are original oils," Doyle explained. "And the angled shadow indicates a hidden hinged side mounting on the left, rather than the usual hung mounting behind the top of the frame. If I can spot it, any visitor in this room could as well."
"I damn well doubt there's anyone of my acquaintance would notice such a thing," the Colonel declared, now in open admiration.
Ray felt a childish urge to preen, which he ruthlessly suppressed. "So the tauroctony was stored in the safe. What was the date it disappeared?"
At the word 'tauroctony', the Colonel went suddenly icy, glaring across at Bodie, a look with lethal intent if ever there was one.
"I didn't say a word to him about it, sir," Bodie replied evenly, with far less resentment than Ray would have imagined of his mate when faced with a military accusation of blabbing to the enemy. "Only showed him the photo and said the object was missing. Same as Murphy. Doyle's drawn his own conclusions."
The old man's suspicious stare now refocused on Doyle.
With considerable dignity, Ray responded, extracting a print of the photo from his jacket pocket. "I've been trained as an artist. It's a classic sculpture of a familiar symbol. Unmistakable, really."
The Colonel contemplated that information a full minute by the tocking ten day clock in the corner. At last nodding, he fielded the question. "I'm not certain when it went missing. That's part of the problem, you know. It was in it's special protective case, and the box is still there on the shelf in the safe with just the, ahem, artwork itself missing. How was I to know it was empty?"
Doyle tried not to look triumphant when he heard the information. Already guessing the answer, he nevertheless asked, "And anything else taken, sir?"
"Not a single solitary thing. There's the mystery, eh? The rest of the safe's contents not so much as touched, so far as I can tell. In fact, even now I wouldn't have noticed the Mithras was missing, if I hadn't gone to the safe specifically to get it."
"Which you do each year at this time," Ray offered a small, hard-edged smile.
The Colonel responded to this assertion with clench jawed silence.
Bodie turned away to avoid any appearance of collusion with his partner.
Typically tenacious, Doyle continued. "I'm sure you've already considered this, but who else has usual access to the safe?"
"That's rather an impertinent question, isn't it?"
"Not in my expert opinion, no."
"Well then, if you must know, three others: my wife, my son, and my niece. And surely you already realize, you are entirely off target there; none of them would have taken it. Mabel keeps her better jewelry in the safe, so naturally she has the combination. Willby never goes near it except when he's shuffling papers for me. And Aellwyn is away to Durham, at university, though she does have a few baubles in there as well."
"Then I should speak to Mrs Mestairs next."
"I'll see if she's 'at home'," the Colonel conceded starchily, implying that, if the lady denied the request, there would be no further questions permitted.
As it transpired, however, Mabel was quite delighted at the suggestion of a tete a tete with Ray. They met in the 'morning room', even though it was afternoon.
"This time of year, it's the only part of the house that gets any decent light," she explained, perching on the velveteen cushioned window seat, and eying her visitor with evident curiosity. "So, you're a detective. How very exciting."
Doyle was attempting to classify the second Mrs Mestairs without being too obvious about it, wondering how she compared to the first Mrs Mestairs before she was ten years deceased of course. He supposed at nuptials, this version might still have looked to be a 'trophy wife', her appearance having faded since then, and sagged slightly. She seemed a healthy middle-aged woman, very well turned out, moderately intelligent and pleasant, comfortable with her social position, born to it rather than a climber.
"Of course I'm familiar with our heirloom Mithras," she replied to his pointed question, chuckling wryly. "It used to lurk on the mantelpiece for all to see. Took me three years of wedded bliss before I got up the nerve to ask Mal to hide the thing away. Would you like a sherry?" She rose to pour one for herself.
"Sorry, cant, but thanks anyway. Doctor's orders and all that." The business of sadly shaking his head while shifting his crutch and easing his injured thigh was intended as a subtle bid for sympathy. If she sided with him, she'd be more likely to speak freely, he reasoned. "You're not a fan of Roman archaeology, I take it."
"Not particularly. And that statuette was rather awful, you know." She gave a ladylike shudder before sipping her sherry. "Mind you, a good looking manly figure in it, and the whippet was quite handsome. Fascinating when you think about it, that whippets haven't changed much over the centuries, isn't it? A sound breed. But the knife and the bull bleeding barley out of it's slashed throat, with a horrible scorpion about to bite him in the, you know, sweetbreads, shall we say. And to garnish it all, a great slithering snake. Ugh. Quite gives me the creeps, just to talk about it."
"And now it's disappeared," Doyle added. "What do you think has become of it?"
"I can't imagine. Lucky for us, you've arrived to be brilliant and solve the puzzle."
"If you were guessing, who would you say was most likely to have taken it?"
"No one. Though it is quite valuable. Really, I don't know. Unless Malcolm is getting a bit absent minded, went and carried it off to the bank for security's sake and forgotten?" She pondered the possibility a moment, head tilted. "He certainly seems his usual self."
"Anyone else? Household staff?"
"Not likely. They've all been here for simply ages. The only other thing I could suggest," and she stopped abruptly.
"Yes?"
"A member of the Colonel's former command, I was going to say. His men, you know, trained to do all sorts of stealthy things, aren't they? Well, it's a thought. Actually, a frightening idea, isn't it?" And she shivered again, this time rather more realistically, as she thought about a trained assassin creeping around her home in the dark.
"I'll look into it," he told her in reassuring tones.
****^^^^****
Ray noticed the presence of a demon, and thoughtlessly loosed it to dance a jig at twilight. "How well do you know Murphy?"
The car veered slightly over the steaming streaming road, but Bodie compensated with commanding accuracy. "Quite." The wipers slicked over the windscreen several beats. "Know him quite well. Why do you ask?"
"Where was he this afternoon? Set up the interview with his old C-O and then pulled a runner."
"Dogging Cowley in case our absence was noted. Ready with interference."
"Know that for a fact, do you?"
Silence.
"I asked Mrs Mestairs who she thought was most likely to have taken the tauroctony. Her answer? One of the Colonel's men. What do you think of that, eh?"
"That maybe she took the damned thing herself and flogged it for a bit of the ready, and now is fecklessly looking for a fall guy. Did you ever think of that, Detective Raymondo, hey?"
"Course, that was my first thought. My second was that one of the Colonel's men might have nicked it. My third was, it might have been Murphy."
"I suppose you'll be accusing me next," Bodie sneered.
"Not accusing anyone. Just playing idle mind games."
"Well you want to stop that right now, boyyo, before I do something contrary to me naturally peaceful disposition."
"Yeah, alright." Ray flashed an impish wink at his partner.
Bodie made that face of his, the one Doyle had yet to name aptly. The handsome phiz was positively charming. But there was a dangerous glint to a fathoms-deep blue eye, the slightest purse of the lips, subtly calculating, a dimpled cheek nestled on a muscularly set jaw. All of this alerted Ray to impending action. Bodie might be ready to rough or fondle him, crack a joke at his expense or scold him to ruddy blazes.
Doyle braced himself for something, anything.
Bodie did nothing.
Doyle blinked.
"Bloody hell," Bodie said, glaring out at the road.
Doyle glanced out there, distracted.
Suddenly Bodie was all over him. Ray got shoved sideways, tickled under the armpit, tweaked on the nose. And as he pulled back in outrage, he got his curls tousled for his trouble.
All the while they were driving at speed. "You are so easy," Bodie taunted.
"Am not."
"Trust me you are."
"Trust you I do."
That shut up Bodie instantum. Now Doyle worried that he'd trespassed too far into the realm of mush. He wasn't yet sure how much deep affection his partner could tolerate. Superficial, matey, humorous, even bawdy, yes, but what about the more profound loyalties? The limits seemed precariously set but well camouflaged, and Ray felt the necessity of treading lightly on treacherous ground.
"There's some history there, if you must know," Bodie said.
"Huh?"
"Murphy and Aellwyn."
"Oh, yeah, the niece. Well carry on, will you?"
"They were."
"Carrying on?"
"Exactly."
"And the Colonel found out?"
"Inevitably."
"He objected?"
Bodie laughed, a delectably wicked sound. "Quite the contrary."
"Sorry, I don't quite take your meaning."
"Ruined it for her, didn't it? Forbidden passion was her thing. The hard rubber stamp of approval from proper old Uncle Malcolm dampened the sizzle of the sheets for Miss."
"Ha."
"Murphy was devastated."
"Can see he's quite pining away. Almost nothing left of the lad, is there?"
"No, really. Flaming embarrassed he was. Plus the unwelcome news, that it was the lowliness of his military rank rather than the ardency of his heart the mare fancied."
"Rough."
"And to top it all."
"No pun intended."
"Har. To top it all, what could Murphy possibly say to Mestairs? 'Sorry sir, but your niece wont let me tumble her again unless you object. Could you possibly find it in yourself to order me twenty lashes and house arrest for daring to glance at her, lest I wither for lack of getting me end away' ?"
"Yeah, right."
"Sad, sad story." In a quick glance, Bodie grinned at Doyle.
Ray sagged with relief against the car door. It seemed he hadn't triggered any traps yet, mucking about over the sentimental sap of friendship.
[continued in Part 2; which I shall attempt to post after taking a kip meself.]
[Wiki has a summary, including the British museum's tauroctony, (use that as the keyword) if you'd like a refresher course on Mythraic Mysteries.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2008-12-15 01:30 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-15 09:45 pm (UTC)Hope to see you at the punchline.
no subject
Date: 2008-12-15 02:13 pm (UTC)Ah, I loves me a good mystery too! *g* And I especially loves me a B and/or B displaying expertise and competence, yes indeed. (Ah, Bodie's smile of pride when Doyle impresses his old commanding officer - lovely touch).
no subject
Date: 2008-12-15 09:46 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-15 04:04 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-15 09:49 pm (UTC)Appreciate the early reply and I'm looking forward to your assessment as to just how surprising the ending may or may not be.
Much huggishness, darlin.
no subject
Date: 2008-12-15 04:15 pm (UTC)"Exactly." , the solution to the mystery is an additional reason to look forward to the next part. Humour and Truth and all that *g*
Thank you :)
no subject
Date: 2008-12-15 09:51 pm (UTC)Delighted Bodie is in character, and me attempts at witticism break through my grogginess [heh].
Another mystery fan, we've a nice collection here so far.
[nods in glee]
no subject
Date: 2008-12-15 04:34 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-15 09:53 pm (UTC)Don't you love that tauroctony at the Brit Museum? The tiniest details so spectacularly rendered.
Thanks for sharing the fun. Meet me at part 3 for tea said she in glee.
no subject
Date: 2008-12-15 09:45 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-16 12:26 am (UTC)See you at part 3, and hope you like the final twist.
Thanks for stopping by with a word of encouragement.