Day 23: Earth as Hard as Iron

[loyseofverlaine.livejournal.com]

My prompt was "In the Bleak Midwinter", one of my favourite carols, and the story is appropriately cold and wintry. I had excellent betaing by byslantedlight and callistosh65, and due to time constraints had to ignore almost all of it. Sorry, ladies. It will be improved before archiving.

Earth as Hard as Iron
by Verlaine

The sun had been up for close to half an hour, not that anyone could tell, Doyle thought grimly as he changed gear and swung off the motorway down onto the A road. Dark clouds hovered not much above treetop level, and curtains of pale sleet reflected the car's lights back into a blinding glare. In a couple of places he'd felt the wheels lose traction slightly, and though he'd managed to keep control, he'd felt Cowley's sharp glance from the passenger seat every time.

For once he would have been more than content to have Bodie drive, but he'd managed almost three hours more sleep in the past two days than his partner, and so had had no compunction about rigging the coin toss. His decision was vindicated when Bodie had simply given the coin on the back of his hand a blank look, grunted and climbed into the back seat. Before the Capri hit the Marylebone Road, he'd nodded off over the file Cowley had passed back to him.

"Still don't see why we're the ones doing this." Doyle risked a quick glance in the mirror to see that Bodie had finally roused and tossed the papers aside. "Bird's done a bunk. Stayed out with a boyfriend, ran home to mum, got bored and decided to take an early Christmas holiday. If there's a problem at all, it's for the local police, not us."

"That would be true, Bodie, if the girl were not the private secretary to Sir James Danbury." Cowley tapped his glasses on the cover of his own file. "The minister is not pleased at the idea that someone who is privy to all the details of government arms procurement policy cannot be accounted for. There are people who would extremely interested in some of the things she knows."

"They had any problems with her before?" Doyle did another careful gear change and pulled out to pass a lorry, wincing at the splatter of gritty slush that obscured the Capri's windscreen.

"According to Sir James, Miss Wilson is an exemplary employee. Totally reliable. Which is why, when she didn't return from her hairdresser's appointment yesterday, he informed the police immediately."

"Anything on the hairdresser?"

"Sixty years old, pillar of the community. She claims Miss Wilson came for her appointment as usual, said and did nothing out of the ordinary, and walked back in the direction of Danbury Hall." Cowley shook his head. "And that is the last anyone saw of her."

"Why was she walking?" Bodie asked. "Weather yesterday was about like it is today. Not the sort of day you'd think someone would walk, what, two miles, just for the fun of it."

"Sir James offered to have her driven down, she refused. Miss Wilson apparently enjoyed her daily constitutional in any weather."

"So someone she knew may have offered her a lift—"

"Or someone she didn't know made an offer she couldn't refuse." Bodie shrugged. "Either way, once she got in the car, she'd be done for."

The sign for Danbury Hall came up without warning, and Doyle braked sharply, steering out of the resulting skid more cautiously. He slowed still further as he turned onto the side road. While the sleet had tapered off to intermittent gusts, there were more icy patches on the less travelled road, and stone walls rather than hedges, prompting him to opt for caution over speed.

Though the clouds were as heavy as ever, it was now light enough that he could catch the occasional glimpse of a building in the distance through the woodland they were passing. A few moments later, they reached a high iron gate, standing partly open. The drive wound through bare trees swaying and creaking in the wind, their stark branches sweeping cryptic patterns against the leaden sky. The drive dipped and curved, and then Doyle eased to a stop to stare across the sweep of gravel at the first unobstructed view of Danbury Hall.

He'd learned enough about composition at art school to appreciate that the perfectly balanced wings and the lawns and gardens sweeping away on either side were impeccable models of design. In the sunshine it would have looked spectacular, and not even the gloom of a winter morning could detract from the building's graceful beauty. But the bleak weather emphasised the austerity of that beauty, bleaching the colour from the mellow gold of the brickwork and turning the unlit windows into squares of dark grey vacuum. Naked trees and shrubs looked skeletal rather than merely dormant. A four-tiered fountain in the centre of the oval lawn at the front of the house was frosted in sleet, the female figure on top draped in long icy streamers that dripped down from one level to the next. An involuntary shiver shook Doyle as he thought of a young woman who might also be covered in ice somewhere in the morning's grim chill.

Doyle started as Bodie tapped his arm. "Oi, this isn't where they filmed that thing you were watching on the telly last year, is it, about the poofter and the teddy bear?"

Beside him, Cowley made a sound suspiciously like a stifled chuckle. "No, Bodie, that was Castle Howard. It's near York."

"I don't know what's more frightening," Doyle murmured. "That you knew what he meant, or that I did. And Brideshead Revisited isn't about a teddy bear," he added severely over his shoulder.

Bodie's unrepentant snicker lifted his mood slightly and he eased the Capri back into gear.

"Park at the tradesmen's entrance, sir?" he asked, only half-joking.

"If we're sent round to the back, you'll have my permission to kick the door in." Cowley didn't sound as if he were joking at all, and Doyle's mood lifted a little more.

"So who's got all the lolly?" Bodie peered out between them, his expression composed of equal parts awe and irritation.

"Sir James has the money, but it's his wife's family's ancestral home. A match made in heaven." Cowley's voice was dry.

"And they say true love is dead."

Doyle would have liked to take the opportunity for a leisurely look around after he got out of the car, but the biting damp wind made lingering uncomfortable. Not that that would prevent Cowley from having him and Bodie checking out the grounds on their hands and knees if he thought it necessary. Hopefully, the lord of the manor would see fit to offer them a hot cup of tea and some refreshment before they were banished to the salt mines.

As Cowley strode up to the door, Bodie dropped back for a moment and Doyle stopped beside him. "Thanks for the rest," Bodie said. "You okay?"

"No," Doyle said shortly. "Think I left half my nerves on the motorway, and this place feels—" He stopped, unsure of whether he wanted to put it into words.

"Beautiful but wrong." At Doyle's startled glance, Bodie nodded. "Like the corpse all done up at the funeral."

"Let's hope that's not a premonition."

"C'mon, Ray, she's dead. Probably has been since yesterday afternoon."

"Not necessarily." Doyle felt compelled to argue, as if admitting the possibility was in some way a betrayal of the missing woman. "If somebody wants information—"

"Then for her sake, we better hope she's dead. You know what they'll use to get it out of her."

Doyle swore under his breath, knowing his partner was right, but hating the cold logic behind it. Bodie rested one hand lightly on the back of his neck, gently rubbing the tight muscles there, and Doyle felt the headache that had built during the drive begin to ease.

"Ta, mate," he said quietly, and risked a quick stroke to Bodie's back before they followed Cowley up and into the front hall.

Sir James Danbury and his wife met them in the library. Sir James was a short, thin man of middle age who was barely saved from being weedy by perfect tailoring and barbering. Even so, he looked somehow shriveled, as if the strain of the past day and night had taken something vital out of him. While part of Doyle felt some sympathy—having the minister breathing down your neck about security issues was a trial at the best of times—another part couldn't help feeling that Sir James was giving his own situation more significance than it warranted.

Lady Alice, on the other hand, was a match for her house in every way: flawlessly preserved and impeccably dressed, with a demeanor as chilly as the under-heated front hall. She seemed to regard the disappearance of her husband's secretary with the faintly irritated boredom reserved for a minor problem interfering with the holiday festivities, and treated the CI5 agents the same way. Or rather, she treated Cowley that way. Bodie got one long head-to-foot look of mingled appreciation and disdain before, like Doyle, being dismissed as below the salt and unworthy of attention.

"While I completely understand the minister's concern, I'm not sure what your people can do that the local police haven't done already." In contrast to his appearance, Sir James had a mellow baritone voice that probably had convinced more than one politician to follow his suggested course of action. "They've searched the road to the village and the woods, they've questioned the people on the estate. If she has been, well, taken away by someone, surely your efforts are wasted here."

"Och, I agree, Sir James," Cowley said in his best respectful bureaucrat tone, which Doyle knew well had no relationship to his real thoughts. "However, we do all answer to the minister, and he wants to be sure every avenue has been explored." From the corner of his eye, Doyle could tell that Bodie was fighting a smile at Cowley's verbal camouflage."

"Very well. Where would you like to start?"

Cowley smiled reassuringly. "I'd like to speak with both of you about Miss Wilson's behaviour in the past few weeks. Perhaps you've seen or heard something without realising its significance—"

Doyle tuned out the rest of Cowley's reassuring blather. He and Bodie had long ago learned how to divide up the chores in these situations: Bodie listened, Doyle watched, and both of them faded into the woodwork like well-trained ciphers while Cowley drew the attention.

Sir James' library could not have been more clichéd if it had been manufactured by a set designer. Tall bookcases filled with leather-bound volumes that to Doyle's eyes looked singularly untouched, fine polished wood, an old oak desk with onyx and brass accessories, all expensive and in the best of taste, but without a single trace of individuality. He'd seen exactly the same set-up in half a dozen shops that sold up-market furniture. Not at all like Cowley's desk, with its stacks of files and drawer full of broken pencils and scraps of paper scribbled in Gaelic because for some things Cowley truly trusted no one, not even Betty.

The three people in front of him could also have been set dressing: the lord of the manor and his lady, with Cowley playing the role of hard-working estate agent. Doyle let the voices flow around him and watched James Danbury's eyes flick constantly to his wife as he spoke, swift little glances that he seemed to use as guidance before he chose his words. Watched Lady Alice turn a condescending charm on Cowley that wasn't quite enough to hide the tension in her shoulders or the flash of loathing whenever her eyes met her husband's.

A chill that was more emotional than physical hit Doyle, and he stilled a shudder with effort. How often had he and Sid Parker gone though this same routine, in council flats and terraced houses and interrogation rooms? He glanced over at Bodie, to see his partner's mouth compressed into a severe line, eyes fixed on Sir James with steel blue intensity.

Damn.

He tuned back in to hear a high-pitched sound of protest. "Oh, surely not!" Lady Alice said in a shocked voice. "Not Sarah's room. She'll be mortified."

"All routine, I'm afraid." Cowley was politely implacable. "Once we've finished that, we can fill out our report and go on to more profitable avenues of investigation."

Lady Alice's mouth tightened, but she rang the bell and when the maid entered, said simply, "Show these gentlemen to Miss Wilson's rooms."

To Doyle's disbelief, the woman almost curtsied. He and Bodie exchanged raised eyebrows, and then followed her, Doyle smothering a chuckle as Bodie did a crisp parade turn. The hall held more polished wood, masses of professional Christmas decorations, and a couple of paintings so gloomy Doyle was sure they had to be priceless originals.

The maid led them up a massive staircase to the second floor landing, and stopped in front of two adjoining doors. "Miss Wilson's rooms, sir," she said to Bodie, not quite looking at him. "Her sitting room's through here, and her bedroom on this side."

"Thanks, luv. Anything you could tell us about Miss Wilson?" Bodie gave her his best charming smile. "Got a boyfriend? Fancies a little sherry now and again?"

Her face froze. "I couldn't really say, sir. Excuse me." Her speed could have taught a London pickpocket a thing or two, Doyle thought, as she whipped past them both and off down the stairs.

"You thinking what I'm thinking?" Bodie went to lean over the banister, a thoughtful look on his face.

"Y'know, there's a saying." Doyle rubbed his nose. "When you hear hoof beats, you shouldn't be thinking zebras."

"You're right," Bodie said, struggling with a smirk. "It could be wildebeest."

"Prat. You know what I mean. Most murders are committed by someone the victim knows. And how likely is it the local boys were too busy kissing Sir James' arse to ask him some hard questions?"

"So. He gave our Sarah the bashing he hasn't got the guts to give his wife and she won't stand for it?"

Doyle shrugged. "No marks on his hands or face. More likely, she's preggers and wouldn't do the decent thing."

"Keep me eye out for love letters then. Happy hunting in her knickers."

"You watch your goolies," Doyle retorted. "Her ladyship thinks you're the kind of rough trade that wants chasing round a desk."

Bodie snorted. "I shall keep my legs firmly crossed." He pulled open the door on the right.

Sarah Wilson's rooms looked out from the back of Danbury Hall, with a fine view of rolling lawns down to the woodland. Closer behind the house stood a stable block that had been converted to a garage, and almost directly below the window, another tiered fountain with a female figure on top. Doyle rubbed his hands together, shivering involuntarily at the sight of the ice coating her. There was something different from the one out front, a bit of asymmetry he couldn't quite pin down, and decided it must come from the different vantage point.

Half an hour later, Doyle had to conclude that if Sarah Wilson had had any deep dark secrets that got her killed, she hadn't hidden them anywhere in her bedroom. He'd expected a cache of love letters, perhaps a piece of jewellry too expensive for her salary, or a dress too posh for any party she'd be likely to attend. There was nothing. No hidden birth control pills or drugs, not even a packet of cigarettes or a racy novel.

Surely she hadn't been such a complete paragon. Doyle blew on his fingers, feeling the chill.

In fact—Doyle looked around the bedroom again. Too cold. She'd been gone less than twenty-four hours; even if she hadn't been in the room the whole previous day, it shouldn't be this cold.

This sterile.

He dropped to his knees and took a quick look under the bed skirt. Getting up, he went to the dressing table and looked slantways at the mirror on top.

No dust. No fingerprints. No sign of spilled face powder, or—he took a quick sniff—any trace of perfume. Just cold air.

"How long has she been dead, you bastard?" he murmured. "How long did it take you to wipe everything out of this room?"

He drifted back to the window, lifting the curtains for another look out at the grounds. To his shock, Bodie was outside on the back gravel in front of the garage, on his stomach in the slush, head turned sideways to peer at something on the ground. Doyle tried to follow his line of sight. He could make out that Bodie was looking at the garage door, but from the window he could see only the layer of white stretching between the buildings, with Bodie's footprints forming exaggerated quotation marks on the blank page.

Suddenly Bodie jumped up and turned to wave at the window, gesturing unmistakably for Doyle to come down. As he turned away, from the corner of his eye Doyle saw that odd asymmetry in the fountain again, and slowly went back to the window. He lifted the curtain again and this time saw what he'd missed before.

***

"We've found her." Bodie's voice was flat and as cold as the air sliding into the library with him. Doyle was just behind him, back in watching mode, seeing the quickly hidden flash of satisfaction in Cowley's face. And just as quickly hidden, the same expression on Lady Alice.

Sir James sank down into the chair behind him, his face turning a sickly white. "Where . . . is she . . . hurt?"

"She's dead." Doyle didn't even pause at Lady Alice's gasp. He strode forward to loom over Sir James. "You broke her neck. She got in the car with you, didn't she, why not, you were her boss, and you drove her home and killed her, right there in the car." He put one hand on the chair back and leaned in closer. Sir James gave him a shocked look and shrank back in the chair.

"That's ridiculous!" Lady Alice started to her feet. " Mr. Cowley, what on earth have you done?"

Cowley shrugged, and tilted an inquiring eyebrow.

"You'd never killed anybody before, had you?" Bodie leaned against the desk on Sir James' other side, arms crossed, in that very casual all-mates-together way of his that slid right under men's defences. "You've watched it on the telly, but they aren't allowed to get all the details right. Might put people off their crisps and fizzy drinks. You didn't realize there was going to be a mess, did you? You didn't know it would stink and—"

"Stop!" Sir James had gone from white to grey. "I . . . stop." He put his hands over his face. When he looked up, his eyes were blank hollows. "Alice, please."

Lady Alice paused for a moment, eyes on her husband, and then said firmly, "James. Did you do this? Tell me it's not true."

Sir James was too shattered to hide the horrified betrayal on his face.

"It was for . . ." The sentence trailed off under her glare but the last word hung in the air without need for any speech.

As Lady Alice opened her mouth, Cowley stepped forward, placing himself between the two of them. "Why not tell us the whole truth, Sir James? We know where she was killed now. It's only a matter of time until we find the body. Why not leave the lass some dignity?"

"No need, sir." Doyle's voice held a bleak satisfaction. "Like Bodie said, we've found her already." At Cowley's quiet "Indeed?" he went on. "There's a fountain out back, too, like that thing in the front. Between the garage and the house. He tipped her into the second level up and sloshed some ice over top of her."

"In the fountain?" Cowley said. "Of all the daft places—you're sure?"

"Yeah," Bodie said. "If you look from the right angle, you still see the shadow of footprints coming out of the garage and going straight over there. There's hasn't been quite enough snow to fill them in."

"Once you know what to look for, you can see her from the upstairs window," Doyle added. "Almost inspired, really. He couldn't bury her, the ground's too hard. Couldn't bring her into the house, couldn't leave her in the car. This way, he can hide her for a few days, 'til the search dies down, and then put her any place he wants."

Sir James had huddled down into the chair, grey and shrunken, shaking hands plucking at the buttons on his jacket. "Alice? My dear?" His voice shook as badly as his hands. "I really think—"

"I think what you should do is keep quiet, James. I'll call our solicitor, Mr. Cowley, and all this nonsense can be sorted out."

Cowley shook his head. "It isn't that simple, Lady Alice. This still is an issue of national security. Until we are certain about exactly what has happened and why, your solicitor may not have sufficient clearance to be informed." He turned to the trembling man beside him. "Sir James? You'll have to come with me."

"Alice?" All trace of the confident voice and polished demeanour were gone. James Danbury looked like a man on the verge of his deathbed.

"You'd best go, James. I'll call the Prime Minister straight away. We'll sort this out, I'm sure. Just keep quiet. You mustn't let them rattle you." The calm cool voice didn't hold an iota of real concern; Doyle thought she'd expressed more emotion at the thought of him and Bodie tracking their mucky boots through the house.

"Come along." Cowley's voice was surprising soft, and his grip nearly gentle as he steered Sir James to his feet and out the door. As Doyle turned, Bodie gave a quick headshake and settled himself more solidly against the desk. Doyle nodded.

"Do you two still have any business here?" With her husband and Cowley gone, Lady Alice suddenly seemed to come into her own. Back straight, eyes coolly amused, she watched Bodie and Doyle take in the change.

"Still a few questions we'd like to ask," Doyle replied.

"I can't see why." Lady Alice lit a cigarette and blew the smoke almost coquettishly towards them. "You've arrested your dangerous criminal. Not that there's going to be any real evidence once it's actually time for a trial."

"No evidence? She was killed in the Roller. There's evidence—oh, you don't want to hear that part, do you?" Doyle snarled as Lady Alice made a face of distaste. "Well, here's the important bit. She was killed in your motor. Who else could it have been? Unless you're stepping forward to confess?"

"Danbury Hall isn't an armed camp. There are servants, people who live on the estate. Anyone could have broken into the garage."

"How did you know it was in the garage?" Bodie asked very pleasantly.

She gave him an impatient look. "Where else would the car be? Knowing that my own automobile is where it should be makes me guilty?"

Doyle smiled ferociously. "So she was killed in your car? Now that might make for some interesting speculation, wouldn't it?"

"Speculation, perhaps, but no evidence. None at all." Her own smile was blankly innocent. "Do you have anything to add? Or would you prefer to make a retreat with some dignity intact?"

"You're underestimating George Cowley. And overestimating your husband. If Mr. Cowley says there's a possible national security issue here, the PM will be happy to hand him over to us. And national security means CI5 doesn't necessarily have to produce him for a public trial."

"By all means. That would solve a great many problems all round, wouldn't it?"

Doyle stared at her, a sick feeling gathering in his stomach as the words sank in.

"So you knew," Bodie said very softly. "You knew he'd killed her and you would have covered for him as long as it looked like he'd got away with it. "

"And there's no evidence for that either." Lady Alice smiled, not her normal emptily polite smile but a truly sunny grin, like a child taking the plunge and entering a game of skill and daring against worthy opponents. Doyle shivered. This was worse than a killing in the heat of passion, worse than revenge or jealously.

"My God, Cowley only had it half-right," Bodie said, and Doyle was suddenly worried by the tension in the broad shoulders. "Did you get the poor bastard to kill her? You persuaded him you'd cover for him and he'd get away with it? Only you never meant to do anything except make sure to throw him in the deep end, didn't you?"

Lady Alice was quiet for so long Doyle thought she wouldn't answer at all. He'd taken a half step forward, vaguely wondering if he'd get away with shaking her until her teeth rattled, when she looked at him, and her expression froze him in his tracks.

"If a man is going to try to exercise the droit du seigneur, then he'd better be the seigneur." The contempt in her voice cut more sharply that the icy wind outside.

"Well, well. Deadlier than the male," Bodie drawled. "Could feel sorry for Sir Jim. Did he know he was taking on a trap-door spider?"

"He knew he had obligations. That I wouldn't stand for anything less than having them lived up to. But thanks to Mr. Cowley, all that matters is what he got caught at."

"Don't speak too soon. We just might find a killing jar for you too, you cold-blooded bitch," Doyle bit out.

"Based on the law's performance so far, I don't believe I need worry."

"CI5 has resources, and unlike your local boys, we aren't too intimidated to use them."

"Don't be naïve. CI5 acts at the instruction of the government. Do you think the Prime Minister will allow you to cause a scandal with things as they stand in Parliament today? Over some stupid little tramp?" Bodie's fists clenched at his sides, and he pushed away from the desk. Doyle caught his arm.

Lady Alice clicked her tongue and laughed, a sound that made Doyle think of ice water being poured out of pitcher. "Oh, I realise you might have some affinity for someone like her, but in the larger picture, how important is her life, really?"

"That simple for you, is it? Her ancestors didn't come over with William the Conqueror, so she's fair game?" Bodie's voice was still quiet, but his accent had roughened, the Liverpool in it all too clear to anyone who knew him.

"My ancestors were advisors to kings and prime ministers. Finance ministers, ambassadors, generals. This was our land when the Lancasters and Yorks were petty warlords. What were yours doing, Mr. Bodie? Digging potatoes in the mud?"

One side of Bodie's mouth twitched slightly. "Being hung as poachers, actually." His voice had regained its polish and was no more than politely bored. "But they stood by their own best they could. C'mon, Doyle." He jerked his thumb towards the door. "Think we need some clean air."

Doyle didn't bother to hide his anger and distaste. "You'll be seeing us again, Lady Alice. Count on it."

"Yeah," Bodie added. "Think of it as 'au revoir', not goodbye."

They turned almost in unison and Bodie pushed the library door open with a savage force that sent it crashing back against the wall.

Out in the drive, Cowley was leaning against the car, eyes shadowed, mouth set in a grim line. Sir James huddled in the back seat like a child being taken home from school in disgrace. "Tell her off, did you?" Cowley said sourly as Doyle came up beside him.

"Yeah And she told us. Not in great detail, but we can both swear to it. Killing the girl may not have been her idea, but it looks like she saw it as the perfect way to get rid of her rival and her husband in one go."

"It won't stand up in court," Bodie said dismissively., but his eyes were lit for battle. "All the legal beagles against us CI5 peasants?"

"Who said anything about court?" Cowley's voice was dry. "Do you remember that journalist fellow from a couple of years ago? Martin Hope?"

"The one that South African bloke was gonna twep?" Bodie asked.

Cowley nodded. "What do you think he would say to a transcript of your conversation with Lady Alice?"

"Blackmail?" Doyle eyed him sharply.

"No. Exposure. You're right, Doyle. Whether or not Lady Alice instigated the murder, she is certainly the one who stands to gain. Unless Sir James decides to give her up, it will be impossible to prove conspiracy, and a charge of concealing or abetting can be very difficult to prosecute even at the best of times. But, if a leak of your reports were to be arranged—" Cowley shrugged. "Journalism can be a dirty profession."

"So? Cowley's Law?" Doyle held the pale blue eyes.

"Does that offend you?" Cowley's gaze turned from Doyle to Bodie. Bodie shook his head immediately, Doyle a moment later.

"Then let's look at it as the best we can do in the circumstances. I suspect that the rubbishing of her reputation may be much harder for Lady Alice to live with than a prison sentence ever would." Cowley opened the door and climbed into the driver's seat. "You two stay here for now. Don't let anyone into the garage or near the body. I'll call for the forensics men. And we'll have a wee private talk with Sir James."

"Does it bother you?" Bodie asked, giving Doyle a sideways glance.

"Should, I suppose. Cowley's vigilantes." He shook his head, and turned to look at the house. "But it may be all that girl ever gets."

Bodie shivered. "Miserable pile," he muttered. "Gives me a chill just looking at it."

"Should've worn a scarf," Doyle teased. Bodie said nothing, but tugged his poloneck up ostentatiously until it just covered his earlobes.

"And since I drove down, it's your shout to get us home, mate."

****

Doyle threw his coat on the floor and made a beeline for the heater the moment he was in the door. Switching the electric fire on, he crouched down in front of it, holding his hands toward the bars and waiting for the first glow to indicate some warmth. Behind him, he could hear Bodie setting the locks and hanging up their anoraks. As he looked around, the chill that had settled so deeply into his bones during the course of the day showed its first sign of retreating.

Home. Compared to the opulence in which they had spent the best part of the day, it was little enough. A shabby two-bedroom flat with grudging heat and a kitchen from the Dark Ages. A hodgepodge of books, pictures and unmatched furniture that did not so much blend as adapt, just as a partnership had adapted into something deeper. Ugly lamps and comfortable chairs, a faint smell of curry and gun oil. On the wide windowsill level with his shoulder stood a small monkey-puzzle tree in a pot, undecorated except for one fat rope of tinsel that hid almost a third of its branches. Around it lay four packages wrapped in odds and ends of Christmas paper.

Home. Something he and Bodie had secretly feared would be beyond their reach, only to find they were building it on a foundation of friendship already forged through years of shared life and death.

Waiting for Bodie to come in, Doyle made his usual bet with himself, and as usual, won. As he had done every time he entered the room for the past week, Bodie ignored everything else and drifted casually towards the tree. Doyle reached up without looking and snagged his sleeve.

"No." Doyle smiled warmly up at him, with a hint of teeth behind the indulgence. "No squeezing, no shaking, no inspecting. You can wait two more nights."

"Hmmm?" Bodie turned a blandly innocent face to him and changed direction in mid-stride without a pause. "Right now, all I want's some heat."

As Bodie came up behind him, Doyle stood and leaned back, yelping as Bodie slid chilly hands under his shirt.

"If you're trying to start something, you'll need to get us a hot water bottle first. Christ, feels like there's ice right down to the marrow."

"That's 'cause your marrow's so close to the surface. And I'm not hearing any objections to squeezing now." Bodie's hands had moved further down.

"Use those cold paws on me, and you'll do more than hear 'em." He leaned his head back on Bodie's shoulder, soaking in the warmth from both sides. There was more warmth from the back than the front, and he eyed the heater with disapproval, a vague memory of a line from Dickens coming into his head. Something about Bob Cratchit and a very small scuttle of coal.

"Ever wish you'd gone in for something with a little better pay?" Once the thought had crept into his mind, Doyle couldn't quite keep it to himself.

"Gun running? Playing poker?" Bodie laughed softly. "Can get killed doing those too. And there's not many posh jobs for somebody without O-levels." He gave the side of Doyle's head a slight push. "What brought that on?"

"Just thinking." Doyle didn't take his eyes off the fire. "That place, those people—made me think."

"Heaven help us." Bodie sighed. "There's bad 'uns everywhere, you know that. You've seen it."

"Yeah, yeah, that's not it." Doyle toed the carpet, frustrated by his inability to articulate his thoughts. "It's like— Look, you got dragged to church when you were a kid, right? D'you remember that reading, about where the evil man flourishes like the green bay tree, and the good man gets cut off?"

"Ray." Bodie turned him all the way round, his forearms looped over Doyle's shoulders. "Don't be stupid. Did Sir Jim look like he was flourishing last we saw him?"

Doyle shook his head. "Guess not. Still, makes you think." His eyes went back to the small tree and its meager stack of presents. "You deserve better."

Bodie followed his gaze, and then looked back, with one of those half-pouting smiles that hid nothing. "Better?" He dropped his hold, and jerked his head toward the kitchen. "Come here."

Following him a moment later, Doyle saw he had the fridge door open, peering in with an expression of total contentment.

"What?" Doyle joined him, but could see nothing out of the ordinary except the small duck that was to be their Christmas dinner, sitting well wrapped in a pan on the top shelf.

"Do you know how often I've looked in here already?"

"What?" Doyle repeated, a bit irritably. "And why are you letting all the cold out anyway?"

"Checking it's real." Bodie's eyes dropped, and a slight pink appeared on his ears and the side of his neck. Doyle felt the irritation melt under a rush of feeling.

"Oh, it's real all right. Remember the circus we had buying it?"

Bodie turned and suddenly gathered him into a bruising hug. "Thank God for Marks and Sparks," he muttered against Doyle's cheek with a shaky laugh.

Doyle returned the hug, chuckling himself as he recalled the ten-minute dash through the Marks and Spencer's food hall, followed by an equally speedy dive into the greengrocers. He couldn't even remember all they'd bought: the duck, yes, and a Christmas pudding, and he was fairly sure there was a bag with six clementines and a stalk of Brussels sprouts in there somewhere. Everything else was a blur. With any luck one of them had remembered to shove in some Paxo, or their duck might well end up being stuffed with a mixture of chopped swiss roll and chestnut purée.

Holding the solid dependability that was Bodie finally drove the last of the cold from him. There were few guarantees in the life they had chosen, but this was one. They lived together, they might someday die together, or separately. But whatever Bodie felt was felt for him, Raymond Doyle, not for his money or his social advantages or his pedigree. And a damn good thing that was, or he'd still be on his own for Christmas.

"Sod the rich," he said forcefully.

Bodie sniffed. "Sure you wouldn't want a Roller and a villa in Tuscany?"

Doyle shrugged, tightening his hold slightly. "Not at that price."

"Can't argue with that." Doyle felt him stretch one leg out, and heard the fridge door give a soft clunk as it swung shut. Still he didn't let go, and Doyle decided that standing in the kitchen holding each other wasn't nearly as daft as it might have sounded. "Got an idea," Bodie said after a minute. "Something that should warm us right up. How about a little half-way-between-solstice-and-Christmas celebration?"

"Will it involve booze and shagging?"

"Philistine," Bodie said fondly. "Was thinking more of hot cocoa and mince pies in bed."

"Which will lead to booze and shagging." Doyle considered for a moment. "I'll make the cocoa, you get the bed warm." Bitter experience had taught him that letting Bodie near a pan of hot milk was as good a way as any to spark a trip to the DIY.

"Yeah." Bodie planted a brief kiss near one ear. "Two pies for me, mate."

Doyle gave him a speaking look. "You are not eating one off my stomach."

"Would I do that?" Bodie, innocence personified, was edging toward the door. "Thought I'd try mincemeat as lube," he said and bolted. A gleeful cackle accompanied his retreating footsteps down the hall.

Doyle shuddered, and then began to laugh himself. Trust Bodie.

While the milk heated, Doyle rummaged for food, finding in addition to the mince pies a small piece of Stilton that hadn't dried out yet and a packet of cream crackers that were stale but passable. As he stirred up cocoa and sugar and hot milk, Doyle pulled aside the curtain and looked out the small window over the sink. The day was ending much as it had started, dark clouds lowering just above the rooftops and spitting sleet into the teeth of the wind. A girl was dead, a man's life destroyed and a woman who valued her heritage more than her soul was left with precisely and only that. A killer would be brought to justice, but the one who'd benefited most from the crime would be left free. Despite his respect for Cowley's ability to manipulate events to suit himself, Doyle was under no illusions about the power of wealth and family.

But in here, there was warmth and food and Bodie. Christmas was little more than a day away, and please God and Cowley, they'd have a few hours to open their gifts and cook their duck in peace.

"Poor stupid cow," he murmured, surprised to find that he could actually feel a spark of pity for Lady Alice. "Let that pile of bricks keep you warm. You deserve each other."

Behind the bedroom door, he heard Bodie's voice rise suddenly, a surprisingly mellow and tuneful sound. Not a carol, but something with an African beat, the words muffled by the walls, but with one clearly repeated refrain of 'home'.

Home.

Smiling, Doyle flicked off the lights, picked up the tray and went to share supper in the warmth of their bed.

Title: Earth as Hard as Iron
Author: Verlaine
Gen or Slash: Slash
Archive Proslib/Circuit: Not yet, thanks. Needs fiddling.
Disclaimer: Mine? Ha!

Comments

[ailcia.livejournal.com]

Oh, this was wonderful. There were so many things that melted my heart, but I especially loved the line about mismatched furniture: it spoke volumes and volumes.

Also, I LOVED their thawing banter. Perfect and a brilliant christmas present! Thankyou! :D

[msmoat.livejournal.com]

Oh, that's nice! I love the image of warmth and home, and the realization that they have exactly what they want and need. That's a Christmas story. *g*

This bit: Holding the solid dependability that was Bodie finally drove the last of the cold from him. That's it, really. That, and Bodie looking and not quite believing it's real. But it is.

Thank you! And a happy Christmas to you, too!

[gilda-elise.livejournal.com]

Such a wonderful story! I liked how you could tell they were together, even during the investigation, the small touches and things they said to each other that could be anything with anyone else but spoke volumes with these two. But best was home.

[schnuffi.livejournal.com]

Wow, great plot and wonderful acting together of the lads. Cowley's law indeed but it's right - there'll be no other justice for this pilar of ice so let's ruin her reputation. Sounds only fair to me. Love the way you show how much better the lads are off without lots of money or a huge villa. They have each other and that's something all the money in the world can't buy. Feeling sorry for Sir James a bit though. He might be happy to go to jail if it means escaping the clutches of his horrible wife. Well done and thanks for posting!

[robeau.livejournal.com]

What a tremendous story! I loved Doyle rigging the coin toss and Bodie voicing his partner's thoughts about the gloomy mansion. The Bridehead Revisited lines were so B&D and the scene with the fridge made me warm and fuzzy all over. It's just terrific.

[heliophile-oxon.livejournal.com]

I love all of this, but have a particularly soft spot for Bodie's ears going pink as he admits to checking the duck in the fridge is real; it's shows beautifully how much it means to him, and that although he's embarrassed to let on he's got a soft spot he wants Doyle to know it. How lucky we are with our holiday treats, thank you!

[erushi.livejournal.com]

This was a fantastic story. First the think-y first bit as they go about their investigation, the lads being so together on the job and a shrewd Cowley, then the warmth of the second part as the lads realise that they are all the other needs. Thank you for this beautiful read!

[callistosh65.livejournal.com]

"Oi, this isn't where they filmed that thing you were watching on the telly last year, is it, about the poofter and the teddy bear?" Why I love your writing so. You always have these throwaway gems lurking there.. A lovely Christmas story, my friend. And that final scene in the kitchen is total joy.

[greengerbil.livejournal.com]

I actually shivered at the beginning of this - you set up that bleak, cold atmosphere so beautifully! I was so glad when the lads got home and started to thaw out. I love disbelieving Bodie, and Doyle wanting more for Bodie, and then Bodie's reassurance - and such a lovely ending, off to bed together. The love shines out of both of them in this, but it isn't the slightest bit sugary or over-sweet.
Thank you!

and I'm still trying to figure out what needs editing...

[norfolkdumpling.livejournal.com]

Oh, lovely! I love them going about their jobs as normal but seeing the little touches that mark them as being together. Then the warmth at tehm end after all that bleakness - so beautiful. Thank you :)

[snailbones.livejournal.com]

I love the atmosphere you created - so cold and bleak it almost made my teeth ache, and then the lovely homeliness of the two of the together making Christmas the way it should be made. Wonderful whodunit storyline too, with so many gorgeous details. I really enjoyed Cowley being there and working together with the lads for once.

He and Bodie had long ago learned how to divide up the chores in these situations: Bodie listened, Doyle watched...

Ooh, goosebumps - you hit my partner-kink button there. *g* Fabulous story, thank you!

[sc-fossil.livejournal.com]

Verlaine, this was wonderful. The coldness of the fine house and of its inhabitants, and the warmth of Doyle and Bodie together. How nice was that? Really well done. I liked how the sound of Bodie's voice made Doyle smile and go to spend the night with him, bringing the meal to their bed. It made me warm as well.

Thanks!

[krisserci5.livejournal.com]

I so enjoyed that. Nice images in contrasts. I liked their sense of home!

[kiwisue.livejournal.com]

A really nice exercise in contrasts :)

For some reason I loved the idea of swiss roll and chestnut puree stuffing! I love the banter, and especially Bodie turning from a cool, tough agent to a little kid who can't wait to open his presents.

[draycevixen.livejournal.com]

I really enjoyed the story here, Doyle's observations on how they splite up the tasks between them and how they found the body.

The detailed descriptions of the manor house and then B&D's place did a beautiful job of setting the scene.

Most of all though, I just really loved the warmth and affection that radiated out from the pair of them.

Thank you! ♥

[byslantedlight.livejournal.com]

Belatedly - yeay for posting, because Christmas fic from Verlaine shouldn't be missed! And I adore that last scene too, the lads at home together, at peace for a change, just being them... Thank you! *g*

[veronicaluv.livejournal.com]

That was great - a good, old-fashioned Pros-y plot and then they go home together, as well they should. Great job - thank you for sharing!

[ma-donna196.livejournal.com]

Oh my, this was wonderful Verlaine. I love your writing, your subtle and almost sparce writing packing a very powerful emotional punch. During the whole interview with their Lord and Ladyships in all that opulance I felt cold. But as soon as we're back 'home' with Bodie and Doyle, pottering around, fixing their meal, bantering back and forth - it was like curling up next to the aga:) Excellent case plot with a chilling outcome and even more chilling character. Gorgeous writing as always Verlaine. I would give much for a novel length Verlaine Pros story:)

[przed.livejournal.com]

How very lovely. You've got an intriguing case, a suitably wintry setting and the lads very much themselves and very together. What a perfect Christmas present.

And I had to chuckle at this exchange:

How about a little half-way-between-solstice-and-Christmas celebration?"

"Will it involve booze and shagging?"

"Philistine," Bodie said fondly. "Was thinking more of hot cocoa and mince pies in bed."

"Which will lead to booze and shagging."

Heh.

[loyseofverlaine.livejournal.com]

Thank you. Very pleased you enjoyed. That song always makes me think of real Canadian winters, so I decided to provide a close English approximation.

[loyseofverlaine.livejournal.com]

Thank you, MaDonna. I'm very pleased my writing was able to get you into the atmosphere of the story.

Sorry this is so late, but I spent a lot of Christmas travelling - I almost needed a holiday to recover *G*

[loyseofverlaine.livejournal.com]

Thanks! I'm very pleased you enjoyed the story. (Sorry this is so late, I spent a lot of the Christmas period travelling and then needed recovery time *G*.)

[loyseofverlaine.livejournal.com]

Thanks! And I honestly am not ignoring all your work and suggestions - when this is archived there will be some substantial changes.

[loyseofverlaine.livejournal.com]

hi, Drayce. Thanks for the comments. I'm very pleased you enjoyed.

[loyseofverlaine.livejournal.com]

Thank you. I was trying to think of something totally ridiculous for stuffing, and this combination came to mind. And Bodie is so cute when he gets something - he can be very young sometimes.

[loyseofverlaine.livejournal.com]

Thank you. very pleased you enjoyed.

[loyseofverlaine.livejournal.com]

Thanks, Kat. I'm very pleased you enjoyed.

[loyseofverlaine.livejournal.com]

Thank you, I'm very pleased you liked it.

[loyseofverlaine.livejournal.com]

Thank you. I'm pleased I made that contrast work for people - I was worried I might have overdone it.

[loyseofverlaine.livejournal.com]

Thanks. I'm glad you found it all convincing and not over the top (always my worry when writing Pros).

[loyseofverlaine.livejournal.com]

Thank you. very glad you enjoyed, and thanks again for the beta help, even if i didn't have time to do more than skim it.

[loyseofverlaine.livejournal.com]

Thank you. I'm very pleased you enjoyed the story.

[loyseofverlaine.livejournal.com]

Thank you! Very pleased you enjoyed. (sorry this is so late, but I was travelling a lot over Christmas - it always seems like i need a break after to recover.)

[loyseofverlaine.livejournal.com]

Thank you. very pleased you enjoyed the story.

[loyseofverlaine.livejournal.com]

Thank you. I'm really pleased you enjoyed the story.

[loyseofverlaine.livejournal.com]

Thank you. I'm very pleased the story worked for you.

[loyseofverlaine.livejournal.com]

Thank you. I'm very pleased you enjoyed the story.

[loyseofverlaine.livejournal.com]

Thank you. I'm very pleased you enjoyed the story.

Very late but eventually catching up

[saintvic.livejournal.com]

Well I am very late on all my reading but I am grdually catching up and I just have to say how much I enjoyed this story. I really like how you contrast the circumstances and the relationships on show and give us a picture of the life Bodie and Doyle have together. Wonderfully enagaging and immensely enjoyable, thank you.

Re: Very late but eventually catching up

[loyseofverlaine.livejournal.com]

Thank you! it's never too late for a nice comment *BG*. I'm very pleased you enjoyed the story.