Fic: Changeling
By Alone Dreaming
Rating: Blue Cortina or PG-13 for blood and violence
Characters: Sam, Gene, the Team
Pairing: Eh, if you squint, Sam/Gene mebbe and if you squint Sam/Annie mebbe
Dedication and Thanks and Credit: Thank you fern_tree for not only allowing me to steal her scene from “Shot” (her audio fic; go listen to it, seriously) but giving me fodder with her drawings (especially her owie one). J Without her inspiration and approval, this story would’ve never been fully realized. So, this is dedicated to her. For the millionth time, thank you so much.
And special thanks to strainconductor for all her prodding, poking, suggestions and, lastly, title brainstorming. :D
Summary: Gunshots, while previously unusual in his life, have become everyday sounds here on Mars.
Gunshots, while previously unusual in his life, have become everyday sounds here on Mars. Anxiety and irritation come hand in hand with them, mixing with adrenaline and creating a high that he never experienced in 2006 with his procedures and rules and negotiation. As often as Gene irks him with his gung-ho behavior, he must admit-to himself, no one else-that he enjoys the sudden speeding of his heart and the thrilling tremors through his limbs as they pursue suspects. He likes the sensation of air past his ears, the wind brushing his face, sweat forming on his brow; manly, Gene tells him over drinks, it’s called feeling manly, ya faerie.
He thinks of it as medieval man, old school man, man who goes out with the club and comes back with a wooly mammoth steak, not the versatile role where man can stay at home to raise children, man can cry, man can kiss another man. While he fully appreciates and agrees with the latter version, the former brings a part of him to life that he didn’t know existed and that he doubts he would’ve ever discovered had he not ended up here. The thrill of the hunt; he labels it in a clichéd fashion because it seems like such a clichéd thing to experience.
He wishes for that high, right now, so he could get over the reluctance of the unknown, the unsolved, and the unquestioned; but he feels the lurking uneasiness crawling in his stomach, the foot tapping, hand twitching, face warping fear that something will happen and everyone will deal with the consequences. He’s been here before, so many time since he woke up in the wrong year, with the wrong department and the wrong job; he’s had to go with gut over everything else, just like the Guv insists. But so far, neither his careful studies nor the Guv’s instinct have helped; everything simply doesn’t add up.
Not until he hears the gunshot, inevitable; then it all comes together in a stunning wave of clarity and he cannot figure out how he didn’t see it before.
***
He did research, once, on the 1970s and an art heist that occurred during the earlier part of the decade from a collector’s home. Details eluded him, but the results didn’t; in the end, the cops stormed in, arrested the guilty and then lost the ensuing trial due to improper procedure. So, when Gene proclaimed they had a new case and he’d taken a wild ride to the outskirts of town and the mansion lurking there, his mind immediately jumped to that and the faded photos of the manor with its fountains and cars and pillars. He even imagined, as they pulled up to the front, that he might’ve seen a man with longish hair in a camel colored coat in one of them.
“Welcome, gentlemen,” a nervous looking individual greeted them, his hands clasped, his face turned into a permanent frown. Dark lines marred his face and his skin seemed almost impossibly pale. “Please do come inside. The master’s been expecting you.”
“Well, I’d bloody well think so,” Gene muttered as they followed. He stripped his driving gloves off as they trekked one hallway and then turned down another. “He called us, didn’t he?”
Sam half-shrugged as he studied the paintings he passed. Most of them, from what he could tell, portrayed family members of varying ages from, at least, the last one hundred years. No tags to identify them, at least none he saw as they walked by, but they all had a distinctive nose, similar to the man before them, and thick black hair, even the older ones. They turned again to view a hall of vases and then again to see tapestries. Gene did not say anything but acquired a rather hunched, protective look that Sam equated initially to sulking but now-a-days to contemplation. Gene didn’t study surroundings so much as the people, and his eyes never left the anxious man in front of them.
They stopped in a room that could fit two and a half of Sam’s flat but only housed a desk, a chair and a fireplace. Sam tucked his hands in his pockets, taking in the surprisingly bare walls but noting the slight shade differences in color and the markings on the floor. Gene, meanwhile, didn’t seem to notice any of this and fixated on the man sitting in the chair. His features mimicked the images Sam had seen from the face to the dark wavy hair. Young but self-assured, he sat straight, tall and, strangely at ease with the emptiness about him.
“DCI Hunt,” he said, in a soft-and by Gene’s standards, effeminate-voice. “And DI Tyler.”
“Mr. Brett,” Gene tilted his head in a respectful manner.
“Sir,” Sam acknowledged, noting the sudden end of dust just where his feet sat.
Brett stood and clutched the chair, his face notably paling. Their guide vanished from their side, reappearing instantly to lend his master a hand. Gene pulled a cigarette as the two of them made their way about the desk and it took every bit of Sam’s self-control to not swat him as he lit up. Clearly, Brett was unwell and the last thing he needed was an impromptu trip to the pub. He caught Gene’s eye, glared, and got a threatening, “Try me, Tyler,” before turning back to their host. By this time, Brett had settled on the edge of his desk, revealing that he wore his pajamas under his slick dressing robe. He carefully held the weight off of his left leg.
“Forgive me for not coming to meet you at the door,” Brett said, a slight smile on his lips. “I’m afraid the last twelve hours have been difficult for me.”
Gene blew cigarette smoke through his nose. “We figured as much by your phone call, Mr. Brett.”
“It’s fine, Mr. Brett,” Sam assured. “What exactly has happened?”
Brett shifted, closing his eyes briefly, while their guide hovered at his side, hands inches from the other’s arm. Sam heard something that sounded remarkably like poof before Brett continued, “As I’m sure you’ve noticed, I am rather preferential to heavy decoration, and this room was no different until this morning.”
“Robbed, then?” Gene clarified, tapping cigarette ash onto the floor.
Sam felt his stomach drop. “Everything in the room?”
“Except the desk and the chair,” Brett confirmed.
Gene opened his mouth but Sam overrode him. “Who all has been in here, Mr. Brett?”
“Tyler,” Gene warned.
“Myself, serving men, one of my housekeepers,” Brett listed. “Mr. Blakely, here. Why?”
Gene grabbed the back of his neck before he could snap, “Because they all disturbed the damned evidence” and squeezed hard enough to make his eyes water. He writhed a bit but the pressure grew stronger so he stood stalk still and Gene spoke as though he wasn’t trying to snap his spine.
“Nothing, Mr. Brett,” he said. “Now, when exactly d’ya notice all the,” crap, his pause said, “stuff was missing?”
Brett watched their interaction with an eyebrow raised. “Ah, around four this morning. My condition keeps me up and sometimes I wander the rooms. This particular study belonged to my father and, as of last night at twelve, held a number of particularly valued items.”
“Did anyone see or hear anything unusual?” Gene inquired, twitching his fingers when Sam attempted to speak again.
“Not that I am aware of,” Brett told him, rubbing the back of his neck unconsciously, in sympathy. “The windows weren’t broken and we’ve not found any doors forced.”
Gene twitched his fingers once and then let go. “Probably an inside job then. Any discontent amongst the ranks?” His gaze flickered to Mr. Blakely who watched his cigarette ash with a martyred expression. “Maybe a discontent butler?”
“Does anyone here hold a grudge, Mr. Brett?” Sam said, taking a careful step away from Gene. “And can you think of anyone capable and willing to steal your collection?”
Brett laughed, a little bitterly. “Gentlemen, out of respect for my staff, many who have served for generations here, I can think of no one in this house who would steal this from me. You see, gentleman, these items were not valuable in the eyes of critics but in my eyes. They’re item painted and made by my family.”
Sam’s inquiries died on his lips and Gene put his cigarette out on his tongue. This differed from the case he recalled reading, where the art collector claimed the stolen pieces worth over several million dollars. There had been testimonies from several historians and authenticators who swore that this man had pieces from Da Vinci himself, and then some. The insurance company had repaid him in full but something hairy stuck out in the works afterwards. Certainly, it had been something important or why else would he remember it.
“Mr. Brett,” Gene began, tossing the butt on the ground. “Understand, we take real cases at down at CID.”
“And what he’s saying,” Sam covered quickly, “is that we need statements from your staff, for this room to be sealed off for evidence and an inventory of what was here. Anyone who’s shown interest in the pieces within this room would greatly benefit our work as well.”
The hand latched back onto his neck and his shoulders hunched despite his attempts. He had the impression he looked like an ill-behaved kitten, picked up by the scruff by an irritated older cat. Knowing Gene would probably make his life hell regardless, he managed to end with, “We’ll do our best to,” he squirmed, “solve this for you and return your stolen items.”
“I thank you, gentlemen,” Brett said, his eyes flickering back and forth between them. Blakely put a hand on his shoulder, and for an instant, Brett’s expression changed to fear coupled with annoyance. “I’ll send you the lists and happily allow my employees to the station for interviews. As for the room, consider it already sealed and ready for inspection. Any further information you need of me, I must request that you send an officer here for the interview.” His arms shook a bit as he rearranged himself. “I am not well enough for travel, I’m afraid.”
Gene directed him towards the exit, forcing him to take steps out the door. “We’ll ring you when we’re ready, Mr. Brett. Now, excuse us, lots to do and sorts at the station.” And he practically dragged Sam from the house, not flinching as Sam smacked, struggled and struck to get away. The cursing and snarling that followed them out the door phased none of the servants they passed and one of the maids even smiled as they left, wishing them a good day. They reached the walkway towards the drive before Gene finally released him and he tried to straighten himself out before expressing himself. Hard enough to get any of them to take him seriously when he looked nice, much less as though he’d had a fight with a bear and lost.
“Did you have a reason for treating me like a damned idiot?” he seethed as Gene lit up again and kept walking towards the car. “Or is it just good fun?”
“Well, Dorothy, you know how I love listening to you whine,” Gene said, opening the door of the Cortina. He met Sam’s glare with his own. “Because you are a daft idiot! How about that?”
“They were perfectly viable questions,” he snapped, stomping to the car and sliding in the passenger seat. “If people have tramped about in there, it’s going to-”
Gene slammed the car into gear before he managed to snap his seatbelt on. He ricocheted about the car as they took the curves down the extensive driveway far faster than they entered. Just before they took the sharp left onto the main road, he managed to click it in place and only had to mildly brace himself as Gene turned it at forty.
“Listen,” Sam tried again. “I know you don’t appreciate-”
“No, you listen and listen good,” Gene said. “We get calls from Brett two or three times a year, claiming his shit’s missing. Understood? And every single time, it ain’t gone, it’s just somewhere else in the building. Usually, we just tell him we’ll do it and we send the plod down to paw about, and we tell him we’ll call him with new info. But, now, because you don’t know when to stop being a mouthy bastard, the nutter’s going send us his staff and expect a full out investigation!”
“What?”
Gene tossed the fag out the window as they zipped back towards town. Sam pictured the countryside lighting on fire. “I thought your intense detective skills would’ve picked it up, Sammy-boy, and if not that, you’d at least sensed a fellow crazy in the room.” Sam blinked. “Brett’s out of his head, always has been, always will be. Diagnosed and everything but he comes from the high and mighty so they don’t stick him in a clinic.”
“Yes, I realize what crazy means,” Sam snapped. “But, have you ever considered, that this time he may be right? Shouldn’t we-”
“And it starts,” Gene threw his hands into the air and the car swerved. Sam clutched at the door and seat. “Bad enough that my office is soon going to be full of a bunch of whining poofs who hate their jobs and have no problem talking about why, but my bloody DI’s going to make nothing into something!”
“Oi!” Sam howled, distracted by the fast approaching fence. “Keep it on the road!”
“It is on the road!” Gene deftly had the car out of the grass and out of imminent danger in seconds, but Sam’s heart raced in his ears. “And I’m telling you once, Sammy-boy, and once only.” He left one hand guiding them and the other latched onto the front of Sam’s shirt. “Let it go. And YOU personally get to deal with all of the lackeys that turn up today while the rest of us enjoy the game at the pub.”
“And when I uncover something?” he asked, as though it was an innocent question.
“Just hafta have the last word, don’t ya?”
He wrote down everything he could remember from that research when they returned to the station, the few names that stuck in his head, the different scenarios, the items missing, and then tried to recall what he knew about the end result. The coppers had found the hide-away after a few wrong turns-initially, when he’d first done the write up, he’d thought it silly they’d made so many mistakes but now, in 1973, he found he wasn’t so surprised-and a few mishaps. The case got lost in the system and then the evidence had lost credulity due to mishandling. He paused in his writing and noted that there was nothing about an insane person or personal art.
He had to be thinking of a different case, he decided, setting the pen aside and rubbing his eyes. His heart beat in rhythm to a steady beeping, and briefly, he thought he could hear the whisper of voices just behind his ears. Then his eyes opened, and he was back in 1973 with everyone mulling about and smoking and hastily tossing away papers on the floor. In contrast, he sat at his neatly organized desk, his pens aligned, his papers annotated, his words appropriately organized into sentences on each report. If 1973 equals muddled, then Sam Tyler equals…
“Out of place,” he murmured, flipping his gaze between papers. What had been out of place?
If he took Gene’s word, and he ought, considering Gene generally knew what he was talking about even if his procedures were shoddy, then Brett had issues with mental stability. And, if that was the case, then his household staff would not have been flustered by such erratic behavior and the arrival of coppers. When they left, he noted that most of the maids and serving men had worn familiar smiles; they knew Gene and did not find his presence to be disconcerting. Strike one, Tyler, he thought. Strike one.
But, he also recalled Mr. Blakely’s edgy actions when they arrived and throughout the interview. While he tenderly attended Brett, he’d been awkward when handling him (almost as awkward as Brett himself was about being handled), unhappy to see the cops, unhappy to be in the room. Even if the entire thing was a hoax, something had Mr. Blakely on edge and it would be prudent to discover what that something was. Pulling the latest file on Brett, he flipped through to find any information on Blakely and, discovered, nothing. The file contained every report Brett ever made and the lack of research-which, at this point, shouldn’t have surprised him-startled. A few spare notes, one or two mentions of Brett’s mental disorder as reported by his employees and confirmed by one Mr. Blakely.
“Strange,” he said to himself. “Very strange.”
“’Scuse me, sir,” a young woman’s voice over his shoulder. “The man o’r there saids I should give you my statement.”
He looked up at her, a good looking girl in a plain dress, and noticed she pointed to the Guv who wore the all too familiar expression of, “Here’s your grave, keep digging if you want.” He carefully did not catch Gene’s eye and smiled at the woman instead. “Yes, of course, I’m DI Tyler and you are?”
“Sally Denfield,” she answered, smiling back. “It’s nice to meet you, DI Tyler.”
He pulled a chair over for her and took her statement at the desk instead of the Lost and Found. It seemed entirely unnecessary to grill her as she willingly spilled every bit of fact, fiction and gossip that filled in the blanks. He recorded all of it, noting a few of the important bits in his notebook. To his dismay, the Guv’s opinion added up here. Sally said things simply moved about all the time and it wasn’t unusual for lots of items in one room to disappear to another. Everyone fancied, at the mansion, anyways, that Mr. Brett did it himself in the night and then forgot by the morning. He’s an odd bloke, really kind sometimes and then an absolute horror others.
“And his eyes even change color when he’s angry,” she blustered, wringing her hands in her lap but out of excitement. “Strangest thing, DI Tyler, I wouldn’t tell you it if I ‘adn’t seen it m’self the other day. But I was dusting the second study in the center of the house when he comes bargin’ in, wild and such, eyes brown! Usually, they’re quite blue and I was so shocked by his temper that I didn’t even think ‘bout it ‘til laters, right?”
Completely inconsequential, the logical side of him thought so he directed a question to her. “Ms. Denfield, how long have you worked for the Bretts? Our last reports don’t list you among the staff.”
“Oh, only half a year or so,” she said, her manner suddenly subdued. “I came in to fill an opening. Rarely any openings. Everyone works there all their lives and such. But, when old Mrs. Crankston passed, they ‘ad to find someone.”
Crankston; he flipped over one of his charts and noted she’d been head of the household, director of maids of sorts. A small addition in a hasty scribble noted she had been with the household for fifty years and showed no signs of stopping. It ended by calling her a “stern old battle axe” and it surprised him to hear of her death. Not that they would add something like that in the file in this department; this thing had been difficult to find and gathering dust in a corner.
“They made you head of the household staff?” he asked, trying not to sound incredulous.
“Oh no, sir,” she giggled. “They elevated someone else and put me in the lowest position available. Mrs. Barrow now sits head of the house. Lovely lady, ‘ired me even though the others knew how to do what-not better.”
“Do you mind telling me what happened with Mrs. Crankston?” he asked.
“Oh, it was horribly sad,” Sally cried. “I mean, she weren’t that old-only sixty seven! And not even showing it ‘ccording to the other girls, but she ‘ads a heart attack and went head long down the stairs. Broke ‘er neck! Mr. Brett found her and,” she lowered her voice, “they said it gave him a worse funny turn. S’why he can’t move very well.”
“Why wasn’t this reported to the police?” he asked and she winced at his tone.
“Don’t be asking me, sir,” she said in a low voice. “Was ‘fore my time and all.”
She bowed her head as she spoke and looked away, a clear sign of hiding something important. Mitigating himself and reminding his instincts that this wasn’t the same time and place where these sort of things were always reported, he tried again, “But you’ve heard stories, haven’t you, Sally?”
“Nothing special, just what I said,” she mumbled. “So, sad. Fell down those stairs. Poor Mister Brett.”
“Rumors about what really happened?” he encouraged.
“Please, sir,” she said with a sniff. “I don’t wanna end up on the wrong side of things. Might we just talk ‘bout the robberies?”
He relented, for the moment, because the robberies were his main concern, but somehow, he felt this all had to be connected together in one big string. “Of course, Ms. Denfield, I apologize. Just two more questions and you can go.”
“All right,” she sniffed again. “You wouldn’t let anything bad happen to me, would ya? I mean, you know, should my information help get the robbers caught?”
Ray snickered nearby and he put a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Of course not, love, of course not. Now, can you tell me if any of the missing items reappeared this time or the last time?”
“Almost everything has from the last time,” she said. “Except a few books and a toy from the Master’s childhood. Nothing’s turned up yet this time.”
“Okay, do you know exac tly which things are still missing from last time?” She shook her head and he decided to ask the next person in. “And, when these things happen, how does Mr. Blakely react?”
“Oh, poor Mr. Blakely,” she wailed so suddenly that he recoiled. “He’s always under so much pressure to make sure things go right. Never gets any thanks Mr. Blakely.” Ray sounded a bit like he was having a fit into his handkerchief. “Mr. Blakely usually takes things so well, too, but this time I think his heart’s gonna give for the stress!”
“Now, now,” he said helplessly, offering her his handkerchief and watching her sob. “Now, now, what do you mean? Surely, a room full of personal effects isn’t as stressful to lose as actual art.”
“It is though, DI Tyler,” she whimpered, her eyes huge, red and dripping. “Those things were painted by Mr. Brett’s brother and father, and, well, he’s so partial to them. And it weren’t just art, there was his father’s service revolver, too!” Her lip trembled. “He’s in a right frenzy over it.”
Sam patted her arm and glared at Ray over her head. “He appeared calm this morning when we saw him.”
“What color were his eyes?” she sniffled.
“I’m afraid I didn’t notice.”
“Probably blue,” she sighed. “They was brown all day after you left.”
It took another fifteen minutes, and Annie, to get the girl to a point where she could return to the mansion. It took far longer for him to actually go through all the muck he’d collected and come up with any pertinent information. By that time, most of the department had gone, Gene, Chris and Ray to the pub, and only he sat in the flickering lights. Two lists developed under his hand, the first applying to all he knew about the mansion, the family and the events there, and the second dealing directly with the robbery. How did they string together, he pondered. What secret did the Brett family hide other than a crazy son?
“Leaving soon?” Annie asked, her coat over her arm, smiling.
He returned her smile faintly. “No, I think I may be coming up with something. Want to get things organized, and all, so I can go back to the house tomorrow to look at the room again.”
Annie took the seat that Sally vacated hours before, shaking her head. “Sam, the Bretts are an odd family but there’s nothing there beyond a dying fortune and a lot of sorrow. Let it go. Trust me, the things will turn up and everything’ll be fine.”
“What do you mean a lot of sorrow?” He did not know enough about them beyond what Sally had imparted and the brief description in the file.
“Let it go,” Annie replied. “Come with me to dinner, instead? There’s a Thai restaurant that just opened…”
“Annie,” he wanted to whine but held back. “Please, what do you know about the Bretts?”
“I’ll take that as a ‘no,’ shall I?” She stood up, smoothing her skirt with her freehand. “Really, Sam, this happens all the time with Mr. Brett. He’s simply not right in the head. Don’t go digging in things for no reason. Listen to the Guv on it. He knows what he’s talking about.”
He let out a huff of frustration. “I can’t just dismiss a case because Gene tells me to, Annie.”
“Then how about when everyone else says so, too, huh?” She shifted her purse on her shoulder. “Dinner and a good night of sleep will help clear your head. Come on.”
She wouldn’t tell him, no matter how hard he pressed, just avoid and dodge like she had for the past few moments. And, while dinner with her called to him like a siren, he knew that he had to stay, to keep going, to figure out whatever detail he was missing.
“Guv said I had to stay here and take statements,” he said. “Thanks, though.”
She didn’t move. “There won’t be any more today, I imagine, and the food’s supposed to be excellent.”
“Good night, Annie,” he said as soft and gentle as he could manage. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
She sighed. “Good night, Sam.” And left him alone. The scent of her perfume lingered and he enjoyed it as it lasted. At least Annie knew when to leave him to his own devices. Yes, she would push if she thought his safety or sanity was endangered, but in this sort of situation, she simply acquiesced to his request. Admittedly, he would’ve preferred a helping hand, a few hints about the family, a few moments of her time so he wouldn’t be alone, but he couldn’t expect that of her.
He delved into research, missing Google more than anything he ever missed during his time in the past. Brett’s father died from cancer a few years beforehand and, in childhood, Brett’s brother passed in an unfortunate, vague sort of accident. Both mother and baby sister had died of pneumonia back in the fifties, and he had no other relations. The family itself built a fortune many generations ago but it dwindled as much as the bloodline, able to run the house and care for its last occupant, but otherwise, stagnant. Tragic, as Annie implied, but not useful to the strange happenings; he finally retrieved his jacket at nearly midnight so he could retire for a few hours of sleep. His head hurt.
Over the past three years, Brett reported a number of missing items (sometimes, full rooms, sometimes just one or two) and the first two times, the investigation had been taken seriously but to no avail. Then most of the items had mysteriously ended up in an unused portion of the house, and no one stepped forward to claim credit for the hoax. After this, the incidences had simply been added to the file, and details were scarce. He hunched his shoulders as he stepped out into the cool night air. Sometimes the items were expensive and valuable; sometimes they were trinkets from the past. The only common factors appeared to be the house, Brett, the late Mrs. Crankston and Blakely. The other servitors rotated persistently, none of their schedules the same during the robberies.
“Something’s missing,” he said again, as he walked towards his house. “There’s a connection..somewhere.”
“Quite right,” someone said in his ear. He turned on his heel to face the man (for the voice had to belong to a man) but only caught a fist to the face. “Sorry, chap, but you should listen to your DCI.” He landed on his hands and knees, ears ringing and caught a boot to the side. The next one struck his temple and he faded away into the hissing of his respirator and the monotony of his own heartbeat.
Rating: Blue Cortina or PG-13 for blood and violence
Characters: Sam, Gene, the Team
Pairing: Eh, if you squint, Sam/Gene mebbe and if you squint Sam/Annie mebbe
Dedication and Thanks and Credit: Thank you fern_tree for not only allowing me to steal her scene from “Shot” (her audio fic; go listen to it, seriously) but giving me fodder with her drawings (especially her owie one). J Without her inspiration and approval, this story would’ve never been fully realized. So, this is dedicated to her. For the millionth time, thank you so much.
And special thanks to strainconductor for all her prodding, poking, suggestions and, lastly, title brainstorming. :D
Summary: Gunshots, while previously unusual in his life, have become everyday sounds here on Mars.
Gunshots, while previously unusual in his life, have become everyday sounds here on Mars. Anxiety and irritation come hand in hand with them, mixing with adrenaline and creating a high that he never experienced in 2006 with his procedures and rules and negotiation. As often as Gene irks him with his gung-ho behavior, he must admit-to himself, no one else-that he enjoys the sudden speeding of his heart and the thrilling tremors through his limbs as they pursue suspects. He likes the sensation of air past his ears, the wind brushing his face, sweat forming on his brow; manly, Gene tells him over drinks, it’s called feeling manly, ya faerie.
He thinks of it as medieval man, old school man, man who goes out with the club and comes back with a wooly mammoth steak, not the versatile role where man can stay at home to raise children, man can cry, man can kiss another man. While he fully appreciates and agrees with the latter version, the former brings a part of him to life that he didn’t know existed and that he doubts he would’ve ever discovered had he not ended up here. The thrill of the hunt; he labels it in a clichéd fashion because it seems like such a clichéd thing to experience.
He wishes for that high, right now, so he could get over the reluctance of the unknown, the unsolved, and the unquestioned; but he feels the lurking uneasiness crawling in his stomach, the foot tapping, hand twitching, face warping fear that something will happen and everyone will deal with the consequences. He’s been here before, so many time since he woke up in the wrong year, with the wrong department and the wrong job; he’s had to go with gut over everything else, just like the Guv insists. But so far, neither his careful studies nor the Guv’s instinct have helped; everything simply doesn’t add up.
Not until he hears the gunshot, inevitable; then it all comes together in a stunning wave of clarity and he cannot figure out how he didn’t see it before.
***
He did research, once, on the 1970s and an art heist that occurred during the earlier part of the decade from a collector’s home. Details eluded him, but the results didn’t; in the end, the cops stormed in, arrested the guilty and then lost the ensuing trial due to improper procedure. So, when Gene proclaimed they had a new case and he’d taken a wild ride to the outskirts of town and the mansion lurking there, his mind immediately jumped to that and the faded photos of the manor with its fountains and cars and pillars. He even imagined, as they pulled up to the front, that he might’ve seen a man with longish hair in a camel colored coat in one of them.
“Welcome, gentlemen,” a nervous looking individual greeted them, his hands clasped, his face turned into a permanent frown. Dark lines marred his face and his skin seemed almost impossibly pale. “Please do come inside. The master’s been expecting you.”
“Well, I’d bloody well think so,” Gene muttered as they followed. He stripped his driving gloves off as they trekked one hallway and then turned down another. “He called us, didn’t he?”
Sam half-shrugged as he studied the paintings he passed. Most of them, from what he could tell, portrayed family members of varying ages from, at least, the last one hundred years. No tags to identify them, at least none he saw as they walked by, but they all had a distinctive nose, similar to the man before them, and thick black hair, even the older ones. They turned again to view a hall of vases and then again to see tapestries. Gene did not say anything but acquired a rather hunched, protective look that Sam equated initially to sulking but now-a-days to contemplation. Gene didn’t study surroundings so much as the people, and his eyes never left the anxious man in front of them.
They stopped in a room that could fit two and a half of Sam’s flat but only housed a desk, a chair and a fireplace. Sam tucked his hands in his pockets, taking in the surprisingly bare walls but noting the slight shade differences in color and the markings on the floor. Gene, meanwhile, didn’t seem to notice any of this and fixated on the man sitting in the chair. His features mimicked the images Sam had seen from the face to the dark wavy hair. Young but self-assured, he sat straight, tall and, strangely at ease with the emptiness about him.
“DCI Hunt,” he said, in a soft-and by Gene’s standards, effeminate-voice. “And DI Tyler.”
“Mr. Brett,” Gene tilted his head in a respectful manner.
“Sir,” Sam acknowledged, noting the sudden end of dust just where his feet sat.
Brett stood and clutched the chair, his face notably paling. Their guide vanished from their side, reappearing instantly to lend his master a hand. Gene pulled a cigarette as the two of them made their way about the desk and it took every bit of Sam’s self-control to not swat him as he lit up. Clearly, Brett was unwell and the last thing he needed was an impromptu trip to the pub. He caught Gene’s eye, glared, and got a threatening, “Try me, Tyler,” before turning back to their host. By this time, Brett had settled on the edge of his desk, revealing that he wore his pajamas under his slick dressing robe. He carefully held the weight off of his left leg.
“Forgive me for not coming to meet you at the door,” Brett said, a slight smile on his lips. “I’m afraid the last twelve hours have been difficult for me.”
Gene blew cigarette smoke through his nose. “We figured as much by your phone call, Mr. Brett.”
“It’s fine, Mr. Brett,” Sam assured. “What exactly has happened?”
Brett shifted, closing his eyes briefly, while their guide hovered at his side, hands inches from the other’s arm. Sam heard something that sounded remarkably like poof before Brett continued, “As I’m sure you’ve noticed, I am rather preferential to heavy decoration, and this room was no different until this morning.”
“Robbed, then?” Gene clarified, tapping cigarette ash onto the floor.
Sam felt his stomach drop. “Everything in the room?”
“Except the desk and the chair,” Brett confirmed.
Gene opened his mouth but Sam overrode him. “Who all has been in here, Mr. Brett?”
“Tyler,” Gene warned.
“Myself, serving men, one of my housekeepers,” Brett listed. “Mr. Blakely, here. Why?”
Gene grabbed the back of his neck before he could snap, “Because they all disturbed the damned evidence” and squeezed hard enough to make his eyes water. He writhed a bit but the pressure grew stronger so he stood stalk still and Gene spoke as though he wasn’t trying to snap his spine.
“Nothing, Mr. Brett,” he said. “Now, when exactly d’ya notice all the,” crap, his pause said, “stuff was missing?”
Brett watched their interaction with an eyebrow raised. “Ah, around four this morning. My condition keeps me up and sometimes I wander the rooms. This particular study belonged to my father and, as of last night at twelve, held a number of particularly valued items.”
“Did anyone see or hear anything unusual?” Gene inquired, twitching his fingers when Sam attempted to speak again.
“Not that I am aware of,” Brett told him, rubbing the back of his neck unconsciously, in sympathy. “The windows weren’t broken and we’ve not found any doors forced.”
Gene twitched his fingers once and then let go. “Probably an inside job then. Any discontent amongst the ranks?” His gaze flickered to Mr. Blakely who watched his cigarette ash with a martyred expression. “Maybe a discontent butler?”
“Does anyone here hold a grudge, Mr. Brett?” Sam said, taking a careful step away from Gene. “And can you think of anyone capable and willing to steal your collection?”
Brett laughed, a little bitterly. “Gentlemen, out of respect for my staff, many who have served for generations here, I can think of no one in this house who would steal this from me. You see, gentleman, these items were not valuable in the eyes of critics but in my eyes. They’re item painted and made by my family.”
Sam’s inquiries died on his lips and Gene put his cigarette out on his tongue. This differed from the case he recalled reading, where the art collector claimed the stolen pieces worth over several million dollars. There had been testimonies from several historians and authenticators who swore that this man had pieces from Da Vinci himself, and then some. The insurance company had repaid him in full but something hairy stuck out in the works afterwards. Certainly, it had been something important or why else would he remember it.
“Mr. Brett,” Gene began, tossing the butt on the ground. “Understand, we take real cases at down at CID.”
“And what he’s saying,” Sam covered quickly, “is that we need statements from your staff, for this room to be sealed off for evidence and an inventory of what was here. Anyone who’s shown interest in the pieces within this room would greatly benefit our work as well.”
The hand latched back onto his neck and his shoulders hunched despite his attempts. He had the impression he looked like an ill-behaved kitten, picked up by the scruff by an irritated older cat. Knowing Gene would probably make his life hell regardless, he managed to end with, “We’ll do our best to,” he squirmed, “solve this for you and return your stolen items.”
“I thank you, gentlemen,” Brett said, his eyes flickering back and forth between them. Blakely put a hand on his shoulder, and for an instant, Brett’s expression changed to fear coupled with annoyance. “I’ll send you the lists and happily allow my employees to the station for interviews. As for the room, consider it already sealed and ready for inspection. Any further information you need of me, I must request that you send an officer here for the interview.” His arms shook a bit as he rearranged himself. “I am not well enough for travel, I’m afraid.”
Gene directed him towards the exit, forcing him to take steps out the door. “We’ll ring you when we’re ready, Mr. Brett. Now, excuse us, lots to do and sorts at the station.” And he practically dragged Sam from the house, not flinching as Sam smacked, struggled and struck to get away. The cursing and snarling that followed them out the door phased none of the servants they passed and one of the maids even smiled as they left, wishing them a good day. They reached the walkway towards the drive before Gene finally released him and he tried to straighten himself out before expressing himself. Hard enough to get any of them to take him seriously when he looked nice, much less as though he’d had a fight with a bear and lost.
“Did you have a reason for treating me like a damned idiot?” he seethed as Gene lit up again and kept walking towards the car. “Or is it just good fun?”
“Well, Dorothy, you know how I love listening to you whine,” Gene said, opening the door of the Cortina. He met Sam’s glare with his own. “Because you are a daft idiot! How about that?”
“They were perfectly viable questions,” he snapped, stomping to the car and sliding in the passenger seat. “If people have tramped about in there, it’s going to-”
Gene slammed the car into gear before he managed to snap his seatbelt on. He ricocheted about the car as they took the curves down the extensive driveway far faster than they entered. Just before they took the sharp left onto the main road, he managed to click it in place and only had to mildly brace himself as Gene turned it at forty.
“Listen,” Sam tried again. “I know you don’t appreciate-”
“No, you listen and listen good,” Gene said. “We get calls from Brett two or three times a year, claiming his shit’s missing. Understood? And every single time, it ain’t gone, it’s just somewhere else in the building. Usually, we just tell him we’ll do it and we send the plod down to paw about, and we tell him we’ll call him with new info. But, now, because you don’t know when to stop being a mouthy bastard, the nutter’s going send us his staff and expect a full out investigation!”
“What?”
Gene tossed the fag out the window as they zipped back towards town. Sam pictured the countryside lighting on fire. “I thought your intense detective skills would’ve picked it up, Sammy-boy, and if not that, you’d at least sensed a fellow crazy in the room.” Sam blinked. “Brett’s out of his head, always has been, always will be. Diagnosed and everything but he comes from the high and mighty so they don’t stick him in a clinic.”
“Yes, I realize what crazy means,” Sam snapped. “But, have you ever considered, that this time he may be right? Shouldn’t we-”
“And it starts,” Gene threw his hands into the air and the car swerved. Sam clutched at the door and seat. “Bad enough that my office is soon going to be full of a bunch of whining poofs who hate their jobs and have no problem talking about why, but my bloody DI’s going to make nothing into something!”
“Oi!” Sam howled, distracted by the fast approaching fence. “Keep it on the road!”
“It is on the road!” Gene deftly had the car out of the grass and out of imminent danger in seconds, but Sam’s heart raced in his ears. “And I’m telling you once, Sammy-boy, and once only.” He left one hand guiding them and the other latched onto the front of Sam’s shirt. “Let it go. And YOU personally get to deal with all of the lackeys that turn up today while the rest of us enjoy the game at the pub.”
“And when I uncover something?” he asked, as though it was an innocent question.
“Just hafta have the last word, don’t ya?”
He wrote down everything he could remember from that research when they returned to the station, the few names that stuck in his head, the different scenarios, the items missing, and then tried to recall what he knew about the end result. The coppers had found the hide-away after a few wrong turns-initially, when he’d first done the write up, he’d thought it silly they’d made so many mistakes but now, in 1973, he found he wasn’t so surprised-and a few mishaps. The case got lost in the system and then the evidence had lost credulity due to mishandling. He paused in his writing and noted that there was nothing about an insane person or personal art.
He had to be thinking of a different case, he decided, setting the pen aside and rubbing his eyes. His heart beat in rhythm to a steady beeping, and briefly, he thought he could hear the whisper of voices just behind his ears. Then his eyes opened, and he was back in 1973 with everyone mulling about and smoking and hastily tossing away papers on the floor. In contrast, he sat at his neatly organized desk, his pens aligned, his papers annotated, his words appropriately organized into sentences on each report. If 1973 equals muddled, then Sam Tyler equals…
“Out of place,” he murmured, flipping his gaze between papers. What had been out of place?
If he took Gene’s word, and he ought, considering Gene generally knew what he was talking about even if his procedures were shoddy, then Brett had issues with mental stability. And, if that was the case, then his household staff would not have been flustered by such erratic behavior and the arrival of coppers. When they left, he noted that most of the maids and serving men had worn familiar smiles; they knew Gene and did not find his presence to be disconcerting. Strike one, Tyler, he thought. Strike one.
But, he also recalled Mr. Blakely’s edgy actions when they arrived and throughout the interview. While he tenderly attended Brett, he’d been awkward when handling him (almost as awkward as Brett himself was about being handled), unhappy to see the cops, unhappy to be in the room. Even if the entire thing was a hoax, something had Mr. Blakely on edge and it would be prudent to discover what that something was. Pulling the latest file on Brett, he flipped through to find any information on Blakely and, discovered, nothing. The file contained every report Brett ever made and the lack of research-which, at this point, shouldn’t have surprised him-startled. A few spare notes, one or two mentions of Brett’s mental disorder as reported by his employees and confirmed by one Mr. Blakely.
“Strange,” he said to himself. “Very strange.”
“’Scuse me, sir,” a young woman’s voice over his shoulder. “The man o’r there saids I should give you my statement.”
He looked up at her, a good looking girl in a plain dress, and noticed she pointed to the Guv who wore the all too familiar expression of, “Here’s your grave, keep digging if you want.” He carefully did not catch Gene’s eye and smiled at the woman instead. “Yes, of course, I’m DI Tyler and you are?”
“Sally Denfield,” she answered, smiling back. “It’s nice to meet you, DI Tyler.”
He pulled a chair over for her and took her statement at the desk instead of the Lost and Found. It seemed entirely unnecessary to grill her as she willingly spilled every bit of fact, fiction and gossip that filled in the blanks. He recorded all of it, noting a few of the important bits in his notebook. To his dismay, the Guv’s opinion added up here. Sally said things simply moved about all the time and it wasn’t unusual for lots of items in one room to disappear to another. Everyone fancied, at the mansion, anyways, that Mr. Brett did it himself in the night and then forgot by the morning. He’s an odd bloke, really kind sometimes and then an absolute horror others.
“And his eyes even change color when he’s angry,” she blustered, wringing her hands in her lap but out of excitement. “Strangest thing, DI Tyler, I wouldn’t tell you it if I ‘adn’t seen it m’self the other day. But I was dusting the second study in the center of the house when he comes bargin’ in, wild and such, eyes brown! Usually, they’re quite blue and I was so shocked by his temper that I didn’t even think ‘bout it ‘til laters, right?”
Completely inconsequential, the logical side of him thought so he directed a question to her. “Ms. Denfield, how long have you worked for the Bretts? Our last reports don’t list you among the staff.”
“Oh, only half a year or so,” she said, her manner suddenly subdued. “I came in to fill an opening. Rarely any openings. Everyone works there all their lives and such. But, when old Mrs. Crankston passed, they ‘ad to find someone.”
Crankston; he flipped over one of his charts and noted she’d been head of the household, director of maids of sorts. A small addition in a hasty scribble noted she had been with the household for fifty years and showed no signs of stopping. It ended by calling her a “stern old battle axe” and it surprised him to hear of her death. Not that they would add something like that in the file in this department; this thing had been difficult to find and gathering dust in a corner.
“They made you head of the household staff?” he asked, trying not to sound incredulous.
“Oh no, sir,” she giggled. “They elevated someone else and put me in the lowest position available. Mrs. Barrow now sits head of the house. Lovely lady, ‘ired me even though the others knew how to do what-not better.”
“Do you mind telling me what happened with Mrs. Crankston?” he asked.
“Oh, it was horribly sad,” Sally cried. “I mean, she weren’t that old-only sixty seven! And not even showing it ‘ccording to the other girls, but she ‘ads a heart attack and went head long down the stairs. Broke ‘er neck! Mr. Brett found her and,” she lowered her voice, “they said it gave him a worse funny turn. S’why he can’t move very well.”
“Why wasn’t this reported to the police?” he asked and she winced at his tone.
“Don’t be asking me, sir,” she said in a low voice. “Was ‘fore my time and all.”
She bowed her head as she spoke and looked away, a clear sign of hiding something important. Mitigating himself and reminding his instincts that this wasn’t the same time and place where these sort of things were always reported, he tried again, “But you’ve heard stories, haven’t you, Sally?”
“Nothing special, just what I said,” she mumbled. “So, sad. Fell down those stairs. Poor Mister Brett.”
“Rumors about what really happened?” he encouraged.
“Please, sir,” she said with a sniff. “I don’t wanna end up on the wrong side of things. Might we just talk ‘bout the robberies?”
He relented, for the moment, because the robberies were his main concern, but somehow, he felt this all had to be connected together in one big string. “Of course, Ms. Denfield, I apologize. Just two more questions and you can go.”
“All right,” she sniffed again. “You wouldn’t let anything bad happen to me, would ya? I mean, you know, should my information help get the robbers caught?”
Ray snickered nearby and he put a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Of course not, love, of course not. Now, can you tell me if any of the missing items reappeared this time or the last time?”
“Almost everything has from the last time,” she said. “Except a few books and a toy from the Master’s childhood. Nothing’s turned up yet this time.”
“Okay, do you know exac tly which things are still missing from last time?” She shook her head and he decided to ask the next person in. “And, when these things happen, how does Mr. Blakely react?”
“Oh, poor Mr. Blakely,” she wailed so suddenly that he recoiled. “He’s always under so much pressure to make sure things go right. Never gets any thanks Mr. Blakely.” Ray sounded a bit like he was having a fit into his handkerchief. “Mr. Blakely usually takes things so well, too, but this time I think his heart’s gonna give for the stress!”
“Now, now,” he said helplessly, offering her his handkerchief and watching her sob. “Now, now, what do you mean? Surely, a room full of personal effects isn’t as stressful to lose as actual art.”
“It is though, DI Tyler,” she whimpered, her eyes huge, red and dripping. “Those things were painted by Mr. Brett’s brother and father, and, well, he’s so partial to them. And it weren’t just art, there was his father’s service revolver, too!” Her lip trembled. “He’s in a right frenzy over it.”
Sam patted her arm and glared at Ray over her head. “He appeared calm this morning when we saw him.”
“What color were his eyes?” she sniffled.
“I’m afraid I didn’t notice.”
“Probably blue,” she sighed. “They was brown all day after you left.”
It took another fifteen minutes, and Annie, to get the girl to a point where she could return to the mansion. It took far longer for him to actually go through all the muck he’d collected and come up with any pertinent information. By that time, most of the department had gone, Gene, Chris and Ray to the pub, and only he sat in the flickering lights. Two lists developed under his hand, the first applying to all he knew about the mansion, the family and the events there, and the second dealing directly with the robbery. How did they string together, he pondered. What secret did the Brett family hide other than a crazy son?
“Leaving soon?” Annie asked, her coat over her arm, smiling.
He returned her smile faintly. “No, I think I may be coming up with something. Want to get things organized, and all, so I can go back to the house tomorrow to look at the room again.”
Annie took the seat that Sally vacated hours before, shaking her head. “Sam, the Bretts are an odd family but there’s nothing there beyond a dying fortune and a lot of sorrow. Let it go. Trust me, the things will turn up and everything’ll be fine.”
“What do you mean a lot of sorrow?” He did not know enough about them beyond what Sally had imparted and the brief description in the file.
“Let it go,” Annie replied. “Come with me to dinner, instead? There’s a Thai restaurant that just opened…”
“Annie,” he wanted to whine but held back. “Please, what do you know about the Bretts?”
“I’ll take that as a ‘no,’ shall I?” She stood up, smoothing her skirt with her freehand. “Really, Sam, this happens all the time with Mr. Brett. He’s simply not right in the head. Don’t go digging in things for no reason. Listen to the Guv on it. He knows what he’s talking about.”
He let out a huff of frustration. “I can’t just dismiss a case because Gene tells me to, Annie.”
“Then how about when everyone else says so, too, huh?” She shifted her purse on her shoulder. “Dinner and a good night of sleep will help clear your head. Come on.”
She wouldn’t tell him, no matter how hard he pressed, just avoid and dodge like she had for the past few moments. And, while dinner with her called to him like a siren, he knew that he had to stay, to keep going, to figure out whatever detail he was missing.
“Guv said I had to stay here and take statements,” he said. “Thanks, though.”
She didn’t move. “There won’t be any more today, I imagine, and the food’s supposed to be excellent.”
“Good night, Annie,” he said as soft and gentle as he could manage. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
She sighed. “Good night, Sam.” And left him alone. The scent of her perfume lingered and he enjoyed it as it lasted. At least Annie knew when to leave him to his own devices. Yes, she would push if she thought his safety or sanity was endangered, but in this sort of situation, she simply acquiesced to his request. Admittedly, he would’ve preferred a helping hand, a few hints about the family, a few moments of her time so he wouldn’t be alone, but he couldn’t expect that of her.
He delved into research, missing Google more than anything he ever missed during his time in the past. Brett’s father died from cancer a few years beforehand and, in childhood, Brett’s brother passed in an unfortunate, vague sort of accident. Both mother and baby sister had died of pneumonia back in the fifties, and he had no other relations. The family itself built a fortune many generations ago but it dwindled as much as the bloodline, able to run the house and care for its last occupant, but otherwise, stagnant. Tragic, as Annie implied, but not useful to the strange happenings; he finally retrieved his jacket at nearly midnight so he could retire for a few hours of sleep. His head hurt.
Over the past three years, Brett reported a number of missing items (sometimes, full rooms, sometimes just one or two) and the first two times, the investigation had been taken seriously but to no avail. Then most of the items had mysteriously ended up in an unused portion of the house, and no one stepped forward to claim credit for the hoax. After this, the incidences had simply been added to the file, and details were scarce. He hunched his shoulders as he stepped out into the cool night air. Sometimes the items were expensive and valuable; sometimes they were trinkets from the past. The only common factors appeared to be the house, Brett, the late Mrs. Crankston and Blakely. The other servitors rotated persistently, none of their schedules the same during the robberies.
“Something’s missing,” he said again, as he walked towards his house. “There’s a connection..somewhere.”
“Quite right,” someone said in his ear. He turned on his heel to face the man (for the voice had to belong to a man) but only caught a fist to the face. “Sorry, chap, but you should listen to your DCI.” He landed on his hands and knees, ears ringing and caught a boot to the side. The next one struck his temple and he faded away into the hissing of his respirator and the monotony of his own heartbeat.