Safe Refuge for the Exile, Part 4: Grace, Interrupted
Nevermoor: Last Refuge for the Exile
4: Grace, Interrupted
Nevermoor: Last Refuge for the Exile
4: Grace, Interrupted
Chief Inspector Langton and Constable Robert had been ushered by Stones into Nevermoor's resplendent second drawing room. Despite the discomfort of the situation, Baynham found himself wondering, if this was the second poshest room, what the main drawing room might be like. The carpet was thick, richly red in colour with a lightly embossed pattern of complicated whorls, reminding Baynham of fingerprints. The furniture was old - in the sense of being antique, not knackered-looking; on the contrary, it was all polished to within an inch of its life. There was a long, low brown leather sofa, two matching leather wing-chairs resembling thrones, three additional high-backed chairs with beautifully carved legs, myriad tables in a variety of shapes and sizes, and an intriguing sort of cabinet-thing which had booze inside it and which Baynham had been reliably informed (by Stones the butler) was called a 'Tantalus.' Mostly, Ravi Shoker said dryly, it tantalised somebody called Lindquist, who was apparently Nevermoor's resident recovering alcoholic.
Langton was perched primly - or grimly, either worked - on the edge of one of the carved chairs. Robert was comfortably sprawled on the sofa, at the opposite end to Baynham, who was still wrapped in his blanket and drinking whiskey-fortified tea, though Stones had discreetly removed the bottle, bringing in its place a fresh tray of respectable-looking tea, coffee, and biscuits. Ravi, who had stayed for moral support, sat quietly in one of the wing-chairs, not interfering.
“Look,” Baynham said, “I didn't know it was him in the pub, all right? He should have introduced himself!”
“You didn't give him a chance,” Langton replied.
“Yeah, but...”
“You're in enough trouble, inspector. Trying to weasel out of it won't impress anybody.”
“Too right,” murmured Robert, through a mouthful of biscuit.
“Shut up and drink your tea, constable.”
“Sorry, ma'am.”
“Chief Superintendent Farmer is trying to decide what to do with you,” Langton went on. “He'd have come himself, except he was worried you might run off again. Or become violent,” she added, and Baynham could have sworn her lips twitched; then he thought it must be a trick of the light, for surely any upward movement of this woman's mouth could only happen if she were standing on her head. “He's going to call in a moment to sort this out by phone conference,” she continued. “I suggest you keep your mouth shut until he does.”
Baynham shuffled awkwardly in his seat. Robert smirked and helped himself to another biscuit. Ravi Shoker sat perfectly still, his face expressionless. Stones, standing unobtrusively in a corner like some kind of ninja sentry, cleared his throat. A clock was loudly ticking away the last moments of Baynham's career.
Langton's mobile phone rang. Baynham shot out of his seat and landed hard on the floor. He got up quickly, ignoring Robert's smirk, as Langton answered her phone.
“Langton. Yes, sir, I'm at Nevermoor. Yes, he's here. I'll ask him.”
Baynham hunched defensively in on himself, but Langton turned round to look at Stones. “DCS Farmer asks how you're doing.”
“I'm very well, thank you, ma'am. Please reciprocate the question.”
She did so. A pause, then, “he says he's fine, and asks whether you've been having any of those dreams lately.”
Robert sniggered through a fourth biscuit. Stones cast him a patient look before replying, “I have, indeed. Last night, in fact.”
“He says, was it about him?”
“I regret not.”
“He says -” a slight hesitation, “why not, he's gorgeous?”
Stones smiled, Zenlike. “Please tell the Chief Superintendent that the mercurial vagaries of the unconscious mind cannot, unfortunately, be so easily subjected to the will, and furthermore that the subject of this particular nocturnal adventure was Mr. George Clooney.”
As Langton relayed this, Baynham began to rock back and forth slightly in his seat. Before Langton could give Farmer's reply, he interjected, “er, excuse me, but is this really pertinent? Sorry to interrupt the development of the world's unlikeliest romance, and all, but if we could maybe...move on...” he became aware of everyone's eyes upon him, ranging from amused (Robert) to pitying (Ravi) through two different versions of neutral (cold from Langton and courteous from Stones).
After a grim pause, Langton went on, glaring at Baynham as though he had interrupted her in giving a particularly important speech to the entire Devon and Cornwall constabulary. Which would probably be about pasties, anyway, he thought nastily. “DCS Farmer says he can't hope to compete with George Clooney, so we'd better move on to the issue of Detective Inspector Baynham,” Langton said.
Baynham suppressed a whimper; Ravi Shoker gave him a marginally encouraging smile.
Langton's glare switched back to neutral as she fixed her eyes unwaveringly on Baynham. “DCS Farmer wants to know why you punched him in the nose.”
“I didn't know it was him!”
Pause. “DCS Farmer says, do you generally go about punching members of the general public in the nose, then? Because that's even worse.”
“No! No, of course not, it's...” Baynham gulped desperately at his cold tea, which was mostly Scotch, words tumbling out accompanied by a small spray of liquid. Robert was watching him, a look of revolted fascination on his face, biscuit crumbs littering his shirtfront. “Stress!” Baynham managed. Ravi Shoker was nodding.
Stones put in, “quite so, ma'am. I found the inspector in the pond in the walled garden.”
“What was he doing in the pond?” Langton was startled enough to ask a question of her own.
“It was an accident,” mumbled Baynham.
“Were you drunk?”
“Not drunk enough,” he muttered.
Langton's expression became, if possible, more severe. She consulted the phone oracle once more. “DCS Farmer says he accepts you've been under a great deal of stress, and is willing to let the incident go.”
“Oh, thank...”
“But,” Langton held up a finger, “he would like a full written apology, and a present.”
“A what?”
“A present. To compensate him for having to walk around looking like - please repeat that, sir - like an elderly panda suffering from sleep apnoea.”
Baynham shook his head helplessly; she shrugged to indicate that she didn't get that reference, either, so don't shoot the messenger.
“Er...tell him fine,” mumbled Baynham.
“He says fine.” Langton reported.
“Is...is that it?”
In the corner, Stones was quietly shaking his head. Sure enough, Langton snapped shut her phone with the appropriate valedictions and turned her full attention on Baynham.
“That is not 'it', inspector.”
“Okay...”
“DCS Farmer may be willing to overlook this disgraceful incident, but frankly, for my part I'm unwilling to share workspace with somebody so obviously unstable and potentially dangerous.” Was her mouth twitching again? Baynham, overwhelmed by a mix of emotions, decided it must be his imagination. “I've recommended, and DCS Farmer agrees, that you'll take three weeks' medical leave, beginning immediately. For that period, you are encouraged to stay here at Nevermoor, where there are experienced and professionally qualified people who can keep an eye on you. Since you clearly have a burgeoning alcohol problem -”
“I do not have an alcohol problem!”
“- I strongly discourage returning to the Outward Inn. That's all. I'll forward the paperwork to you in due course.” She got up abruptly, slapped Robert's hand as he attempted to snag the last biscuit, and gave Baynham a cool nod. “Good day, inspector. Constable! Come!”
“Coming, ma'am.” Robert shot Baynham an unpleasant, you-got-busted-nyah-nyah-nyah-nyah-nyah-nyah grin on his way out. Baynham gave his retreating back the finger.
“Little shit,” he muttered.
When the two officers were gone, Ravi relaxed in his seat. “Well, that could've been worse! I knew Farmer wouldn't make an issue out of it. He's a decent bloke.”
“They think I'm barmy,” Baynham said, in a small voice. “They've checked me into the copper's madhouse!”
With an air of maintaining restraint in front of somebody who just couldn't seem to help themselves, Ravi said, “you just need a bit of rest, sir, that's all. It'll do you good. Besides, if you stay here you'll have a chance to get to know us!”
He looked so pleased at the prospect, Baynham couldn't bring himself to burst his bubble, though he fully intended to get the train back to London in the morning; he would spend the next three weeks deciding what to do, how to proceed when his medical leave was over. Lyrics from that old Clash song, begotten, doubtless, by the several teacups full of whiskey he'd consumed, rattled noisily through his head, like the clatter of a train on a track:
If I go there will be trouble
And if I stay it will be double
So come on and let me know
Should I stay or should I go?
x-x-x-x-x
Come on; don't pretend you don't sometimes think in song lyrics. Everybody does. We all like to imagine ourselves as the star in our own film, with its own soundtrack. It looked as though my film might be getting an unexpected sequel, after all. But would 'The Life of Derek Baynham Part 2' be, like most sequels, irredeemably pants?
You'll just have to read on and find out, won't you?
x-x-x-x-x
On to Book Two, Rocky Foundations
Back to the Index
4: Grace, Interrupted
Nevermoor: Last Refuge for the Exile
4: Grace, Interrupted
Chief Inspector Langton and Constable Robert had been ushered by Stones into Nevermoor's resplendent second drawing room. Despite the discomfort of the situation, Baynham found himself wondering, if this was the second poshest room, what the main drawing room might be like. The carpet was thick, richly red in colour with a lightly embossed pattern of complicated whorls, reminding Baynham of fingerprints. The furniture was old - in the sense of being antique, not knackered-looking; on the contrary, it was all polished to within an inch of its life. There was a long, low brown leather sofa, two matching leather wing-chairs resembling thrones, three additional high-backed chairs with beautifully carved legs, myriad tables in a variety of shapes and sizes, and an intriguing sort of cabinet-thing which had booze inside it and which Baynham had been reliably informed (by Stones the butler) was called a 'Tantalus.' Mostly, Ravi Shoker said dryly, it tantalised somebody called Lindquist, who was apparently Nevermoor's resident recovering alcoholic.
Langton was perched primly - or grimly, either worked - on the edge of one of the carved chairs. Robert was comfortably sprawled on the sofa, at the opposite end to Baynham, who was still wrapped in his blanket and drinking whiskey-fortified tea, though Stones had discreetly removed the bottle, bringing in its place a fresh tray of respectable-looking tea, coffee, and biscuits. Ravi, who had stayed for moral support, sat quietly in one of the wing-chairs, not interfering.
“Look,” Baynham said, “I didn't know it was him in the pub, all right? He should have introduced himself!”
“You didn't give him a chance,” Langton replied.
“Yeah, but...”
“You're in enough trouble, inspector. Trying to weasel out of it won't impress anybody.”
“Too right,” murmured Robert, through a mouthful of biscuit.
“Shut up and drink your tea, constable.”
“Sorry, ma'am.”
“Chief Superintendent Farmer is trying to decide what to do with you,” Langton went on. “He'd have come himself, except he was worried you might run off again. Or become violent,” she added, and Baynham could have sworn her lips twitched; then he thought it must be a trick of the light, for surely any upward movement of this woman's mouth could only happen if she were standing on her head. “He's going to call in a moment to sort this out by phone conference,” she continued. “I suggest you keep your mouth shut until he does.”
Baynham shuffled awkwardly in his seat. Robert smirked and helped himself to another biscuit. Ravi Shoker sat perfectly still, his face expressionless. Stones, standing unobtrusively in a corner like some kind of ninja sentry, cleared his throat. A clock was loudly ticking away the last moments of Baynham's career.
Langton's mobile phone rang. Baynham shot out of his seat and landed hard on the floor. He got up quickly, ignoring Robert's smirk, as Langton answered her phone.
“Langton. Yes, sir, I'm at Nevermoor. Yes, he's here. I'll ask him.”
Baynham hunched defensively in on himself, but Langton turned round to look at Stones. “DCS Farmer asks how you're doing.”
“I'm very well, thank you, ma'am. Please reciprocate the question.”
She did so. A pause, then, “he says he's fine, and asks whether you've been having any of those dreams lately.”
Robert sniggered through a fourth biscuit. Stones cast him a patient look before replying, “I have, indeed. Last night, in fact.”
“He says, was it about him?”
“I regret not.”
“He says -” a slight hesitation, “why not, he's gorgeous?”
Stones smiled, Zenlike. “Please tell the Chief Superintendent that the mercurial vagaries of the unconscious mind cannot, unfortunately, be so easily subjected to the will, and furthermore that the subject of this particular nocturnal adventure was Mr. George Clooney.”
As Langton relayed this, Baynham began to rock back and forth slightly in his seat. Before Langton could give Farmer's reply, he interjected, “er, excuse me, but is this really pertinent? Sorry to interrupt the development of the world's unlikeliest romance, and all, but if we could maybe...move on...” he became aware of everyone's eyes upon him, ranging from amused (Robert) to pitying (Ravi) through two different versions of neutral (cold from Langton and courteous from Stones).
After a grim pause, Langton went on, glaring at Baynham as though he had interrupted her in giving a particularly important speech to the entire Devon and Cornwall constabulary. Which would probably be about pasties, anyway, he thought nastily. “DCS Farmer says he can't hope to compete with George Clooney, so we'd better move on to the issue of Detective Inspector Baynham,” Langton said.
Baynham suppressed a whimper; Ravi Shoker gave him a marginally encouraging smile.
Langton's glare switched back to neutral as she fixed her eyes unwaveringly on Baynham. “DCS Farmer wants to know why you punched him in the nose.”
“I didn't know it was him!”
Pause. “DCS Farmer says, do you generally go about punching members of the general public in the nose, then? Because that's even worse.”
“No! No, of course not, it's...” Baynham gulped desperately at his cold tea, which was mostly Scotch, words tumbling out accompanied by a small spray of liquid. Robert was watching him, a look of revolted fascination on his face, biscuit crumbs littering his shirtfront. “Stress!” Baynham managed. Ravi Shoker was nodding.
Stones put in, “quite so, ma'am. I found the inspector in the pond in the walled garden.”
“What was he doing in the pond?” Langton was startled enough to ask a question of her own.
“It was an accident,” mumbled Baynham.
“Were you drunk?”
“Not drunk enough,” he muttered.
Langton's expression became, if possible, more severe. She consulted the phone oracle once more. “DCS Farmer says he accepts you've been under a great deal of stress, and is willing to let the incident go.”
“Oh, thank...”
“But,” Langton held up a finger, “he would like a full written apology, and a present.”
“A what?”
“A present. To compensate him for having to walk around looking like - please repeat that, sir - like an elderly panda suffering from sleep apnoea.”
Baynham shook his head helplessly; she shrugged to indicate that she didn't get that reference, either, so don't shoot the messenger.
“Er...tell him fine,” mumbled Baynham.
“He says fine.” Langton reported.
“Is...is that it?”
In the corner, Stones was quietly shaking his head. Sure enough, Langton snapped shut her phone with the appropriate valedictions and turned her full attention on Baynham.
“That is not 'it', inspector.”
“Okay...”
“DCS Farmer may be willing to overlook this disgraceful incident, but frankly, for my part I'm unwilling to share workspace with somebody so obviously unstable and potentially dangerous.” Was her mouth twitching again? Baynham, overwhelmed by a mix of emotions, decided it must be his imagination. “I've recommended, and DCS Farmer agrees, that you'll take three weeks' medical leave, beginning immediately. For that period, you are encouraged to stay here at Nevermoor, where there are experienced and professionally qualified people who can keep an eye on you. Since you clearly have a burgeoning alcohol problem -”
“I do not have an alcohol problem!”
“- I strongly discourage returning to the Outward Inn. That's all. I'll forward the paperwork to you in due course.” She got up abruptly, slapped Robert's hand as he attempted to snag the last biscuit, and gave Baynham a cool nod. “Good day, inspector. Constable! Come!”
“Coming, ma'am.” Robert shot Baynham an unpleasant, you-got-busted-nyah-nyah-nyah-nyah-nyah-nyah grin on his way out. Baynham gave his retreating back the finger.
“Little shit,” he muttered.
When the two officers were gone, Ravi relaxed in his seat. “Well, that could've been worse! I knew Farmer wouldn't make an issue out of it. He's a decent bloke.”
“They think I'm barmy,” Baynham said, in a small voice. “They've checked me into the copper's madhouse!”
With an air of maintaining restraint in front of somebody who just couldn't seem to help themselves, Ravi said, “you just need a bit of rest, sir, that's all. It'll do you good. Besides, if you stay here you'll have a chance to get to know us!”
He looked so pleased at the prospect, Baynham couldn't bring himself to burst his bubble, though he fully intended to get the train back to London in the morning; he would spend the next three weeks deciding what to do, how to proceed when his medical leave was over. Lyrics from that old Clash song, begotten, doubtless, by the several teacups full of whiskey he'd consumed, rattled noisily through his head, like the clatter of a train on a track:
If I go there will be trouble
And if I stay it will be double
So come on and let me know
Should I stay or should I go?
x-x-x-x-x
Come on; don't pretend you don't sometimes think in song lyrics. Everybody does. We all like to imagine ourselves as the star in our own film, with its own soundtrack. It looked as though my film might be getting an unexpected sequel, after all. But would 'The Life of Derek Baynham Part 2' be, like most sequels, irredeemably pants?
You'll just have to read on and find out, won't you?
x-x-x-x-x
On to Book Two, Rocky Foundations
Back to the Index