The Speaker's House

 

The Speaker's House 

Falls Chance Ranch

December 25th  

 

“Want some company?”

It was Niall’s voice. Dale, stretched out on the couch by the fire where Flynn had put him with a quiet but definite implication that getting up without permission was not going to end well, would have sat up. Niall put a gentle hand on his shoulder, sitting on the hearth stone beside him.

“It’s ok, it’s only me. Don’t open your eyes, you’re at home, you don’t have to be polite. Still a bit blurry?”

“No, it’s hardly there now, but it is worse when I’m tired.” Dale admitted.

“Some of which is our fault,” Niall said a little apologetically. “I hope it’s not worse for us kidnapping you this morning?”

Dale smiled, keeping his arm over his eyes. That hour in the snow this morning would stay with him for the rest of his life and he knew it. “If it is, it was worth it.”

“Good.” From Niall’s voice he was smiling. “I think we all thought so too. Although this is the first Christmas in a while I’ve seen quite that many corners of this house occupied all at one time.”

Yes, it was the first time in Dale’s experience of seeing a large group of Tops united quite that way; discipline was something usually fairly discreet when they were all together like this and it was not easy to pick Top from Brat in many of them unless you knew. This morning, for about ten minutes, there had been very little doubt in this house, and to Dale’s observations all of the brats involved found it as reprehensibly amusing as he did. There had been no apologies for the simple reason that no one brat orientated at all was sorry, and no Top type person belonging to this family expected them to be.  

The large Christmas tree was twinkling slowly with its lights by the fireplace, and candles were lit on the mantelpiece where the family pictures stood. The kitchen was busy with a lot of people washing up and sitting around the table chatting; no one was ever in a rush to move after Christmas dinner and the hum of male voices in the distance were as pleasant as the steady crackle of the fire. Somewhere, at some time, these had become very much the sounds of home. It was good. Deeply, wonderfully good, about as good as those little toys on the tree out there in the woods, or Flynn driving half way across the states to get them here, Jasper walking out of the snow having hitchhiked all that way to be with them, or to be officially in disgrace with a large group of other men who got it, and really didn’t mind much. Dale had been shocked at how distressing the thought had been of not getting home in time for Christmas, to be in this place with these people. For someone who had not really noticed the date for most of their lives, it was a one of the many forcible reorientations of heart this house had caused in him. He knew this house at Christmas with his senses, his heart and he suspected his soul, and he knew too that there were many around the table right now, men he knew and loved, who like him had never felt like that about any other roots in their life.

“How was your trip out?” he asked Niall, not having really had much time to talk to him yet since Flynn had been taking the whole don’t get overstimulated with concussion thing very seriously.

“It was busy.” Niall said calmly. “We were little late this year, we only arrived the day before yesterday. I had something of a last minute case.”

Dale reflected on what he knew of the American judicial system. “Isn’t that a little close to the holidays? I thought the courts closed.”

“Oh it wasn’t court.” Niall reassured him. “It was a bit of an odd situation really.”

There was something in his tone. Dale lowered his arm to see his face. There were only the two of them here in the family room, and he had a feeling Niall wanted it that way. Niall gave him a rather faint smile. “Gerry and Bear tell me you’re the one to talk to about odd stories. And I think James agrees with them. Do you know how much James thinks of you?”

That little question went directly to Dale’s throat and heart. James was a remarkable man in many ways; it was impossible not to respect him, or to appreciate the now many times he’d gone out of his way to be extremely kind in the way only a very experienced family Top could, and to a brat who to James’ experienced eyes must look like a walking disaster much of the time. It was not always easy to speak frankly, but there were times now when Dale knew what to say and made himself, because these were connections too important to let reserve get in the way.

“I hope you know how much I love James. He’s been very kind to me.”

Niall’s eyes were very warm. “Don’t think you haven’t earned that. He’s seen you in action, he understands it, and he sees what you do here on the ranch. Not to mention we very much appreciated you making it possible for us to go to London last year.”

“It was my pleasure.” Dale watched Niall’s face, intentionally making himself relax and focus in a way that helped pick up the most information possible. “Niall is there something wrong? I’m very glad to do anything I can help you with, please do ask.” 

Niall turned the glass he was holding gently between his fingers. It was red wine and it sparkled in the firelight. “I don’t need anything.” There was palpable affection in his tone, a much older family brat to a younger one. “Just an understanding ear would be nice, if you wouldn’t mind? I think you’re probably someone in this family who’d truly understand it.”

“Of course.”

“Cover your eyes if you need to, I’m not going to tire you out.” Niall moved a little closer on the hearth stone so Dale could lie back and still listen. “I went to a meeting yesterday. It was… well. A rather unexpected follow up to a case I dealt with a very long time ago.”

“What kind of case?”

“Well that was and is the million dollar question.” Niall said ruefully. “At the time it happened, James and I had only just moved from here out to Chicago so I could set up a legal practice. I don’t know if you knew we started out in Chicago? We’d only been there a month or two and I was quite grateful to have any case at all, so I was doing any work that I could persuade to walk through the door.”

 

 

*

 

 

Chicago 15th December 1953

 

 

His office was slightly more dilapidated than their apartment was. Which was saying something. In a good light, on a good day, with the wind in the right direction, it looked – brown. And what might be described as clean but comfortably shabby for a room that mostly consisted of a desk, a filing cabinet, a bookcase, a rug on the floor and several chairs. And a picture on the wall, a painting which James had hung there for him when they’d set the office up together. On a less good day, such as now, in the chill of a wet December evening…. the office still looked like a small room in a basement that hadn’t changed much in about sixty years. Niall was vaguely aware of the plink… plink…. coming from the elderly bucket further underneath the leak dropping steadily past the edge of his desk from the pouring rain outside. A file was open in front of him, but he wasn’t looking at it. To be honest, he wasn’t looking at anything. That tended to happen sometimes.

The clock, prominently displayed directly across from the desk was supposed to help with this, but the hands had long since moved unseen past the five pm point. Niall’s hands were unconsciously steepled in front of his face in that kind of numb, meditative state where time just went away. It was dark on the street through the sliver of window in sight high at the top of the wall that showed street level, and the office was darker. It took a while before he became aware of the man in the doorway, still patiently knocking at the half open door.

“Mr Carey? Sir? Mr Carey?”

The man’s face was thin and anxious, and he was wet through. The thin and battered cloth coat was soaked, and so was the hat in his hand. No one would venture down the dark steps unless they really wanted to find him. Niall hurriedly got up, dragging himself together, and lit the oil lamp on the corner of his desk since electricity hadn’t made it down to the basement.

“I’m sorry, hello. Please come in.”

The man edged further into the room. He didn’t look hopeful. In the several weeks of trying to start a law practice, Niall had come to know that the very few clients who had walked through that door ever did; this was not a district of residents that had confidence in legal matters. It was a strong part of the reason Niall had determinedly set up here, instead of in the smarter parts of town where a steady diet of conveyancing and will writing from the well paid and well fed members of the Chicago populace would have provided-

a much easier income, an office that doesn’t leak, that had electricity and actual daylight,

and no clients wanting anything interesting at all.

“Do sit down.” Niall invited him. “Mr….?”

“Byrne. Padraic Byrne.” The man’s Southern Irish accent was still strong. It was similar enough to his father’s accent that Niall warmed to it immediately. The man took a cautious seat on the edge of a chair, turning his hat around in his hands. The signs were easy to read. Long used to shocked and numbed witnesses, Niall seated himself slowly, not making eye contact, giving the man time to think. It took Mr Byrne a moment to gather himself.

“I’m sorry to disturb you at this time of the evening. I know it’s late, but I’ve tried… everywhere else in town.”

Niall waited, watching the hat turn all the way around in one direction and then rotate back like a dark cloth steering wheel. “How long have you been looking for advice, Mr Byrne?” he said gently at length when Mr Byrne seemed to need the lead. Mr Byrne cleared his throat.

“About two years now. On and off. The police kept saying to wait, and.. things kept having to be waited for. Documents. Inquests.”

“What is it I can do for you?”

“Well I don’t rightly know. That’s what I need the advice for.” Mr Byrne drew a slow breath and seemed to find the start of a script, in a way that told Niall he’d recited this more than a few times. “My daughter, Rose, died two years ago. The inquest said it was an accident. The police told me it was an accident. I don’t think it was, but there’s no one who’ll listen to me or give me the time of day other than to say they’re sorry.”

“What makes you think it wasn’t an accident?” Niall said gently. Mr Byrne’s eyes darkened. Beneath the despair, this man was deeply, fiercely angry, and that too was something Niall recognised.

“Because there were things she told me about, things weeks before it happened. And a man she knew of.”

“What man?”

“Now that’s the thing, to be sure.” Mr Byrne gave Niall a wry smile that held no amusement at all. “The police and the state are glad to be telling me that he never existed. Imagine that. A man that never was.”

Niall surveyed him. Then opened his desk drawer. Mr Byrne sighed.

“I know, I know. I’ll be getting along with my imaginings and I’m sorry to take up your time,”

“Please, start at the beginning.” Niall put the pad of paper down on the desk and uncapped his pen, kneeing the drawer closed. “Tell me about your daughter.”

The man looked surprised. Niall waited, pen poised. “Rose, you said. Rose Byrne?”

“Yes. Rose.” The man gathered himself, watching him. “She was twenty three. Worked as a housemaid for the Lymingtons. The family who own the-”

“The steel magnates? Yes. I know of them.”

Few in this city didn’t. The Lymington family were one of the largest and wealthiest socialite families at the top of Chicago’s celebrity list, they frequently made the newspapers.

“My Rose worked for the youngest son and his wife.” Byrne told him. “Housemaid and lady’s maid.”

Niall frowned as a thought occurred. “Wasn’t that the Lymington who went berserk and killed his wife?”

“That’s the one.” Byrne sounded grim. “For all they tried hushing it up. Killed his wife then shot himself. Supposedly.”

“Supposedly?”

Byrne abruptly leaned forward on the desk, his voice lowering. “It was on the same night my Rose died. When the police came to the house, Lymington was found dead in his bedroom and the door was locked. The police had to break down the door. Rose was found on the stairs outside. Blow to the head they said. The story they give was that she heard the shot, ran up the stairs and fell. An accident. A tragic accident so the judge said. Unconnected.”

“I see.” Niall finished the note he was scribbling and waited, pen poised. “So why do you believe it might not have been?”

Byrne surveyed him. “Now you’re the first lawyer I’ve spoken to who’s heard me disagree with an inquest and the police, and then heard the name ‘Lymington’, and not run me out of their office as fast as they can.”

“I’ve had rather a lot of experience listening to odd stories and political names.” Niall said wryly. “Tell me why you believe this may not have been an accident Mr Byrne?”

“Like I told you. There was a man. Young Lymington had a man hiding in that house.” Byrne sat back in his chair, his eyes darkening again. “No one was supposed to know. Only the upstairs servants ever saw him, and that was mostly Rose and Mr Lymington’s valet. Just a family guest they were told, except he had little to do with the family. Rose said he didn’t leave the house except when Mr Lymington Senior and other men came for him, or when they came to meet with him. Didn’t go down for dinner if there were guests, he ate in his room. Rose heard raised voices a few times, Lymington and that man. Lymington didn’t like him much from what Rose saw. You remember Lymington’s wife?”

“Only what was in the newspapers. I remember she was very young.”

“Barely twenty, poor little thing. She’d been in a film or two before she married, film star she was. They’d hardly been married a year. Rose said Mrs Lymington was scared to her bones of that man Lymington had staying there.”

“Did Rose know why?”

“Never anything you could put a finger on, but Rose said she saw the looks he gave her. The way the man watched her. Never anything much enough that she could complain to Lymington about it, but he made his presence felt. And he hovered over that cup in its glass case, night and day. Mrs Lymington never liked having it in the house.”

Like many upset witnesses, this man was coming to the bones of his case in pieces. Niall picked up that one, responding calmly to keep Lymington’s flow going.

“Tell me about the cup.”

“It was a gift the man made to Lymington. A late wedding gift, so the story went.” Byrne sounded cynical. “It was silver. Real silver, large, there were jewels set around the bowl and the base. No one was allowed to touch or clean it save Lymington’s valet. It was kept in a glass case in the study off Mr Lymington’s rooms, and the rumour was around the servants it was from Europe. Very old.”

“Do you know this man’s name?”

“Novotny. Mr Novotny. That’s what the servants were told.”

So Eastern European heritage. Niall made the note. “And there were meetings in the house, and sometimes Mr Novotny was taken out of the house by Mr Lymington senior, but otherwise he stayed in his rooms?”

“So Rose said. Mrs Lymington wasn’t happy, she wanted him gone but Lymington said they had to keep him a few weeks more.”

“I see.” Niall paused again, re filling his pen. “Do you suspect Mr Novotny may have been involved in Rose’s death?”

“I don’t know. But I know I don’t believe young Lymington killed his wife.” Byrne said shortly. “From what Rose said, he was a good young man, in love and not long married, and Rose liked him. She always said she’d never heard him show temper or raise his voice to that little wife of his, he was kind to the servants in the house, a real gentleman. I’ll tell you the worst part of it; when the police found Lymington and Rose and searched the house, there was no sign of Novotny. They say there was no sign of a guest anywhere in the house. The servants gave evidence that there’d never been a guest, they swore there’d never been one. And the police swear to me there is no cup, never was a cup, the glass case in the study doesn’t exist. But my Rose told me many times how Mrs Lymington hated that cup.”

Niall reflected, looking through the notes he’d written.

“What about the valet? Does he confirm Novotny’s presence?”

“No. He gave a statement to the police never mentioning him, got on the train with a generous pay out from Mr Lymington senior, and no one’s seen him since.”

“So you believe he was paid off.”

“I know from Rose that Lymington Senior knew of Novotny.” Mr Byrne said darkly. “Met with him often, took him in and out of that house. The man existed. Who has the money to make a man disappear, Mr Carey? Who has the money to close people’s mouths?”

The Lymingtons were indeed a politically powerful family with very deep pockets.

“The police tell me there’s no evidence. That maybe Rose just spun me stories.” Byrne told him. “But I know my daughter. If she told me – for weeks – that Novotny was in that house, that there was something odd about him, that Lymington Senior himself met with the man often and that Mrs Lymington was afraid of him – and the police found no trace of that man or anyone living in the house on the day they died? Isn’t him being missing evidence in itself? And that cup. Not just the cup gone, but the whole display case from the study? Isn’t that evidence too?”

“Well if it were possible to prove that Novotny existed and lived in that house… yes, it would be. Not just as a missing witness, but as to why all traces of him were removed.” Niall tapped his pad with the pen. “This is really an investigative job for the police.”

“The police aren’t interested.” Byrne said dully. “The inquest is finished, all the facts have been found and the matter’s over so they tell me. But my daughter’s dead, Mr Carey. I know there’s truths to this that are being hidden.”

Niall looked down the list of notes again. “Let me think about this Mr Byrne. Where can I reach you?”

Bryne took the offered pen and wrote an address on the bottom of the page. It was a street Niall knew of; an area near the dock. Byrne handed back the pen and stuck out a hand, waiting until Niall took it to shake.

“Thank you for listening. That’s more than any other brief’s been willing to do.”

“You’re welcome Mr Byrne.”

Byrne pulled on his wet hat and headed out of the dark doorway into the hall. The line of his shoulders didn’t suggest he held much hope. There was someone waiting out there in the shadows by the door, a tall figure in an overcoat with an umbrella neatly over its arm and an eagle nose. Niall closed the note pad and put it away in the drawer. The figure in the hall waited politely until Mr Byrne had reached the street before he came in. Niall took his coat from the hook, found his hat and turned out the desk light.

“I’m sorry. I’m all right, that was just a last-minute client.”

“It sounded rather intense.” James’ eyes were searching although his tone was calm. “What time did he arrive?”

“I’m afraid I didn’t notice.”

That was a compromise between a confession and a gentle evasion. There was a reason why James walked down to meet him if he was more than a few minutes late. James came to take his coat from him, helping him into it with the deft flick at the shoulders that settled it straight.

“It’s still raining.”

It was. Close together under James’ umbrella they walked down the long blocks of wet and shiny sidewalk past the evening traffic and the people headed home. After years on the ranch, with all its many freedoms, it was still an effort to remember not to automatically link arms with him. Instead, Niall watched the headlights of the omnibuses shine off the puddles and heard the clatter of feet, and kept pace with James down the streets that led to their red brick block. James shook the umbrella briskly at the top of their steps, unlocked the door of their apartment building and took Niall’s coat as they walked down the hall. “Bath first, I think.”

Their tenement block was more than eighty years old, and the single toilet on the ground floor was shared with four other apartments. A bath required the heating of water on the coke stove top in the very large pans they kept for the purpose, and the tin bath that hung on the wall in the closet. James, who had never before lived in a house without a bathroom in his life, was surprisingly good with it. He hadn’t been born to this; to a battered old tenement and an apartment of three rooms, a shared toilet, a rickety stove that was the heat, cooking source and a lot of the light source too for the whole apartment, or to living in the back end of a city, but you’d never know it. There was a wonderful strength and a pragmatism to James, an ability to get to grips with the practicalities of life that Niall knew was far tougher than his own; and some part of James relished the challenge too. In the same way that a man with the education to be an officer had quietly and determinedly joined the rank and file against all persuasion. This gently bred Boston boy was far more at home working a ranch or in his shirt sleeves fixing a filthy and obstinate Victorian stove in a Chicago tenement than he had ever been in society places, and it was one of the many things that, in a phrase learned from his father, made Niall love the bones of him. 

James must have set the water to heat before he left: there were two pans already hot and a third staying warm in front of the stove. The clatter of the water falling into the tub from the first pan was loud, steam began to rise. James helped him out of his jacket, unfastened his tie, and Niall automatically unbuttoned his shirt. The pattern of the steam rising was hypnotic. James turned him around to unbutton his trousers and peeled him out of the rest of his clothes. The bath was small: one sat with one’s knees almost under one’s chin, but the water was hot and it was comforting. Niall leaned his elbows on his knees, staring down into it. The warmth helped, and it was only then that he realised that he hadn’t felt fully warm all day. James took his hand and put a glass into it. Brandy. A half inch. James had seated himself on a kitchen chair beside him. He had a glass too. James was the one of them who actually liked brandy; whenever James handed a glass of it to Niall it was not intended for enjoyment, but for medicinal and was compulsory. Which meant he wasn’t fooled in the slightest. Niall obediently took a small sip and shuddered at the taste. James’ hand slid through his hair, smoothing it down to the nape of his neck.

“Interesting client?”

“I’d have appreciated any client at all, but yes.” Niall turned his cheek against James’ hand. “I am all right. Just a slow, cold day and too much sitting. I’m not used to doing nothing.”

James had put the gramophone on. One of Mozart’s concertos, Niall wouldn’t have known the name but it was a delicate and gentle flow of a flute against violins, one of James’ favourite pieces that he liked to work to.

“So what did this client need?”

The brandy was helping too. Niall steeled himself to take another sip, feeling the fog begin to lift from his brain. “Information he believes to be missing from an inquest. It would be investigative type work. The police, he says, have either given up or been told to give up. Do you remember young Lymington? The one who shot himself?”

“Yes. Some kind of domestic dispute, or so the papers said. Philip vaguely knew of the family, he was quite…. surprised. The wife was a minor film star I believe. I remember the pictures of her.”

Yes. They stuck in Niall’s mind too. A delicate wisp of a girl with large eyes, curling hair, in a white fur collared coat over a dress that seemed far too grown up. He’d always thought there had been something fairylike about her.  “Do you remember what happened to her?” he asked James, who frowned, thinking about it.

“As far as I recall, the house overlooked the river and Lymington dumped her body in the water from the window of his room. He shot himself, didn’t he?”

“Yes. The police had to break down the door to reach him.”

“Where will you start?”

“The library. in the morning.” Niall finished the last of the brandy, finally feeling fully real and together in the heat of the water. Sometimes the spaciness crept up on him slowly enough that it wasn’t until James got rid of it that he realised how strong it had been. “It’s not like I have anything better to do. How did your draft chapter work out?”

“I’m about half of the way there.” James cupped his cheek, giving him a rather keen look, then stooped and kissed him. “I’m also starving when you’re ready to start dinner.”

That was another of the daily things James had built into Niall’s routine and brooked no arguments about. Like walking to and from the office, despite the convenience of the street cars which ran virtually door to door. And while James, working from the apartment, did much of the cleaning and the grocery shopping, it was Niall’s responsibility to provide a shopping list for him and to cook. All practical things that used his body and other parts of his mind, and which kept his feet firmly – and James did firm extremely well – rooted in reality. There had been a settling in period of a month that James had insisted on when they moved to the city, before he would allow Niall to set up his office. Acclimating. Time for them just to establish a home and routine for themselves, learn a very different way of life, and prove to themselves that they could manage out here where there were less people to keep an eye out, where there were crowded and noisy streets instead of open, quiet land. There was the most recent letter from Philip on the shelf in the kitchen, with a paragraph from David who still gruffly called them insane for wanting to be here instead of Wyoming, but to Niall that was David to the core and deeply affectionate. The message from both of them was equally strong: we’re here if you need us.

There were times when they were in this dingy brown and battered apartment with the rain hammering down and the shouts in the street outside, when Niall thought they were insane for leaving Wyoming too.

He dried off in front of the stove and dressed in more comfortable clothes before he fried off the chopped steak and onion James had bought at the market that morning, stirred it in well-seasoned flour, chopped potatoes and carrots into the mix, and finished it with salt, pepper and a kettle of boiled water. The whole pot went into the belly of the stove. That was the one gadget in the apartment that wasn’t at all temperamental: ever since their first couple of days here when James had stripped it down, cleaned it out and disciplined it thoroughly, it did a good job. Years of the ranch, where they’d actively helped with all the chores in the running of the house from cooking to roofing, had prepared them well for running their own home. It was something Niall took a lot of satisfaction in. The stone floors were battered and covered with scattered rugs from junk shops, the furniture was worn and the whole place was tiny, but it was theirs.

James had changed the record on the gramophone; Niall smiled as he washed his hands, hearing the first few familiar bars behind him.

Roll me over in the clover….

Roll me over, lay me down and do it again!

Niall dried his hands and hung the towel over the back of a chair. It was all one room in here, just floor space between the kitchen table by the stove and sink, and the two armchairs and the battered old love seat by James’s desk at the window. James held out a hand to Niall.

Now this is number one and the fun has just begun

Roll me over, lay me down and do it again

Niall took his hand and fell into step with him from long practice, James was a wonderful dancer and they could have jived together in their sleep. Hours and hours of dancing in the kitchen at the ranch, years of it, since Wade and Charlie loved it too. And it wasn’t possible to jive with James without giving it your full attention, feeling the speed and the rush pass through you, and the sheer joy of being alive with him. 

Part 2

The city library provided the archived newspapers with the articles and the pictures. Mr Burke Lymington and his new bride, Miss Sylvia Varren. First the pictures of them in bridal gear, and to Niall’s eye they looked shyly happy together on the steps of the church: the young man who had been considered the most eligible bachelor in the city and his fairytale Hollywood bride; the press had loved them. The news of the exotic honeymoon followed, as did the many entries in the society pages: Mr Lymington senior with his youngest son and daughter in law at the elite city events he hosted. And then the headlines. Tycoon’s son in murder-suicide. Youngest son of John Lymington shoots himself after murdering wife. Niall read on through the newspaper reports of the inquest. The police had broken in through a locked bedroom door, alerted by a distressed house servant. Lymington was found dead from a single shot to the head, the gun in his hand. His wife’s body was in the river. There was no mention anywhere of Rose.

Still turning over the information in his mind and wondering if it was worth trying to access the inquest records themselves, Niall took several streetcars through the busy morning city to the address of the house.

Like all of the Lymington properties in Chicago, it was opulent. Expensive. Backing onto the river, it was one among a small neighbourhood of grey brick mansions with high gates and railings, pillars and columns by the doors and immaculately cut and kept lawns. One or two of the mansions had gardeners in view, sweeping up the last of the fall leaves, and most had Christmas wreaths on the gates and on the door. The many windows were polished and glittering in thin winter sun. Except for the Lymington house. That one alone had the curtains closed, and when Niall looked through the bars of the gate, the doorknocker had been removed. So the house was still in the ownership of Mr Lymington senior, and standing unoccupied. Across the drive, a man came out of a garage and closed the door. From his clothes, he was another gardener or caretaker. Niall signalled until the man saw him and walked across to the gates. Elderly. Cold, from the look of him. Niall pulled a card from his pocket.

“Good morning. Niall Carey. I’m an attorney, looking into some details for an investigation. Are there any staff resident in the house?”

“Not now.” The man glanced at the card and handed it back. “Inquest’s over.”

“This is about Rose Byrne. There’s a few things still outstanding I need to check on.”

The man’s face changed at once, from disinterest to something gentle. “I knew Rose.”

“Was she well-liked by the staff?” Niall asked on impulse.

“She was a real nice lady,” the man said sincerely. “She barely got a mention by the police, what with everything else that happened. I’m glad someone’s thinking of her.”

Well that was a cue that here was a member of the household staff who thought Rose had received less justice than she deserved.  

“I’m here just for Rose.” Niall assured him. “Is there anyone resident in the house? Anyone who could show me what I need to see?”

He was taking liberties here, making it up as he went along, but when you’d investigated… many of the things he’d been part of investigating after the war, proportionally most things felt simple.

“Only me.” The man glanced up at the house. “I do a walk around, once every week or so, check all the pipes are secure, windows secure, that sort of thing. I guess I can show you around while I do it.”

“Thank you.” Niall stood back to let the man open the gates. “You’re the caretaker? Mr….?”

“Yates.” The man locked the gates behind them and walked with Niall up the drive. “John Yates. I am now. I was the chauffer and groundsman until the house was closed up. I oversee a couple of gardeners a couple of times a week.”

“The cars are still in the garage?” Niall paused by the garage, looking through the window. A Crysler. A Jaguar. Immaculate cars, side by side. Burke Lymington had liked fast cars.

“Everything’s here,” Yates said bleakly. “Mr Lymington Senior’s given no instructions about the house contents. I don’t think he’s got the heart to. I had orders to pay off the staff, close up the house and keep the property in good order. That was it. The paycheck keeps on coming. I guess I’ll do it until he decides otherwise.” He opened a side door to the house. “What do you need to see?”

The furniture was under dust sheets, and the carpets were soft underfoot. It was cold, the hallways were long and ornate and in the heart of the house – was a wide staircase, sweeping up to the first floor. The steps were quite shallow, thickly carpeted in the same red as the hall. On the landing at the top, Mr Yates paused. “Rose was found here.”

“I was told she fell down the stairs.”

“Well not really. Strictly speaking, her legs were on the landing, she was face downwards laying on the first few stairs here. The police said she ran up the stairs when she heard the gunshot, slipped and fell.”

From Yates’ neutral tone, Niall gathered what he thought about it and voiced his own reservation. “And somehow managed to fall face downwards, head downwards, facing back the way she’d come.” He tested the slip of the carpet. “Do you know where her headwound was?”

“I saw it.” Yates said grimly. “Here.” He tapped the side of his forehead.

Well possibly from a strike on the bannister, but unlikely from falling on a thickly carpeted stair or landing. Niall nodded at the door ahead of them. “Is that Mr Lymington’s room?”

“Well. It was officially their room but in truth that was Mrs Lymington’s room, separate rooms being fashionable, or so I’m told. Mr Lymington had a room of his own, other side of the hall, but I heard he mostly spent nights here with her.”

“What about Rose’s room?”

It was up another flight of servants’ stairs at the back of the house, several doors leading off a linoleum hallway. Mr Yates opened the third door along.

“The rest of the staff took their things when they left. Rose’s things are still here. I haven’t known what to do with them.”

“I’m in touch with her father. I can see they get to her family.” The room was sparse, there wasn’t much there. A couple of black dresses hung in the closet, alongside a couple of brighter dresses and a coat that must have been for her days off. A hat box held a single hat. A hairbrush and mirror lay side by side on a vanity stand by the bed, alongside several magazines. Rose had liked to read about fashion and film stars. Niall folded the whole contents into the hat box. Mr Yates watched in silence from the doorway. The bedspread and pillow were neatly arranged on the bed: Rose had left her room that morning as usual, and never returned.

“Rose mentioned a man staying here.” Niall said as they left her room and Yates closed the door behind them. “A Mr Novotny. The servants apparently denied all knowledge of him, but Rose mentioned him a number of times, and that Mrs Lymington was afraid of him.”

Yates looked deeply uncomfortable. Niall watched him, with a long history of talking to terrified, intimidated people with information they were unsure about sharing.

“May I see the guest room?” he said neutrally and mildly. That left it in Yates’ hands. After a moment Yates nodded.

The room Yates took him to was one of the family guest chambers. So an important man, as Rose had explained. It was bare of any personal belongings. A large, high bed with carved wooden bedposts and an expensive quilt. A thick rug. Niall gently opened the wardrobe and then the bedside table cupboard and drawers. There was nothing there. Not so much as a scrap of paper.

“How old was he?” he said lightly to Yates. Yates had his arms folded, he looked wary.

“Maybe – forty? Forty five? Looked like he’d been fit once but getting seedy.”

So you do want to tell me.

“Did he travel with a valet, or did Mr Lymington’s valet take care of him?” Niall asked, thinking of the complicated arrangements on the occasions he’d visited James’ parents at their home which was not so very different to this one. Yates nodded slowly.

“Mr Lymington’s valet looked after him.”

“Are you still in touch with Mr Lymington’s valet?”

“No. He’s long gone. Hadn’t been here that long, only a few months before Mr and Mrs Lymington died.”

“What did he think of Mr Novotny?”

The man looked even more uncomfortable. “Didn’t like him. Nobody did. Something creepy about him, the way he watched and smiled… nasty piece of work. Treated servants like dirt. The valet did tell me once, he brought some fresh shirts upstairs to put in Mr Novotny’s room. Mr Novotny was dressing. He had a scar in an odd place. Here.” He touched his arm. Niall’s gaze sharpened, his stomach jolted hard but he kept his tone neutral.

“Underneath of his upper arm. Was it the left side?”

“Yes. Looked like a gunshot scar.”

…..it probably was.

Niall swallowed carefully, surprised at the rush passing through him. It was a familiar rush. A mix of determination, rage and… the kind of automatic bolt of energy that probably a hunting dog felt when it caught the scent.

Here? Here in Chicago, with a maid who fell on the stairs?

“What about the cup?” he asked Yates. “Rose talked about the cup. Did Novotny take it with him?”

“It was a beautiful thing.” Yates led him down the hall and opened the door. The white sheets covered the table, but the room was a library. “I don’t know where it went. All I heard downstairs from the servants was that it was gone, like it was never there. It was on that table, the table was kept under the window with a glass case on it and the cup inside. Novotny spent hours in here with it.”

“Would he have taken the case?”

“I don’t know. Someone cleared his room. Someone took away the glass and the cup. I never saw who did it, and I never heard from any of the servants if they knew.”

“And you and the other servants were asked never to mention it.” Niall said quietly. “I understand, Mr Yates. I’m only seeking information on what may have happened to Rose.”

They walked together down the landing, and at the door of Lymington’s room, Yates paused, then pushed the door open. “That was where it happened. He was on the floor here with the gun.”

“And Mrs Lymington?” Niall looked with him into the room. Large. Beautifully decorated, an enormous bed, several lamps. Two large picture windows. “She was found in the river, wasn’t she?”

“The window was open and her blood was on the sill, but her body wasn’t found.” Yates said bleakly. “Poor little thing. She was probably washed out to sea before the police even got to the house.”

It was terrible to think of that beautiful young couple from the newspapers ending like this. Niall took a step back, keeping his voice even. “I’ve seen everything I need to see, thank you very much for your time. I’ll make sure Rose’s belongings reach her family.”

He took the box back to his office in the basement. And there he sat with his coat and hat still on, his mind buzzing, information gathering and organising itself in familiar and awful patterns. This was too familiar a story; he knew its path too well. And then following the strongest impulse, he got up, went out onto the street and took the streetcar west. The county clerk’s office was a massive, grey fronted building and in a quiet office, a junior clerk searched out some materials for him.

 

 

 

 

            The asylum had once been on a remote prairie outside of the city. These days it was getting rapidly swallowed up by the city. It had a reputation; Niall had heard it. Parents muttering half jokingly to their kids, Behave or I’ll have you sent to Dunning. It had been under a different name now for forty years, but to the locals it was still Dunning. There were a list of possible places, theoretical places, but from the rumours alone…. Niall had learned young and in a hard school exactly how to listen to rumour, how to pick up the hints that told you where the very worst of the worst lay, because it was almost inevitably your target. The place was surrounded by high fences, and the large and heavy gothic buildings looked like a prison. It was necessary to be firm with the guards on duty at the gate house and then again with the person on duty in the front office, but years in the army equipped you for that. Niall got what he wanted.

Records were checked in large, heavy and handwritten log books. Dates were checked, another list was provided. Niall took the long route back across the city, stepped off the streetcar a mile from home and walked the rest of the way. A brass band was playing on one of the main street corners, sending Silent Night travelling across the street amongst the sounds of passing street cars. A lone Santa tolled his bell outside the department store.

 

 

*

 

 

James looked up from his desk and smiled, pen resting in his hand.

“Good afternoon. You’re early. How was work?”

“You mean ‘did I have any’?”

He heard James chuckle, felt James take the coat from his shoulders. “Did you?”

“Yes.”

“Your yesterday client again?”

Niall put down his keys with care, aware of the words sticking on his tongue. It was not easy to talk about. It had never been easy to talk about. He hovered over James’ desk instead, looking down at the neatly written pages of notes arranged in order. “You have most of the chapters planned.”

“Niall?”

Yes. Niall dragged himself together with an effort, went into the kitchen and drew out one of the rickety wooden chairs at the table they’d found in a junk shop a few weeks ago. James put the kettle on the hob, watching him. In the watchful way that always made Niall feel safe and yet at the same time sent his stomach tumbling for the same reason: that James could read him like a book. Niall drew a long breath, looking at his hands on the scarred tabletop in front of him.

“The man who came into my office yesterday believes his daughter died in suspicious circumstances during the Lymington incident. The inquest is complete. He believes there’s evidence withheld.”

“Police incompetence or corruption?”

“That was his question. I went to the house today.”

“I believed it was standing empty.” James took the seat opposite him, his eyes serious. Niall gave him a slow nod.

“It is. The groundsman was there. He was the chauffeur when the Lymingtons lived there. He showed me around the house.”

Oh James knew all about the stories like this. The talking to people. The driving out to towns, to villages, to abandoned houses in expensive grounds, the finding the people who had seen and pointed out the disturbed ground, the cellars, the places where the dark things happened. They both knew all about this.

“Did you find out anything?”

“Corroboration, although word of mouth, that the Lymingtons had a guest.” Niall had lowered his voice instinctively. “Who had a gunshot scar. Left upper arm. Underside.”

James stared at him. He knew what that meant. As well as Niall knew it. James had seen it first hand as many times as he had.

“So it looks,” Niall went on quietly to him, “bearing in mind the family concerned, that a felony was committed on their watch, under their eye, and it’s one that no one can admit to.”

There was a long silence while they sat there together at the scarred table. Then James said just as quietly, “What are you going to do with this information?”

“I’m really not sure.” Niall said honestly. “There’s some leg work I need to do tomorrow. Fact checking. We’re leaving in a few days anyway, the whole city is closing for the holidays, I need some time to think.”

“….As a case to begin on,” James said very dryly. Niall sighed.

“It’s the worst possible one it could be. Yes, I know. It’s familiar work. I hadn’t expected quite how familiar.”

“No one would blame you if you closed it and walked away this time.”

“Oh how can I?” Niall said impatiently. “Who else in this city is going to have the experience behind them to recognise this? That is probably what the powers that be are banking on. A girl died. If… this is what it may be, then there’s a duty to bring this, even more so for me because I do know exactly what’s involved. And I know you understand.”

“Yes, I understand. I could wish I didn’t.” James surveyed him. Niall gave him a wry shrug.

“In at the deep end.”

“Very well. Then we will make plans for how we deal with it.” James leaned on the table, his hands clasping in the way he did with his index fingers touched and pointed forward. It always made Niall think of the children’s rhyme: here is the church and here is the steeple… here is James about to lay down the law. “I expect you to be extremely careful. You are going to have to follow our routine exactly. You are going to have to be even more aware of yourself, and of knowing when it is time to manage yourself. That means not getting too tired. Not pushing too far. Not ignoring the signs. You must be sure that you know when it is time to stop and come home. Do you understand me?”

“Yes sir.”

“And that means I will make no allowance for mistakes.”

We cannot afford them. Not here. Niall nodded, not exactly welcoming it, but it was reassurance all the same.

“I know.”

“Then I think the first thing you can do is change and scrub this floor.” James got up, unknotting Niall’s tie for him. “After which we’ll go for a walk, and then we’ll make dinner.”

Yes. Something physical, active and real would help. He was right. Niall surrendered his tie and stretched up to kiss him.

“Put some music on? Something lively. I could use the lift.”

In bed that night, which was an iron bedstead in their tiny room that almost filled it, Niall curled tighter against James beneath the heavy weight of blankets and quilts that the thin and draughty glass windows demanded in winter. They’d left the door wide open to the warmth of the stove in the main room; it would be some hours yet before the dampened fire went out, but the wind and the drive of sleet rattled the panes outside. This was not the stolid stability of the ranch house, built to withstand weather scorching across the pastures, where other loved men were a mere room away. Here there was just them. As there had been in Nuremberg, on the nights when Niall had sat by the river and let himself fade out into nothing but the dark water running past and James close against him. The wind had rattled the panes like this in his Nuremberg billet. He remembered it all too well.

Part 3

It took him the entire day, which was filled with steadily falling sleet, to check on every name and address in that list. Knocking on doors, talking to families and neighbours, ensuring that the person of that address had been known there. It was familiar work; the memories that came with it were hard to avoid.

Getting increasingly wet and cold, Niall found one sad story after another, but the dates he was asking about were recent and the information came readily enough. Name after name linked up to a known person with a history, with connections, with a past. In each street, he listened, met men, women and children, heard about the lives of the people who had been directly affected, and he’d learned long ago to listen without adding the burden of sympathy or anything trite. Through the ruins of Nuremberg, through the ruined towns and villages, the farms, the mines he’d done this… as he left the fourth address he caught himself trying to dig his hands into the pocket of an army great coat he hadn’t worn in years, and stopped on the street corner. He recognised the sense of slowly growing fog when he thought about it. The gradual sense of stepping away inside. The signs that it was getting too much. Being cold made it worse; the sleet wasn’t helping. Being tired was one of the biggest causes. Worrying was another. Things that stimulated those memories.

But this case was inevitably going to do that; James was right. 

Swearing under his breath, Niall turned up his collar and gave it a few minutes careful thought. By James’ rules, if he had noticed it happening then he needed to stop everything and deal with it. Which meant going directly to where James was. This was not the ranch where there was a group of them who knew about his occasional… issues… , knew how to help if needed and who kept an experienced eye out for him if he was gone longer than expected. Nor was this city the safe land of the ranch. Here there was only them, on unfamiliar territory. And James certainly expected to be obeyed.  

On the other hand, the whole point of moving to this city was to work. To prove that he could. And the drive to know the information he was seeking was eating at him like acid. Niall consulted his list. There were six more addresses to try. A single day’s work. Reaching a decision, Niall made himself quicken his pace, pull himself together, and walked on to the next address. It had to be possible to do this; it was merely a matter of being firm enough with himself.

The walk was long, he made his way through much of the rougher districts near the docks, and he’d worked through seven of those names and verified them when he struck a blank with the eighth. The address held a mother with a number of young children who explained they’d lived in the house for three years and her husband was at work. She didn’t know the name he was asking after. Neighbours had never heard of the name and confirmed it: no one by that name had lived at that address or any other in the area within the past three years. Names nine and ten checked out without difficulty when Niall moved on to them. It was only the eighth.

The sleet was getting heavier. Chilled to the point he was no longer fully feeling his feet, Niall walked away from address number ten. It was only about a mile and a half home from here; a walk he’d have thought nothing of at the ranch. He started in that general direction with his hands dug deep in his pockets and his collar turned up. Nine sad stories, and one blank. The human drift of life, he’d seen plenty of it. The dispossessed, the lost, the displaced, the traumatised. The ones so far from home that they no longer had any idea where they were or how to go back. The ones who had lost everything and had nothing to return to. He remembered many of their names. He remembered many of their faces. He remembered all of their voices.

The traffic was loud. Twilight was fast approaching. This deep into winter it came early now, and despite the Christmas lights in the stores he passed, the gloom still closed in. Somewhere within that gloom it grew too much of a weight to carry, and he paused and sat down on a stoop to rest. Just to rest. Just to take a moment’s respite where it could all go by without him. The lights from the cars shone in the puddles.

 

 

 

 

The arm that closed around his shoulders was muscled and firm, and came with a cheerful, familiar voice in his ear. “Get up, Ni.”

It drew him to his feet, made him stand there and forced him to start walking. Initially it dragged him for the first few steps, then his legs began to respond and walking became easier. It was dark. Not just twilight but properly dark, and the sleet shone against the street lamps. The walking went on for a long time. Several times he tried to sit down on a friendly step and sink back into the quiet, and each time the arm around him resisted and that voice told him again, No. Keep walking, they were nearly home. Keep walking.

There were running feet somewhere, feet clattering on the sidewalk and another voice sounding resigned and exasperated. “I knew it. Just sit in the snow and stare in sub zero temperatures, why don’t you?” Someone ducked under his other arm. Someone short and sturdy, and the arm that wrapped around his waist was tight. “Argh, he’s well gone, isn’t he? Where did you find him?”

“About three blocks away. He’s ok, don’t panic. He’ll be fine once he’s warm.”

He was forced up steps. Doors clicked. There was warmth, nearly unbearable warmth and bright lights. Strong and competent hands stripped off his wet clothes, towelled him down, and very firmly refused to let him sit down when he tried.

“I can’t find the brandy,” the short voice complained. “I can’t find anything. This isn’t an apartment, it’s a closet.”

“It’s a city and it’s the right district.”

“A leaking closet.”

“Shut it. No, stand up Niall,” the voice added as Niall tried again to let his knees buckle. The tone didn’t brook argument. A towel was scouring over his back, down his legs, Niall was vaguely aware but couldn’t feel much of it. The door clicked again and then James was there, Niall felt the brush of James’ wet, sleet covered coat as James’ hands closed on him.

“There you are.”

“Where do you keep the brandy in this rabbit hutch, Jimbo?” the short voice inquired.

“In the decanter on the shelf over there.”

“I’ll get that bath filled.” the competent towel scourer moved away and James’s arms came around him, James’ chest was against his face. Niall put both arms around his waist.

“You’re wet.”

“Hi kettle, this is pot. We’re all wet. We’ve been running around the district for the past hour looking for you.” The short voice included a glass of brandy arriving at his mouth with more efficiency than tact. Niall took a far larger gulp than he’d intended, and choked.

“That’s a boy,” the short voice approved. “One more like that,”

“Get off.” Clutching James, Niall choked again on the second vigorous slop of brandy tipped against his mouth and swallowed hard. It burned. It stung his nose and sinuses, and scorched down his throat, but his head cleared in one rush. Wade grinned at him.

“Hello. Life in the big city going really well, I see.”

“Bath’s full.” The taller, broad chested towel scourer came back to them, giving Niall a friendly smile that held no criticism for his being soaked, stripped and shivering like a dog. Muscular, with warm eyes below hair that was wild from the evening weather, he was an equally wonderful sight.

“Charlie.” Niall freed an arm from James and hugged him, fumbling to kiss the roughness of his cheek. “Where did you two come from?”

“We thought we’d stop by on the way to the ranch.” Wade told him. “Weird geography, but we can live with it.”

“We took the train up.” Charlie added for Niall’s benefit. “Thought we’d see how you were doing, check out your new apartment and fly out with you.”

Mostly because Wade loathed planes and flying, and it was likely going to take Charlie and James together to get him through it. Niall found Wade and hugged him too. Wade gave him a crushing squeeze in return, snorting as Niall’s wet hair came into contact with him.

“Yuck, get off. Your hair was practically frozen-”

“It was wet.” There was the sound of a brisk swat and Charlie sounded firm, “That was all. Stop winding James up, it’s not funny.”

“Turning blue, I tell you, lips and fingers purest navy – ok, ok I’m done!”

“Get in the bath,” James guided Niall towards the bath steaming on the floor tiles by the stove. “And then perhaps you can greet guests while not naked, which would be an improvement.”

“I don’t know, I’m for it personally.” Wade flopped into one of their armchairs. “It’s a conversation point.”

The bath was initially uncomfortably hot, and his feet smarted painfully as they defrosted, but within a couple of minutes Niall was pink like a lobster, considerably warmer, and the apartment felt crowded, noisy, busy and blissfully comfortable. James said nothing much other than basic directions, but he took the sponge and scrubbed Niall thoroughly until he was warmed through. He presented pyjamas when Niall got out of the bath. Warmed pyjamas too, although possibly not warmed in the way he suspected that James might have liked to have warmed them tonight under the circumstances.

“There’s no need for pyjamas, it’s barely seven pm.” Niall pointed out. James helped him into the pyjama jacket, taking little notice.

“Socks.”

“In fact a sweater and cords would be warmer anyway,”

His dressing gown was fitted around his shoulders. Niall belted it.

“The relative thickness of-”

“Are you lawyering already?” Wade demanded. “Hint: when you’re in a hole, stop digging.”

“There’s a bakery down the street, they stay open late, can you two walk down there and find supper?” James handed Charlie their door keys in a way that Niall found distinctly sinister. The hint of ‘I would like a few minutes alone with Niall please’ was strong. “That one for the main door, that one for this door.”

“Gotcha.” Charlie pocketed the keys, dug one handed in the travel bag beside the armchair and handed James something about two thirds of a foot long, flat and… Wade jerked upright in his chair as Niall’s eyes widened in shock. Neither James nor Charlie ever tended to be tactful about this kind of thing, they were about as blunt as each other when it came to the crunch, but the item in James’ hand was rather different to the wooden paddle they’d known at the ranch. That one was a plain, solid and varnished wooden paddle, in a sober coloured wood. This one…it was about half an inch thick, the blade below the handle was about six inches wide and the length of a man’s hand, but there was a cheerful picture in colour on one side of a longhorn steer with a cowboy on a horse, a cactus and several stars, painted onto the wood under the layer of varnish. On the other side of the flat was the legend in red: ‘Texas Tail Blazer’, etched in someone’s cursive handwriting. There was nothing remotely discreet or sober about it.

“What!” Wade said in horror. “Where did you get that?”

“I think that might fit with what you were asking me for,” Charlie said to James, taking no notice of Wade. “I know the guy who makes them, it’s a good store.” Charlie took Wade’s arm, yanking him up out of the chair. “We’ll be back in a while.”

“You can’t do that! They’re not supposed to be cute! Never cute!” Wade sounded outraged as Charlie collected their jackets and pushed Wade ahead of him out into the hall. Despite the flip flopping of his stomach Niall could hear Wade ranting about it all the way to the street. James tapped the paddle briskly on his palm, examining it.

“Well this appears relatively efficient. I believe we’ll give it a try.”

You’ve been asking Charlie to find you a paddle?!

All right, honestly, Niall had expected that living alone would probably result in them owning one sooner or later to deal with more serious issues; both he and Wade were very familiar with the ranch one and Niall was reluctantly prepared to admit that it was going to be an inevitably necessary part of life. But this was…. a whole lot sooner than he’d been prepared for.

“There was not, precisely speaking, intent-” Niall began, and it was amazing how the sight of that paddle pulled the legal training right out of him. The purpose being written directly on the paddle in friendly letters somehow had a very acute effect indeed. James interrupted gently and without compunction.

“At what point did you realise you were struggling, darling?”

“I was not struggling, I made an informed choice,” Niall began, watching in growing alarm as James drew out a kitchen chair, positioning it well clear of any obstacles.

“Excellent. I’m making a similarly informed choice, and it is going to involve a spanking. Come along Niall, please.”

Very unwillingly, Niall went to him. James took a seat and briskly took the waistband of his pyjama pants, tugging them with distressing efficiency down to where they pooled around his ankles.

“I should take your dressing gown off if I were you. You may get a little warm.”

No, really?

Resisting the urge to argue that, which with his pants around his ankles wasn’t something he had the stuffing left for anyway, Niall shrugged off his dressing gown and James took his arm, guiding Niall over his knee. Niall fidgeted there, horribly aware of the unfamiliar, awful paddle in James’ hand, and he jumped as James turned up his pyjama jacket and laid the paddle across his bottom. It felt lighter than the ranch one did. Slightly narrower. It was in all sincerity considerably less sinister than the ranch one in appearance, but any implement in James’ hand while in this position was something Niall had serious concerns about. James tapped it gently where it rested.

“Cold. Wet. Tired. In a situation that couldn’t have been more reminiscent. When did you know you should have stopped, Niall?”

“…..about eleven am.” Niall admitted.

“How far had you travelled by then?”

“…. The first four visits.” Laying over James’ lap with his hands just in reach of the floor, Niall was aware of his voice drifting slightly higher. The tap of the paddle behind him was not conducive to calm. “I thought if I concentrated,”

“You thought that you wanted the information and so did not want to stop.” James corrected mildly. “I will be very glad to provide you with a stronger reason to stop yourself as frequently as required, Niall. Obedience is what I require here, not work ethic.”

Whatever else you may find important, you obey me first. Yes, that was a fairly fundamental rule, and not by any means their first review of it. Niall shut his eyes as the paddle tapped again, trying hard not to clench as in his experience that was never helpful.

“Yes sir.”

The paddle snapped briskly across the middle of his behind, which was where James usually started a spanking. Niall jumped, his eyes and mouth opening with the equally brisk and shocked yelp dragged out of him. The wretched, cartooned thing packed less punch than the ranch’s paddle, in fact it slapped far more than it walloped, but it stung like a line of bees. At the second, lower thwack he found his hand clenching in the effort not to fly back and rub at the maddening smart, and before James had covered all the available ground once, he was squirming involuntarily and yelping and squeaking without being able to stop himself. There was no dignity to the wretched thing at all. None. And the surface sting just grew more and more heated and unbearable, it was so horribly childish, and somehow that was worse. It just stole all the self control he had. Any legalities, any training, any case, in fact anything at all, disappeared. There was nothing but here and now, over James’ lap being spanked, and the need to twist around and yell as James applied that horrible paddle, and to deeply and bitterly regret being stupid enough to have talked himself into breaking those rules this morning. James always took his own sweet time about this and did a steady and a thorough job without missing an inch. When James paused, Niall was out of breath and sweating, and his bottom felt on fire with that maddening heat and sting.

“Do you feel I have sufficiently rearranged your priorities?” James inquired politely above him. Niall spared a hand from the floor to push his hair out of his eyes, resisting the urge to grab behind him with both hands and rub.

“Yes sir!”

“Because I feel it important to be convincing about this. It is winter in a very large city, Niall. Sitting on the street for several hours in the snow with no idea of your surroundings when I have little idea of where to find you if you need help, is neither safe nor sustainable. In fact it is one of the few things that would compel me to return us to Wyoming.”

….which would be fair enough, really. With his behind on fire and still squirming slightly in the vain hope of that awful sting easing, Niall shut his eyes, abruptly aware too of how selfish this morning’s decision had been. It was not only for him that they had come to Chicago. It was not only him affected if they were forced to leave, and it was appalling that he had forgotten that even for a moment.

“I always think if I try hard enough I can make it work,” he said as sincerely as he could with very little breath, not as an excuse but as a genuine attempt to explain himself as hurting James was not something he would ever willingly do.

“I know you do.” There was real compassion in James’s voice, he wasn’t unaware or unsympathetic. “However is it truly in your power to control this by will?”

“……no.”

“It is controlled how?”

“By stopping and dealing with it.” Niall admitted heavily. “Early.”

“Indeed. And you do not have to choose to do that, you merely have to obey me.”

Yes. It was at heart, that simple. Simple did not mean the same thing as easy, but it was simple.

“Yes sir.”

“Then let’s ensure that you are able to remember that.”

James had rarely ever finished a spanking when he paused to talk; he tended to get your attention thoroughly first, then discuss things, and then underline his main points, but Niall’s heart sank all the same. This time that wretched paddle drew tears, less for that abysmal sting so much as having let James down.

Charlie and Wade were gone a tactfully long time. By the time they returned, Niall had resumed a state of ordered clothing and was standing with his hands clasped on his head in the one empty corner their tiny apartment room possessed, which was the one at the other side of the kitchen. Neither Wade nor Charlie looked twice; this was normality for all of them and until quite recently they’d shared a home together.

“We found bagels,” Wade announced, dropping the bag on the table, “Still hot, and pie.”

“I’ll make coffee.” There was the clink as James filled the coffee pot and began to assemble plates, knives and forks.

“James, are you two really going to manage out here?” Charlie asked.

“In this rabbit hutch?” Wade added.

“I meant more that you’re not always going to have three people to search ten block grids in the dark.” Charlie rarely sounded serious, but he did now. He was right; it was pure luck that James had had them here tonight for help, and the shame of it was burning. With three ex service men, all of them young, fit, active, used to walking miles over rough territory, and two of them now experienced cops: tonight hadn’t been much of a challenge If James had been alone…

“I still say you need to come to Corpus Christi with us.” Wade said shortly. “For God’s sake, if you’ve got to have city life, come on. We’d love it, and we’d be right there if you needed us. Come find somewhere to live that isn’t Victorian, with better weather, and our door up the street to bang on when you need help.”

“We’re still settling in here, and we shall be fine.” James’s hands rested on Niall’s shoulders, and the weight of them was as comforting as the certainty in his voice. “This is where we chose to be, we had our reasons, and Niall and I need time to see how we can make it work.”

Part 4

There was snow visible for miles on the ground before they landed in Jackson, and it was snowing steadily as they walked out of the airport. The dark haired, tall man leaning against the truck outside, was hatless and oblivious to the snow. No weather ever had much effect on him. Wade whooped and jogged to him, crashing into the man with all his strength to hug him hard. Niall felt the helpless smile break out across his face as David looked up for him. Bright, lively eyes, the heat of his smile, there was something about David that reached out through snow and fog and anything else this world could come up with. David let Wade go, walked around the truck to him and Niall buried himself in David’s powerful arms and hugged him.

“I missed you. It is so good to see you.”  

“How long did it take you to get Wade on a plane?” David muttered in Niall’s ear. Niall laughed, keeping his voice the same soft tone for David’s ears only.

“They just grabbed him, one arm each, and pulled. We were fine.”

“James.” David gripped James’ hand hard, and reached over for Charlie’s. “Get in the truck, it’s bloody cold out here.”

“If you wore a hat, you might find that less of a problem.” Charlie affectionately dusted the snow off David’s hair as they piled into the truck. Five of them were not a good fit, and it took Wade on Charlie’s lap to squash them all in.

“I’m not sure this is the safest way to travel.” James commented, locking an arm around Niall and gripping the door with his other hand as David pulled out of the car lot. David snorted.

“No one else on the road today, we’re ahead of the heavy snow but we’ll have several feet of it by tonight.”

He was right. It was coming down with increasing force as they drove through the forest. The road was deeply familiar, the evergreens under snow were deeply familiar, Niall felt his chest start to unknot for the first time in a few days. He loved this place. He and James both deeply loved this place, it had been very hard to leave it.

“Who’s been helping out at home?” he asked David, and he realised then that home was still here, far more than Chicago was. David gave him a swift grin.

“Since you cleared off and left us to it? Couple of men living up in the bunkhouse. One was working over on the Peterson ranch through round up season. I went over there to help and he was bloody brilliant with the cattle. We made him a job offer when he finished there. Ex service; a widower. Only got one working hand, not that it slows him up. The other’s one of John Sevier’s kids.”

“Is it Ben?” Charlie said with interest. “I thought he was getting sick of the crowding over on that ranch. Six of them piled in that little house.”

“He’s been liking having his own space. Brought his own horse and he’s got the makings of a nice herd, he’s been running them in with ours. I dropped him over at the Walker place on my way out here this morning, he’s staying at home until New Year. Not sure how much he wanted to go.”

“It might be crowded but they’re a close family,” Charlie protested, “I can’t see him really wanting to be away from them over Christmas?”

“It’s more the eyelashes he’s been batting at Anna-Mae Carroll over on the next ranch.” David said dryly. “It’s amazing how many evening rides he’s been taking over that way.”

“She’s a little girl!”

“She’s just turned fifteen.” David pointed out. “You’ve been away too long, and he’s only a year older than she is. He’s a nice kid, a hard worker, and if she’s as keen on him as it looks from the way she’s hanging around our stables, I’d give it a year or two before Alan Carroll and Anna-Mae make terms with Ben and his father. They’ve got no boys, no one but Anna-Mae to take on that ranch when Alan gets too old to run it, and Ben’s going to make a good rancher.”

“So apart from match making, what’ve you been doing?” Wade inquired.

“Running cattle. Digging snow. Horses.” David shrugged. It was daily life out here, the life Philip and David both loved.

It was starting to get dark and the yard was deep in snow, with smoke thickly leaving the chimney of the ranch house as they reached it. Philip came out onto the porch, spilling warm light from the open door behind him, and caught Niall first as Niall ran up the steps to him. The was always a sense of peace that hung around Philip, a sense of nothing bad that could ever happen here. He and David had always made this place a sanctuary. He hugged Niall tightly for a long moment, then put a hand to Niall’s face to look at him. One of his swift, kind and all seeing looks. It was only a few seconds, but Niall saw him read a whole lot there, and his eyes said a great deal to Niall as he turned to catch Wade, reeling slightly from the force of Wade’s embrace.

“Hello! Come inside. David, we’ll eat in half an hour.”

“Need a hand?” Charlie said easily, fastening his coat. Always active he loved the work of the ranch and travelling left him restless rather than tired. He gave Philip a bear hug as he passed, and he and David disappeared into the snow in the direction of the pasture. Wade hauled bags inside and Niall helped, watching Philip meet James with a quiet and very warm embrace of a kind James probably gave no one else. “It’s good to see you. Your rooms are ready, take your bags on up.”

The house was warm and their rooms were exactly as they’d left them. The comfort in that was deeper than Niall had expected. The mantelpiece in the sitting room was thick with Christmas cards; Philip was the social one of the two and had friendships that stretched far and wide all over the continent, but Niall knew from experience, David would know all the names and the wives and the kids. He was better at this than he chose to look. This was a large house and they often entertained here, or went out to visit.

“George Brindlow and Daniel asked after you in their card,” Philip said from the kitchen, seeing Niall look along the mantel. “They stayed with us over Thanksgiving. They’re entertaining over Christmas of course, they have a house full. How are your parents doing with Maria’s new baby?”

“They’re good thanks. Busy, between all the kids running in and out of the house now.” Niall came into the kitchen where James was setting the table. Philip knew the gentle yet rather distant relationship he had with a family who loved him but didn’t recognise their son in the man who’d come back from Europe, and whom he loved but couldn’t talk to about… well. Anything of importance really. His family in truth had shifted to being based in this house years ago, as had James’, and Wade’s. David came in the kitchen door, kicked snow off his boots and hung up his coat, making room for Charlie.

“So are you going to explain what’s happened?”

“You’re a model of tact and diplomacy as always.” Philip said serenely, handing David a wine bottle.

“It’s bloody obvious something went wrong, Niall looks bloody awful.” David pulled a knife out of his pocket and efficiently used the corkscrew. “Pour that. Get away from the fish, I’ll do the fish.”

“You’ve been ice fishing?” Wade bounced into the kitchen, in socks, jeans and a heavy sweater he’d changed into. He looked considerably happier than he had this morning in the airport, and he went to help James with the plates, looking with interest at the trout lined up on the counter.

“Of course I went ice fishing, they didn’t wander into the yard and surrender,” David said irritably. Philip poured wine into glasses, took his and took a seat at the table, giving David free reign at the skillet.

“Go on,” David demanded, tipping butter and shallots into the skillet and starting to fillet fish at high and accurate speed. “What happened?”

“I zoned out in the snow on a street corner the other night.” Niall said so none of the others had to. David gave him a narrow look. There wasn’t one of them in this kitchen that didn’t know what he meant.

“How bad?”

“Bad.” Wade said bluntly. “I haven’t seen that bad in years. Charlie found him. Sitting on a stoop in the street, there was snow on him. We had to drag him home, it was a while before we got him together enough to talk. It was the afternoon we arrived, or James would have been searching half of Chicago by himself.”

Niall looked down into his wine, aware he was flushing.

“Do you know what caused it?” Philip asked him quietly. Niall sipped wine. Under the table James’ hand found his knee, a discreet but strong signal of support.

“Yes. There’s a case I’ve picked up that is a little….”

“A little what?” Charlie took a seat beside Wade. “It’s good to hear you’re picking up cases already, but what’s upsetting about this one?”

“A father approached me, asking me for help with a closed inquest and police inquiry into his daughter’s death. It was registered as accidental. She was a maid in the household of Lymington Junior and she died on the night that he – apparently – murdered his wife and shot himself. The police recorded that she slipped and fell in the confusion on the night, and it had nothing to do with the Lymingtons.”

“I know Lymington Senior a little.” Philip looked very sober; his network of business acquaintances was vast. “I’d met young Lymington. I must say, it never struck me that a man in that family would be capable of such… albeit you never truly know what anyone may be capable of in the wrong circumstances.”

Niall saw him look to David as he said it; it was the kind of quick and wordless communication between them that Niall had so often seen in this house, as if it was a private conversation they’d had before. David’s eyes were unreadable but he responded automatically to Philip’s faint signal to stop wandering with a filleting knife that was dripping fish onto the floor and return to the job at hand. Oddly it made it easier to tell them. There was little Niall would have hesitated to say to these two.

“The maid’s father doesn’t believe it.” Niall told Philip. “I don’t think the chauffeur does either from what he’s said. There was, by all accounts, a strange man living in the Lymington’s house, described as being hidden there. Lymington Senior visited him and sometimes took him out of the house. Man of Eastern European heritage, the servants neither liked nor trusted him and by report Mrs Lymington was afraid of him and young Lymington quarrelled with him several times. Also by report, the valet saw a gunshot scar. Here.” Niall touched the underside of his upper left arm. Charlie swore quietly on the other side of the table, and Philip’s eyebrows raised.

“What?” Wade demanded. Charlie looked across to him.

“That’s where the Waffen SS had their blood group tattoos. After the war, when they were trying to evade capture, many tried to erase them. Gunshot scars were a popular way. In Europe having any scar in that place was an arrestable piece of evidence.”

“There was some sort of artefact he brought with him, a large silver cup that sounds very to me like a church relic. It disappeared when he did.” Niall added. “Which adds to the evidence of this to me.”

“You think the Lymingtons had a war criminal living in their house?” Wade demanded. Niall gave him a sober nod.

“I do. I know – we know – that at the end of the war, some of the most useful key people captured by the US government were retained and brought to the US, and that their information has been bartered for avoiding justice for war crimes.”

David made a quiet but explosive sound. Philip looked bleak but nodded. It was information quietly and generally known in many circles and Philip moved in enough of them to know.

“The Lymingtons are some of the premier magnates in the country for steel manufacture.” Niall went on. “War ships. Many other government projects they’re connected with. This individual may have been on loan to them and under their supervision while their advice was given. If he was associated with the deaths of the Lymingtons and their maid – if he murdered a US citizen while in the care of the government – there would be very good reason for the police and government to go to whatever lengths necessary to remove him from the picture and ensure that no evidence remained of his having ever existed.”

“You’re never going to prove that, surely?” Charlie said. Niall shrugged a little.

“What do you do with a known war criminal who has been concealed and exempted from charges in exchange for information, when he then commits murder under your supervision? Particularly if you’re going to have to answer to the American public and the allied nations for it?”

“Anything that disposes of him as quickly and safely as possible.” David said bleakly. “Take him somewhere quiet and shoot him. Put the body in the river. Bury it somewhere.”

“Would you see that as justice?” Niall asked him. “The responsible actions of a culpable government? Really?”

“Well you can’t charge him with war crimes at this point.” Wade said wryly. “Captured 1945, got around to trial in 1953, oh and please ignore what he’s telling you about the work he’s been doing for us in the mean time.”

“Exactly.” Niall agreed. “You can’t hide the man in an American prison either, you’d have to follow procedure to put him in there which would involve a trial because we have law in this country, and not just our law but international law which is going to involve admitting this man has been exempted from standing trial. And once in a prison, the man will talk.”

Philip broke the following silence, not debating the matter, simply going straight to what he found most important as he so often did. “What did you do when you heard this, Niall?”

“I got a list of institutions. Local ones.” Niall said shortly. “I went through the list. There’s one that is notorious in Chicago, a mental asylum of the very worst kind. There’s supposedly floors of that building that officially don’t exist, and rumours that they’ve hidden a number of difficult criminal secrets for decades where a trial wasn’t possible. So I went to their guard room and argued until I saw the admissions logs. A record of who was brought through the gates; that’s all. There’s hundreds of poor souls on the ordinary wards, I knew the approximate dates we were looking at. I found ten admissions, with names and addresses. Nine of those names and addresses are real people, I found their families, neighbours, the background on how they came to be admitted. And one is a false name and address. Which proves nothing at all, except a man was admitted between those dates under a false name and address, I haven’t pursued it further. But if you wanted to incarcerate a man safely and permanently, in a place experienced in his like where he could do no harm, where nothing he said would be listened to, while also transporting him as short a distance as possible with as little attention as possible…..?”

“Seriously?” Wade said, sounding shocked. Niall gave him a grim nod.

“I’ve seen it done. Not in this country, but I’ve seen it done.”

“In fact you could not have stirred up those memories more thoroughly if you had tried.” Philip’s eyes were deeply sympathetic and concerned across the table.

“Of all the cases to start with,” Charlie said with equal concern. “James are you ok with this? It can’t be wise.”

“If this woman died at the hands of a concealed criminal, and is being denied justice because of it, is assisting the concealment of that wise?” Niall asked him, slightly annoyed by this appeal to authority, particularly as James was sitting beside him and not interfering. “She has rights. Her father has rights.”

“What can you realistically do with the case though, Ni?” Charlie pressed. “Even if you had proof, if you expose this man and the government who is safer or better off? If he’s in that asylum they’ve done the best they can in terms of justice for what he was able to do on their watch. If you tell the world he’s there then they’ll have to move him somewhere else, with all the risks that entails, and there’ll be nowhere they can hide him once the country’s been alerted to look out for him. If you expose the government you’re not going to be popular and that’s putting it mildly. What risk could that create for you? Because if he’s who you think he is, and he’s in there with no chance of getting out, I don’t care about him, I care about you.”

That was sincere. As was Charlie’s concern; Niall met his eyes and saw it there. He and Wade were cops, and ex service men; they were neither of them innocent of this kind of thing any more than he and James were.

“You can’t bring a case when there’s no proof of any of it.” Wade pointed out. “Can you? There isn’t anything you can prove.”

“I don’t know yet what I’m going to do.”

David dropped fillets of fish in the pan, dropped the spatula and walked around the table to Niall, stooping to put one long arm around him from behind. With David’s head against his, Niall put his arms up to hug David’s.

“It will be all right. I just need some time to think.”

 

 

 

 

They rode out to the woods on Christmas Eve morning once the stock work was done, and took their time about it, choosing the long way around. A ride through the woods was always one of the most beautiful views on the ranch to Niall and having left Wyoming when the leaves were beginning to fall, it was a pleasure both to spend time with a horse he’d loved for years and missed in Chicago, and to follow well known paths. The smells of pine and crisp air, the sharp cold, the sounds of running water from the river where it had escaped its ice coating, the crack and crunch of snow and earth beneath hooves, they were powerfully familiar and so very different to the rainy gloom and smoke of Chicago. It was a dose of freedom, something that made his chest unknot and the low level headache he’d been carrying for the past few days faded away. David and Charlie argued about, found and cut a pine tree, and Philip’s beloved Shire mare dragged it home behind her without hesitation, striding through deep snow where the other horses had to pick their way.

In the family room they decorated the tree together while the room filled with the scent of fresh pine resin and wood smoke from the logs in the hearth. Niall watched David very gently take the red glass ornaments from the newspaper wrappings and hand them one at a time to Philip; the ornaments that had been Philip’s mother and were now familiar to Niall from many Christmases spent here in this house. It was a ritual now as strong to him as the Christmas rituals from his childhood, something he loved participating in. The radio was on, in anticipation of the Christmas service from Kings College; the sung service from England that Philip tuned to every year.

Charlie, who had spent some minutes fixing the tree firmly in its stand, took a seat on the arm of the couch behind Niall, hooking an arm around his waist. “You all right?”

They’d been good friends for years; Niall had loved Charlie since he first came to this house. Niall leaned against him, appreciating the hug and the discreet but strong message, don’t be mad; I’m just worried about you. And the willingness to ask difficult questions whether or not you wanted to answer them tended to be a strongly inbuilt feature in a good Top.

“I’m good.” Niall told him honestly. “I’ve been missing the ranch. The city is no substitute.”

And Charlie was aware, as James and Philip and David in particular were also aware although no one was saying it, there was more than an open chance of he and James having to move back here if Chicago didn’t work out.

And if it happens it will be because of me. And not taking crazy cases would be a help with that.

They’d talked about it around the dinner table last night, long after the perfectly cooked trout was eaten. David cooked fish like no one else Niall knew cooked fish.

“What is your best option?” David had asked. Taller than any of them, his shoulders bulked at the table when he leaned forward. His hair was wilder than usual and his bright eyes were intense; David had by far the keenest sense of danger of all of them. Niall had seen his instincts at work many times, and trusted them.  

“I basically have only two options as I see it.” Niall said baldly. “One: do nothing. Two: file a Writ of Mandamus.”

“Which is what?” David said just as bluntly. Niall set down his wine glass.

“It would be a complaint served against the District Attorney. Essentially a request to the court to order the DA’s office to bring charges against Novotny for Rose and the Lymingtons’ deaths. To put all of this out in the open in a court of law.”

“But you don’t have the evidence.” Wade was watching him, his eyes anxious under the heavy curly hair. “Are any of your witnesses going to come forward and talk about police and DA cover ups? Especially if you think they’ve been paid off?”

“I won’t have anyone but Mr Byrne.” Niall agreed. “I know. But I can lay out everything I have and it shows, there are lines of inquiry they either didn’t pursue properly or turned away from. It was a lousy job of an investigation going by the inquest. The way Rose fell, apparently from a slip on the stairs. Never explained. Where exactly she struck her head. Never mentioned. I couldn’t see anywhere that would have inflicted the wound described. Mr Byrne’s repeated statements that Novotny was resident in that house and the scar on his arm: a witness with a scar that would be a matter of immediate interest to international agencies, whose presence in the house has never been mentioned.”

“And that scar was described to you by a witness who’s been paid off.” Charlie repeated patiently. “You’ve got a fist full of smoke, that’s all. You can’t prove any of this.”

“But it isn’t about proving it, it’s about putting forward enough that the court compels the DA’s office to do their job. Openly.”

“And if there is a cover up with a powerful family involved, then like Charlie says, they’re not just going to say ok, we’ll stop the cover up now, sorry about that. And they’re not just going to pat you on the head and walk away either.” Wade said hotly. “For God’s sake Niall. You’re trying to start a career, not kill one. Or end up with concrete boots on, dropped in the harbour.”

“Please.” James said firmly. Wade glowered at him.

“It’s Chicago. It happens. If you’d move to freaking Texas like I keep telling you, the worse that’d happen is someone shot you.”

“Which would be so much better,” David said conversationally to Niall. Niall smiled, watching Charlie hook Wade out of his chair, wrestle him down into his lap and nip at Wade’s ear, muttering something that made Wade stop glowering. He’d missed this too. The teasing, the bickering, the easy companionship of this house.

“That was an excellent meal.” Philip picked up his glass, getting to his feet, and while he said it gently it was a tone that invariably got all of them together and moving in the same direction and always had done. Philip just had a presence that seemed to guide people in front of him; Niall had seen him do it many times. “Niall, would you help me with the washing up? And James, perhaps you would put on a record and move the table? I could use some exercise to help digest.”

They washed and put away the dishes while Charlie and David shifted the table out of the way. The kitchen was large, and they’d done this through many evenings for years. In the family room the strains of Glen Miller’s American Patrol began, and Niall, slotting dishes back into the rack, automatically began to sway, marking time. Behind him Charlie caught James’ hand, turned him and James smiled, falling into step with him. The complicated turns and twists and spins they did together were so calmly done, without either of them ever losing the grasp on the other’s hand, the fluidity was beautiful to watch. James was engrossed when he turned his back to the bathroom door, and Wade, emerging innocently still drying his hands, dropped the towel, managed one of the incredible bursts of speed and power his short frame was capable of, and leapfrogged neatly over James’ head. James grabbed for him. Wade backed away, licking a finger and making a mark in the air. “Got you again!”

“Come here!”

Watching James and Charlie subdue Wade together, Niall placed the last plate and Philip smiled at him, offering a hand. He was a beautiful dancer despite the stiff ankle that made his movements more sedate than the vigorous athletics Charlie and Wade revelled in. Niall slid into step with him, feeling his calm as much as the firm pressure of his hand that guided them both so there was no hesitation, no question of which step to take. It was soothing.

After a while they gravitated back to their own partners. Even David would jive for Philip, although his patience didn’t last long. Much more to his taste were the quieter waltzes on the second record James set; those he would do for hours with Philip. From James’ arms, Niall watched him, the taller of the two, surprisingly graceful in this, moulded close to Philip and Philip was a strong lead but only David ever flowed with him like this, as if he’d been made to do it. Niall loved to watch them. The contentment of the two of them together filled this house, it flowed from it, and it welcomed you inside its warmth to join them.

Philip sent him and James to bed not long afterwards on the grounds that they looked as if they needed it, dispatching them upstairs with cocoa to ward against the chill of the night wind against the windows. Philip was perhaps the one man in this world that James would take orders from; not that Philip ever made them feel like orders, but it made Niall look more closely at James’ face and watch the line of his shoulders, concerned that Philip was seeing signs of strain that he’d missed.

Of course you must be tired; I’m worrying you crazy. It would have been worrying enough if I’d been taking normal, sane cases.

The warmth of the fire had spread upstairs, their room was comfortably cool, and in the soft depths of this familiar double bed Niall curled into James’ arms and hugged him. James stroked his neck and back, his long fingers moving slowly and thoroughly over him bone by bone. Outside in the dark a cow lowed the soft, harrumphing low of a cow in conversation.

“If I’m pushing this too far,” Niall said quietly into his neck, “If you think we need to stop, then we stop.”

“I know this is important to you.”

“Perhaps I’ve had my fair share of crusades and I don’t need to seek out more.” Niall turned his cheek against the smooth, fine line of James’ collarbone, nudging deeper beneath his chin. “It’s hard enough trying to make this work in the city without me getting stuck out on stoops in the snow and scaring you to death-”

“Which was a simple error of judgement, which we dealt with.” James interrupted him steadily, “Which I expected to deal with. We’re in a different situation and temptation is all around you in new ways that we’re learning how to manage, and mistakes are a part of any learning. What matters is whether we have the right rules in place.”

“It would be more to the point if I obeyed them.” Niall said, not without shame. He felt the firm pressure of James’ lips against his forehead.

“I assure you I will see to it that we achieve that. I believe you found Charlie’s paddle quite convincing.”

“Yes.” Niall said, flushing. He felt James’ chuckle.

“Then it’s merely a matter of necessary repetition, isn’t it? Niall, I never expected you to find the safe or tame cases. It isn’t in you. And that was not what we chose our district for.”

“I think Philip is worried that you’re stressed. And tired.” Niall pushed up far enough to search James’ eyes, anxious about the faintest possible sign of tightness around them. James cupped a hand around his head and pulled him back down, shifting to make them both comfortable.

“No, Philip merely knows that we are settling into a new place, in a new routine, and none of us expected the transition to be effortless. It is perfectly sensible to rest and relax while we’re here. Decide what you think is best to do, darling. It’s your job, and I believe you’ll come to the right decision.”

 

 

 

The stock work took a couple of hours on Christmas morning. It was good to do the familiar, hard and physical work together and to be outside where the land stretched out in all directions, snow covered and bright, on a clear and bitterly cold morning. They ate a hot breakfast on their return, and not long after that people began to arrive. A couple of the single men from Three Traders who knew David. The stockman came over from the bunkhouse, shy but an interesting man that Niall quickly took to and settled with in the nook by the fireplace. It was Philip and David who had taught him to overcome his own shyness with strangers and taught him their own warmth to any neighbour or visitor. It had served Niall well in Chicago so far; their approach to people worked on any soil. An older couple arrived who lived over on one of the smaller ranches over west of them, who were particular friends of David’s. And the Sheriff who arrived with fingers scarlet with cold from driving, and brought with him a ham the size of a cupboard. Niall helped David and Philip with dinner preparations and the setting of the large table in the kitchen, and the fixing of a couple of porch roof slates, and a rewired plug and the displacing of spare chairs from the barn to the house since David rarely did just one thing at a time and rarely finished any one of the multiple things he was doing either unless Philip was watching. It was long habit to join in and to close the circles David created with energy as the interest or need caught him; as someone who operated in long, large and complicated projects, Niall had always found David’s swift line of varying short activities rather soothing.

They ate ham and three roasted chickens from the Bluewater ranch where Mrs Jefferson ran them to boost the income from their small cattle herd. The bread was fresh baked and so was the stuffing; the vegetables were from the outside store or canned or bottled from the vegetable patch outside under the snow, and the apple pies were made from apples Niall had helped to can in summer this year. Good food and plentiful, much of it grown on this land. The table was crowded and noisy and the conversation was warm. It was past seven pm when their last guests left, and nearly eight pm when they walked down through the snowy woods with torches from where they’d left the truck parked, and reached the bank where the hot springs steamed. There was a kind of peculiarly masochistic joy to bathing here in the snow; the contrast of bitter cold to heat. David built a fire on the bank which cast flickering light across the rocks and out across the water, and Niall stripped quickly to the skin, sliding fast into the deep water. It was so hot tonight that he yelped as he stepped down into the water, the steam rising was thick, but here in the rushing of the river and the brightness of a clear, star lit sky above them…. Life felt good again. Powerfully good.

James followed him down into the water, and David, naked and oblivious to the cold, gripped Philip’s arm to steady him as Philip stepped across the rocks to join them. For a while the six of them just sat there neck deep in the steaming water and there was no need to say anything, the pleasure of being here was too strong. Then Charlie propped his arms along the top ledge of rocks and looked across to Niall.

“All right. What are we going to do about this?”

“Tops.” Wade said in protest. “No sense of timing…”

“I think it’s very good timing,” James said calmly. “We’re all together.”

“We’re supposed to be enjoying ourselves.”

“That might be more effective if no one has to edge around the elephant in the room.” Philip agreed. “I do prefer to address the elephant.”

David cast him a sardonic look.

“Did you plan on things getting this bad?” Charlie said frankly to James. “I haven’t seen Niall have an episode that bad in a few years now, none of us have, and that scared me. Ni, it’s no good looking daggers at me. If it’s affecting you that much, and James is getting left in situations like the one I found him in last week, I need to ask and James would expect me to, we love you two.”

“It’s been worse than usual,” Niall said shortly, mostly to protect James from having to answer. “We knew it would be, we handle it the way we’ve always done,”

“The move, the setting up of a business, is inevitably stressful.” James sounded far calmer than he did. “Yes, I expected this. We both did.”

“We have rules to manage it and I broke them.” Niall said even more sharply. “If I’d done what I was supposed to, I’d have come home and we’d have handled it like we always handle the low level ones. It was my fault it got out of control.”

“That’s happened to all of us.” David said flatly. “It goes with the territory.”

“Indeed.” Philip drew David over between his knees, folding both arms around his chest. David leaned back against him at the prompting, but his eyes were dark and watchful and he was not relaxed. Philip held him, apparently not noticing. “Following rules being something James will address, the bigger question appears to me to be: what can we practically do to help?”

“While they figure out whether they can do this or they give up and come home?” David said shortly.

“Yep.” Wade said from across the pool.

“No, because the whole point is that they want to do it.” David made an attempt to stir from Philip’s arms and Philip didn’t move very much but David didn’t get anywhere. Having seen Philip’s strength and dexterity in managing a difficult horse or a difficult brat, it was something Niall was used to. “If they want to then it’s only about the how.”

“Yes, we definitely do want to.” James said in agreement to him, and James was usually good at calming David. “That has not changed. We’re agreed on that.”

David gave him a sharp nod. “Then it’s nothing more than how do we make it work.”

“If I wasn’t tied up in this case it would be much less complicated, that part is my fault.” Niall said to David. Who snorted.

“Well that’s simple enough. File the bloody case, get it over with. Stuff in your writ of whatever, it’s all the tangoing around the edges of it that’s stressful.”

“It’s going to be a lot to get involved with.” Charlie said gently. David shook his head.

“Do you believe he can do it?”

“Well obviously.” Wade said, somewhat indignantly. “He’s done it for years, of course he can.”

“Exactly. It’s his kind of case, it’s on his doorstep. Sort it out.”

That was a very David kind of approach.

“It’s going to be like poking a hornets’ nest.” Niall explained to him. “I don’t know exactly what may happen, but Charlie was right the other night; it’s going to cause problems.”

“So deal with the problems.” David gave him a flat shrug, and Niall was used to both David’s practicality in problem solving and in independence, and his brisk decisions. “It’s the mucking about that’s stressful. Get on with it, do it, you’re not going to talk yourself out of it and that’s all you’re really trying to do.”

“You didn’t see him sitting on a stoop in the snow.” Wade muttered.

“Neither did you.” Charlie reminded Wade, who grimaced at him. David sent a splash of water in Wade’s direction.

“James is more than capable of keeping them both safe. If that’s what you’re stuck on then I’ll go to bloody Chicago and follow him around myself until we’ve got it sorted.”

“I think we can handle it,” James said with affection. “But thank you.”

“We do respect that you’re doing this yourselves.” Philip said calmly. “Some of us more willingly than others, but we do.”

“We just want this to work for you.” Charlie reached over to grip Niall’s hand. “Ok. If you’re putting in this writ-”

“Just get it bloody written.” David slid deeper in the water against Philip. “Get on with it, for pete’s sake.”

Part 5

They returned home and walked across to the court house on the 2nd of January where Niall filed the writ. James came with him to do it, waiting quietly at the back of the hall while Niall worked with the court clerk at the window. And with the writ filed, they waited.

It should have taken thirty days before a response came: in fact Niall received a telegram at home only nine days later commanding him to present himself in court the following morning.

“That’s interesting. Unusually quick action, as if that’s rattled some cages. And it’s a closed meeting.” Niall said dryly to James when he showed him the telegram. James, who had been working on yet more notes, raised his eyebrows, laying down his pen to survey the terse message. “Which means what?”

“Largely that whatever is said shouldn’t be available to the general public.”

“This is the hornet’s nest stirred, isn’t it?”

“We knew it would be.” Niall said frankly. “Yes. It is. Here we go.”

James retrieved his pen and began to order his pages on the desk. “Very well. I’ll come with you.”

“James, you can’t hold my hand through everything. This is my job.”

James continued to work on his notes, not troubling to look around. “I think you will find I can, Niall. Not to mention that this is not an average case.”

That was difficult to deny.

James therefore waited in the marble hall outside the court room through the following morning’s meeting. Niall had predicted that it would either be very short or very long; James was not surprised when ten minutes after entering, Niall re emerged, took his coat from James and put it on in short, sharp movements that betrayed fury. His eyes were blazing. James waited for him to fasten his coat and resume his hat, and held the door for him. It was a foggy day outside, the mist from the river and the smoke from many coal fires had mixed and it hung in the street heavily, yellowed, muffling the traffic and thick enough that the other side of the street was invisible. They were halfway down the steps before Niall said very shortly,

“The judge threw it out. Emphatically threw it out.”

“On what grounds?”

“He spent almost the entire time raking me down about that.” Niall didn’t look in the slightest bit abashed by it either, and James knew his expression well. A will of absolute iron occupied that apparently fragile frame: if Niall was truly convinced he was right, then nothing stopped him. “It’s a frivolous submission. In his opinion. There is no evidence, a great deal of hearsay, speculation, baseless and irresponsible accusations against a reputable and grieving family, no witnesses prepared to speak – Rose’s father apparently doesn’t count, I couldn’t get a word in edgewise long enough to ask why – it’s disgraceful I should file a writ under these circumstances, I’ve wasted his time and that of the DAs office, and there was a great deal more on young lawyers with more thriller novels than sense. The DA apparently has a great deal of discretion to make appropriate decisions and it is not for the likes of me to harass or question them. Apparently.”

“Mr Carey?”

Niall paused and turned with James. The man in the dark coat coming out of the fog and walking down the steps after them was middle aged and nondescript in appearance.

“He was in the meeting, along with the DA.” Niall muttered to James, “His role was never exactly mentioned. Yes, may I help you?”

“Parker.” The man extended a hand to Niall, who took it somewhat warily.

“What can I do for you Mr Parker?”

The man slipped a card from his breast pocket and opened it slightly, enough for James to glimpse, with a surge of alarm, what Niall was being shown. The identity was an FBI one.

“Perhaps I could speak with you for a moment? Shall we?”

Well there were no black cars in sight and Niall looked unshaken. They walked slowly with the man down the wide steps to a quiet spot where the man took a seat.

“I’m aware of your record Mr Carey. I’m not sure the judge was, but I read your involvement with the army with great interest. I’m well aware that this isn’t by any means your first dance with a court.” He looked up at James with a rather friendly smile for someone with a sinister ID badge. “And this would be Mr Weld, who shares rooms with you and whose military career is also an interesting one.”

“Was it Novotny’s name that was tagged, or the Lymingtons?” Niall said calmly. The man gave him a wry smile.

“Let’s say the writ came rapidly to our attention once you filed it. Would you care to come with me on a visit? You have my word, gentlemen both of you, that you’re quite safe. Regard this please as a gesture of trust on our part. Or rather of deserved respect.”

The taxi moved slowly through the fogged streets. It took them to the gates of an enormous Victorian building that stretched out to many wings in many directions. Another name was now on the gates but James knew it’s traditional name in the city. Dunning asylum. The place Niall had visited a few weeks ago. Another discreetly suited man was waiting for them at the gatehouse. Other than briefly checking identification, the asylum staff on duty appeared subdued and anxious to please. They were led inside the massive stone building through several locked doors where a third and even more grim looking man waited for them. The sounds coming from distant and unseen corridors were not pleasant: they were human voices but few were making particularly human sounds. In a hallway, Parker nodded to James and his colleague.

“This is the superintendent of the asylum. If you two gentlemen would like to wait there? Mr Carey is the only one authorised to come with me past this point.”

To do what to him? James found himself taking a half step in front of Niall, straightening the additional inch that brought him to his full height, but Niall’s hand brushed his arm.

“James, it’s all right.”

He sounded sure. He followed Parker and the grim looking superintendent through another locked door that the superintendent unlocked personally. The colleague seated himself on a stone bench and gave James a look of some curiosity. “You served as a guard in Nuremberg prison, didn’t you?”

It was not reassuring to understand that the FBI had done their research on both of them. Watching the door through which Niall had been taken, James kept his voice level. “I did.”

“What was it like?” the man sounded genuinely as if he wanted to know. James glanced at him, then back at the whitewashed stone walls around them.

“Not dissimilar to this. Very large. Stone built. Long and wide hallways. About the same degree of dilapidation.”

The man nodded slowly.

They waited perhaps ten minutes. Then the door opened and Niall walked with Parker and the superintendent back into the hallway. Niall was white; James couldn’t read his face. The superintendent saw them in silence through the lock system of hallways, gates and doors until he let them out of the final one, and they stood in the driveway outside the enormous building. The escape from the distant and haunting cries and shouts was a relief. fog was worse now; it was hard to see as far as the road and a slow drizzle had started.

“So now you’ve seen him. Do you know his real identity?” Parker said quietly to Niall. Niall shook his head.

“I could make educated guesses. I knew the ‘wanted’ lists quite well at one time, and from his professional field… It would not be hard to work out, but no. I haven’t researched it.”

“Are you convinced he’s no danger to anyone where he is?”

“You’re confirming then that he is responsible for the deaths of Rose Byrne and the Lymingtons?”

“I’m confirming nothing.” Parker set his hat on his head, straightening it. “I’m asking if you’re convinced.”

“Have you questioned him?”

“Out of respect for your involvement in European trials, my department has authorised me to share this information with you.” Parker said, ignoring the question. “We trust of course that you will continue your longstanding service to national security by not identifying Novotny’s history or location, because you understand more than most what his history has been.”

“He’s still entitled to an open, fair trial.” Niall said grimly, and to James’ ear he sounded furious. “In Europe that was what we did. We believed that regardless of what someone had done or what we felt about it, we had to do the objectively right thing to the same equal standard of justice any citizen is entitled to. That every single one of them was entitled to fair trial, by the book, properly defended. Nothing hole and corner. Nothing that ever descended to their level.”

“As I said, we do respect that.” Parker said quite gently. “But this is a different place and time, Mr Carey. Novotny will never leave here. He will have no further chance to harm an American citizen. And we will also, of course, correct the mistake of the inquest and ensure that the police and DA’s office treat Miss Byrne’s death appropriately, as an open and unsolved homicide.”

It was so politely done. Not a stated ‘if you will say nothing then we will give you Rose Byrne’s verdict…’ but the implication was obvious.

“Under those circumstances it can never be anything more than an unsolved homicide.” Niall said. It wasn’t a question.

Parker nodded slowly. “Yes. But her family will have the satisfaction of the crime against her recognised by state and government.”

“But not justice. Not justice they’ve seen and been part of. And what about the Lymingtons?”

“I can’t discuss the decisions of the Lymington Family, Mr Carey.”

“So Lymington Senior knew who he was sheltering.”

“Let’s say there was a team around Novotny whose failures have been investigated.” Parker said gently. “And perhaps people have learned that it’s not always possible to keep a pet shark, no matter what precautions are taken. I can’t say more, Mr Carey. But in as much as justice can be done for Miss Byrne, my department wished for you to see the evidence of it. And be assured that the DA’s office will re open Miss Byrne’s case. Good day to you Mr Carey. Mr Weld.” Parker tipped his hat politely to the both of them and walked towards his colleague who was waiting by a car. Niall watched them climb in and the car pulled away, disappearing into the fog. The cab, waiting patiently by the gates, was clearly for them.

James waited, watching the set of Niall’s head and jaw. There were times when he recognised the fire there and knew not to touch, not to speak; just to wait. Finally Niall strode towards the cab and opened the door, waiting for James to get in.

He didn’t speak all the way back to their apartment. James hung their coats on the stand by the door, watching Niall stalk to the window and stand there, staring out at the street.

“He knows he’s got me.” Niall said finally, without turning. “The judge had the FBI and the DA’s office breathing down his neck to shut me down and dismiss the writ, and Parker knows he’s got me. There’s nothing I can do. It is wrong, and there is nothing I can do. This is not what the law is for.”

James drew out a chair at the table and sat, quietly, watching him and listening. Niall linked his hands behind his head, staring out at the street. James was prepared; he realised it as he waited. He was prepared for this to be the end, the setback that broke Niall’s will to be here and made all this immense effort of living off the ranch too great a price to pay. They had been ready for this; it was why the apartment and the office were merely rented. They had been aware that this experiment, this great risk might not work. And yet James dreaded it. He dreaded seeing Niall surrender and see the disillusionment in his eyes. In the appalling, terrible cases Niall had researched and prepared in Europe, the thousands of hours of testimony, the hours of driving to place after place with the darkest of histories, the photographs, the organising of it all – his faith had always been fixed in the justice system. That the law made the decisions, the rightness of law was what mattered; it was the belief that all the legal teams held to that got them through each case. And it had never let him down.

Until a dark, damp American city in winter.

“I need to speak to Byrne.” Niall said very shortly at the window, dropping his hands. “I need to return Rose’s belongings to him and let him know the verdict will be changed.”

“I don’t want you to go alone.”

Niall grabbed his coat and hat. “I’ll be careful, I promise. I need the walk.”

And he needed the time to think. Most likely to reach the point of being able to admit it to himself if he wanted to go home. And home was in Wyoming. Aching for him, James listened to the door close quietly and Niall’s footfall moving down the street.

 

 

 

 

            Rose’s box of belongings was on the desk of his office. Niall walked there first, shoulders hunched against the winter wind which was cutting, collar turned up high. He was numbed through most of it, with the same thoughts rolling through his head in a steady wave. He didn’t notice most of the streets he walked down. It was only as he descended the dark steps to his basement that he stopped, startled at the several faces that immediately lifted to his in the gloom. A woman in a battered hat, clutching her bag. A man in a threadbare jacket, scarf wound tight around his neck. An elderly couple, arm in arm. The woman in the battered hat nodded to him, moving closer to the wall to let him pass.

“Mr Carey.”

“Mr Carey,” the elderly man from the couple murmured in turn. It was a greeting, not a question, and a surprisingly respectful one. Niall made his way slowly down the steps, startled out of his reverie.

“Good….” he made a few hurried calculations, “…afternoon. Were you waiting for me?”

“This man was first,” the elderly man said, indicating the man with the scarf. Niall unlocked the door to his office and held it open, stooping to pick up an envelope that appeared to have been slid under the door.

“Thank you. Won’t you come in, Mr….?”

“Plietker.” The man’s German accent was thick. Niall closed the door behind him and waved him to a chair.

“Mr Plietker. Happy New Year to you. Won’t you sit down?”

By the time the woman with the handbag made her way back up to the street, Niall was looking at three hurriedly started case files on the desk in front of him. Three. Small matters, relatively easily addressed ones, but the trust had been in all four of the faces. You’ll help, won’t you?

Three. And two of them had mentioned Mr Byrne, the word spread in gossip around the streets, a lawyer who would take the small cases, the hopeless cases. The envelope that had been pushed under the door held a small crest on the seal. Niall picked it up and tore it open. The lines were short and to the point. He turned out the basement lamp, picked up the box and walked out into the still murky streets.

He had been, once before, to this neighbourhood where the Lymington house was. The address was a neighbouring house, just as elegant, but the gates stood wide and a housemaid answered Niall’s ring at the door.

He left Rose’s belongings with his coat and hat in the hall and was shown through to a library. Six women were seated there, and five of them wore veils. They ranged, Niall thought, from early twenties to mid forties. Immaculately and expensively dressed, the scent of Parisian perfume was heavy in the room, and all six of them fixed him with a coldness of stare that chilled Niall to the blood. The veils were opaque, but he could feel the fixed eyes. The single unveiled woman rose to meet him and she did not offer a hand. She could have moonlighted as a gorgon; her stiff hair and her eyelashes were terrifying.

“Mr Carey. I understand that you have been making most vulgar inquiries regarding the Lymingtons.”

The crispness of her speech spoke of a middle aged debutante, no doubt the very expensive wife of a very expensive man, most likely a friend or satellite of Lymington Senior. As Niall looked further at the group he recognised several of them from the newspapers through the shadow of their veils. This coven were more usually seen in glittering evening dresses or accepting flowers from small children while running or opening society events than intimidating very young lawyers. Here sat the first female rank of Chicago society, radiating distaste at him. 

“Those inquiries are completed.” Niall said politely. “May I ask whom I have the pleasure of addressing?”

“You may not,” the woman said coldly. “You may cease and desist immediately insulting the memory of the Lymingtons, or I shall be personally forced to take action against you.”

“Well I shall look forward to that.” Niall said even more politely, losing patience. “Good afternoon.”

“Mr Carey,” the woman said imperatively as Niall turned to leave. “What exactly has been completed?”

“I thought you required me to cease and desist?” Niall pointed out. “The inquiries have been to do with Miss Byrne, a maid in the household. That is all.”

“And the result?”

“Will be for the District Attorney to decide, but I believe the verdict on her death will change from accidental to unsolved homicide. And I do not believe that Mr Lymington will be implicated within that verdict.”

The atmosphere in the room was no less frosty but it changed. Niall felt it. The woman went to a desk and took up an envelope which she presented to Niall from sufficient distance to avoid being infected by him.

“I believe you are acting for Miss Byrne’s next of kin. Please see this reaches them. You may contact the lawyer named in the letter if you should have further questions. Good day Mr Carey.”

The five other women were still staring coldly at him through their veils as he left.

 

 

 

 

Mr Byrne lived in an even older building than they did, and if Niall had to guess he was sharing with friends or relatives. He came out of a crowded single room apartment to the hallway where he grasped Niall’s hand, looking somewhat bewildered.

“I didn’t expect to see you for a while – you said it would be a few weeks yet before an answer from the District Attorney-”

“I have the answer, I met with the judge and several other interested parties this morning. Rose’s case will be re opened and the verdict will be changed to unsolved homicide. An open investigation.” Niall swallowed the rest of it, hating himself and hating even more the rush of relief and release in the man’s face as Byrne grabbed his hand.

“Thank you. Thank you, Mr Carey. I’m very grateful to you, I don’t know what to say-”  

“It’s the very least I can do for you and Rose.” Niall interrupted him, not able to bear any more. “These are Rose’s belongings, I brought them from the house. There’s also a letter, but it’s a legal letter and I would like permission to open it on your behalf.”

“Who is it from?”

“A Mrs Hilton’s attorney. It may be requesting that I cease inquiries as I’ve been stepping on toes about the Lymingtons. In which case I will deal with it and you need not be bothered by it.”

“Well open away.” Byrne leaned on the battered wall, watching Niall tear open the envelope. Niall read the contents. Then he read it again. Then he handed it to Mr Byrne.

Byrne scanned through the several sentences, and looked in silence at the enclosure of the envelope. Then he looked up at Niall, bewildered. “Is it hush money this is? Is it paying me to stop talking? This is a lot of money!”

“I don’t believe it is hush money, Mr Byrne.” Niall said it gently. “It seems likely to me that this is the Lymington family acting through a friend or associate, and that this is the compensation to Rose’s family that they feel is deserved. She was their employee, I believe this is an expression of their regret to you, and I have to say from conversations I have had today, I think that it is sincere. I’m very glad for you.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

He passed a bakery on the way home and paused to buy a cheesecake. It was an extravagance, but the novelty of passing shops and being able to choose items as the impulse took him was still very new. The lights were on in the window of their apartment as he walked down their street. It was cold and drizzling and already starting to get dark at barely 4pm, but the window light was warm and welcoming, and the battered apartment building door was beginning to be familiar. Niall let himself in, finding James at the kitchen table, reading by the warmth of the stove. He looked up and Niall saw his face change as he saw the cheesecake, and…

Not the depths of despair.

Niall hung his coat up, put the cheesecake on the table and came to put his arms around James’ neck from behind, kissing his cheek.

“I have three new cases.”

“How?”

“There was a line of people waiting on my office steps. Apparently the word is getting around that I’m happy to annoy the DA’s office.”

James sat back in his chair to watch Niall wash his hands at the stone sink. “And?”

“And I received a letter and enclosure from the Lymingtons – or I believe it comes from the Lymington family – for Mr Byrne. I believe they’ve attempted to take care of Rose’s dependents.”

“And you’re feeling better about it.”

“Well under the circumstances, it’s an improvement.” Niall brought a plate and knife to the table and opened the cheesecake box. “It’s very far from perfect. But then it is not a perfect system. And the whole point of coming here to work in it is to do my damnedest to improve it, so there’s no point in giving up at the first fence, is there?”  

James looked at him for a moment, searching his eyes and seeing the energy in them. And then he got up, took Niall’s face in his hands and kissed him.

It was late that night when they were settled in bed beneath the draughty window when Niall abruptly snapped out of a gathering doze and rolled over.

“The cup. I forgot about the cup.”

“What about the cup?”

“Well where is it? Novotny doesn’t have it.”

Niall hadn’t spoken of the circumstances in which he’d seen the man known to Rose Byrne under the alias of Novotny, but James could imagine them, and personal possessions would not be involved. Niall stared at the ceiling.

“What did they do with the cup?”

 

 

*

 

 

Dale, listening from the couch, had long since opened his eyes and moved to watch Niall’s face. Niall gave him a wry smile.

“So there I was. Enmeshed in a truly abysmal coverup I could do nothing about, but Byrne got something from it. Actually, other things were quietly extended his way too over the next couple of years, I was aware of them. He spent some years working as a repairman on one of those big estate houses, not for the Lymingtons themselves but I’m sure for a connected family on their behalf.”

“What became of Novotny? Or whoever he was? Did you ever find out?”

“I never formally researched his actual identity, but I felt a great sense of responsibility as to where he was and what happened to him.” Niall said bleakly. “The section of the asylum he was housed in had a number of difficult criminal patients, too insane or extreme to take to trial. They were hidden right down in the bowels of the place in amongst the many, many wards for the mentally ill and those wards were bad enough. I swear Dale, I will never forget what I saw on that basement level. I visited a few times for cases regarding other patients, I never saw Novotny again but the supervisor spoke to me once or twice about him under the alias the asylum knew him by. I always asked. Some years later, after James and I moved to Michigan, the place was reorganised and much of the buildings were adapted or knocked down, and I know that particular basement no longer existed by that point. Which would suggest to me that the last of those inmates down there had passed away; they weren’t men who could have ever have been safely moved anywhere else. Most of the place is long gone now. There’s a memorial park covering some of the grounds. Do I continue to feel bad about Novotny? Yes. I always will. It was wrong. However it provided me with a steady flood of people who knew I would battle with the DA’s office. And the DA’s office in fact became rather inured to me, having seen I was somewhat reluctantly part of the discretion around Novotny. It was a glorious failure of a first case, it really was.”

“And you had a meeting a few days ago regarding it?”

“Yes.” Niall’s wine glass was nearly empty in his hands. He took another sip, the firelight sending streaks of red through strawberry blond hair. “James and I were packing to take our flight out here when a courier brought me an envelope. I recognised the crest. It was the same one as was on the envelope I was given by that witches’ coven to take to Mr Byrne. From a Chicago address. Requesting that I attend a meeting in Chicago in my formal capacity the following morning.”

 

 

*

 

 

He and James had travelled to Chicago many times on various work related issues over the years, but it had been a long time since Niall had walked into this neighbourhood. Chicago had been vigorously renovated through the 50s and 60s. The red brick apartment block where he and James had rented their first rooms had long since been demolished, and the district where the tenements of Mr Byrne and many of Niall’s first clients had once stood was redeveloped out of all recognition. Smog no longer hung in these streets in the winter, and the old properties on the river had disappeared beneath buildings of the 60s and 70s. In the last twenty years those had given way in their turn to shiny high rises. Modernity raged in all directions. However in one small corner of what had once been the street of elegant, Grecian mansions, one single old house remained, squeezed and dwarfed between the new tower blocks. The Lymington house. Dilapidated now, with a number of the windows broken and boarded on the upper floors, and what had once been immaculately trimmed lawns were beds of weeds and stacked rubbish.

James accompanied him up the path. It was the original front door, still secure, although the once polished wood was chipped, scratched and worn.

“This is not going to take long,” James warned him, glancing at his watch while they waited. Niall shook his head.

“We’ve hardly come all the way to Chicago to say sorry, no time to talk, we have a flight to take?”

“We do have a flight to take, which we will be making, since we will not be travelling through the night.” James said calmly. “If necessary we will make an appointment with these people to return and discuss in more detail in the new year. They wanted your services and will wait for you; we will not rearrange for them.”

“Depending on how this meeting goes,” Niall began. James interrupted him.

“If this meeting fails to be contained to allowing us to meet that flight then the delay will provide time to incorporate a visit with our old friend, Mr Speaker.”

“James.”

Niall just about swallowed the hiss with the dignity required of an elderly and senior judge in a public place. Charlie’s paddle was in its third incarnation: somehow Charlie had managed a complete reproduction every time a replacement was required, right down to the friendly lettering. It had become known at some point as Mr Speaker in their house, mostly due to James having been forced while accompanying Niall to listen to much bickering in the senate and in the British house of commons, and remarking that Mr Speaker appeared to be the ultimate appeal to authority. It meant, unfortunately, James was also perfectly able to warn him rein it in now or else, in full hearing of anyone who happened to be around them.

Charlie had a lot to answer for.

The door was opened by a man in a suit who bore all the signs of being an attorney. He stepped aside at once.

“Judge Carey. Do come in please sir.”

“Thank you. This is my secretary, James Weld.”

That was a white lie that had been saving them problems for approaching six decades now. The hallway was much the same as it had looked the day the chauffer had shown him around. Colder. Greyer. Older. The furniture lay under sheets which had once been white. Niall suspected they were the same sheets that had been here on his first visit, untouched and unmoved. They were thick with dust when he touched one. The once red carpets were greyed with dust in the hall and up the stairs. The attorney closed the front door.

“Would you come this way, sir?”

He led them through several large rooms on the ground floor towards the back of the house. Chandeliers hung silently above them. Paintings looked down from the walls. Through an arch way, a garden room became apparent. The ceiling was glassed. The windows were opaque with decades of dust and dirt, but Niall could just about make out the river beyond them. The building sat directly on the riverbank, a stone dropped from a window here would land in the water as Mrs Lymington had, falling from the upstairs window. Dried up plants were still in their pots and containers, withered trees spread their empty branches. In amongst this odd, withered forest, sat seven women. One more than last time; apparently the Chicago coven had grown.

All but one were veiled. One sat in a wheelchair, her hands and fingers sticklike on the arms. Elderly women. But the scent of Parisian perfume was still in the air. The elderly woman who rose gracefully from the sofa had stiff hair which was white now; perfect makeup, an expensive dress, and she held out a hand.

“Judge Carey.”

Her voice hadn’t changed since their last meeting.

“Good morning Mrs Hilton.” Niall took her hand. She grasped it and guided him to a sheet covered love seat.

“Please do sit down. Mr Weld, good morning.”

Niall and James took a seat together. Mrs Hilton sat too. The silent, veiled women around her watched, as they’d watched at the last meeting.

“Thank you for coming all this way,” Mrs Hilton said levelly.

“Is this meeting also arranged on behalf of the Lymington family?” Niall inquired. Mrs Hilton shook her head.

“The descendants of the family are few and no longer live in the state. You may be interested to know that our first meeting was not arranged by or for the Lymington family either. The seven of us act quite independently. We always have.”

“You required me to cease investigations and provided compensation to Rose Byrne’s father.” Niall pointed out. “Both in the interests of the Lymington family.”

Mrs Hilton inclined her head. “Perhaps it can be said that our interests coincided. The Lymington family were unaware that we met with you. Or that we arranged for the interests of Mr Byrne among ourselves.”

“Perhaps you ladies might identify yourselves to me.” Niall said courteously. “I did of course originally recognise a couple of you. Mrs Aston. Mrs Wychbold.”

“Who we are makes little difference.” Mrs Hilton crossed her ankles neatly below the hem of her immaculate skirt. “In 1953 you served a writ against the District Attorney’s office to investigate a Mr Novotny’s role in the murder of Rose Byrne.”

“I did. I would imagine you became aware of this through your husband, who I believe was an employee of Mr Lymington Senior, as well as his friend.”

“Quite. I am further aware that you visited the man known as Novotny in the asylum where he was incarcerated, and that you of all people would have recognised him for what he was. I am sure you realise that several of our husbands were involved at the time in the supervision and keeping of Novotny. A government agent was stationed in the house, he worked as a valet for Mr Lymington as cover, but his purpose was to guard and supervise Novotny. Novotny was intended by government to advise on some sensitive industrial projects under charge of the Lymingtons for a period of six months. Mrs Lymington was a friend of ours. We were aware of the difficulties she and her husband endured in housing such a guest, but their home was the most remote and secure. We hoped with her that Novotny would be swiftly moved on.”

“However that hope was proven a forlorn one when he assaulted and murdered Mrs Lymington. Her husband and Rose Byrne died in the ensuing struggle.” Niall said with gentle coldness that matched Mrs Hilton’s.

Mrs Hilton’s eyes dropped for the first time in the conversation. “As you suspected. The agent – the valet – allowed himself to be sent out of the house on an errand. A mistake. Novotny took advantage of his absence. Burke Lymington heard his wife cry out, and he and Novotny fought. Burke was shot by his own gun in the struggle. Rose attempted to prevent Mrs Lymington coming to further harm. She died defending her.”

“But the bedroom door was locked from the inside, and Rose died on the stairs.”

“No. The door was not locked until long afterwards, when we left it so.” Mrs Hilton sounded certain of this. “We staged the scene the police discovered.”

“You staged it?” Niall surveyed her, startled. “You, as a group?”

One of the women sitting so upright and still lifted her hands and removed her hat and veil. The women around her did the same. Elderly women, immaculately coiffed and made up, but one of the faces struck Niall immediately. It was much older now, but she was delicate, the elfin look was still around her eyes, and when she smiled she still looked like a little girl inside a costume.

“Because of me, Judge Carey. I’m afraid this is all my fault.”

“Sylvia Varren.” Niall said slowly. “Mrs Lymington. The body that was never found.”

“Rose and I together fought Novotny after my husband was shot.” Mrs Lymington sounded as if that had become no easier to say even after all this time. “I smashed a brass flower bowl over his head in the struggle. Novotny was unconscious. Rose died a few moments later. I was with her when she died. I knew Burke was dead. For those moments I was alone in the house. I was able to telephone my friends; the houses were close if you remember. We acted swiftly, and we did not disturb Rose or my husband. We tied Novotny and ensured he was safe. I was bleeding from several minor injuries. I opened the window in the bedroom and I placed my blood on the window ledge. I then locked the room from the inside and I left through the private connecting door to my husband’s rooms down the hall. It’s a concealed door; the privacy granted to conjugal visits in grand houses, Mr Carey. The police didn’t notice it.”

“Why?” Niall asked her. “How did you come to make so immediate a decision-”

“To disappear? To fake my own death?” Mrs Lymington gave him a somewhat deaths head smile. “Mr Carey, I’d lost Burke. In the most hideous of circumstances. Rose was dead. Every instinct I had was screaming at me to flee and never come back. Burke and I had lived with that – maniac – for weeks under the orders of my father in law, despite all our protests. I knew that even now they would put the concealment of Novotny first. And my friends supported me in this. When the agent returned, he found Novotny tied on the landing and the poor man called for back up and he and his colleagues made sense of the scene as best he could. There was of course nothing Novotny could have said that the agents or indeed any of my friends’ husbands or my father in law would have listened to; they were dismissed as the ravings of a maniac. It was assumed officially that Novotny had murdered me and Rose, that my husband had fought and subdued him, and then committed suicide in grief at his failure and my murder. The agents of course removed Novotny and every trace of his ever being in the house before they called the police. You know the rest.”

“You did not trust the agents or your father in law.”

“Judge Carey, I saw my husband murdered by a man who should never have been brought onto American soil.” Mrs Lymington said soberly. “I knew who he was. I was oh so aware of the wrongness and of the dangers of us sheltering him in our home. It was a political secret I wanted no part of, one foisted upon us by my father in law, and I knew very well I was a witness. I wanted only to escape from it all and to never come back. My friends knew of it all. They understood. They assisted me to create the scene that allowed me to escape. They moved quietly to keep information from my father in law and their husbands, and they made the arrangements for me to disappear. I can only hope you have such friends who would do the same for you.”

….Yes. Reflecting on a house in Wyoming, Niall understood that.  

“And you gave the money to Mr Byrne why?” Niall asked. “Guilt?”

“Because Rose was my friend.” Mrs Lymington said a little defiantly. “I was young and very stupid when I first married Burke, and Rose was the only reason I managed. She took me under her wing and showed me everything, how to run a house, what to wear, how to meet the women you see here and have the friendships that saved me. There were many secrets among the wives of men such as we married at the time. Many things that happened that wives were not permitted to be involved in, were not supposed to see or to question. It was a time Mr Carey when society believed quite emphatically in the decorative purpose and general stupidity of well-bred women. Therefore there were many things we knew among ourselves, many things we organised amongst ourselves and much knowledge that we kept private and out of sight. Rose was a part of that. She was a shrewd and intelligent woman, we all of us trusted her. She died trying to defend me, she was as brave as I at the time was pathetic. When her father’s name came to light through your submitted writ, we wanted to do for him what Rose would have wanted. And I have always appreciated more than I can say that you fought to give her what justice you could and have acknowledged that a crime was committed against her. Even if you could do no more for her.”

“And you’re telling me this now why?”

“The house is to be demolished, Mr Carey. It will be cleared in the next few weeks, and soon all of this will be gone. We here have only few years left to tell and know the truth among ourselves; we knew you knew the true story. We knew you fought for Rose. But most of all because of this.”

Mrs Lymington drew a large item from beneath the sheet draping down onto the floor from the chair she sat in. It was silver. A chalice, set with jewels around the bowl rim and stand. It was unmistakably old, and unmistakeably of a church.

“He brought this with him from Europe.” Mrs Lymington said, holding it between her hands. “I believe it is priceless. He had a number of artefacts apparently in his possession, most in a bank somewhere, but this was one he gave to my husband in the name of his safe conduct. We were well aware it was stolen property, looted during the war. Burke and I loathed having it in the house. On that night I was determined, if Novotny somehow escaped or was rescued by my father in law or his associates, he would not carry this any further. I placed it in a recess in the hidden hallway between mine and my husband’s rooms. It remained there until today. I would like to pass this to you, Judge Carey. As an anonymous sender passing you an item of great value lost from somewhere in Europe during the war. I would like to see it returned to the church from where it came.”

 

 

*

 

 

“What did you do with it?” Dale asked, fascinated. Niall pulled out his cell phone, found a picture and turned the screen for Dale to see.

“Well James and I found ourselves in a cab in Chicago with this. And it is probably priceless, I understand it is thirteenth century. We took it to the Chicago history museum and explained that this had been anonymously entrusted to me for safe return. They were rather surprised, but once a member of their team confirmed its validity, they contacted the Monuments Men Foundation, a relatively new organisation but set up to continue the work of the Monuments, Fine Art and Archives section of the army at the end of the war in tracing and returning looted items. They were able to identify this item quite easily from their records: it was a well-known historic artefact, taken from a cathedral in Wroclaw, in western Poland. As well as expertise and experience in international cultural property law the Foundation also have among their associates a Catholic priest who has a specialty in ecclesiastical art. I understand he made a rather strong case to the authorities on the grounds of it being Christmas.”

“You were able to make arrangements to send it back?”

 

Voices were starting to come closer; the crowd in the kitchen were starting to decamp to the family room and the fire. Niall lowered his voice, casting Dale a quick and private smile.

“Even better. I’m told that the priest and a police escort took the chalice personally to Poland yesterday morning. The chalice will have participated in this morning’s Christmas mass in its rightful place, for the first time since the war. It’s seemed rather a fitting conclusion.”

The End

 Copyright Rolf and Ranger 2021