Happy Holidays, Leslie! (Pt 1)
Dec. 25th, 2018 02:51 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
goe_mod posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
go_exchangeTitle: Wings in the Window
Recipient Name: Leslie
Rating: G
Summary: Crowley and Aziraphale are the suspects in a Sherlock Holmes-esque criminal case. A detective story set in the 19th century. Written by Dr John Watson, who promised not to publish it.
Warnings: A bit of non-graphic violence, quite a few OC’s
Notes: Thank you for such an interesting prompt! Hope you’ll like it! I wonder if you can guess who is to blame in this crime story. ;) Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!
Note: the mods have divided this fic into two posts.
***
Holmes doesn’t agree with me, but I think it was one of the more unusual cases in his career. Well, it has certainly been one of the strangest experiences in my life.
I swore not to publish this story, and that was the condition upon which all people who were involved agreed to tell me their part of the story. Even Mrs. Stanhope and Mr. Banks, even Aziraphale and Crowley – everyone did. So this tale might appear much more eclectic in style in comparison to my usual chronicles. Each person doesn’t know what the others have told me. I am the only person who knows the events that took place at Stanhope Manor on 27 May 1895 from different points of view. So, it might be said, in a way I understand this case even better than my friend does. And yet, I must confess I do not understand it at all.
Dr John H. Watson.
***
Crowley
Crowley felt as if he were being watched. It was the most unpleasant feeling ever. Well, apart from being stabbed in the heart with a crucifix. Or a sword. Or being burnt alive or frozen to death. Oh, and apart from being lectured by Aziraphale on how evil always tends to destroy itself eventually. So, being watched was the most unpleasant feeling which did not involve sharp metal objects, extreme temperatures or Aziraphale.
Speaking of Aziraphale – the feathered bugger had stopped by his place once or twice while the demon had been sleeping, but Crowley didn’t think it was the angel now watching him.
Maybe there was no one at all. Crowley sighed and got out of bed. His legs were quite wobbly as he hadn’t used them for more than half a century. He took a deep breath and, holding onto the wall for support, approached the window.
At that very moment, a vague figure standing by the window of the opposite house stepped back into the darkness.
Crowley’s heart was racing.
Who the hell was that?
Well, was it really Hell?
If it was, what did they want from him? Why not just break into his room and ask where the fuck he’s been for a whole century? Well, he would definitely tell them that, after what he’d done when he’d been awake for a long time, he deserved a proper vacation.
The truth was, he felt like he had accidentally done so much evil that one more demonic deed on Earth would tear the whole Universal balance apart. He couldn’t risk that. And he just couldn’t bear to look at the world happily rebuilding itself as if nothing had happened. He couldn’t look the angel in the eye and say “It was an accident”. Not after having tea with the future Emperor over and over again.
Aziraphale had said that the war would have happened anyway. It was a consolation. Not that he believed it was true, but he felt a bit better knowing that Aziraphale thought so. If only he believed that Aziraphale believed it himself…
He got stuck in this loop and the only way out of it was sleep. But now he was robbed even of this little comfort. He couldn’t possibly go back to sleep when someone was out there, watching from the window.
However, when he looked back at the house opposite his own, the window was empty.
As the demon was already fully dressed, he headed towards Soho. He told himself that he was going solely to demand Aziraphale to stop his house calls.
A couple of people in the street stared at him. Confused, Crowley checked if his dark shades were still covering his serpentine eyes. They were. Only several minutes later did he realize that his suit had been out of fashion for at least half a century.
“I look like bloody Aziraphale,” he mumbled to himself, and turned to the nearest clothing store.
He was quite pleased with modern fashion. It was plain but stylish; it allowed a man to look exquisite without looking pompous. And that almost knee-length coat was perfect for his lanky form.
“Would you like anything for special occasions, Mr. Crowley?” asked the tailor. Crowley wasn’t sure if he was going to have any special occasions in the next century. Maybe after he’d met with Aziraphale and the angel confirmed that he had indeed been spying on Crowley, the demon would be able to return to his flat and sleep through another fifty years.
However, fate – or rather a certain angel – had different plans.
“Crowley! My dear, you’re awake!” Aziraphale exclaimed, rising from his chair behind the counter and leaving aside the book he was reading.
“Yeah, you finally got what you wanted,” Crowley grumbled gloomily. Though if he was completely honest, it was partly an act, for he suddenly realized that he was quite pleased to see the angel. History, clothes, monarchs, political systems, and geographical maps – everything in the world had changed. And only Aziraphale was unchanged; sitting among his books in the same suit he had been wearing in 1832. Crowley wouldn’t want it to be any other way.
“What do you mean?” the angel asked, staring at him.
“Well, you wanted me to wake up, didn’t you? You came to my place twice and Hell knows why you were spying on me from the window opposite my house.”
“What? This is total nonsense, Crowley!” Aziraphale exploded, a little bit too loudly.
“Yeah?” Crowley smirked.
“Well, not total nonsense, I mean,” the angel mumbled, cheeks growing pleasantly rosy. “I really wanted you to wake up. And I did stop by when I happened to be in the area… But I would never dream of spying on you! Why would I?”
“Hm…” Crowley mumbled, thinking about the angel’s words and wondering idly why indeed Aziraphale would want his sorry arse to appear in his dreams, and what sort of dreams those might be. “So, you weren’t there?”
“Course not!”
“Well. Somebody was. And I can’t possibly go back to sleep before I figure it out.”
“Maybe you’ll be interested in the invitation I’ve gotten, then?” Aziraphale asked, scratching the back of his head.
“An invitation? You never go out of the shop! I mean, anywhere apart from my place…”
“I do have a life, dear boy. Forgive me if you don’t know what that means.”
“Okay, okay.” Crowley waved his hands in a soothing gesture; he didn’t want to fight with the angel on the very first day. “Well, what kind of invitation is it?”
“Countess Emilia Stanhope, a very respectable and fine lady, has invited me to her reception tonight. She is going to have some Italian singer performing especially for her family and close friends. She also told me that I can take someone with me.”
“Oooh, so now you are interested in ladies, aren’t you? I thought…”
“I’m not interested in anyone!” Aziraphale exploded, a little too loudly for such a silly joke. Crowley chuckled.
“Well, then, ladies are interested in you.”
“She is just a friend. Well, a customer actually. But my advice helped her so much that she has been very grateful and kind to me ever since.”
“What did you do?” Crowley asked.
“Oh, it’s quite a sad story. You see, her husband died recently, and she loved him so much, the poor thing… She was inconsolable. She couldn’t go on with her life without him. Her friend, Mrs. Russell, tried everything to revive her. Theatres, concerts, travelling, shopping, meeting famous people – this Mrs. Russell is quite fond of famous people for some reason. So one day she brought Emilia here because she thought I could distract her with my talks about literature…”
“You mean, about your friendship with Oscar?”
Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “How do you even know about that? You were asleep the whole time!”
“Evil never sleeps. Metaphorically. Metaphorically, I was awake. You’re not the only one who is good at spying.”
“I was not spying! Anyway, she came and we talked, and I tried to give her a Bible, but she turned it down, saying religion was not her cup of tea. That she lost her faith after her husband’s death. Then I wanted to lift her spirits, to give her something cheerful, witty, and modern…”
“Something Oscar?”
Aziraphale pretended he didn’t hear him.
“But she said she’d already read it. A very educated woman indeed, this countess. I also tried Robinson Crusoe, because it’s about the strength of a human being who can endure anything, but she said a man on a deserted island was not really something relatable. She asked if I had anything about magic, and about people who had lost their loved ones. It was a strange subject, I thought, but I could understand why she’d asked. It wasn’t easy to think of something on the spot, and the only thing that occurred to me was Faust.”
Crowley laughed.
“Has anyone ever told you that you are a very strange angel, Aziraphale?”
“Yeah, they have…” Then he cut himself off. “Why? I can’t see what’s so strange about that?”
“Nothing. It’s just not a very angelic thing… I mean with summoning demons and all that.”
“But it worked!” Aziraphale exclaimed triumphantly. “She asked if that doctor Faust had managed to get his love back with demonic help. I said no, but he had met her again in Heaven. I went to the back of the shop where I keep my not-most-favourite-books, climbed to the top shelves and brought her the book. She seemed excited, and after I talked to her a bit more about Heaven and all the good things that await people there if they lead a good life, she had tears in her eyes and a smile on her face. I haven’t felt such angelic inspiration for years, Crowley!”
“Oh, ssspare me from this sssickeningly sssweet nonssense. So, you comforted a lady in distress; good for you. It’s not like you can guarantee that she’ll go to Heaven, can you? In fact, she probably just fell for you with your inspiring compassionate speeches. What was that about the invitation?” Crowley asked cynically.
“Oh...” Aziraphale looked like he needed time to think over Crowley’s words. But he continued anyway. “Well, the day after, I got a letter from the countess saying that my words and my book had changed her life. And as a gesture of gratitude, she would like to invite me to her reception where only close friends and the most interesting people will be.”
“By interesting you mean..?”
“Well, there will be that singer, Gemma Bellincioni. The countess’s daughter is very fond of music, so they invited Gemma mostly for her. There will be a couple of writers and actors. Some politician whom Mr. Banks, Emilia’s brother, has invited. And there will be one more person whom you might find either interesting or frightening.”
“Who is it?”
“Mr. Sherlock Holmes.”
“Am I supposed to know this name?”
“So, you really were spying only on me, weren’t you?” Aziraphale said, and continued. “He is a famous detective. A very good one. He has this method… They say he can learn everything about a person just by glancing at them.”
“Really? Well, that sounds like a challenge. I wonder what he’ll say about us,” Crowley said with a huff.
“Me too. Though I’m a bit nervous, I must admit. We wouldn’t want anyone to know we are ethereal beings, would we? Well, ethereal and occult…”
“You just had to point that out,” Crowley pouted, but then brightened up again. “I guess I will need that suit for special occasions after all!” He was delighted.
***
Dr J. Watson
We arrived early. Holmes insisted on it, explaining that this would allow him to see all the guests separately as they arrived. If he’d met a crowd all at once, it would be more difficult for him to deduce anything.
“So, we are not just going to spend a pleasant evening in a good company?” I asked with a smile.
To tell the truth, I was rather surprised when Sherlock Holmes had invited me to a party at a fine home. He wasn’t usually interested in that sort of thing. Women, society, small talk, exotic cuisine – he preferred a good pipe, the silence of his room, and a gripping murder case to all of that. I suspected that there was something in this house that attracted my friend’s attention, and I was not wrong. It turned out that the countess Stanhope’s brother, Mr. Joseph Banks, had hired Holmes to find out the reason why his sister, who had been grieving over her late husband for over a year, had suddenly become happy and cheerful, and even a bit light-hearted.
“He thinks there must be a man. Somebody who has made Mrs. Stanhope’s heart beat again,” Holmes said.
“So what? Why can’t he just ask his sister? She is a grown woman and she is free to do whatever she wants, and love whoever she wants,” I shrugged.
“You’re quite right, my dear friend. I guess he wants me to find some dirt on his sister, because now he is the only real master of her estate; he takes case of all her business and manages all her funds. So surely, he doesn’t want to lose all that.”
“But you are not going to help him with it, are you?”
“No,” Sherlock Holmes answered patiently. “But I am very curious myself for the reason of countess Stanhope’s change in mood. I think there might be a mystery there. I will be very disappointed if it really is a love affair, but if she has been so devoted to the memory of her husband, I rather doubt it.”
When we arrived, only a few people were already in the house. Mrs. Stanhope herself and her daughter, Evelyn, met the guests and led them into the hall. Mr. Banks greeted us and then disappeared into his study rather quickly, saying that he needed to finish some business before Miss Gemma commenced to sing. I didn’t like his appearance. He had one of those faces that always look suspicious and mean; with nervous eyes and beads of sweat on his forehead. Holmes, however, didn’t show any signs of worry; he shook his hand briefly and then seemed to forget about him entirely. Miss Evelyn was a lovely young girl, dressed all in black like her mother. She was a bit shy and kept shooting glances toward the direction of a small orchestra in the corner of the room. They were tuning their instruments, and Miss Gemma Bellincioni, a young Italian singer, was saying something to the pianist.
Another middle-aged woman who was almost constantly seen near the hostess was introduced to us as Mrs. Russell. She had arrived even before us, and she tried to make small talk with every arrival whose name had appeared in the papers at least once.
Guests arrived one by one, and soon I stopped paying attention to the new faces, although I was sure that Sherlock Holmes was not only scanning every figure, but probably could tell me a story about each one.
However, when those two arrived, for some reason even I noticed them.
The first thing you noticed was how different they were from each other. One of them was tall and thin, and sort of spiky. He was dressed almost entirely in black and held a walking cane with a knob in the shape of a snake’s head. He wore dark shades and he didn’t take them off when he entered the room. The other one, on the contrary, was dressed in a light-coloured suit a little old-fashioned and shabby. He was also a bit nervous, so these two observations made me think that he didn’t go out often. He was a bit shorter and rounder than his companion, and his golden curls made his face look even softer than it already was.
The second thing that you noticed was how different they were from everyone else. This actually felt more like an emotion than a thought. I couldn’t understand what was it that made them stand out from the crowd so much. They just felt… extraordinary.
“Mr. Fell, Mr. Crowley, please, meet Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson,” said Mrs. Stanhope, introducing them. “Mr. Fell owns a wonderful shop of old and rare books, and his advice helped me so much recently.”
“Did it really?” asked Holmes, looking at Mr. Fell with great curiosity.
“Oh, I only did what any book dealer would have done – I sold a book.”
Here, Mr. Crowley snorted, and all eyes turned to him.
“What is it?” asked Holmes.
“Nothing. It’s just Mr. Fell doesn’t usually like to do what other bookshop owners do. He doesn’t normally sell his books.”
Mr. Fell wanted to say something, but my friend interrupted him.
“Hm, how strange that is. But maybe he changed his habits while you were away?”
“How did you know I was away?” asked Crowley.
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have rushed into conclusions. You were not necessarily away; you could have been seriously ill so that you haven’t left home for a long time.”
“That’s right, I haven’t… But how…”
I was surprised too. I’d thought he would say the same thing about Mr. Fell, but what had made him think this way of Crowley was a mystery to me.
“You see, all your clothes are absolutely new. Even your shirt and tie, and the laces of your shoes. But you have the manners of a person from high society, so it’s impossible that you’ve never been in such places before, and bought these things especially for this occasion. You must have been away long enough for fashion to change, so when you had to go to a fine house, you had to change your whole wardrobe.”
“Well, that’s funny…” Crowley said. His expression was inscrutable behind the glasses “So you are the famous detective Sherlock Holmes, who can read a person like a book, aren’t you?”
“I’m nothing more than a man who sees things and notices things.”
“Very nice to meet you, Mr. Holmes,” Mr. Fell said, taking Crowley by the elbow. “And you too, of course, Doctor Watson. Crowley, may I have a word with you in private?”
The last thing I heard was the shorter man mumbling to his companion almost incomprehensibly:
“I’m not sure we are the books meant for everyone to read, my dear.”
They walked away, and soon we all settled down to listen to the divine singing of signorina Bellincioni. At such moments, my friend seemed to forget the usual boredom which accompanied him in everyday life, as well as his excitement which was the result of solving a case. He was only a listener, admiring the sounds like the most wonderful gift of the Universe. But then the singing faded away. Signorina Gemma bowed gracefully and went to meet other guests. But the orchestra continued to entertain the public. Conversations started again, and the guests gradually wandered off to different corners of the house where they had an opportunity to talk in private with those who were the most pleasant company for each of them. I missed the moment when both Crowley and Fell disappeared, but I didn’t pay much attention to it then.
***
Aziraphale
“Remind me again, why are we going here?” Crowley asked a little bit nervously as they walked along the deserted corridor of the house leading to Mr. Banks’s study.
“I’m going because I’m curious, and you don’t have to go with me at all if you don’t want to.” Aziraphale smiled a bit meanly knowing that the demon wouldn’t want to return to the crowded living-room alone. He was such a dear with all his anxiety sometimes. And now, after almost a century of sleeping and the unpleasant events that had led to it, he seemed to be even more insecure. Despite his suave and sophisticated exterior – or maybe because of it. Aziraphale scolded himself a bit for feeling pity for the adversary, but it was more in habit than anything else.
“Oh, yes, great. You’ve dragged me here, and now you want to throw me to those beasts?” Crowley whined, involuntarily increasing that pity for the adversary Aziraphale felt.
“Listen,” he said. “Thomas Banks has an amazing library. Well, actually, it’s not his; it used to belong to Emilia’s husband, Edward Stanhope. And he had a copy of Christopher Columbus’s Book of Prophecies. It’s extremely rare; I’ve never read it. And you know how much I love all sorts of prophecies. I must have a look.”
“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about, but if an angel wants to break into someone’s room, who am I to stop him?”
The study was marvellous. It was a good thing that Aziraphale didn’t really need to breathe, because he forgot to do it anyway.
The room itself was rather narrow. But the ceiling was so high that several levels of library ran up above their heads. It was probably even bigger than Aziraphale’s bookshop. The angel grew a bit envious and then got angry with himself for feeling it.
They spent several blissful moments in the library (well, it was mostly bliss for Aziraphale, because Crowley looked bored out of his skull), when they suddenly heard footsteps.
“Somebody’s coming,” said Crowley.
“It must be Banks! He said he was going to go back to work after the concert.”
“Then why didn’t you come here during it?!” Crowley shouted in a whisper.
“I wanted to hear the singing too!” Aziraphale whispered back. Crowley rolled his eyes. “What shall we do? Hide?”
“Oh, no,” Crowley shook his head. “We don’t know how long he is going to work, and I’m not sitting behind a bookcase forever. It’s your bloody paradise, not mine.”
“Well, flee then?”
“I suppose.”
Crowley opened the window, which looked into the garden. Fortunately, it was the ground floor, so there was no need for wings. Aziraphale clumsily climbed on the windowsill and carefully edged out of the window. When he jumped (or rather fell) to the ground, panting, he waved to Crowley.
“It’s okay, it’s not very high. You can follow me.”
“Eh, you know… I think I’d rather wouldn’t…”
“What?! Why?!” Aziraphale exclaimed, and then added more quietly. “You aren’t afraid of heights, are you?”
“Aziraphale,” Crowley frowned at him, “I have wings, you know.”
“I don’t know! It feels like I don’t know anything! I’ve no idea what the hell you’re doing… Wait. Does this have something to do with Hell?”
“No!” Crowley hissed. “Lisssten. I’ll jusst tell Banks I’ve come to talk to him.”
“About what?”
“Business,” Crowley shrugged. “I’ll make something up.”
“Then, I’ll come back in and say the same. Help me up.”
“No. If he finds us both here, alone, it will look suspicious. Go away now, before anyone sees you!”
“Fine!” Aziraphale was exasperated. He didn’t like the sight of Crowley’s face, all tight and nervous. He was clearly up to something. The only question was how bad that ‘something’ might be.
On his way back to the main hall Aziraphale decided to make one more stop…
***
Mr. Banks
Thomas Banks opened the door of his study and froze. There, in the middle of the room, stood a man dressed in black. He had dark hair and even his eyes were hidden behind black glasses. At first, he thought he was seeing some kind of a demon, or the ghost of his brother-in-law come to ask if he was taking good care of his estate, his wife, and his daughter. Only a moment later he realized that it was only Mr. Crowley, the new acquaintance of his sister.
“Good evening, Mr. Banks. I would like to talk to you,” he said with a weird smile. If Mr. Banks were paranoid, he might even call it a wicked smile. He wasn’t. Well, maybe just a bit.
“Of course. How can I help you?”
“Oh, just like this.”
Mr. Crowley snapped his fingers, and Thomas Banks collapsed onto the floor.
***
Dr J. Watson
It was becoming a little bit boring in the main hall. Most of the people had either gone out somewhere or were engaged in conversations in small groups. Even the ever-present Mrs. Russell had disappeared somewhere. I also couldn’t see either Mr. Crowley or Mr. Fell, although the latter soon appeared, looking rather poorly.
“Are you feeling alright, sir?” I asked when he plopped into a chair near me. “I’m a doctor; I know when someone’s ill. Can I help?”
“Oh, that’s very kind of you, thank you. But I think I’ll be okay. Just ate something, I suppose.”
And indeed after a few minutes he was already looking better. I didn’t pay much attention to this little exchange until later.
Countess Stanhope returned after giving some directions to the staff in the kitchen, and everyone was already taking their places around the table when suddenly we heard a muffled cry in the distance.
“What was that?” exclaimed the countess, growing a bit pale.
“Maybe just something’s wrong in the kitchen?” Mrs. Russell, who had re-entered the room together with the countess, suggested.
“No, it can’t be – the kitchen is too far from here. I’ll go and look.”
But before she could leave, we heard footsteps, and then, a young housemaid appeared on the stairs leading into the room. She looked absolutely terrified; her thin body was trembling and she couldn’t breathe properly. She seemed to be paying no attention to the looks of surprise on the faces of people who were not used to servants rushing into living rooms and shouting–
“My lady countess! My lady..!”
Countess Stanhope got up from her seat and started towards the maid.
“Mary? What happened, why are you…”
“Miss Stanhope… She… I… I just…”
“Evelyn? What’s wrong? Where is she?” The countess could barely speak.
“She’s hurt, ma’am! She’s in her room. I found her… She… There’s blood! I think she was shot!”
“Shot?! What are you talking about?!”
“I didn’t do anything… I just found her. Please, come quickly, she needs help!” Mary was crying now, but she didn’t have to repeat her request, as all the guests had already risen from their seats and many rushed after the countess towards Miss Stanhope’s room.
“Please!” I heard Sherlock Holmes’s voice. “Remain seated. My friend John Watson here is a doctor. He can help. And I shall come with him to see the crime scene. Everyone else who is not the girl’s family should stay here and try to calm down.”
Despite his words, several people still hurried after us, out of curiosity or willingness to help. Among those were Mr. Fell, Mrs. Russell, and even a pianist of the orchestra, who, as I would learn later, was Miss Stanhope’s music teacher, Frederick Shaw, who’d lived in the house for a long time.
When we were already in the corridor leading to Evelyn’s room, I heard a new voice join the group.
“What’s going on? What’s all the noise about?” Mr. Crowley appeared from out of nowhere. I didn’t notice the exact moment when it happened, and I wasn’t particularly interested at the time. Someone explained the news to him, and he joined our small procession as we unceremoniously entered the girl’s room.
She was lying on the floor almost face-down, pressing one hand to the wound on her side. When she heard us, she stirred slightly and tried to lift her head. Her mother, Holmes, and I came forward and knelt beside her.
“Eve, what happened?” Countess Stanhope cried, touching the girl’s forehead with trembling fingers.
“Eve!” someone at the door muttered. “Oh, bother.”
“I… I… saw wings. In the window… And then…” she uttered a short yelp as I examined her wound.
“It’s not serious,” I said hurriedly, to calm the countess. “It hasn’t touched any vitals, and it went clean though. Almost a scratch. But Miss Evelyn has lost quite a lot of blood and she seems to be in shock.
Please, we must put her on the bed, and I’ll deal with the wound.”
“Thank God! No, Doctor Watson, thank you!” The countess was crying, but there was relief in her voice. “But who did it? We have to call the police!”
“Why do we need police when we have Sherlock Holmes with us?” said Mrs. Russell, a little too excitedly for the situation. “Police always spoil everything, meddling in your investigations, don’t they, Mr. Holmes?”
“Unfortunately, you are quite right. You should, of course, call the police, countess Stanhope. But if you wait a little bit and let me do it my way first, I promise I will find out what happened here before midnight.”
“Oh… I don’t know, I… All right. Do what you think is best…”
“Of course I’ll need everyone’s full assistance. Tell people not to leave the house. Miss Evelyn, did you see anyone in your room?”
“No… wings…” Miss Stanhope whispered and finally lost consciousness.
“Wings? What does that mean?” the young pianist asked. He helped transfer the girl to behind the screen where her bed stood. Then he left, and I stayed with the patient along with the housemaid who was helping me. I could only listen to what was going on in the study.
“Not just wings,” corrected Sherlock Holmes. “Wings in the window. That means that she either saw them through the window or saw a reflection in the glass, as it was dark outside and in here, the lights were on. Were they on, Miss Mary?” He turned to the other housemaid who had found the victim. She was still standing there shaking a bit.
“Yeah… Yes, they were,” she said in a small voice. “I saw her at once…”
“Did you hear a cry or something?”
“I heard a whimper. She was calling out for someone, and I was passing by.”
“As far as I understand, this is a wing of private rooms. The servants are not allowed to come here unless they are called for. Did Miss Stanhope call you?”
“No, she didn’t. I’m not her maid. I was just passing by… from the kitchen. It is right there.”
“So, when the incident happened, you were in the kitchen?”
“Yes.”
“She’s lying,” Mr. Fell suddenly whispered and then jumped a little, as if his own words frightened him.
“How do you know?” Sherlock Holmes asked.
“I… I can’t tell you,” Mr. Fell stammered. “I just… feel it.”
“You realize that sounds a tiny bit suspicious, don’t you?” Mrs. Russell asked, sounding more coquettish than suspicious.
“Can anyone confirm that you were in the kitchen?” Holmes asked Mary.
“Maybe… I don’t know. Servants are in the kitchen all the time, but we are always very busy. I’m not sure if anyone paid attention.”
“Alright. I think we shouldn’t disturb Miss Stanhope any longer. Please, let’s go back to the living room and continue our investigation there,” Holmes said, and left.
I joined them there quite soon after I had made sure young Miss Evelyn was sleeping soundly.
They were making a list of people who had been absent in the main hall when Miss Stanhope had been shot. Unfortunately, that list was quite long, and besides, it was not necessarily one of the guests who had done this.
“Now, my dear ladies and gentlemen,” said Holmes. “I don’t think we started with the right question. We shouldn’t be thinking about who tried to kill Miss Stanhope, but rather why they wanted to kill her.”
“She’s never done anything bad in her life,” said the countess, her voice heavy with tears.
“Well, there must be someone who will get something in case of her death.”
“He looks like a bloody magician,” whispered Mr. Crowley to his friend, nodding toward Holmes, and I saw Mr. Fell frown a bit. “Really, he enjoys talking to a public that doesn’t understand a thing, and unravelling a mystery for them. It’s pure vanity; I love it.”
“No, it’s not!” Fell argued in the same low voice. “He wants to help the mother of the victim, to find the murderer, and to prevent him from doing anything dreadful again. Besides, there’s no sin in being intelligent.”
“Oh, yeah, sure. Remind me, who are you defending now – him or yourself?” Crowley chuckled. I understood almost nothing from that conversation, but even then it had sounded a bit odd to me.
“Countess Stanhope,” the detective asked a bit louder. “Where is your brother?”
Indeed, Mr. Banks was nowhere to be seen. At the same time, I remembered what Holmes had told me about the man. Since Mrs. Stanhope’s husband had died, Banks had been the only man in the family, and the one who was responsible for business and finances. But it certainly wouldn’t have gone on like that forever. Evelyn Stanhope was already of marrying age, and as soon as she’d found herself a husband, she would inherit her father’s fortune and the new family would get to decide what to do with all the money. So he definitely had a motive to hate Miss Stanhope. I still couldn’t understand why he’d decided to kill her today when the house was full of people and possible witnesses, and the most famous detective in London to top it all. But who knows; maybe he’d thought that the more people, the more suspects there would be. And Holmes would be unlikely to think that the man who had invited him to the house was the murderer himself. At any rate, his disappearance was very suspicious.
The countess showed us the way to Bank’s study. I was a bit surprised that almost the same people who were with us when we found Miss Evelyn followed us there. I could understand the presence of the young music teacher, as he was almost a part of the family. Mrs. Russell was also unavoidable due to her extreme curiosity. But what Crowley and Fell were doing with us, I had no idea. Well, Crowley originally didn’t want to go. But Mr. Fell said he wanted to help if he could, and so his companion followed him – a little annoyed as far as I could tell.
When we came into the study, which was, in fact quite close to the victim’s room, we found Mr. Banks. He was sitting in his chair, looking confused and almost frightened.
“W-what’s going on? What are you doing here?” he asked, looking at us with the same lost expression.
“What are you doing here, Mr. Banks?” asked Holmes.
“Er, working?” he said, not confidently enough.
“And what are you working on?” asked Holmes, coming closer and leaning over his table.
“Just some… paperwork….”
“But you haven’t been writing for a while, have you?” said Holmes, touching the papers. “You see, the ink of the last lines you wrote is already dry. So what have you been doing the past hour?”
“Why? Why is it so important?” he suddenly asked defiantly. “I can do anything I want in my study, can’t I?”
“Of course you can,” Holmes said, absolutely calmly. “If it doesn’t involve killing your niece.”
“What?! What are you talking about?!” He looked at his sister in shock. “Emilia, what is he talking about?”
“Someone has tried to shoot Eve,” she answered, tears sparkling in her eyes. “And now we are trying to find out who it was.”
“Good Lord! How is she? Have you called the police?”
“We will, later. It’s okay, Tom, she will be fine. Just tell us where you were and what you were doing.”
“I was… Well, I was here. And I guess… I was sleeping.”
“Sleeping?”
“Yes, I know, it’s really odd; I never go to sleep so early. Maybe I got too tired of working, so I fell asleep at the table. But you know what is also weird?”
“Yes?”
“I’m sure someone had come to see me before I fell asleep…” Banks raised his eyes at us thoughtfully and then noticed something and cried: “You!” He was pointing at Mr. Crowley. “You came to me, didn’t you?”
We saw a panicked expression cross Mr. Crowley’s face. He raised his hand to nervously adjust his glasses, but then managed to get himself together and said rather calmly:
“I’m sorry, sir, but you must be mistaken. I’ve only seen you once before – when you met us in the hall.”
“Really?” he looked confused. “I could swear I saw your glasses…”
“It must have been a dream,” Crowley said, and added with a strange half-smile, “I often come to people in their dreams.”
No one could neither confirm nor deny Mr. Banks’s words, so Sherlock Holmes just asked him to join the others in the living room.
We left the wing of private rooms, and I used this moment to check on Miss Stanhope. She was doing quite well. Then I went over to the window and gingerly touched the hole in the glass which the bullet made after it had grazed the girl’s side. I thought I might try to find it. I’ve never been as good as my friend when it came to deducing or noticing things, but I’ve always tried to help him in some practical ways. I thought it would be useful if we had the bullet.
The façade of the building was lit, and the damn thing couldn’t have flown too far, so I was crawling in the bushes when I heard voices farther away, in the dark garden.
“Tell me you have nothing to do with this, Crowley!”
“I have nothing to do with this! Happy?”
“No. How… I mean, how am I supposed to believe you if you are avoiding me in order to stay alone in that man’s room, and then he is found with no memories of his whereabouts, and a girl is shot next door?”
“It’s a coincidence! I did nothing to him!”
“Why did you say that he hadn’t seen you then?”
“I panicked, okay? I didn’t want them to think I… Well, I didn’t want them to think what you are thinking now.”
“Then maybe you shouldn’t have done anything to him!”
“I didn’t! I didn’t do anything. I just put a sleeping spell on him.”
“What for? You could have just as well gone out of the window with me, or you could have made up a reason why you came to his study. Why did you have to make him fall asleep?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“Then don’t blame me for suspecting you in this crime. Miss Evelyn saw wings. Maybe you can explain that?”
“What the hell, Aziraphale?! I haven’t seen her since we arrived. And name one possible reason why would I want to shoot an innocent girl?”
“How do I know? I haven’t seen you for a century! Maybe you were given orders by your superiors to go and make some trouble, or maybe you just thought it would be a good opportunity to incite hatred in the souls of people, to make them suspect each other, and to tempt them to sin more.”
“Wow, Aziraphale, you’re actually better at this than many of my colleagues. I’d say better than me, but I’m too good myself. Only this time, I didn’t do anything. Actually, I never do anything like going around and shooting people myself, if you need to know.”
“Oh, please!”
“What? Can you name at least one occasion? It’s not the point, you know. My job is to tempt people to kill each other. And they are quite good at it, in fact.”
“Because you’re so good at tempting, aren’t you?”
“Don’t give me all the credit. There’ve always been plenty of killing for righteous reasons. Oh, and that makes me remember that I’m not the only person with wings here!”
“What are you implying?”
“I’m just saying that I don’t know where you were during the incident either!”
“Well, Crowley, this is already stupid.”
“Yeah? Is it? So, it’s okay to suspect me, ‘cos I’m a bloody demon, and you’ve never done anything bad in six millennia? Doesn’t that sound a little bit unfair to you?”
“Well, you are a demon. What do you expect from me?!”
“I don’t know, a little less judgment? A little more trust.”
“You are literally lying right in front of me – how can I trust you?”
“I haven’t told a single lie to you today, angel.”
“You are hiding something. That’s the same.”
“It’s personal! Okay, you don’t believe me, that’s fine. Although it hurts. Not much, just a bit. Just don’t go telling everyone I have wings and could have killed a girl just because I’m a demon, okay? Because I’ll find something to say against you, too.”
I heard some noise, as if he turned around and went away, his steps loud on the gravel path. Soon I saw Mr. Crowley emerge from the shadow of the tree. In the lamplight, his face looked very pale, and though, even now in the dark, he wore his dark glasses, his features were all twisted in some kind of deep sorrow.
Again, I didn’t understand a word of his strange conversation with Mr. Fell, and I never had the time to think about it or ask Mr. Crowley, because at that very moment, another dark figure appeared from behind a white column of the building. It moved very quickly. And then I saw a gun.
“Look out!” I shouted at the same time as the shot. Too late.
All the sounds in the house stopped.
Next: Part 2!
Recipient Name: Leslie
Rating: G
Summary: Crowley and Aziraphale are the suspects in a Sherlock Holmes-esque criminal case. A detective story set in the 19th century. Written by Dr John Watson, who promised not to publish it.
Warnings: A bit of non-graphic violence, quite a few OC’s
Notes: Thank you for such an interesting prompt! Hope you’ll like it! I wonder if you can guess who is to blame in this crime story. ;) Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!
Note: the mods have divided this fic into two posts.
Holmes doesn’t agree with me, but I think it was one of the more unusual cases in his career. Well, it has certainly been one of the strangest experiences in my life.
I swore not to publish this story, and that was the condition upon which all people who were involved agreed to tell me their part of the story. Even Mrs. Stanhope and Mr. Banks, even Aziraphale and Crowley – everyone did. So this tale might appear much more eclectic in style in comparison to my usual chronicles. Each person doesn’t know what the others have told me. I am the only person who knows the events that took place at Stanhope Manor on 27 May 1895 from different points of view. So, it might be said, in a way I understand this case even better than my friend does. And yet, I must confess I do not understand it at all.
Dr John H. Watson.
***
Crowley
Crowley felt as if he were being watched. It was the most unpleasant feeling ever. Well, apart from being stabbed in the heart with a crucifix. Or a sword. Or being burnt alive or frozen to death. Oh, and apart from being lectured by Aziraphale on how evil always tends to destroy itself eventually. So, being watched was the most unpleasant feeling which did not involve sharp metal objects, extreme temperatures or Aziraphale.
Speaking of Aziraphale – the feathered bugger had stopped by his place once or twice while the demon had been sleeping, but Crowley didn’t think it was the angel now watching him.
Maybe there was no one at all. Crowley sighed and got out of bed. His legs were quite wobbly as he hadn’t used them for more than half a century. He took a deep breath and, holding onto the wall for support, approached the window.
At that very moment, a vague figure standing by the window of the opposite house stepped back into the darkness.
Crowley’s heart was racing.
Who the hell was that?
Well, was it really Hell?
If it was, what did they want from him? Why not just break into his room and ask where the fuck he’s been for a whole century? Well, he would definitely tell them that, after what he’d done when he’d been awake for a long time, he deserved a proper vacation.
The truth was, he felt like he had accidentally done so much evil that one more demonic deed on Earth would tear the whole Universal balance apart. He couldn’t risk that. And he just couldn’t bear to look at the world happily rebuilding itself as if nothing had happened. He couldn’t look the angel in the eye and say “It was an accident”. Not after having tea with the future Emperor over and over again.
Aziraphale had said that the war would have happened anyway. It was a consolation. Not that he believed it was true, but he felt a bit better knowing that Aziraphale thought so. If only he believed that Aziraphale believed it himself…
He got stuck in this loop and the only way out of it was sleep. But now he was robbed even of this little comfort. He couldn’t possibly go back to sleep when someone was out there, watching from the window.
However, when he looked back at the house opposite his own, the window was empty.
As the demon was already fully dressed, he headed towards Soho. He told himself that he was going solely to demand Aziraphale to stop his house calls.
A couple of people in the street stared at him. Confused, Crowley checked if his dark shades were still covering his serpentine eyes. They were. Only several minutes later did he realize that his suit had been out of fashion for at least half a century.
“I look like bloody Aziraphale,” he mumbled to himself, and turned to the nearest clothing store.
He was quite pleased with modern fashion. It was plain but stylish; it allowed a man to look exquisite without looking pompous. And that almost knee-length coat was perfect for his lanky form.
“Would you like anything for special occasions, Mr. Crowley?” asked the tailor. Crowley wasn’t sure if he was going to have any special occasions in the next century. Maybe after he’d met with Aziraphale and the angel confirmed that he had indeed been spying on Crowley, the demon would be able to return to his flat and sleep through another fifty years.
However, fate – or rather a certain angel – had different plans.
“Crowley! My dear, you’re awake!” Aziraphale exclaimed, rising from his chair behind the counter and leaving aside the book he was reading.
“Yeah, you finally got what you wanted,” Crowley grumbled gloomily. Though if he was completely honest, it was partly an act, for he suddenly realized that he was quite pleased to see the angel. History, clothes, monarchs, political systems, and geographical maps – everything in the world had changed. And only Aziraphale was unchanged; sitting among his books in the same suit he had been wearing in 1832. Crowley wouldn’t want it to be any other way.
“What do you mean?” the angel asked, staring at him.
“Well, you wanted me to wake up, didn’t you? You came to my place twice and Hell knows why you were spying on me from the window opposite my house.”
“What? This is total nonsense, Crowley!” Aziraphale exploded, a little bit too loudly.
“Yeah?” Crowley smirked.
“Well, not total nonsense, I mean,” the angel mumbled, cheeks growing pleasantly rosy. “I really wanted you to wake up. And I did stop by when I happened to be in the area… But I would never dream of spying on you! Why would I?”
“Hm…” Crowley mumbled, thinking about the angel’s words and wondering idly why indeed Aziraphale would want his sorry arse to appear in his dreams, and what sort of dreams those might be. “So, you weren’t there?”
“Course not!”
“Well. Somebody was. And I can’t possibly go back to sleep before I figure it out.”
“Maybe you’ll be interested in the invitation I’ve gotten, then?” Aziraphale asked, scratching the back of his head.
“An invitation? You never go out of the shop! I mean, anywhere apart from my place…”
“I do have a life, dear boy. Forgive me if you don’t know what that means.”
“Okay, okay.” Crowley waved his hands in a soothing gesture; he didn’t want to fight with the angel on the very first day. “Well, what kind of invitation is it?”
“Countess Emilia Stanhope, a very respectable and fine lady, has invited me to her reception tonight. She is going to have some Italian singer performing especially for her family and close friends. She also told me that I can take someone with me.”
“Oooh, so now you are interested in ladies, aren’t you? I thought…”
“I’m not interested in anyone!” Aziraphale exploded, a little too loudly for such a silly joke. Crowley chuckled.
“Well, then, ladies are interested in you.”
“She is just a friend. Well, a customer actually. But my advice helped her so much that she has been very grateful and kind to me ever since.”
“What did you do?” Crowley asked.
“Oh, it’s quite a sad story. You see, her husband died recently, and she loved him so much, the poor thing… She was inconsolable. She couldn’t go on with her life without him. Her friend, Mrs. Russell, tried everything to revive her. Theatres, concerts, travelling, shopping, meeting famous people – this Mrs. Russell is quite fond of famous people for some reason. So one day she brought Emilia here because she thought I could distract her with my talks about literature…”
“You mean, about your friendship with Oscar?”
Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “How do you even know about that? You were asleep the whole time!”
“Evil never sleeps. Metaphorically. Metaphorically, I was awake. You’re not the only one who is good at spying.”
“I was not spying! Anyway, she came and we talked, and I tried to give her a Bible, but she turned it down, saying religion was not her cup of tea. That she lost her faith after her husband’s death. Then I wanted to lift her spirits, to give her something cheerful, witty, and modern…”
“Something Oscar?”
Aziraphale pretended he didn’t hear him.
“But she said she’d already read it. A very educated woman indeed, this countess. I also tried Robinson Crusoe, because it’s about the strength of a human being who can endure anything, but she said a man on a deserted island was not really something relatable. She asked if I had anything about magic, and about people who had lost their loved ones. It was a strange subject, I thought, but I could understand why she’d asked. It wasn’t easy to think of something on the spot, and the only thing that occurred to me was Faust.”
Crowley laughed.
“Has anyone ever told you that you are a very strange angel, Aziraphale?”
“Yeah, they have…” Then he cut himself off. “Why? I can’t see what’s so strange about that?”
“Nothing. It’s just not a very angelic thing… I mean with summoning demons and all that.”
“But it worked!” Aziraphale exclaimed triumphantly. “She asked if that doctor Faust had managed to get his love back with demonic help. I said no, but he had met her again in Heaven. I went to the back of the shop where I keep my not-most-favourite-books, climbed to the top shelves and brought her the book. She seemed excited, and after I talked to her a bit more about Heaven and all the good things that await people there if they lead a good life, she had tears in her eyes and a smile on her face. I haven’t felt such angelic inspiration for years, Crowley!”
“Oh, ssspare me from this sssickeningly sssweet nonssense. So, you comforted a lady in distress; good for you. It’s not like you can guarantee that she’ll go to Heaven, can you? In fact, she probably just fell for you with your inspiring compassionate speeches. What was that about the invitation?” Crowley asked cynically.
“Oh...” Aziraphale looked like he needed time to think over Crowley’s words. But he continued anyway. “Well, the day after, I got a letter from the countess saying that my words and my book had changed her life. And as a gesture of gratitude, she would like to invite me to her reception where only close friends and the most interesting people will be.”
“By interesting you mean..?”
“Well, there will be that singer, Gemma Bellincioni. The countess’s daughter is very fond of music, so they invited Gemma mostly for her. There will be a couple of writers and actors. Some politician whom Mr. Banks, Emilia’s brother, has invited. And there will be one more person whom you might find either interesting or frightening.”
“Who is it?”
“Mr. Sherlock Holmes.”
“Am I supposed to know this name?”
“So, you really were spying only on me, weren’t you?” Aziraphale said, and continued. “He is a famous detective. A very good one. He has this method… They say he can learn everything about a person just by glancing at them.”
“Really? Well, that sounds like a challenge. I wonder what he’ll say about us,” Crowley said with a huff.
“Me too. Though I’m a bit nervous, I must admit. We wouldn’t want anyone to know we are ethereal beings, would we? Well, ethereal and occult…”
“You just had to point that out,” Crowley pouted, but then brightened up again. “I guess I will need that suit for special occasions after all!” He was delighted.
Dr J. Watson
We arrived early. Holmes insisted on it, explaining that this would allow him to see all the guests separately as they arrived. If he’d met a crowd all at once, it would be more difficult for him to deduce anything.
“So, we are not just going to spend a pleasant evening in a good company?” I asked with a smile.
To tell the truth, I was rather surprised when Sherlock Holmes had invited me to a party at a fine home. He wasn’t usually interested in that sort of thing. Women, society, small talk, exotic cuisine – he preferred a good pipe, the silence of his room, and a gripping murder case to all of that. I suspected that there was something in this house that attracted my friend’s attention, and I was not wrong. It turned out that the countess Stanhope’s brother, Mr. Joseph Banks, had hired Holmes to find out the reason why his sister, who had been grieving over her late husband for over a year, had suddenly become happy and cheerful, and even a bit light-hearted.
“He thinks there must be a man. Somebody who has made Mrs. Stanhope’s heart beat again,” Holmes said.
“So what? Why can’t he just ask his sister? She is a grown woman and she is free to do whatever she wants, and love whoever she wants,” I shrugged.
“You’re quite right, my dear friend. I guess he wants me to find some dirt on his sister, because now he is the only real master of her estate; he takes case of all her business and manages all her funds. So surely, he doesn’t want to lose all that.”
“But you are not going to help him with it, are you?”
“No,” Sherlock Holmes answered patiently. “But I am very curious myself for the reason of countess Stanhope’s change in mood. I think there might be a mystery there. I will be very disappointed if it really is a love affair, but if she has been so devoted to the memory of her husband, I rather doubt it.”
When we arrived, only a few people were already in the house. Mrs. Stanhope herself and her daughter, Evelyn, met the guests and led them into the hall. Mr. Banks greeted us and then disappeared into his study rather quickly, saying that he needed to finish some business before Miss Gemma commenced to sing. I didn’t like his appearance. He had one of those faces that always look suspicious and mean; with nervous eyes and beads of sweat on his forehead. Holmes, however, didn’t show any signs of worry; he shook his hand briefly and then seemed to forget about him entirely. Miss Evelyn was a lovely young girl, dressed all in black like her mother. She was a bit shy and kept shooting glances toward the direction of a small orchestra in the corner of the room. They were tuning their instruments, and Miss Gemma Bellincioni, a young Italian singer, was saying something to the pianist.
Another middle-aged woman who was almost constantly seen near the hostess was introduced to us as Mrs. Russell. She had arrived even before us, and she tried to make small talk with every arrival whose name had appeared in the papers at least once.
Guests arrived one by one, and soon I stopped paying attention to the new faces, although I was sure that Sherlock Holmes was not only scanning every figure, but probably could tell me a story about each one.
However, when those two arrived, for some reason even I noticed them.
The first thing you noticed was how different they were from each other. One of them was tall and thin, and sort of spiky. He was dressed almost entirely in black and held a walking cane with a knob in the shape of a snake’s head. He wore dark shades and he didn’t take them off when he entered the room. The other one, on the contrary, was dressed in a light-coloured suit a little old-fashioned and shabby. He was also a bit nervous, so these two observations made me think that he didn’t go out often. He was a bit shorter and rounder than his companion, and his golden curls made his face look even softer than it already was.
The second thing that you noticed was how different they were from everyone else. This actually felt more like an emotion than a thought. I couldn’t understand what was it that made them stand out from the crowd so much. They just felt… extraordinary.
“Mr. Fell, Mr. Crowley, please, meet Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson,” said Mrs. Stanhope, introducing them. “Mr. Fell owns a wonderful shop of old and rare books, and his advice helped me so much recently.”
“Did it really?” asked Holmes, looking at Mr. Fell with great curiosity.
“Oh, I only did what any book dealer would have done – I sold a book.”
Here, Mr. Crowley snorted, and all eyes turned to him.
“What is it?” asked Holmes.
“Nothing. It’s just Mr. Fell doesn’t usually like to do what other bookshop owners do. He doesn’t normally sell his books.”
Mr. Fell wanted to say something, but my friend interrupted him.
“Hm, how strange that is. But maybe he changed his habits while you were away?”
“How did you know I was away?” asked Crowley.
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have rushed into conclusions. You were not necessarily away; you could have been seriously ill so that you haven’t left home for a long time.”
“That’s right, I haven’t… But how…”
I was surprised too. I’d thought he would say the same thing about Mr. Fell, but what had made him think this way of Crowley was a mystery to me.
“You see, all your clothes are absolutely new. Even your shirt and tie, and the laces of your shoes. But you have the manners of a person from high society, so it’s impossible that you’ve never been in such places before, and bought these things especially for this occasion. You must have been away long enough for fashion to change, so when you had to go to a fine house, you had to change your whole wardrobe.”
“Well, that’s funny…” Crowley said. His expression was inscrutable behind the glasses “So you are the famous detective Sherlock Holmes, who can read a person like a book, aren’t you?”
“I’m nothing more than a man who sees things and notices things.”
“Very nice to meet you, Mr. Holmes,” Mr. Fell said, taking Crowley by the elbow. “And you too, of course, Doctor Watson. Crowley, may I have a word with you in private?”
The last thing I heard was the shorter man mumbling to his companion almost incomprehensibly:
“I’m not sure we are the books meant for everyone to read, my dear.”
They walked away, and soon we all settled down to listen to the divine singing of signorina Bellincioni. At such moments, my friend seemed to forget the usual boredom which accompanied him in everyday life, as well as his excitement which was the result of solving a case. He was only a listener, admiring the sounds like the most wonderful gift of the Universe. But then the singing faded away. Signorina Gemma bowed gracefully and went to meet other guests. But the orchestra continued to entertain the public. Conversations started again, and the guests gradually wandered off to different corners of the house where they had an opportunity to talk in private with those who were the most pleasant company for each of them. I missed the moment when both Crowley and Fell disappeared, but I didn’t pay much attention to it then.
Aziraphale
“Remind me again, why are we going here?” Crowley asked a little bit nervously as they walked along the deserted corridor of the house leading to Mr. Banks’s study.
“I’m going because I’m curious, and you don’t have to go with me at all if you don’t want to.” Aziraphale smiled a bit meanly knowing that the demon wouldn’t want to return to the crowded living-room alone. He was such a dear with all his anxiety sometimes. And now, after almost a century of sleeping and the unpleasant events that had led to it, he seemed to be even more insecure. Despite his suave and sophisticated exterior – or maybe because of it. Aziraphale scolded himself a bit for feeling pity for the adversary, but it was more in habit than anything else.
“Oh, yes, great. You’ve dragged me here, and now you want to throw me to those beasts?” Crowley whined, involuntarily increasing that pity for the adversary Aziraphale felt.
“Listen,” he said. “Thomas Banks has an amazing library. Well, actually, it’s not his; it used to belong to Emilia’s husband, Edward Stanhope. And he had a copy of Christopher Columbus’s Book of Prophecies. It’s extremely rare; I’ve never read it. And you know how much I love all sorts of prophecies. I must have a look.”
“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about, but if an angel wants to break into someone’s room, who am I to stop him?”
The study was marvellous. It was a good thing that Aziraphale didn’t really need to breathe, because he forgot to do it anyway.
The room itself was rather narrow. But the ceiling was so high that several levels of library ran up above their heads. It was probably even bigger than Aziraphale’s bookshop. The angel grew a bit envious and then got angry with himself for feeling it.
They spent several blissful moments in the library (well, it was mostly bliss for Aziraphale, because Crowley looked bored out of his skull), when they suddenly heard footsteps.
“Somebody’s coming,” said Crowley.
“It must be Banks! He said he was going to go back to work after the concert.”
“Then why didn’t you come here during it?!” Crowley shouted in a whisper.
“I wanted to hear the singing too!” Aziraphale whispered back. Crowley rolled his eyes. “What shall we do? Hide?”
“Oh, no,” Crowley shook his head. “We don’t know how long he is going to work, and I’m not sitting behind a bookcase forever. It’s your bloody paradise, not mine.”
“Well, flee then?”
“I suppose.”
Crowley opened the window, which looked into the garden. Fortunately, it was the ground floor, so there was no need for wings. Aziraphale clumsily climbed on the windowsill and carefully edged out of the window. When he jumped (or rather fell) to the ground, panting, he waved to Crowley.
“It’s okay, it’s not very high. You can follow me.”
“Eh, you know… I think I’d rather wouldn’t…”
“What?! Why?!” Aziraphale exclaimed, and then added more quietly. “You aren’t afraid of heights, are you?”
“Aziraphale,” Crowley frowned at him, “I have wings, you know.”
“I don’t know! It feels like I don’t know anything! I’ve no idea what the hell you’re doing… Wait. Does this have something to do with Hell?”
“No!” Crowley hissed. “Lisssten. I’ll jusst tell Banks I’ve come to talk to him.”
“About what?”
“Business,” Crowley shrugged. “I’ll make something up.”
“Then, I’ll come back in and say the same. Help me up.”
“No. If he finds us both here, alone, it will look suspicious. Go away now, before anyone sees you!”
“Fine!” Aziraphale was exasperated. He didn’t like the sight of Crowley’s face, all tight and nervous. He was clearly up to something. The only question was how bad that ‘something’ might be.
On his way back to the main hall Aziraphale decided to make one more stop…
Mr. Banks
Thomas Banks opened the door of his study and froze. There, in the middle of the room, stood a man dressed in black. He had dark hair and even his eyes were hidden behind black glasses. At first, he thought he was seeing some kind of a demon, or the ghost of his brother-in-law come to ask if he was taking good care of his estate, his wife, and his daughter. Only a moment later he realized that it was only Mr. Crowley, the new acquaintance of his sister.
“Good evening, Mr. Banks. I would like to talk to you,” he said with a weird smile. If Mr. Banks were paranoid, he might even call it a wicked smile. He wasn’t. Well, maybe just a bit.
“Of course. How can I help you?”
“Oh, just like this.”
Mr. Crowley snapped his fingers, and Thomas Banks collapsed onto the floor.
Dr J. Watson
It was becoming a little bit boring in the main hall. Most of the people had either gone out somewhere or were engaged in conversations in small groups. Even the ever-present Mrs. Russell had disappeared somewhere. I also couldn’t see either Mr. Crowley or Mr. Fell, although the latter soon appeared, looking rather poorly.
“Are you feeling alright, sir?” I asked when he plopped into a chair near me. “I’m a doctor; I know when someone’s ill. Can I help?”
“Oh, that’s very kind of you, thank you. But I think I’ll be okay. Just ate something, I suppose.”
And indeed after a few minutes he was already looking better. I didn’t pay much attention to this little exchange until later.
Countess Stanhope returned after giving some directions to the staff in the kitchen, and everyone was already taking their places around the table when suddenly we heard a muffled cry in the distance.
“What was that?” exclaimed the countess, growing a bit pale.
“Maybe just something’s wrong in the kitchen?” Mrs. Russell, who had re-entered the room together with the countess, suggested.
“No, it can’t be – the kitchen is too far from here. I’ll go and look.”
But before she could leave, we heard footsteps, and then, a young housemaid appeared on the stairs leading into the room. She looked absolutely terrified; her thin body was trembling and she couldn’t breathe properly. She seemed to be paying no attention to the looks of surprise on the faces of people who were not used to servants rushing into living rooms and shouting–
“My lady countess! My lady..!”
Countess Stanhope got up from her seat and started towards the maid.
“Mary? What happened, why are you…”
“Miss Stanhope… She… I… I just…”
“Evelyn? What’s wrong? Where is she?” The countess could barely speak.
“She’s hurt, ma’am! She’s in her room. I found her… She… There’s blood! I think she was shot!”
“Shot?! What are you talking about?!”
“I didn’t do anything… I just found her. Please, come quickly, she needs help!” Mary was crying now, but she didn’t have to repeat her request, as all the guests had already risen from their seats and many rushed after the countess towards Miss Stanhope’s room.
“Please!” I heard Sherlock Holmes’s voice. “Remain seated. My friend John Watson here is a doctor. He can help. And I shall come with him to see the crime scene. Everyone else who is not the girl’s family should stay here and try to calm down.”
Despite his words, several people still hurried after us, out of curiosity or willingness to help. Among those were Mr. Fell, Mrs. Russell, and even a pianist of the orchestra, who, as I would learn later, was Miss Stanhope’s music teacher, Frederick Shaw, who’d lived in the house for a long time.
When we were already in the corridor leading to Evelyn’s room, I heard a new voice join the group.
“What’s going on? What’s all the noise about?” Mr. Crowley appeared from out of nowhere. I didn’t notice the exact moment when it happened, and I wasn’t particularly interested at the time. Someone explained the news to him, and he joined our small procession as we unceremoniously entered the girl’s room.
She was lying on the floor almost face-down, pressing one hand to the wound on her side. When she heard us, she stirred slightly and tried to lift her head. Her mother, Holmes, and I came forward and knelt beside her.
“Eve, what happened?” Countess Stanhope cried, touching the girl’s forehead with trembling fingers.
“Eve!” someone at the door muttered. “Oh, bother.”
“I… I… saw wings. In the window… And then…” she uttered a short yelp as I examined her wound.
“It’s not serious,” I said hurriedly, to calm the countess. “It hasn’t touched any vitals, and it went clean though. Almost a scratch. But Miss Evelyn has lost quite a lot of blood and she seems to be in shock.
Please, we must put her on the bed, and I’ll deal with the wound.”
“Thank God! No, Doctor Watson, thank you!” The countess was crying, but there was relief in her voice. “But who did it? We have to call the police!”
“Why do we need police when we have Sherlock Holmes with us?” said Mrs. Russell, a little too excitedly for the situation. “Police always spoil everything, meddling in your investigations, don’t they, Mr. Holmes?”
“Unfortunately, you are quite right. You should, of course, call the police, countess Stanhope. But if you wait a little bit and let me do it my way first, I promise I will find out what happened here before midnight.”
“Oh… I don’t know, I… All right. Do what you think is best…”
“Of course I’ll need everyone’s full assistance. Tell people not to leave the house. Miss Evelyn, did you see anyone in your room?”
“No… wings…” Miss Stanhope whispered and finally lost consciousness.
“Wings? What does that mean?” the young pianist asked. He helped transfer the girl to behind the screen where her bed stood. Then he left, and I stayed with the patient along with the housemaid who was helping me. I could only listen to what was going on in the study.
“Not just wings,” corrected Sherlock Holmes. “Wings in the window. That means that she either saw them through the window or saw a reflection in the glass, as it was dark outside and in here, the lights were on. Were they on, Miss Mary?” He turned to the other housemaid who had found the victim. She was still standing there shaking a bit.
“Yeah… Yes, they were,” she said in a small voice. “I saw her at once…”
“Did you hear a cry or something?”
“I heard a whimper. She was calling out for someone, and I was passing by.”
“As far as I understand, this is a wing of private rooms. The servants are not allowed to come here unless they are called for. Did Miss Stanhope call you?”
“No, she didn’t. I’m not her maid. I was just passing by… from the kitchen. It is right there.”
“So, when the incident happened, you were in the kitchen?”
“Yes.”
“She’s lying,” Mr. Fell suddenly whispered and then jumped a little, as if his own words frightened him.
“How do you know?” Sherlock Holmes asked.
“I… I can’t tell you,” Mr. Fell stammered. “I just… feel it.”
“You realize that sounds a tiny bit suspicious, don’t you?” Mrs. Russell asked, sounding more coquettish than suspicious.
“Can anyone confirm that you were in the kitchen?” Holmes asked Mary.
“Maybe… I don’t know. Servants are in the kitchen all the time, but we are always very busy. I’m not sure if anyone paid attention.”
“Alright. I think we shouldn’t disturb Miss Stanhope any longer. Please, let’s go back to the living room and continue our investigation there,” Holmes said, and left.
I joined them there quite soon after I had made sure young Miss Evelyn was sleeping soundly.
They were making a list of people who had been absent in the main hall when Miss Stanhope had been shot. Unfortunately, that list was quite long, and besides, it was not necessarily one of the guests who had done this.
“Now, my dear ladies and gentlemen,” said Holmes. “I don’t think we started with the right question. We shouldn’t be thinking about who tried to kill Miss Stanhope, but rather why they wanted to kill her.”
“She’s never done anything bad in her life,” said the countess, her voice heavy with tears.
“Well, there must be someone who will get something in case of her death.”
“He looks like a bloody magician,” whispered Mr. Crowley to his friend, nodding toward Holmes, and I saw Mr. Fell frown a bit. “Really, he enjoys talking to a public that doesn’t understand a thing, and unravelling a mystery for them. It’s pure vanity; I love it.”
“No, it’s not!” Fell argued in the same low voice. “He wants to help the mother of the victim, to find the murderer, and to prevent him from doing anything dreadful again. Besides, there’s no sin in being intelligent.”
“Oh, yeah, sure. Remind me, who are you defending now – him or yourself?” Crowley chuckled. I understood almost nothing from that conversation, but even then it had sounded a bit odd to me.
“Countess Stanhope,” the detective asked a bit louder. “Where is your brother?”
Indeed, Mr. Banks was nowhere to be seen. At the same time, I remembered what Holmes had told me about the man. Since Mrs. Stanhope’s husband had died, Banks had been the only man in the family, and the one who was responsible for business and finances. But it certainly wouldn’t have gone on like that forever. Evelyn Stanhope was already of marrying age, and as soon as she’d found herself a husband, she would inherit her father’s fortune and the new family would get to decide what to do with all the money. So he definitely had a motive to hate Miss Stanhope. I still couldn’t understand why he’d decided to kill her today when the house was full of people and possible witnesses, and the most famous detective in London to top it all. But who knows; maybe he’d thought that the more people, the more suspects there would be. And Holmes would be unlikely to think that the man who had invited him to the house was the murderer himself. At any rate, his disappearance was very suspicious.
The countess showed us the way to Bank’s study. I was a bit surprised that almost the same people who were with us when we found Miss Evelyn followed us there. I could understand the presence of the young music teacher, as he was almost a part of the family. Mrs. Russell was also unavoidable due to her extreme curiosity. But what Crowley and Fell were doing with us, I had no idea. Well, Crowley originally didn’t want to go. But Mr. Fell said he wanted to help if he could, and so his companion followed him – a little annoyed as far as I could tell.
When we came into the study, which was, in fact quite close to the victim’s room, we found Mr. Banks. He was sitting in his chair, looking confused and almost frightened.
“W-what’s going on? What are you doing here?” he asked, looking at us with the same lost expression.
“What are you doing here, Mr. Banks?” asked Holmes.
“Er, working?” he said, not confidently enough.
“And what are you working on?” asked Holmes, coming closer and leaning over his table.
“Just some… paperwork….”
“But you haven’t been writing for a while, have you?” said Holmes, touching the papers. “You see, the ink of the last lines you wrote is already dry. So what have you been doing the past hour?”
“Why? Why is it so important?” he suddenly asked defiantly. “I can do anything I want in my study, can’t I?”
“Of course you can,” Holmes said, absolutely calmly. “If it doesn’t involve killing your niece.”
“What?! What are you talking about?!” He looked at his sister in shock. “Emilia, what is he talking about?”
“Someone has tried to shoot Eve,” she answered, tears sparkling in her eyes. “And now we are trying to find out who it was.”
“Good Lord! How is she? Have you called the police?”
“We will, later. It’s okay, Tom, she will be fine. Just tell us where you were and what you were doing.”
“I was… Well, I was here. And I guess… I was sleeping.”
“Sleeping?”
“Yes, I know, it’s really odd; I never go to sleep so early. Maybe I got too tired of working, so I fell asleep at the table. But you know what is also weird?”
“Yes?”
“I’m sure someone had come to see me before I fell asleep…” Banks raised his eyes at us thoughtfully and then noticed something and cried: “You!” He was pointing at Mr. Crowley. “You came to me, didn’t you?”
We saw a panicked expression cross Mr. Crowley’s face. He raised his hand to nervously adjust his glasses, but then managed to get himself together and said rather calmly:
“I’m sorry, sir, but you must be mistaken. I’ve only seen you once before – when you met us in the hall.”
“Really?” he looked confused. “I could swear I saw your glasses…”
“It must have been a dream,” Crowley said, and added with a strange half-smile, “I often come to people in their dreams.”
No one could neither confirm nor deny Mr. Banks’s words, so Sherlock Holmes just asked him to join the others in the living room.
We left the wing of private rooms, and I used this moment to check on Miss Stanhope. She was doing quite well. Then I went over to the window and gingerly touched the hole in the glass which the bullet made after it had grazed the girl’s side. I thought I might try to find it. I’ve never been as good as my friend when it came to deducing or noticing things, but I’ve always tried to help him in some practical ways. I thought it would be useful if we had the bullet.
The façade of the building was lit, and the damn thing couldn’t have flown too far, so I was crawling in the bushes when I heard voices farther away, in the dark garden.
“Tell me you have nothing to do with this, Crowley!”
“I have nothing to do with this! Happy?”
“No. How… I mean, how am I supposed to believe you if you are avoiding me in order to stay alone in that man’s room, and then he is found with no memories of his whereabouts, and a girl is shot next door?”
“It’s a coincidence! I did nothing to him!”
“Why did you say that he hadn’t seen you then?”
“I panicked, okay? I didn’t want them to think I… Well, I didn’t want them to think what you are thinking now.”
“Then maybe you shouldn’t have done anything to him!”
“I didn’t! I didn’t do anything. I just put a sleeping spell on him.”
“What for? You could have just as well gone out of the window with me, or you could have made up a reason why you came to his study. Why did you have to make him fall asleep?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“Then don’t blame me for suspecting you in this crime. Miss Evelyn saw wings. Maybe you can explain that?”
“What the hell, Aziraphale?! I haven’t seen her since we arrived. And name one possible reason why would I want to shoot an innocent girl?”
“How do I know? I haven’t seen you for a century! Maybe you were given orders by your superiors to go and make some trouble, or maybe you just thought it would be a good opportunity to incite hatred in the souls of people, to make them suspect each other, and to tempt them to sin more.”
“Wow, Aziraphale, you’re actually better at this than many of my colleagues. I’d say better than me, but I’m too good myself. Only this time, I didn’t do anything. Actually, I never do anything like going around and shooting people myself, if you need to know.”
“Oh, please!”
“What? Can you name at least one occasion? It’s not the point, you know. My job is to tempt people to kill each other. And they are quite good at it, in fact.”
“Because you’re so good at tempting, aren’t you?”
“Don’t give me all the credit. There’ve always been plenty of killing for righteous reasons. Oh, and that makes me remember that I’m not the only person with wings here!”
“What are you implying?”
“I’m just saying that I don’t know where you were during the incident either!”
“Well, Crowley, this is already stupid.”
“Yeah? Is it? So, it’s okay to suspect me, ‘cos I’m a bloody demon, and you’ve never done anything bad in six millennia? Doesn’t that sound a little bit unfair to you?”
“Well, you are a demon. What do you expect from me?!”
“I don’t know, a little less judgment? A little more trust.”
“You are literally lying right in front of me – how can I trust you?”
“I haven’t told a single lie to you today, angel.”
“You are hiding something. That’s the same.”
“It’s personal! Okay, you don’t believe me, that’s fine. Although it hurts. Not much, just a bit. Just don’t go telling everyone I have wings and could have killed a girl just because I’m a demon, okay? Because I’ll find something to say against you, too.”
I heard some noise, as if he turned around and went away, his steps loud on the gravel path. Soon I saw Mr. Crowley emerge from the shadow of the tree. In the lamplight, his face looked very pale, and though, even now in the dark, he wore his dark glasses, his features were all twisted in some kind of deep sorrow.
Again, I didn’t understand a word of his strange conversation with Mr. Fell, and I never had the time to think about it or ask Mr. Crowley, because at that very moment, another dark figure appeared from behind a white column of the building. It moved very quickly. And then I saw a gun.
“Look out!” I shouted at the same time as the shot. Too late.
All the sounds in the house stopped.
Next: Part 2!
