Happy Holidays, Leslie! (Pt 2)

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Wings in the Window - Part 2


Crowley gasped, instinctively pressed a hand to his left shoulder, near the collarbone, and fell onto the ground. I heard hurried footsteps, both ahead of me and behind me. I turned around and was surprised to see that the man who had made the shot was not running away, but instead was approaching us quickly.

“You?!” I shouted when I saw who it was. “Stay back! Put your weapon down!”

“Is he dead? Have I killed him?” Frederick, the young music teacher, asked.

“I have to look. Don’t move!” I said sternly; I was a doctor now, and I was responsible for my patient.

Then his companion, Mr. Fell, reached us.

“Oh, God! My dear, are you alright?” He dropped on his knees near Crowley and whispered something into his ear. I didn’t make it out, but it sounded like: “…can’t heal yourself”.

“I know!..” Crowley growled and fell further backwards. “Damn!”

“Hold on,” Fell said, taking his head in his hands gently as if they hadn’t been arguing only a minute before. He turned to me. “You’re a doctor, aren’t you? Is it serious?”

“It’s too dark here…” I mumbled, opening the man’s jacket and trying to see the wound. “We have to take him into the house.”

“Okay… okay…”

I was a bit shocked when Mr. Fell, who didn’t look like an athlete, picked up his wounded friend almost effortlessly and carried him to the house.

Then I was distracted by a glint in the grass where Mr. Crowley had laid.

It was a bullet. But not the bullet Mr. Crowley had been hit by, for that one was still in his shoulder. This was the thing I had come into the garden for in the first place. I took it and hurried into the house.

“Come with me, young man, and care to explain what you’ve done,” I said to Frederick, trying to sound calm in front of a man with a gun. I was almost surprised when he obeyed.

Everyone inside was in shock. Mr. Fell had already explained what had happened, and was now settling his friend on a couch. His fingers trembled a bit when he put a pillow under Crowley’s head and brushed a little wet stand of hair from his forehead.

Crowley was breathing heavily.

“Thanks, an…”

“Hush!” whispered Fell, taking his hand gingerly. “Don’t speak. Doctor?”

I came up and started examining the wound. The countess sent a servant for anything I might need. At the same time Holmes, who had been watching the scene with great interest, finally addressed the young musician.
“Why did you do that?”

“It’s him!” cried Frederick in weird excitement. “Can’t you understand? It was he, who did it. Who tried to kill Evelyn!”

“What?! What are you talking about, you idiot?!” Crowley tried to rise up, and then almost hissed as his shoulder obviously exploded in pain. I made him lie down again. Frederick went on, pointing a finger at Crowley.

“I know who he is! He is a vampire. A beast the tales tell of. He wanted to take Ev… Miss Stanhope for his blood sacrifice. That’s why she saw wings!”

“But why?” Holmes exclaimed, coming up to the young man, who was still holding a gun. “Oh, sorry, would you mind?” He took the weapon from him and looked at it with interest.

“It’s not loaded,” Frederick said. “Any more, I mean. There was only one bullet. It was silver.”

“Silver bullets are for werewolves, you moron,” Crowley groaned. “You should have loaded it with garlic or something like that if you were so sure…”

“Yes, that’s a good question,” Holmes asked. “Why were you sure? If you had a special bullet for him, you must have been prepared. What made you think that he is a vampire and that he was responsible for the attack on Miss Stanhope?”

“I’ve seen him before. He has yellow eyes… Just look at them!” he said in agitation. “Take those glasses off, look at his eyes! They are not human!”

“Firstly…” Crowley said again, panting. I saw that Fell was trying to calm him down, that he was worried; but the injured man paid him no attention. “Firstly, vampires have red eyes, not yellow… And secondly…” He raised his good hand and took the shades off, revealing perfectly normal brown eyes. They glittered, though, and it made me think I needed to give him something to ease the pain. I didn’t have my medicine chest with me, of course, but the servant soon returned with instruments and medicine, including morphine.

“He’s a wizard! He’s changed them!”

“Oh, now I’m a wizard, great,” Crowley grumbled. He was actually rather talkative for a person who’d just been shot. “Make up your mind, would you?”

“Mr. Shaw, where and when did you see Mr. Crowley’s yellow eyes?” Sherlock Holmes asked, without a trace of sarcasm. “Why did you decide he was after Miss Stanhope?”

“She… She knows him… She asked me to watch him in his flat. And I did because I… I was… I thought that she loved him, or that he had insulted her… Or maybe both.”

“It was you!” shouted Crowley, and at that very moment, I happened to inject him with morphine. He jumped a little and screamed. “Ouch! Doctor! What the…”

“I’m sorry,” I said. I didn’t want to startle him; he seemed quite nervous as it was. “It’s medicine. It will do you good.”

“Oh… Oh, yes… it’s already… good…” he gradually relaxed and fell on the couch pillows. Mr. Fell adjusted them under his head with a look of great concern.

“How is he doing?” he asked me.

“Quite well. Surprisingly well, actually. I saw the distance from which the shot was made and the speed of it… I could swear the wound should have been much deeper. But it’s almost on the surface…” With these words, I pulled the bullet out.

The patient gasped a little, and Mr. Fell squeezed the hand of his good arm tighter.

“It is good, isn’t it?” Mrs. Stanhope asked, her big grey eyes widened even more in fear. She probably hadn’t expected that her musical dinner would turn into this weird crime drama. “It’s strange, but in a good way?”

“If only Mr. Shaw is not right and Mr. Crowley isn’t really a vampire,” smiled Holmes.

“Do you believe in vampires, Mr. Holmes?” asked Mrs. Russell. “Or other supernatural beings?”

“I believe that there are many unusual things around us, Mrs. Russell, but most unusual things always have the most trivial explanation. And vice versa. What I believe now is that Miss Stanhope somehow knew Mr. Crowley before. Why did she ask you to spy on him, Mr. Shaw?”

“She didn’t tell me why. But I’m sure she was afraid of him. He is not a normal person, I tell you! He… he had never left his house before this day. He was… He was sleeping all the time. Or lying in bed, I don’t know. Without ever eating or drinking. But today he got up, and when he came up to the window, I saw his eyes through my spyglass. His eyes were… like… like snake’s or cat’s eyes.”

“Well… But now they are not. And tell me, young man – Miss Stanhope asks you to go watch some stranger, and you immediately do what she wants? Why? Did she pay you?”

“No! She… and I… We… We were friends.”

“They were lovers!” Mary, the housemaid who had still been standing here all this time, suddenly said.

“What?” the countess whispered.

“No!” Frederick said hurriedly. “At least not in a bad way. We loved each other, yes, but we were going to ask your blessing for the marriage. But then Evelyn became more and more distant and gloomy. I thought she’d stopped loving me, but she never said it. And then she asked me to do this. I thought she’d fallen in love with him. I wanted to get my revenge. And now I want it even more. Look, you said it yourself; the bullet didn’t kill him, because he is inhuman!”

“Your alibi is very consistent,” Sherlock Holmes said. “Unfortunately, you have no proof that could make us believe you. On the other hand, you are a man with a weapon, and a girl was shot earlier today. A girl whom you love and who, as you suspect, has ceased to love you. You really had a very good motive to shoot both her and your more successful rival.”

“I would never harm her!”

“That’s true,” Holmes nodded. “And that’s why Miss Evelyn was not killed but only wounded; you didn’t want to kill her, just to punish her, right?”

“No!” The poor man was so agitated, I feared that he might do something reckless. I knew that Holmes did not really suspect him, I heard it in his voice – he was just playing; either to make sure that the boy was innocent, or to make the guilty party somehow reveal themselves. But nobody spoke a word. And then my friend turned to me:

“Have you found the bullet, Watson? I don’t mean this one, I mean the one you were looking for in the garden.”

“How did you…”

“Well, what else would you be doing in the garden in the middle of the investigation? It was not particularly necessary, for I can say, judging by the hole in the glass and by Miss Stanhope’s wound, that it is not the same bullet that hit Mr. Crowley. But it would be nice to make sure.”

“I found it,” I said, taking the bullet out of my pocket. “You’re right, they are completely different.”

“Mine was made of silver,” Frederick repeated. “The plan was either to kill the beast or to prove that it is invincible. You see the result.”

“It doesn’t seem like you’ve proved anything, dear boy,” Mr. Fell said, a bit irritated. He didn’t seem to notice that his hand was still resting on Mr. Crowley’s wrist, who had become rather silent, probably relishing the moments of sweet painless haze that morphine had given him.

“And what can we deduce from the looks of this second bullet?” Holmes asked, coming up and taking the small piece of metal from me. “You found it near the window, didn’t you, Watson?”

“Yes, indeed, I did.”

“I thought so. You see, both the calibre and the distance of the shot tell us that this was a rather small gun. One like those that women usually carry in their handbags to defend themselves from thieves.”

A whisper ran across the room. People’s eyes swept over Mrs. Russell, Mary, and the other women. But then, Holmes continued.

“Women or men with really delicate small hands, who are not particularly keen on killing people, but might have to carry weapons.”

There was another round of glances, and then somehow everyone’s eyes stopped on one hand. The whitest and softest hand that any man could have, a hand with gentle plump fingers and perfectly manicured nails. A hand lying on top of Mr. Crowley’s wrist.

Mr. Fell noticed the strange looks and immediately hid his hand behind his back.

“What? Why are you looking at me?”

“Mr. Fell, I recall that you were not in the room with the guests when the attack on Miss Stanhope happened. Can you remind us where you were?” Holmes asked casually.

“I… I was walking…”


“Where? In the garden?”

“No, he was not in the garden,” Mrs. Russell interfered. “I was in the garden looking for him and no one had seen him there.”

“Why were you looking for Mr. Fell, Mrs. Russell?”

“I wanted to ask him a personal question. Though… maybe, as this is an investigation and he is a suspect, it won’t be personal any longer. Am I obliged to say?” Mrs. Russell clearly couldn’t wait for an opportunity to ask it.

“If you like,” Holmes shrugged.

“I wanted to ask him what the white circle on the floor of his bookshop means.”

“A white circle?”

“Yes, yes, yes! He has a white circle with strange runes and symbols written on the floor under his carpet. Once, I came to his bookshop before opening hours and accidentally caught a glimpse of it. It looks like it is used for summoning demons or for human sacrifices. I told you about it, Emilia, do you remember?” She turned to the countess.

“Not really,” she answered. “I must have forgotten. You have so many interesting people around you, and everyone is unusual in some way. I’m sure Mr. Fell can explain it, and I’m even more certain that he has nothing to do with the attack on my daughter.”

“Of course I don’t,” Mr. Fell exclaimed. “The circle had been on the floor of the building before I moved in, so I don’t really know what all those symbols mean, except for the fact that it might have been used in some kind of ritual. As you can see by my clothes, I’m not very fond of changes, so I didn’t paint the floor and just put a carpet over it. I remove it occasionally to clean the floor. Unfortunately, I can’t provide you with a more fascinating story, Mrs. Russell.”

“But the original question was different, Mr. Fell. Where were you walking, if not in the garden?” Mrs. Russell wasn’t going to give up.

“Well, maybe it was you who wasn’t in the garden, Mrs. Russell,” said Mr. Fell, a bit angrily. “Why do you want to frame me so much? As far as I remember, you were the one who suggested not calling the police. And your hands are no bigger than mine.”

“Calm down, Mr. Fell; I wasn’t saying anything against you. I just wanted to know, that’s all.”

“Oh, I know absolutely clearly where Mr. Fell was when the crime was committed,” Holmes suddenly smiled.

“Do you?” Fell visibly shuddered. In fact, it was such a sharp movement that it made Crowley open his eyes and look at him curiously.

“What is it? You have secrets too, my friend, haven’t you? Well, well, well.” He smiled maliciously. “Tell us, Mr. Holmes. I am dying…”

“You aren’t dying, my dear, and it’s not any secret that you could hope for.”

“I was going to say, I’m dying to hear it.” Crowley rolled his eyes.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Fell, but I have to give away your secret. Otherwise, you might be suspected in God knows what else.” Holmes was almost laughing now.

“Okay, okay,” Fell said, growing bright red to the roots of his hair. “There’s nothing very funny about it. It didn’t do me any good…”

“Oh, you’re right. I remember, when you came into the room some time later, you were very pale and clearly in great pain.”

Crowley, on the couch, shifted uneasily and looked at his friend in worry.

“You’re right. I didn’t feel very well…” Fell said.

“Well, maybe you shouldn’t have eaten so many cakes in the kitchen!” Holmes said with a smile, watching his opponent blush even further.

“I… I… I’m s-so sorry, Mrs. Stanhope!” poor Mr. Fell stammered, barely able to look her in the eye. “I was rather upset this evening because of… of…” he glanced at Crowley. “Because of a personal matter. And I was passing by the kitchen. And… it just smelled so good! Pastry always m-makes me feel better… Except for this time it didn’t…”

In the awkward silence, Crowley suddenly burst into laughter. It was such a genuine whole-hearted laugh that gradually everyone in the room joined in.

“Oh, dear! For Ssss-ssomeone’s sssake! This is your biggest sssin, isn’t it, angel?” Crowley moaned. Then the effort obviously began to strain his wound, because his face suddenly twisted in pain, and he stopped laughing abruptly. Instead, he turned to Sherlock Holmes.

“How did you guess?”

“I saw a little stain of cream on Mr. Fell’s sleeve. When I first met him I was surprised that his suit, although a bit old-fashioned, was in wonderful condition. So the stain had to have been fresh. But we hadn’t been served cakes yet. So, he must have gone to the kitchen to taste them. And then I saw that he was experiencing some inconvenience, and that made me certain. Here, this is the stain.” Holmes came up to Mr. Fell, who was absolutely astonished by the detective’s talent and was looking for the stain that had betrayed him. Holmes took him by the sleeve and rubbed it a bit. Then he smelled his fingers and frowned.

“And how do you feel now, Mr. Fell?”

“Fine, thank you, Mr. Holmes. Why?”

“I have a very strong suspicion that you have been poisoned.”

“What?!”

Everyone in the room gasped.

“The cream. It smells a bit like garlic. You will agree with me that it’s not a normal smell for confectionery. This smell characterizes such a well-known poison as arsenic when it is subjected to high enough temperatures.”

“But… but… If he was poisoned, how can he still be alive?” Mrs. Russell asked.

“It’s a miracle,” the countess said. “You’re a good person, Mr. Fell, and God didn’t want me to see another death of a person who has been kind to me.”

“Oh, thank you, Emilia, you’re too nice to me. I guess I was just lucky,” he smiled, embarrassed by everyone’s attention.

“Yes, that must be it,” Sherlock Holmes said thoughtfully. “But who did it? It must somehow be connected with the attack on Miss Stanhope.”

While everyone was whispering and sharing their guesses and emotions, I thought I overheard Mr. Crowley’s quiet words addressed to Mr. Fell.

“No healing yourself, is it?”

“And as Mr. Fell’s whereabouts are now clear, we can prove that he was not anywhere near Miss Stanhope’s room. And, as far as I remember, he’d told us earlier that he knew that Miss Mary hadn’t been in the kitchen, as she claims,” Holmes reminded.

“That’s true,” Mr. Fell nodded. “I wanted to tell you, but I didn’t want to…”

“…Admit your crimes against the dessert?” Crowley offered.

“Now, Miss Mary, how can you explain that?” Sherlock Holmes looked at the girl.

“It’s nonsense, Mary is a good girl, she’d never do something like that!” the countess exclaimed. “She has no reason to wish Evelyn harm.”

“Oh, yes, she did,” Frederick suddenly smirked.

“What do you mean?”

“She was jealous of her.”

“What? Jealous? But why?”

“Because she’s ruined my life!” Mary shouted “Yes, she has! This spoilt girl has everything she wants, but she just had to go and take the only thing that I’d valued most. She took my love. She took Freddie from me!”

“She did what?” Mrs. Stanhope gasped.

“No one took me, Mary,” Frederick rolled his eyes. “We are in love! How many times do I have to explain it to you?”

“But you had loved me before she decided she wanted you for herself.” She turned to the frozen crowd in the room. “He’d loved me! But then, he left me for her.”

“So, you decided to kill her because of jealousy?” Crowley asked, propping himself a bit on one elbow and wincing at the movement. “Oh, how I love such stories, ang… Fell, when your so-called love sends lovers to Hell. Paolo and Francesca and all that.”

“No!” cried Mary in absolute horror. “No, I didn’t kill her!”

“Only because your gun was too small. A lady’s gun, as Mr. Holmes said,” pointed out Frederick. “By the way, it was also quite easy for you to poison the cakes, I guess, just to make sure that you’d get her by the end of the night.”

“Stop it, Freddie!” the poor girl was now crying. “Don’t you know me? I would never do such a thing!”

“Really? Then where were you when all this happened?”

“I was… I was in your room…”

Frederick stared at her wide-eyed. She hurried to explain.

“I knew you exchanged letters with Evelyn. And I got a key to your room from Sarah, who cleans it. I used the time when you were playing to find the letters. I was going to show them to Lady Stanhope. But I wanted to find Evelyn’s letters as well. So, I went to her wing, hoping that she was listening to the concert. I met Lady Stanhope, who was coming from there, and she asked me to find Miss Evelyn and call her for dinner. As she was walking from the direction of Evelyn’s room, I thought it meant that she had looked for her there and hadn’t found her. So, I concluded the room was empty. I went there to look for the letters and… saw Miss Evelyn already lying on the floor!”

“But you can’t prove it, can you?” Frederick folded his arms and looked at her coldly.

“Ask Evelyn, she saw me when I came in!”

“Yeah, but she didn’t see the person who shot her. You could have done it before you ‘found’ her!”

“Hm…” Holmes said, and this somehow made all the sounds in the room die out at once. “I must confess, countess Stanhope, when I came tonight I didn’t expect this evening to be so interesting.”

“It would have been even more interesting for you if you had been shot,” Crowley grumbled. I’d recognized in him long ago one of those people who can’t stand it when everyone’s attention is drawn to someone else for a long time.

“We have several people who were not in the room when the accident happened. It’s Mr. Banks, who can’t remember where he was, but thinks he saw Mr. Crowley before falling asleep. Mr. Crowley, who refuses to tell us where he was at that particular time, who was clearly somehow known to Miss Stanhope before this evening, and who is suspected of being a vampire or a wizard, according to Mr. Shaw. Then, we have Mr. Shaw himself, who shot Mr. Crowley and previously had been spying on him for Miss Stanhope. And although his gun is not the same as the one she was shot with, he clearly can shoot. Besides, he is in love with the victim, so his motive might be jealousy. The same can be said about Miss Mary, who found Miss Stanhope, and who happened to go there at quite the right time. There are also Mr. Fell with his demonic circle and small hands, and Mrs. Russell, who didn’t want to call the police, although, I reckon they could be crossed out of the equation.”

Holmes paused and then went on.

“By the way, the equation itself is rather neat. I’d say that the person responsible has constructed a well-orchestrated plan. Look, everyone here played their own part. I am here as an investigator, the one who is to shake this house like an old sack and see what falls out. My friend Watson is a doctor, whose job was to prevent any serious harm from happening. Mrs. Russell, your role was to challenge me to take this case before calling the police. And you did it perfectly because of your wonderful curiosity. Mr. Banks and Mr. Crowley were the perfect ‘most suspicious suspects’. And Mr. Shaw was to find out and reveal some of the strangest things. Now, for Miss Stanhope. You probably think that she was a victim in this drama. At least the main one. But I can assure you that she was nothing but bait.”

“Bait?!” the countess repeated in shock.

“That’s true. I have reasons to assume that the main prey of this evening were Mr. Fell and Mr. Crowley. And also my friend Watson and I – but in a different way. Someone thought these people,” he pointed at Fell and Crowley, “were a riddle. A mystery that I could solve. This person saw something unusual in Mr. Fell’s shop, and that made them follow him everywhere, including his friend’s house. They organized surveillance over that place and discovered that the friend was also rather unusual in his sleeping habits and everything. So, they threw a party, invited both Fell and Crowley, and made sure that the best detective would come.”

“Wait!” suddenly came the voice of Mrs. Stanhope. “Excuse me! Are you implying that I..?”

“Yes, I am. You, and probably your daughter, conspired to do this. It was very obvious that the person who shot Miss Evelyn didn’t mean to kill her. The intention was to create the illusion of an attack. An attack by a supernatural being, hence the mentioning of the wings. You wanted me and everyone else to suspect these two people and discover as much as possible about them. You tried very hard to cover your tracks; you didn’t invite me personally, but you made a show for your brother so that he would want to ensure your happiness and hire me. You sent Mary to Evelyn’s room because you wanted her to be found soon by someone who would look suspicious. You also suggested calling the police, but you knew that Mrs. Russell with her admiration for interesting people would never miss an opportunity to observe me working. One by one, following your clues, we found out all kinds of strange things about Mr. Fell and Mr. Crowley; that Mr. Fell has an occult sign in his shop, that he wears clothes that are fifty years old, that he can’t be killed by arsenic – while Mr. Crowley looks very much like he can stop bullets from penetrating his body. He also, as Mr. Shaw claims, is capable of changing the colour of his eyes and never leaves his bed except for going to listen to opera singers. As you have probably heard from my tone, I am rather sceptical about most of these things, but I assume that you aren’t, Mrs. Stanhope.”

“It’s nonsense! You can’t prove any of this,” the countess said in such a low voice it was barely heard.

“All trails are running back to you. You’re the director of this orchestration. I’m sure if the police look closely, even they will be able to find the traces of arsenic and the lady’s gun in the house, and maybe even a room where you had been practising to make such a good and precise shot. But still, there is something I don’t understand. Why did you do all this? What kind of a mother shoots her own child…?”

There was a pause and then Mr. Fell said:

“A mother who doesn’t believe in death.”

Everyone looked at him. He stood up very slowly.

“May I talk to you in private, countess Stanhope? And maybe with your daughter, too.” Despite his respectful and kind tone, he sounded rather convincing, even authoritative. They left and were gone for about fifteen minutes. Then this unusual man came back out and called for me and Holmes. We went in. The countess looked like she had been crying, and her daughter was too agitated for the victim of an attack. She was holding her mother’s hand.

“Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” the countess began. “You were right about everything. I really made this performance together with Evelyn – because she convinced me to do it – to try to find out more about Aziraphale and Crowley.”

“Aziraphale?” I asked. Mr. Fell coughed a bit.

“Yes, that’s my real name,” he said.

“I don’t expect you to believe or understand me,” Mrs. Stanhope continued. “But as soon as I met Aziraphale, I knew he was an angel. When he went to the back of his bookshop, I followed him and saw it. The book he was looking for was standing on the higher shelf. He didn’t bother to get a ladder – he just manifested a pair of gorgeous white wings and flew several feet above the floor. He fetched the book, and the next second the wings were gone. But it was enough – I knew that everything was real. Heaven and Hell, angels and demons, spirits and magic. And if so, maybe there was hope for me to see my Edward again? I told Evelyn, and she got almost more excited than I was. Soon we found out more about Aziraphale and then – his friend Crowley, who indeed had been sleeping for a very long time. Evelyn and I decided to lure them to this house and construct a situation that would make them confess and help us.”

We were listening in amazement. I remembered the strange conversation I had heard in the garden. Could it really be true?

“You have to understand, Mr. Holmes,” Evelyn begged. “You didn’t see my mother through all these months after Father’s death… She was so miserable. She wouldn’t have lasted long if not for the hope Aziraphale gave her. I had to help her. Help us. Help Father.”

“But what if you’d been wrong? You could have killed them!” I exclaimed.

“No, we couldn’t. I know what I saw,” the countess said.

“We didn’t hurt anyone except me,” her daughter added.

“Oi, I’m sure Crowley would argue,” Aziraphale said.

“I’m really sorry about that. I’ll talk to Freddie, he’ll apologize…”

“What’s going to happen now?” Mrs. Stanhope asked. “You can do whatever you want to me. I’ve already gotten what I wanted.”

“Oh, dear.” Holmes shook his head. Then he addressed Aziraphale. “Are you really claiming to be an angel?”

“I just don’t deny it, Mr. Holmes. We are not supposed to lie, you know.” Aziraphale smiled shyly.

After a long pause, Holmes said, “If neither Miss Stanhope nor Mr. Crowley and Mr… Aziraphale are going to press any charges, then I don’t think we’ll have to take this to the police. And though I don’t believe a word of these stories about angels, it was certainly interesting for me to see what extraordinary things love can do sometimes. Love of a woman towards a man, and love of a human being towards mystery and the supernatural. Well, anyway, I’ve solved the case, as I promised you. And I hope I was a good entertainment for your guests. Now, my lady, I hope you’ll excuse me; I’d like to go and listen to signiorina Bellincioni one last time.”

With those words, Sherlock Holmes made his exit out of the room. I wanted to follow him, but I just couldn’t. He was a bit disappointed, but I was intrigued. He didn’t believe it, I did.

So, I asked Aziraphale,

“May I speak with you, please?”


***


Aziraphale

“So, what did you tell her?” Crowley asked him when they were leaving the house of countess Stanhope. He still had his shoulder bandaged and was clinging to the angel for support, poor dear, as he didn’t want to heal himself in front of human eyes. Aziraphale called a cab and helped the demon get inside. When Crowley finally relaxed, fixing his shoulder and returning his eyes to their original colour, Aziraphale answered.

“The truth. That she was right, I am an angel. But I can’t bring her husband back; that’s not how it works. And I assured her that she will see him again.”

“How can you know that? She is not exactly a pure soul, is she? She wounded her daughter, she tried to kill us…” Crowley said, rubbing grumpily at his shoulder.

“She did this out of love and desperation. And she didn’t mean to do any harm; she honestly believed she couldn’t hurt us. Besides, she still has quite a lot of time; she might become a better person now, as she truly knows what the stakes are.”

“Isn’t it a bit dishonest? You’ve robbed her of her free will, now everything that she does she’ll be doing not because she is truly kind, but because she wants to earn herself a ticket to Heaven.”

Aziraphale shook his head sadly.

“Oh no, my dear, you shouldn’t worry about that. I’ve already done this a couple of times with other humans throughout millennia. You won’t believe how easily they forget about earning this ticket. At first, they think about it constantly and try very hard, and I worry that I’ve done the wrong thing. But soon, they let themselves relax, thinking that they are good enough as it is, or that Heaven isn’t always looking at them. And some time later, they even start doubting that they really saw an angel one day. Only if a person is really determined and good to their very core, can they be able to stick to good deeds no matter what.”

“Wow, you’re a pessimist, angel,” Crowley said, a bit sympathetically.

“No, not really. I still believe in good deeds and good souls. It’s just you never know where you’ll find them. By the way, speaking of not-knowing…what I still don’t know is where you really were when that fake crime was committed. I’m sorry I suspected you, my dear, but you still haven’t answered.”

“I… I couldn’t do it there,” Crowley lowered his head as if the dark shades weren’t enough for him to hide his eyes. “Because I was committing a crime of my own.”

“What?!” gasped Aziraphale. He really should have paid more attention, he hadn’t noticed what the demon had done, he might have harmed someone, he might…

But then Crowley reached inside the inner pocket of his jacket (which probably had another dimension), and pulled out… Christopher Columbus’s Book of Prophecies. Aziraphale’s mouth opened, but he couldn’t utter a word.

“Here,” Crowley said, handing him the book. “I stole it from Banks’s study when you left. He won’t notice; it belonged to the late Stanhope. But I had to knock him out to do it, so…”

“Oh, dear!” Aziraphale finally gasped. “I can’t… You… You’ve stolen a book for me?!”

“Well, it’s not the first time I’ve done it, is it?” Crowley shrugged. “‘Cos, you know, you can’t do it yourself; you’re an angel and stuff. But you can’t refuse a gift, can you? You’ve already hurt me too many times today…” There was a sly smile on the demon’s face, but Aziraphale felt that he was more serious than he wanted to sound.

“Oh… I… I’m so sorry I doubted you, my dear. I don’t know what to say… Thank you!” The angel felt moved. He hugged the book tightly, although he wanted very much to hug Crowley instead. “Of course, I won’t refuse such a splendid gift.”

“Good.” Crowley gave him another smile – a little awkward, but genuinely happy this time.