A:N: Hello again, my beloved readers! I'm returning with another story for you all! Not much to say right now except that I am now eligible to beta stories, so please contact me if you need any help!
I know that Chelmey doesn't seem like he would be madly in love with anyone, but Barton mentioned that the inspector was a rather loving husband, and the policeman said, in quote, that "one might never find a man more in love with his wife", so this fic could happen.
First multi-chapter story woooooo! Requests are open. I will refuse to update until I get five reviews on the chapter. (5 reviews for chapter two, 10 reviews for three...) unless I'm working on a request.
Short preview on this chapter: Chelmey is returning home after 'solving' the case of the Diabolical Box, and the only person he has to rant to is his loving wife, Amelie... poor lady.
Disclaimer: I, in no way, shape, or form, own Professor Layton.
The Mrs. Chelmey
Chelmey was driving home in Barton's patrol car. Barton was out sick from chowing down on so much junk food on the Molentary Express that he had to take that day off, and there was a bloody hailstorm coming, so the least the inspector could do was keep the car under some form of protection until the storm blew over (Scotland Yard only allowed a parking space for every two people in their garage, and the inspector wasn't risking his valuable car for the thing that Barton had put countless dents and dings in). Unless Barton miraculously recovered from hacking his guts up and dashed over to the inspector's house, took his car back to The Yard, and waddled back home.
Yet, oddly enough, this had to be the first time that Barton had a stomach flu. He had either ate too much for his stomach to hold (which was highly unlikely) or he had somehow inhaled something like a knife or a fork in the process of devouring his meal (which was highly likely).
Chelmey slowed to a halt and pulled into his private driveway. The inspector was a wealthy man, given how many cases he had solved, so he and his wife shared a private home, unlike most people in and around Britain. Even the Professor and that odd Dr. Schrader had their tiny flats! So much as to say that archeology was a well-paying job, Layton!
The mustached-man twisted the keys to turn off the engine. For a moment, he just sat there, admiring the quiet. In the absence of noise, Chelmey noticed that his ears had been ringing, as Folsense was a rather loud town with electrical lights constantly popping, Dropstone had that bloody cheery festival, and the train never stopped groaning as it raced along the rails.
Yet his stomach grumbled. Amelie was doubtlessly sitting at the dinner table, alone, as she did on most of her husband's cases. One of these days, he was going to find a case where Amelie could safely come along, simply so they could go out for dinner after Chelmey figured out what in the bloody hell was going on.
The scent of sweet-potato fritters beckoned his nose, and for the first time since that apprentice of Layton's had nearly tore his face off, the inspector was in a rather calm mood. He opened the car door and strode up the path to the front door; he was about to go inside when he remembered his task on hand.
The house was rather small, but surrounded by a dense woods, and by following a path behind the back of the house, one would come upon an old shed that the inspector had built with his own two hands. And a power-saw for the wood... and three different types of screwdrivers.. and two pounds of screws... but nevertheless, Chelmey had made it himself as a birthday present for Amelie, a place where she could store her gardening tools, fertilizers, and those beauty-forsaken lawn gnomes of her's.
It also happened to be where the inspector stored a dark green tarp, one that he had used to patch up the roof temporarily when a heavy snowstorm had caused the roof to cave in.
The air was cold that night, and as Chelmey took only a few long bounds to cover the distance from the side of his house to the path out back, he realized he was shivering in the effects of the cold. That smudge of a town, Folsense, was so affected by pollution that the global warming in that area had been colossal.
Blimey, is it could out here. What I wouldn't do for a cup of Amelie's tea right this bloody instant. Barton, why today of all the bloody days?
Chelmey shuddered once more. He was alone out there with his thoughts. He never thought much on the subject, but there were countless low-lifes that feared him, and people do irrational things when they are afraid. If one was to somehow work up the nerve, he or she could demolish all he had built over the span of his lifetime in a blink.
He pushed that thought to the back of his head. He would think of what to do if that obstacle ever occurred. After he tore the monster's head off.
The shed was a poor one, he had to admit it; certainly not his best work. But the shed had been constructed over ten years ago, and it was a standing milestone of Chelmey's life, love and marriage to the woman most important in his life. The one who was also, at that very moment, calling out his name.
"Honey, is that you?" Amelie's voice was sweet and gentle, much contradictory to his own bark.
"Yes, dear, i' is. I'll be in after I take 'are of somethin' for tha' bumbling assistant a'mine," he responded as he studied the door.
It was no taller than himself, with two rusting hinges, an ancient padlock whose key had been broken ages ago, the lock wedged in between the door and one of the hinges, and a handle he had also created. All he had to do was grip the crudely hammered handle and give it a firm tug, and the door wouldn't fly off the hinges.
Chelmey swore he heard a rat squeak upon being spotted in the shed; but Chelmey didn't mind in the slightest. One of those damn insane criminals he once had to deal with was rather fond of mice, and when he was given one to play with as a sort of pet, he shut up for a while*.
Chelmey shooed any other of the possible critters off as he picked up the cover and shook it vigorously, then hauled the large tarp back to the car. He nearly tripped over it four times, despite being known as the man with the longest stride in all of London.
He finally reached the car after stumbling when he tripped over the tarp. He sighed in slight annoyance. Now came the difficult part.
Chelmey hoisted the tarp over on top of the patrol car, positioning it so that the lump of material would remain balanced as he hastily unjumbled the hopeless mess. The first task was to untangle the mess, which he accomplished after ramming into the side mirror only once. The inspector was then finally able to stretch out the tarp and cram it underneath the wheels.
A few minutes later, Chelmey stepped back, admiring his craftsmanship. The sight wasn't pretty, as the car now looked like a giant, green plaything, but it would protect the patrol car from any damage.
Chelmey nodded with a grunt. Now who was the most logical man in London, Layton? All anything required was a bit of muscle. And, occasionally, a bit of brain, Grosky.
His task accomplished, Chelmey quickly tightened his tie and straightened his jacket. His mustached lip curled into a smile; he was finally going to have some decent home-cooking. The only place that he and Barton could find in Folsense was a meat shopped chocked full with cloves of garlic, making everything in sight reek beyond consumption. And the idiot chef on the Molentary Express had kept a pet hamster in the kitchen. And off all the bloody idiots...
The door cracked upon to reveal a silhouette against the golden light. Short, plump...
"BARTON!" Chelmey roared. He understood that the man was sick, but he wanted five damn minutes with just him and his wife.
As the inspector's eyes adjusted to the change in light, he realized that Barton was dressed in teddy-bear pajamas, his hair a tousled mess, a tissue hanging from his hand. "U-llo, ssrrr." Barton was so stuffed up that he sounded as if he had a gag stuffed down his throat and two corks up each nostril. Not a good combination with a stomach flu that had him rushing to the loo every time he thought of food.
Just five bloody minutes alone...
Amelie came up behind Barton and gingerly shooed him off. "Dear, I'm sorry, but he has to go to the hospital in a few hours," the look in her eyes was of sheer disappointment. She had apparently missed her husband.
"Then why in the bloody blazes is he here!" Chelmey wasn't roaring at his wife. He was roaring at the fates who cursed him. Amelie knew this and she was too polite to correct him, though he looked like a ranting idiot.
Amelie was quiet for a moment as she glanced over her shoulder. "This may sound strange, but he somehow swallowed three butter pats still in their wrapping while on the Express. They're preparing his room right now, and they need eyes on him at all time until his room is ready."
Chelmey could not respond. He was right in a way; he had inhaled something hazardous to his health... This night was going to be bloody hell.
*Yes, this was a reference to Delacroix (forgive if I spelled that wrong) and Mr. Jingles from The Green Mile. I was watching it and I couldn't resist.
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