Title: Empty Chairs At An Empty Table
Author: lil-miss-chocolate
Rating: Starts PG, goes up to NC17
Characters: Kurt, Puck, Mercedes, Rachel, Quinn, Tina, Artie, Will, Emma, Sue, Figgins (briefly), Burt (referenced but no appearance), Jesse (referenced but no appearance).
Pairings: Kurt/Puck is the main one, the rest are a little intricate.
Genre: Crime/Romance
Warnings: Various character deaths, some angsty stuff, some smut, and some sickeningly fluffy stuff.
Spoilers: None
Summary: An AU 1920's murder mystery featuring the Glee club (and assorted friends and relatives).
Disclaimer: I don't make the toys, I just play with them. And the idea of a 1920's murder mystery belongs to an anon on the Glee Kink Meme.
Word Count: ~ 18,000 in total. Chapters vary. First chapter: ~1,700
Beta: Slash_Pl0x. He saved this story from my incapable hands and made it fab, so much love to him.
Author Notes:
Please forgive the absence of Brittany, Santana, Mike and Matt. It's way harder to keep track of characters when you have to give 15 separate people convincing motives and alibis.
This is set in England, partially because Prohibition makes alcoholic drinks tricky, partially because there weren't any race laws to contend with, and partially because I know far more about early 20th century Britain in general than I do America.
Also, I know that some people nowadays find the word Oriental offensive, but this is the 20's, it was the politest word that was used. "Asian" usually means someone of Indian colouring in England, anyway, so using it to describe someone from eastern Asia just causes confusion; Oriental is used to describe those from eastern Asia (and literally means 'from the East').
This fic was started before the episode of the back nine where Emma found some balls, which is why she seems a bit OoC. She's really just more 'pre-character development'.
I know that Puck is a bit OoC at times, that's mainly because the prompt specified that he had to be the detective, and no-one in their right minds would give an IC Puck a job as a PI.
In the UK, the ground floor is the one level with the ground, and the first floor is the next one up - ie the first floor above the ground. Just explaining because I believe you call the ground floor the first floor in America, which can lead to confusion.
You have no idea how much fun it is to write Kurt with an English accent. Yes, these are the longest author notes in the history of fic. Wait till you see the closing ones after chapter 13!
Our story begins on a small island on the south coast of Great Britain. The island sits in an inland bay, surrounded on all sides by the rolling hills of England's most beautiful county, Dorset, with only a narrow watercourse leading from the bay to the English Channel. The Studland headland is just visible as you looked along the coastline from the highest point, the Old Harry rocks standing proud and resilient against the waves.
A grand country estate stands upon the island, an elegant Georgian structure surrounded by grassy fields and pleasant woodland. It was the country home of one of the country's most successful automobile manufacturers, his new wife Sue, his son Kurt, and, of course, numerous servants, grounds men and stable lads.
Kurt Hummel was hosting one of his famous soirees; the crème de crème of society was invited to his father's country estate for the weekend, and various deals, of both business and matrimonial kinds, were usually struck by those who met at a Hummel party. His father was, as usual, away on business. It was generally accepted among the staff that control of the household was in the hands of the master's son, although the new Mrs Hummel made it clear that she felt she should be in charge.
The guests had all duly arrived by boat, the only way to access the island, and were currently gathered in the entrance hall. The boats they had hired to bring them to island had departed, the fishermen needing them for their weekend fishing. Only Kurt Hummel's pleasure yacht remained in the small harbour, currently undergoing repairs for a leak it had sprung on its last trip.
"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen!" Kurt Hummel's clear voice rang out across the room. All the mingling guests turned in the direction of the noise. He stood, clad in impeccable black tie, at the foot of the grand marble staircase to address the group. "Thank you all so much for coming! If you would like to follow me to the drawing room, drinks will be served."
The group followed his instructions and gathered in the drawing room. William Schuester, the handsome first footman, stood attentively by the drinks table, appropriately attired in black tailcoat and white bow tie. The first to approach him was Mrs Susan Hummel (née Sylvester), a tall, slim blonde in her late forties who, as rumour had it, married Bertram Hummel for his money and little else. She grabbed the proffered glass of whiskey and knocked it back, saying, "I'm gonna need this to get through an evening with this pile of cretinous morons."
Rachel Berry, a young American starlet, was the next at the drinks table, requesting a Martini. She informed all those who cared to listen about the dangers of sparkling drinks to the voice box. One of the more willing recipients of her advice was her escort, Finn Hudson. He was her most ardent fan, and attended every one of her shows and films with great enthusiasm. It was clear to all apart from Miss Berry herself that Finn Hudson was completely in love with the vivacious girl in the dark red taffeta frock.
Noah Puckerman, the famous private detective, was the next to approach the bar. He and Kurt Hummel had often corresponded, discussing various issues of the day, from the state of the Empire to a recent scandal involving various members of the Royal family. Barely a week went by without a letter from Mr Puckerman arriving at the Hummel household, although the topic never veered from current affairs.
Mr Puckerman smirked as he observed Miss Berry's reaction to the girl on his arm. The brunette was clearly used to being the centre of attention, and did not appear to take kindly to the radiant, golden-haired beauty he escorted: The Honourable Quinn Fabray, the most sought after dinner guest in the country.
She wore a satin silver gown that swept the floor, the dress glimmering with diamonds. She herself shone like a jewel, her smile lighting up the room. As they moved away from the table having collected their drinks, Quinn Fabray's held in an elegantly gloved hand. Miss Berry approached the pair, loudly introducing herself.
Rachel may not have liked the girl stealing her thunder, but she was savvy enough to realise that the blonde had a lot of influence in the right circles, and was determined to ingratiate herself.
Arthur Abrams rolled up next, a small man ensconced in a wheeled chair. He was known as a determined and aggressive businessman, but very few people dared inquire as to which was his particular area of business. Many rumours circulated about what had happened to his competition over the years, from blackmail to concrete boots. Most people felt it was safer to just agree to any requests he had and hope against hope that he would not be displeased. He was accompanied by the Lady Christina Cohen-Chang, a beautiful Oriental girl who had married the late Lord Cohen when he was in his fifties, shortly before an unfortunate incident with some bad seafood had left her a widowed millionairess. That was how she could afford the diamond and sapphire encrusted cobalt blue gown she was currently wearing. She and Mr Abrams had been secret lovers for some time—not realising that their relationship was patently obvious to almost everyone they met.
The last to the drinks table was Miss Mercedes Jones, a well-known American cabaret singer. She was Kurt Hummel's best friend, a large black girl with one hell of a voice, dressed in a deep purple cocktail gown. She smiled at Will Shuester as she accepted her usual glass of orange juice—she was strictly teetotal.
Kurt Hummel surveyed the room, observing Mr Abrams and Lady Cohen-Chang in close conversation. Mr Puckerman was sitting on one of the many sofas, Rachel Berry on one side, Quinn Fabray on the other. Quinn seemed vaguely irritated by the small brunette who had had better luck engaging Mr. Puckerman in conversation than she had with Miss Fabray.
Kurt could hear her ringing voice over the general chatter as she explained the details of her latest role. Mr Puckerman gave every impression of listening intently, but Kurt recognised the glazed look in his eyes as she went into greater depth about the heroine's inner struggle as she climbed the rocky road to stardom. It was the same look he himself wore whenever his father attempted to speak to him about the technical details of whatever new model of car his company was producing.
Finn Hudson was standing just behind Rachel, hovering protectively. Finn was a little jealous of the good looking man seated next her who seemed to be able to hold the attention of every woman to whom he spoke. The bulk of his jealousy though was reserved for the man who had given Rachel the sizable diamond currently sparkling on her ring finger. That man was Jesse St James, the film star, Miss Berry's fiancé. Finn was sure that he had only asked Rachel to marry him because of her success on the stage and screen, whereas he himself would have happily married her had she had nothing but her own self.
Mercedes came to stand next to Kurt, nudging him gently to get his attention. "Party's fabulous."
He grinned at her. "Of course is it, 'Cedes. My parties always are."
"So remind me. Who is everyone?"
"Well, the garrulous girl in the burgundy taffeta monstrosity is Rachel Berry."
"Oh right, the film star."
"Mm-hm. Now, she's engaged to Jesse St James, who's in St Moritz at the moment. See the ring? Cartier. Must be three carats at least."
"Damn!"
"I'll say. You see the tall and strangely attractive man standing over with a dopey expression?"
"Uh-huh."
"He's Finn Hudson. Her father's best friend's son, or something like that. Anyway, he's completely in love with her."
"Right. Unrequited?"
"Yes, she's fallen hard for the St James bloke, although rumour has it that he doesn't feel the same, and is just marrying her for the money."
"Poor girl."
"If you say so. The blonde in the stunning silver Chanel is the Honourable Quinn Fabray."
"Quite a catch for one of your dos!"
"I know. And the dark and handsome chap she's sitting next to is Noah Puckerman."
"The detective?"
"The detective."
"The guy you write to all the time?"
"That's the one."
"You know, he came up in conversation at a party the other day."
"He did?"
"Uh-huh. I heard on the grapevine that whilst the 'honourable' Miss Fabray has been chasing him for the past six months, Noah Puckerman has always been otherwise inclined."
"Oh?" He didn't bother to conceal his lack of interest. He only discussed current affairs with the man; why should he care which woman the detective wanted?
"Otherwise inclined towards those of a less than feminine nature." Mercedes phrased her response carefully.
"Oh!" Realisation hit him. That would explain why the admittedly gorgeous man had been glancing in his direction all evening. Kurt's own preference for lovers of the male gender was the worst kept secret in the country. He mentally kicked himself for not realising sooner the reason behind Mr Puckerman's eager correspondence.
"So the guy in the chair is?" Mercedes question distracted him from thoughts of Noah Puckerman.
"That's Arthur Abrams."
Mercedes' eyes widened, and she did a double take to look back at him. "The city guy?"
"Yep."
"But I've heard about his reputation… he's in a wheelchair?"
"Don't let that fool you. He's just as ruthless as anyone who isn't, probably more so."
She nodded, and then gestured at the Oriental girl on the sofa next to him. "So that must be the notorious Lady Christina Cohen-Chang."
"Bingo."
"She doesn't look like I'd imagined, either."
"If there's one thing you learn in London society, Mercedes, it's that no one ever looks like their reputations would have you believe."
So that's the first chapter - what did you think?
There will be thirteen in total, and I'll be posting them over the next week.