23 January 1960

"Bloody mess," Matthew grumbled as he approached their strange little congregation, still gathered on the pavement near the back door. He'd already sent Danny inside to ring for reinforcements, Doctor Harvey among them. Lucien was a witness to this murder, and an old friend of Derek's besides, and as such could not be permitted near the investigation, and for once he did not protest. It would have been an impossible burden, to see Derek on a slab in the morgue, to catalog his scars and rattle off the manner of their making for Doctor Harvey, to look down into his unseeing eyes and know that and know that his oldest friend was dead, and Lucien had been unable to stop it. He was weary down to his bones, and all he wanted, in that moment, was to lie down somewhere with his arms full of Jean, to close his eyes and forget, for however brief a time, the horror that had visited them in this place.

"Would it be all right if you took the ladies' statements in the morning do you think, Matthew?" Lucien asked him quietly. He was no longer holding on to Jean, but she still stood close beside him, and Maureen lingered just behind her, unwilling, it seemed, to let Jean out of her sights, and behind her was that lad Paul, looming over both of them, his eyes a little wild.

"Don't see why not," Matthew said. "In fact, it's probably best if the lot of you clear out now, before this place is crawling with people. Mrs. Beazley, would it be all right if Danny and I came back tomorrow morning? We'd like to speak to the three of you," he waved his hand, including Maureen and Paul in the gesture, "and anyone else who might have seen the Major here tonight."

"Matthew-" Lucien started to protest, suddenly worried; did Matthew really mean to include the details of the business transaction between Derek and Jean in his report? If he did, it might well spell calamity for Jean, the end of her business and perhaps even criminal charges, and it seemed cruel, he thought, to punish her in such a way when she had been embroiled in this nightmare through no fault of her own. To his great relief, before Lucien could speak another word Matthew was interrupting him.

"The way I see it, the Major here stopped in for a pint. Didn't he, Mrs. Beazley?"

Jean nodded but did not speak, her expression wary, as if she were wondering, even as Lucien was, what Matthew could possibly be planning.

"And he got into a bit of a scuffle with the muscle on your door didn't he, young lady?" Matthew asked, turning to Maureen. It was her turn to nod; her eyes were narrowed, watching him closely, but Lucien had already guessed what Matthew was about, and he breathed a sigh of relief.

"And while you subdued the Major, the young lady behind the bar rang for the police, didn't she, Paul?"

"Yes, sir," Paul said firmly.

"There you have it," Matthew finished grimly, turning back to Lucien. "The Major came here for a drink, nothing more. The Major was arrested for inciting a brawl. Sergeant Hannam, who had no doubt been tracking the Major's whereabouts, killed the man right here in the carpark for reasons as yet unknown. That sound right to you, Doctor Blake?"

"Thank you, Matthew," Lucien said earnestly, offering his friend his hand to shake. It was a kindness, he thought, the way that Matthew had so easily dealt with the problem at hand. With Derek dead there was no need to investigate his dealings at the pub, and perhaps they might even be able to blame the bullet through his hand on Sergeant Hannam as well; the man had, after all, fired more than one shot. Matthew was protecting Jean, shielding her from the need to give formal evidence, neatly ensuring that the nature of her business not become a matter of public record, and Lucien was more grateful for that than words could say.

"Yes, thank you, Matthew," Jean added in a clear soft voice.

"Oh, I'd do anything for you, Mrs. Beazley," Matthew said flippantly. "Now, clear out."

He stalked off toward where Danny stood beside the handcuffed Sergeant, resting against the boot of the car with Derek's body still sprawled across the backseat. Lucien looked away, an odd lump forming in the back of his throat.

"If it's all right with you, Mrs. Beazley, I think I'd like to stay the night," Paul said, and strange, Lucien thought, but as the lad spoke it was Maureen he was watching, hardly blinking. "In the dining room, of course."

"I hardly think we need a babysitter-"

"I would appreciate that very much, Paul," Jean cut across Maureen's protests smoothly. "I'll feel better knowing someone is keeping watch over my girls."

So would I, Lucien thought. With Derek dead and Sergeant Hannam in custody there was hardly any threat remaining to them, but still, some anxiety lingered, and the thought of a strong lad with a quick fist minding the door was a reassuring one. But that thought led his mind in another, less pleasant direction; how was he supposed to go home, after all of this? He did not want to insinuate himself into Jean's bed unasked, particularly given the scare she'd received earlier in the evening; the very thought was crass and insulting. But he likewise could not bear the thought of being parted from her, and so found himself torn, between the courtesy he felt he owed her and the shrieking need of his own heart.

It was Jean who found the solution in the end; it always was. Gently she slipped her hand into his, his fingers curling against hers instantly, and he drew in a sharp breath as she looked up at him, more beautiful than a painting, sadder than a song.

"That man was in my room," she said heavily, and Lucien's heart sank with grief at the very thought. Her room, her private kingdom, the one place in all the world that was supposed to be inviolable and hers, her been infiltrated by a man who had very nearly killed her, and he ached to think that she might feel unsafe in her own home. "I don't think I want to stay there tonight. Take me home, Lucien?"

It was a request, not a demand; he heard the uncertainty in her voice, but his heart sang in his chest, to hear her asking him for such a thing, to hear her speak that word home, and mean his house, and not her little room upstairs. He gave her hand a reassuring squeeze, smiling down at her in wonder.

"Of course, my darling," he said at once. As if there was any other answer he could give; she had just offered him the one thing he wanted most in all the world. His thoughts skipped ahead, thinking of driving home beside her, her hand soft and warm in his, but even as they did his heart, so recently cheered, sank once more, as reality began to sink in.

"I'm afraid I don't have my car," he confessed. "Matthew drove us."

And Matthew's car would not be going anywhere any time soon, not with a dead body in the back of it.

"We can take my truck," Jean suggested gently.

And so they did.

The moment Lucien locked the front door behind them he breathed a sigh of relief. The horror of the evening seemed very far away, just now. It was impossible to even imagine it, really, that Sergeant Hannam had somehow snuck into his home, that Derek had threatened Jean's life, that they had witnessed carnage and been helpless to stop it; if Jean had not still been wrapped in his jacket Lucien might well have dismissed it all as no more than a bad dream, but it was hard to deny the truth of what had happened when he saw her like this, her pale face, her bare feet, the tumble of her hair, her delicate hands peeking out from beneath the too-long sleeves of his jacket.

"Lucien," Jean spoke his name softly, and he went to her at once, let his hands settle on her hips over his jacket, flooded with a sense of reverent devotion as he looked down into her angel's face.

"Will you just…" she started to speak, but then seemed to lose her nerve, ducking her head and hiding her glorious eyes from view. Though the strain of holding himself together threatened to shatter him completely Lucien held his tongue, held his breath, waiting, hoping, and in the next second she found the strength to finish her sentence.

"Will you just hold me, please?" she asked in a small voice.

It was difficult for her, he knew, to be honest about her desires, to face the truth of her own longing, to ask for what she wanted, and not simply provide a service. For so long Jean had been playing a part, her heart buried beneath the weight of responsibilities and expectations, and he rather felt sometimes that she had forgotten, somehow, how to simply be, herself. That she could allow herself such vulnerability now, with him, seemed to him to be both a gift and a responsibility; he owed it to her, he thought, to show her that she was safe, that she could be free to do and say whatever she wished, so long as they were together.

"I will never let you go," he whispered into the darkness between them, reaching for her hand.

Slowly, silently he led her into his bedroom, threw back the covers on the bed and then turned back to her, helped her to slide his jacket from her shoulders. Just like that she was dressed for bed, still wearing her soft satin negligee, but though she was half-bare and beautiful he found that in that moment sex was the farthest thing from his mind. He wanted her, would want her always, but right then all he wanted was to give her what she'd asked for; all he wanted was to hold her, to comfort her, and in so doing comfort himself.

"Here," she said, reaching for his shirt buttons. "Let me."

And so he did, stood still and compliant as a child while she unfastened his buttons, one by one. When she was done he shrugged out of his shirt, and let his hands settle on her hips while she picked at his belt buckle. In a moment his trousers fell in a pile on the floor, and then he and Jean slipped into bed together, she resplendent in her black satin and lace, he wrinkled and exhausted in his vest and trunks. They rolled together in the center of the bed, her face buried in the crook of his neck, his arms tight around her, one of his thighs sliding between her legs, not seeking to incite her, only wanting to be close, as close to her as he could possibly get. They had not bothered turning on the lamp, and so there was no need for him to reach to turn it off; they settled, there in the darkness, and both sighed softly as they sank back against the pillows.

There was so much yet to say, so much yet to be done. Lucien wanted to hear the truth from her, wanted to learn for himself exactly what had transpired with Derek there in her room, how she had come to be dressed like this, how he had drawn close enough to strike her, how she had managed to shoot him. They needed to discuss the story they would give to Matthew come morning, and there was the niggling matter of Derek's six hundred pounds - had he paid her beforehand, as Lucien once had done, and if he had what had become of the money? Would Matthew even think to ask? And Lucien needed to speak, as well, needed to confront the swirling mix of grief and relief that filled him at the thought of Derek's death, needed Jean's gentle wisdom to help him find his way through. There was the not insignificant matter of their future, too; at some point, perhaps some point soon, they would need to speak frankly of their plans.

But all of that could wait, he thought, burying his nose in the soft fragrance of her dark hair, his hands running gentle circles across her back while her own fingertips danced over the ridges of his scars above his vest. The whole bloody world could hang, he thought, for in that moment he held Jean in his arms; he could not ask for more.