When Bunty next encountered Inspector Sullivan, she was at a very formal Montague event - one so boring she was well past tears at this stage. It had been a dismally dreary evening centred around pompous, boring men making speeches so dull that Bunty only managed to keep herself awake by watching everyone else fall asleep. This was when she'd first spied Sullivan; sandwhiched between two men with moustaches that fluttered as they snored, he seemed to one of the few spectators still wide awake. He was sitting bolt upright, maintaining an interested facade that made him look engrossed - but Bunty saw him glancing at his watch several times with increasing desperation.
When the speeches were finally over and the crowd herded into the next room to graze on various nibbles and canapes, Sullivan was swallowed up by the crowd. Bunty bounced between the meaningless cpnversations before spotting Sid, and making her way across the floor to him.
''That was shocking.'' She declared. Sid laughed. ''I slipped out about half way through,'' He smirked, ''Went for a ramble round the gardens. Did anyone manage to stay awake until the end?''
''Put it this way,'' Said Bunty, swatting a chunk of chocolate eclair off Sid's uniform, ''By the time Bishop Talbot sat down, there were five of us.''
Sid whistled lowly. ''He'd knock you out quicker than any drink. Take it Mrs McCarthy didn't make it 'til the end?''
Bunty shook her head, remembering the way the Irishwoman's head had started nodding in agreement, and then just nodded as someone nudged her to try and stop her snoring. Father Brown was of no help either - he'd dozed off as soon as the Bishop asceded to the platform, and he snored even louder.
''There were a few of his best buddies who just about managed it,'' She recounted, ''But the only other ones were me and the Inspector.''
Sid had been trying to down his champagne in one gulp to impress one of the serving staff, and now choked and sprayed it all down the front of his uniform. They looked away in disgust as Bunty thumped him on the back.
''Course he'd be here,'' He spluttered, ''Don't think the man can sleep. Eh,'' He turned to Bunty grinning, ''Didn't you have a bit of a spat with him last week?''
''Oh stop.'' Bunty scowled. ''He's got no sense of humour.''
''You're telling me.'' Sid muttered, taking another sip of champagne, ''What did you say to him anyway? I heard he went absolutely manic.''
''Well, he set himself up for it.'' Bunty countered. ''He said that two hours wasn't forever, and I said that his wife must be a lucky girl.''
Sid snorted and doubled over, shoving his entire fist in his mouth to prevent himself from laughing loud enough to distract the entire room to forget whatever they were talking about in favour of finding out what Sid was laughing at.
''Oh Bunty,'' Sid wheezed, removing his hand from his mouth, ''That's priceless.'' He wiped a tear from his eye. Bunty shrugged indifferently, and craned her neck to scan the room.
''Where's he disappeared to anyway?'' She wondered aloud. ''Surely he hasn't left already.''
''Nah,'' Said Sid, ''He's over there, trying to make conversation with the curtains.''
True. Sullivan, in his dress uniform with the medals sparkling on his chest and a champagne flute sparkling in his hand, was hovering beside the long mustard coloured drapes looking like he would very much like to start chatting to them for want of a companion. The man seemed to be miles from anyone, and looked a bit sad.
''Miserable sod.'' Sid mumbled into the buubles in his glass.
''I didn't recognise him in his uniform.'' Bunty remarked casually, squinting to get a better look. ''He's got an awful lot of medals.''
''Yeah,'' Sid agreed, ''That's what you get for being England's most successful pain in the arse.''
''He looks awfully lonely.''
''Probably because no one likes him.''
Bunty felt like pointing out that that was a bit harsh, but then decided that maybe Sid had a point. Still, there was something so heartbreaking about somebody standing alone at a party, even if the man was Sullivan. He looked as wretched as a lost child and as miserable as any sinner.
"It is a shame." She settled on eventually.
Sid snickered. He dug about in the pocket of his uniform and pulled out a crumpled five shilling note. "If you can maintain a decent conversation with him for more than ten minutes," He announced, holding the note in the air, "This is yours."
"Alright then." Bunty snatched the note and marched across the room to Sullivan, leaving Sid standing gobsmacked.
Sullivan saw her coming, note in hand. His face hardened.
"Did that man actually pay you to come over here and annoy me?" He snapped, as Bunty arrived at his elbow.
"Of course not," Bunty soothed, holding out the note to him, "I came over to give you this."
Sullivan took the note slowly. "What for?" He inquired warily.
"To buy yourself a new pen." Bunty beamed.
Sullivan's face went flat. However, he did still pocket the note (as Sid watched in dismay from the other side of the room) with a begrudging word of thanks.
Bunty was one of the last person the Inspector wanted to talk to, but he also knew how what a desperate waif he looked standing all on his own. Beggars can't be choosers.
"So Inspector," Bunty continued, taking a sip of her champagne for courage, "How are you enjoying the evening?"
"I found it all very enlightening." Sullivan lied. He actually couldn't remember the last time he'd been so bored, bar the time he'd got on a train to London and realised in utter devastation that he had left his book on the bench on the platform.
"No one with you this evening?" Bunty prodded, "Your wife busy?"
Sullivan felt rather annoyed. "Surely someone has told you by now that I'm not married?" He stated more than asked, somewhat exasperatedly.
Bunty shrugged. "I didn't believe them. You're far too handsome not to be snapper up by now. Not to mention how successful and clever you are."
Sullivan felt his face heating up, and was shocked to realise that the redness was not in fact him getting furious, but him blushing.
Sid, who witnessed the spectacle from across the room, dropped his glass. It promptly shattered and the last dregs of champagne soaked his boots. He swore loud enough to scandalise a passing duchess, who clapped a hand to her ample silk-wreathed bosom and uttered a cry like a wounded seagull.
Neither Bunty or Sullivan noticed.
"Why are you still single then?" Bunty pried.
"Why are you?" Sullivan retorted.
That took her by surprise. She didn't often get talking to men so frankly about her romantic life without being very aware of their keenness to get her into bed.
Sullivan was watching her intently, obviously awaiting an answer. She shrugged.
"Just haven't found the right one, I suppose."
"Same for me then." Sullivan agreed, taking a long sip of champagne, and raising his eyebrows appreciatively.
Bunty shifted nervously beside him. Strangely, the man who she had mortally offended with an innuendo was now talking to her about love in such a frank, honest manner that she was squirming. She didn't recollect ever talking to a man about being single without him leaping on her, yet Sullivan seemed more interested in his champagne than the woman standing beside her. Odd, very odd.
She took a sip of her own champagne. ''This is lovely, isn't it?'' She said, admiring the bubbles.
''Yes,'' He agreed, somewhat stiffly, ''Very nice.''
They stood in silence. Awkward silence. Sullivan, who was obviously starting to panic, drank the remainder of his in one gulp and then looked at the empty glass in despair - now he had nothing to occupy himself with, and that startling quote slipping out had unnerved him. God, he really ought to be a bit more careful when it came to the amount of champagne he drank at these things - it always went to his head. He shook his head briskly and started peering around the room.
''Looking for someone?'' Bunty asked.
''The bar - what is your obsession with me and women?'' He snapped, ''Honestly - I don't even know who you are! And yet you seem completely obsessed with my love life, though then again, there's hundreds of nosy bats around here that are, and I really don't get it. I'm a boring bloke in his mid thirties who lives alone, goes to work, comes home and sleeps. My romantic prospects do not go any further than the occasional romantic novel that I read before getting drunk on cheap scotch and falling asleep on the sofa in a position that wll inevitably creak my neck. I am prone to migraines and insomnia and my back has been sore for three weeks after I helped lift a filing cabinet and Constable Disdale dropped the other end. That is all you need to know, I hope you're happy.''
He went to take a rejuvenating swig of champagne, but once again found it empty. He then realised that Bunty, although she was showing the most interest, was not the only person staring at him. Several nearby guests were looking at him as though he was an almost endangered animal at the zoo; very nearly interesting. Not really that many people, but still too many for him. Blushing magenta, he swallowed and hurried away from Bunty, and the party, without even a word to the people he bumped into on his way out.
Bunty slowly glided back towards Sid, blushing a little herself. "Didn't expect that to happen." She said quietly.
''Nah,'' Sid agreed, ''Don't think he did either.''
They stood for a moment in silence, as the guests milled around the room.
''Do you think I should go after him?'' Bunty asked.
''No.'' Said Sid, very firmly. ''I think you should not.''
Bunty didn't go after him, but she did see him again. As the event was dying out, and the servants fumbled over overcoats, walking sticks and mink stoles, Bunty slipped outside into the cool night air. She immediately wobbled, but recovered herself. That champagne had rather gone to her head. Perhaps she should go for a wander around the garden to sober up; that would save a lecture from Mrs M.
It had been a searingly hot day, and the warm smell hung in the air, the flowery perfume humming as she walked past, hovering in the still air. It was getting dark,(or perhaps blurry from drink) and Bunty had some trouble picking out the path in front of her.
The breeze picked up. She rubbed her bare arms, wishing for a cosy cardigan despite the disasterous effect it would have on her outfit. She glanced through the entry to the hidden garden; the one with the arched wooden walkway liberally decorated with climbing roses, and the view over the one of the bigger lakes. The moon was out, and the beams danced on the dappled surface of the water.
There was a bench overlooking the lake, a place for couples' to cuddle with their heads on each others' shoulders to watch the sunset. Yet tonight there was only one man on it, and even six feet away, with his back to her, Bunty could tell it was Sullivan. The uniform was distinctive, even if the reclining posture did not quite fit the man wearing it. The man on the bench was at ease: relaxed, at ease, one arm holding the bench behind him, staring intently at the twilight scene before him.
Bunty hadn't even realised she was approaching until she was practically beside him, and gently laid her hand on his shoulder to break him out of his reverie. He jolted, tensed and turned around in shock.
She smiled at him. ''Just me.''
Sullivan seemed to loosen a tiny bit. ''What are you doing out here?'' He asked, staring inquisitively at her, sounding more intrigued that suspicious.
''Just fancied a nighttime walk. I often do.'' Bunty said. ''Please don't tell me you've been out here since I offended you.''
''You didn't really offend me,'' Sullivan said, raising his eyebrows, ''A gentleman by the door did it for you, after I... after our conversation. I couldn't find a way to get home yet, so I thought I'd go and clear my head.'' He stared wistfully back out at the lake. ''It's really beautiful out here.''
Sullivan looked almost etheral, sitting out here with the moonlight on his face. Bunty shivered; the breeze had a ticklingly icy sting to it. He must have sensed it, because he stood up and immediately started removing his jacket.
''Oh no,'' Bunty immediately protested, as Sullivan shrugged off the tailored garment, ''Honestly, I'm fine.''
''Please,'' Said Sullivan, holding it out to her, ''I insist.''
Bunty sighed, and took the jacket to wear over her shoulders like a shawl. The oustide might have been rough wool cotton, but the lining was silky, smooth and warm against her chilled skin. It smelled of nice cologne and formal gatherings. Sullivan stood back, illuminated like a beacon in his white shirt but face largely invisibe in the darkness, looking remarkably thrilling silhouetted against the dark sparkling background. He stared out over the water expectatingly, as though he was aware that a ship might suddenly come sailing into view. Bunty didnt speak - she felt that awkward conversation might make the air around them shatter.
Sullivan mustn't have thought the same. He mumbled something that Bunty didn't hear.
''Beg your pardon?''
Sullivan turned to face her, ''I said you're very lucky to live somewhere this transfixing. You do live here, don't you?''
Bunty pulled his jacket around her a little tighter. ''Oh yes,'' She clarifyed, ''I'm staying here indefinately. I'm sure you know why.''
Sullivan gazed at her intently. ''No,'' he said. ''I don't.''
Bunty rolled her eyes. ''You must live under a rock.''
''Like I said, I lead a boring existence.''
Bunty snorted derisively. ''I've seen those papers in the police station. You know the story. Married men, dodgy clubs, scandals, disgrace, you know the stuff.''
''I'd rather hear the truth from you than read some journalist's over-cliched fantasies.'' Sullivan replied, and Bunty, though shocked, immediately believed him, and realised that he wanted an answer.
Bunty, new fangled with the idea that someone earnestly asking to hear what she had to say, would have talked all night. Yet she'd only just opened her mouth when a footman emerged from the gloom (making them both jump) telling Inspector Sullivan taht there were several taxis waiting to go back to Kembleford, and he should probably get into one of them.
Sullivan thanked him, and thanked the darkness for hiding his blushes at being caught in the dark garden with his hostess' neice. Her very pretty, young, vivacious, oddly alluring neice who was sent to Kembleford presumably to be kept out of trouble. Even though they had barely even been talking Sullivan still felt somewhat embarrassed. The footman had vanished but he woudn't be surprised if he was still watching or listening, lurking in the shrubbery like he knew footmen did.
Bunty had stood, and was handing back his jacket. He put it on quickly and found himself somewhat unable to fasten it; his fingers slid and fumbled among the buttons he knew so well. There was a very faint smell of make up and perfume clinging to it, and he found it hard to resist the urge to pull the fabric up to his nose and inhale it deeply. It was a similar hauntingly stunning scent to that of the wilting garden.
''I suppose you'd better go.'' Said the lady beside him.
''Yes,'' he agreed. There was another painfully stilted silence. Sullivan bounced on his heels, and decided to take a plunge.
''Kembleford 741. That's not all of it, but the operator should find me.''
Then came the realization that he had omitted some rather vital information.
''That's my number,'' he continued in panic, ''In case you ever want - want to, y'know...'' He gesticulated vaguely, ''Tell me more, about yourself. Because you know everything about me, and I don't really know anything about you.''
One half of Sullivan leapt in triumph at this courageous and fiercely eloquent leap of faith. The other shrivelled up and wished to be hiding in a deep dark hole somewhere.
Bunty smiled. ''I'd like that,'' she whispered, unaware that the frantic beating of her heart and strangely dissociating fuzz around it was matched by Sullivan.
Unanticipated success! The pair parted dizzily and wobbled to their respective houses.