A/N: Tap, tap, tap goes the keys … and the kettle never stops boiling, lol. This one ran away from me a little - whoops!
Prompt 13: From Riandra – The fickle finger of fame.
For V Tsuion – who loves words and interactions as much as I do. :-)
Night Watch
Constable Burton stood with his back pressed to the wall, the cold stone of the church seeping into his coat. He breathed as quietly as he dared but could not prevent the curls of white that darted from his mouth. It was early, yet bitterly cold. Frost stiffened the grassy verges pushed up against headstones. The moon was out in full, dominating a black sky. Burton felt the weight of it like a giant cat's eye, pinning him down as if ready to give away his position.
His left hand curled tighter around the pistol in his pocket. He was not at all comfortable that Inspector Lestrade was inside the church alone, but his superior had been insistent that someone needed to be outside to oversee the only exit.
"And you for certain are not waiting inside for him," Lestrade had added, a displeased curl to his mouth.
Burton had wanted to protest. He went to do so and felt the strings of duty holding him back, quietly reminding him of his place. Lestrade could see his concerns, he knew, because the Inspector had pressed his shoulder before entering the church.
He could envisage Lestrade now, attired in plain clothes and sat calmly in the front pew with his elbows braced against his knees and his hands clasped, waiting to pour out confessions to a corrupt vicar he had no intention of asking forgiveness from.
/-/-/
Leo Mayfield had been in Scotland Yard's sights for a week now.
He had joined St. Cuthbert's after the previous vicar, Reverend Oldman, had followed his unfailing commitment to God by stumbling into a newly dug grave late at night and snapping several bones in his body. Mrs. Longstow, a regular attendee of the church, had marched into the police station soon after Mayfield took over proceedings of the church, with the strong suspicion that he was responsible for their previous vicar's unfortunate demise.
When asked to elaborate, she informed them that Reverend Oldman may have been such by name, but at eighty-two and having more stamina than the Yard combined, he'd had no desires to join the Lord until he was needed. He would not fall foul to, as she so graciously put it, 'a blooming hole in the ground.'
Lestrade tried to kindly point out that the hole to which she was referring was rather substantial in depth, and a person of Reverend Oldman's age would be unlikely to survive the fall.
"Nonsense," Mrs. Longstow scoffed. "He was pushed, you mark my words! No doubt by this new clergyman who cannot distinguish the Holy book from a penny dreadful." As she spoke, she waved her umbrella in agitation. It flew open with the movement and Burton only just managed to avoid a prong going into his eye. He gently took it from her grasp and rested it against the wall.
"Mark my words," Mrs. Longstow repeated, sliding her keen eyes towards Burton and the notebook in his hands to ensure he was doing just that. "I know a deception when I see one."
"Is there any relation between the new clergyman and Reverend Oldman?" Lestrade asked.
"Well, that will be your job to find out, Inspector," sniffed Mrs. Longstow, with a shrug of her shoulders that implied she had not a clue. "Trust me when I say that Reverend Mayfield is not the man he portrays himself to be."
"That is a bold statement, Mrs. Longstow."
"It is truth, sir," said she with feeling.
"Nevertheless, we–"
"See for yourself, Inspector," she insisted, waggling a bony finger at him in the absence of her umbrella. "His wrongdoings will soon come to the fore."
/-/-/
It had not taken them long to unravel the connections between Mayfield and Oldman. The men were distant cousins by relation, descended from a family of pawnbrokers who had made their fortune operating in York. The widowed business owner had died four months' ago, and a considerable inheritance lay between the two men, the wealth of four generations bequeathed to the last surviving member. It soon became apparent that Mayfield had had no intention of leaving the choice to fate, and took it upon himself to ensure he would become sole beneficiary.
Lestrade and Burton had visited the church dressed as labourers to examine the building and listen to one of Mayfield's sermons. Afterwards, when they were walking back to the police station, Burton said, "I do not understand."
"Understand what?" Lestrade said.
"Why does he stay, sir, and risk being discovered like that? You would take the money and go, would you not?"
The Inspector halted to retrieve his cigarette case from his pocket. He fixed Burton with a look as he lit it.
"Would you?" he asked.
"I would," Burton replied without hesitation. He paused, added, "I mean, not that I would–"
"I know what you meant," Lestrade interrupted, chuckling. "Regardless, you are not Mayfield. Perpetrators of a criminal nature operate very differently to men of the law. Power and greed, Burton, outweigh the rational. A person like Mayfield will choose to remain close at hand to the scene of the crime, purely because they can, and unsuspecting folks such as you and I will never hope to catch them."
/-/-/
The gate to the churchyard creaked open.
Burton sucked in a sharp breath and held it. Footsteps walked quickly to the entrance, the heavy oak door opening and closing. Burton was positioned beneath a large, arched window, chosen purely for the missing panel in the stained glass. Voices filtered through, as clear as they would be if Burton had been stood in the room with them.
"Mr. Carter." Reverend Mayfield addressed Lestrade by the alias the Inspector had given him two days ago. He sounded surprised, but there was the distinctive hue of frustration in his tone. "To what do I owe the pleasure? There is an hour yet to the evening sermon."
"Forgive me, Father," replied Lestrade, feigning uneasiness. "There is something I must get off my chest, for I fear the weight will crush me if left to remain."
"I will be taking confessions after seven o'clock."
"It cannot wait, Father," Lestrade insisted.
"Very well," said Mayfield. "Come."
Then Burton could hear no more and he knew both men had moved to the confession box.
He swore softly. He knew this was what the Inspector had planned, but any control of the situation he felt he possessed began to dwindle. It did not lie well with Burton that Lestrade was now sat within confined proximity of a thief and a murderer, with a mere piece of mahogany dividing the space between them.
/-/-/
It took only five minutes for events to come to a head.
Burton had just decided to enter, orders be damned, when shouts sounded from within. Crashes of wood and metal hit the stone floor. Lestrade yelled in warning to Mayfield, two shots following his words, but then the door opened and Mayfield ran out, his long cloak billowing behind him as he tore across the cemetery.
"Burton!"
Burton was already giving chase as Lestrade called his name. He caught up and elbowed the man hard in his side. Mayfield stumbled but miraculously retained his footing. He turned his head, eyes locking on Burton. His face twisted angrily and in the moonlight he looked hideously demonic, all traces of a genteel man of the cloth gone. Mayfield growled and rushed at him before Burton could draw his weapon.
The impact of Mayfield's body sent them both flying. Pain flared across Burton's back as he hit the ground, and Mayfield landed on top of him. The man snarled and Burton saw a glint of metal, brought his hands up instinctively.
Mayfield's knees pressed sharply into Burton's sides as he tried to drive the knife home. Burton locked his fingers around the other man's wrists, pushed upwards with all his strength as Mayfield pressed down with all of his. Burton's arms shook with effort, the tip growing ever closer. Fear and anger flooded through him, a sickening realisation that he was about to die before his first year in the force had concluded.
The shot, when it came, was the finest sound to Burton's ears.
The man above him grew suddenly slack, his face smoothed of expression and marred only by the entry wound positioned dead-centre in his forehead. Burton shoved Mayfield off and to the side, slumped back on the gritty ground. His heart was thumping a permanent tattoo against his ribs, bloody ink staining the bone to provide a constant reminder of this exact moment.
"Burton."
Lestrade appeared within his field of vision, bent to one knee beside him.
"Are you alright?"
Concern poured off the Inspector in waves. For a brief moment Burton was overcome; with gratitude or relief, he did not know.
He nodded, inhaled slowly. When he could speak, he answered, "Impeccable shot, sir, it must be said."
There was a pause, then:
"Christ, Burton," Lestrade breathed.
The young constable did not know what to say to that. His Inspector's words were sharpened by anger, but Burton suspected they were not directed at him.
He waved his hand as if to say I'm fine. Lestrade's mouth tightened.
"Can you stand?"
Burton ignored the question. "You saved my life." He felt the need to point it out.
"You sound surprised."
"Not at all. Merely stating a fact, sir."
"Yes. Well. I have no desire to see your name in tomorrow's obituary," Lestrade told him, both the lightness and seriousness of his words lost on them. His boots crunched on the gravel as he stood. A slight tremor ran through his hands as he hooked them beneath Burton's arms and pulled him to his feet. "Take it from me, dying in the line of duty is not worth that fickle finger of fame."
End