Chapter 2: Evasive Maneuvers

The first taste of tea in the morning was always the best, the sudden rush of pleasant bitterness and sugar. And certainly better than the coffee the station had on offer; that swill had no savior, no matter the amount of milk and sugar. Troy was still spinning the spoon in the cup as he walked into the corner of the squad room he shared with the chief inspector who was already sitting at his desk, looking over a stack of papers. It was hardly an office, but it was what passed for one here.

"Good morning, Troy," Barnaby said, not looking up from the page. He, too, had a mug at his side, though coffee or tea, Troy didn't know.

"Morning, sir." The man didn't answer, but shifted the pages, now glancing to the second. Well, at least he's thinking about something else, Troy thought. Yesterday evening was still on his mind, though...Really, what was there to worry about? After all, it was just conversation, a couple of hours over coffee with a friend. "The vicar finally turned up yesterday," he said after a moment, now sipping a bit more of his sugary tea.

"Did he?" The words were vacant, almost distracted as Barnaby's eyes followed the text on the page through the glasses he sometimes wore.

"Yes," Troy said, tapping his fingers on the mug as he went to his own desk, a cluttered mess of forms beside his phone, dropped by someone earlier in the morning. Without a thought, he reached out and straightened them, squaring off and aligning each edge.

"You weren't really worried, were you?" Something swirled beneath the words, the slightly mocking tone his superior sometimes used in response to his observations.

Troy scowled, hiding the expression behind another mouthful of tea. "Can't know anymore, can you? In Midsomer? The way she kept going on about adultery?"

She was settled in at the small table on the patio as he walked around the corner, reading, no doubt something out of the Bible. "Mrs. Millard?"

The vicar's wife looked up, as did the black labrador by her feet. And she even smiled a bit. "Sergeant Troy." The woman had often had a serious air about her—though Barnaby had certainly experienced more of it, to Troy's relief—but she seemed at ease, now.

The dog was on its feet, sniffing at his hand, and Troy scratched its ears before it licked his palm. "Chief Inspector Barnaby thought we ought to let you know we shan't be needing your—kitchen utensils any longer."

The smile faded as Mrs. Millard sighed. "Poor Hillary."

"Yes," Troy said, standing straight and letting the dog alone as his own smile disappeared. Well, the entire thing had been a bloody mess, welcoming back a daughter only to point to her for blackmail. How anyone outside of Causton made an honest living was beyond him; they seemed few and far between.

"And poor Jane Bennett," the vicar's wife continued, closing her Bible, folding her hand around the edge. "It's most...troubling to one's conscience that some crimes seem entirely justified." She stopped for a moment, still caressing the book. "Jane's is one of them."

Troy's fingers were almost twitching, and he couldn't help but stare. The bags of cement, the wheelbarrow, the shovels, the spare slabs...No. The stones were familiar—from the Memorial Garden—and the entire thing must be new, what with Cynthia Bennett's body just out of her hidden grave. And, he still had yet to meet the vicar. No.

"As I told Mr. Barnaby, adultery is one of the most despicable of all human activities." The way she held that book—possessively, protectively—it set him ill at ease.

Troy looked over his shoulder at the remnants of the patio's construction, suddenly unable to meet her eyes. "Nice patio," he managed, unable to hide entirely the note of apprehension, especially as she appeared startled by the comment. "New?"

"Very," the vicar's wife said, smiling again as she surveyed a bit of it happily. Almost...proudly. "I find hard work an aid to prayer. And there has been so much to pray about recently."

Bloody hell, he thought. "And...ah..." Troy didn't know why he was glancing around, as though he might find a forgotten bit of the man's leg poking out of a flower bed. "Still...no vicar?"

"Good evening." The voice was bright as the vicar emerged from the house in a typical old man's sweater, carrying a tea pot and tea cups on a small tray, like he had not a care in the world.

Troy sighed, almost letting out a breath he hadn't noticed he was holding, smiling again as Mrs. Millard stood. "Arthur, this is Sergeant Troy."

The vicar offered a handshake, and Troy was almost shocked to discover the man was flesh and bone, rather than a hallucination. "How do you do?"

"Hello," he said, unsurprised by the relief in his own voice.

"Oh, would you care to join us for tea..." Mrs. Millard said, suddenly eager, peering up at him, "and an ecumenical debrief?"

"Uh, no, thank you," Troy said, almost falling over the words. Until her last comment, he might have said yes, but not now. "It's a relief—" No, don't say it! "I mean, a pleasure, to meet you, Vicar..." He took a step backwards. "I best be off."

The chief inspector stood, walking to the filing cabinet behind his desk. Metal shrieked as he tugged open the second drawer, pulling out one of the ubiquitous files. "Maybe, but it's hardly something to accuse a vicar of."

"Well, sir, after that bloke at Badger's Drift*..." Troy shrugged before he scratched at his neck, just around his shirt collar.

"Stephen?" Barnaby said, his voice still sounding like he was miles away, resting the manila folder on the drawer as he opened it, shuffling through the pages.

"Yes." Troy drained the last bit of tea, the warmth filling the empty space in his stomach that he had some mornings if time had not allowed a visit to the canteen. Like today. "Can't really be helped, can it, sir?"

Barnaby laughed quietly, closing the folder and tossing it to his desk, then slamming the drawer with another squeal that made Troy shiver. "Only if you always believe the worst about vicars."

"They make it easy," Troy muttered. The harsh, metallic sound still echoed in his ears as he finally sat, his desk opposite the chief inspector's. Sliding his mug away, Troy picked up the first paper from the pile. "Ran into Cully last night, sir, after I'd been to the vicarage."

"Oh?" Barnaby said, finally looking up, still peering through his reading glasses. "She didn't mention it."

Dammit. He reached for his collection of pens, scattering them a bit as he took one, for once glad of the noise and not caring about the disarray. "She was on her way back from the library." You're making too much of it.

"Yes, she's volunteering for them again."

"I still think she's a bit mad," Troy said, filling in the first empty line, "driving that mobile unit all over Midsomer." His fingertips were white, gripping the bottom of the pen a bit too tightly.

"Most of us don't choose to make near as much an adventure of driving as you, Troy," Barnaby said, leaning back in his chair. "I thought she was a bit late getting back." The last sentence was quieter, like a thought he had not meant to speak aloud.

Troy dug the tip of the pen deeper into the paper, almost tearing through it with the pressure. "We just"—he paused, trying to think—"caught up, sir, about the past few months. That's all." The last words had rushed out of his mouth far too quickly, too nervously.

"Indeed."

Troy loathed these moments, when the chief inspector used fewer rather than more words. What might have otherwise been spread through a sentence had to be endured in a syllable or two.

"Didn't know she'd been doing another play," Troy went on, words forming before thoughts. Moving his pen to the next line—and he would not be so violent on the paper, here—he sighed, shifting a bit uncomfortably in his chair. But surely this was a neutral topic...

"That is what she does...acting, Troy."

Or not.

"Yes, sir." The shrill tone of the phone was a grating relief, a temporary reprieve to what was beginning to feel like an interrogation. Keep your head on, they're only questions!

"DCI Barnaby." It was a moment to breathe again, Troy felt, Barnaby safely occupied with the words at the other end of the line. "Ah, thank you," he said, clapping the receiver back on the machine as he stood, already pulling on his coat. "And so, Troy, one case closes, another begins."

He felt the confusion on his face, scrambling to his feet and tossing the pen back to the pile without capping it again; he would deal with it later. "Another murder, sir?" Just a bit of relief as well. Funny, really, murder as a safer subject to discuss!

The chief inspector hardly waited for him to follow, and Troy took a few quicker steps to catch him as he walked down the hall. "No, for once."

"In Midsomer? Strange indeed."

"Just an incinerated car of sorts." Barnaby spoke quickly, offering the few details he had received as they exited the building: a destroyed car sitting in a stockbroker's drive in Midsomer Market, set afire in the middle of the night, just as the man had himself buckled in to drive to Causton for a check on the panicked New York market. Troy had the keys in his hand to open the driver's door when Barnaby said, "What did you talk about?"

"Sorry, sir?" Troy asked, his hand pausing on the handle.

"You and Cully."

"Ah..." His mouth was dry as he opened the door. "Nothing much, sir. Like I said, just...what's been happening the past few months. Nothing important."

"Hmm." The response was vague as both sat, fixing their seat belts before the engine woke with a grumble. "Do try to get us there in one piece, Troy. I, too, would like to see my daughter this evening."

With a laugh, Troy threw the car into gear. "Yes, sir." The moment of levity evaporated and he clenched the steering wheel tighter as he pressed his foot on the accelerator. From anyone else, he might know it to be just a comment, but not Barnaby; the man could lay traps left and right. If he had, Troy felt the teeth snapping around his ankle.

* "Death's Shadow", S02E01