Chapter 18: The First Toll

In only a minute after stepping into the kitchen, Cully had a container from the refrigerator, dishes, and a pot on the counter. A bag of pre-washed, pre-sliced lettuce and a bottle of dressing sat on the table, safely out of the way of her hands and elbows. "So what did your mum make?" Troy asked, slipping his arms out of his jacket sleeves. Just like in the CID station room, it was too warm to continue wearing it. His keys rattled in one of the pockets as he set it on the back of one of the kitchen chairs. As soon as he took his hand away, it hung lopsided.

"Bœuf bourguignon," she answered, peeling the lid away from the plastic tub. "I think this will be the end of it."

"Sounds good." Even across the kitchen, the faint scent of garlic immediately hung in the air, hiding another heavier smell he could not identify.

Cully laughed as she tipped the contents of the container into the pot, a reddish-brown sauce spilling out first. "I guess." She reached for a spatula.

"Or maybe not," Troy said as she scraped out the rest, solid chunks of what he presumed to be beef and—whatever else went into it. He had never been one for fine food, and all his scant childhood memories of such things were tainted by unhappiness. It was either his mother's exhausted face as she reheated what was left from Preddicott House's dinner table or his own cravings for spag bol and Chinese takeaway.

"It still won't be as interesting as her liver and greens," Cully said, setting the pan on one of the cooker's burners, quickly switching on the gas and turning it down to a low, deep blue flame.

"I'll still believe you and avoid that one." At least that dish sounded normal and unadorned. How some things had not only become refined and how people ate them...Troy still shuddered whenever he thought of people downing fresh oysters straight from the shell, let alone watching them. The briny, raw odor was enough to turn his stomach.

Cully only half looked at the pan as she stirred, holding the spatula delicately. "She hasn't made them for a while. I think Dad stayed late at work too often when he knew that was for dinner."

"That must have worried her sometimes," he said lowly.

"Not really." Her hand hovered over the stove lazily, still stirring. "He always called."

Troy didn't see how a mere phone call could alleviate the concern; placing such a phone call to a wife had never done so in his life. It rarely troubled him—it never had, not even in his first years as a constable—because he could not allow it to. If he permitted himself to dwell on what might lie around the corner, what the next hour might hold, it would just paralyze him. With Midsomer's bizarre murder rate, sometimes estimated to be double that of London...it was only sensible to worry. Sensible and impossible.

In all his time at Causton CID, Troy had never had the misfortune to hear of an officer's death. Injuries, yes, but never death in the line of duty. That announcement had never been made, the details of the necessary arrangements had never circulated through the station. God, he really could select the best things to say, his thoughtless earlier words echoing in his mind. Just. Just his boss. She had been right to answer as she had. After more than half a decade as Barnaby's sergeant— He couldn't think about it, not after almost living through it. And how much worse would it be now as each day further entrenched Barnaby as not only his superior but as Cully's father?

"...how he is, Gavin."

"What?" He hadn't been listening to her—though he had been watching her.

"Dad. When he gets started on something, it's impossible to stop him."

"Don't I know," Troy said, almost smiling. But it wasn't only the job and the cases: anything that caught Barnaby's mind drove him relentlessly until it the task was finished. Anything.

"Is something wrong?"

"No." His hand had tightened around the back of the chair, and now he loosened his fingers. "It's nothing."

Thoughts and words faded into silence as Cully continued to work, a quiet flurry of activity while she finished the meal. The bag of greens was opened and quickly dressed, a plate of leftover bread was assembled, and the now bubbling stew—or soup, or whatever it was properly called—was emptied into two bowls, one portion noticeably larger than the other.

He should do something, Troy realized, but he couldn't. Not because he was incapable of picking up a plate without dropping it or transferring a warm bowl to the table without burning his fingers, but because doing so required pulling his eyes away from her. And they were lingering far too long. When Cully set the cutlery beside the dishes, as though she felt the weight of his gaze, her cheeks flushed. His own face did not.

Was it even possible to go on, for this charade to continue? No, that was the wrong word to use. But...how could it? The quiet comments never came to an end, the glares were almost constant—

Her chair scraping against the floor drew Troy away from the contemplation. "Oh," he murmured, pulling his own from beneath the table. He didn't mean to sit as stiffly as he did, or as close to the edge of the chair. Glancing across the table at her again—at the soft lines of her face that his memory decorated with a smile and laughter, the blond locks of hair that fell around her cheeks just to her jaw, the gentle curves of her shoulder and chest—he had no answer for how it was to carry on if he did not rediscover his sense, only why.

He had to look away while his skin remained cool, before it began to burn once more. Unable to catch her eyes again, he dipped his spoon into the stew—she had given him the bigger bowl—for a large bite. It nearly singed his tongue and scorched his throat as he swallowed.

"I don't know what you're complaining about, Cully," Troy managed, gulping an equally large mouthful of water to calm the heat. It was certainly better than wine today; Cully's presence was enough to start his mind spinning without any assistance.

"How long has it been since you had bœuf bourguignon?" She just twirled her spoon in the bowl as she had earlier stirred the spatula around the pan.

"I don't know...A while." Not that it mattered; he hadn't even tasted it.

A small grin spread over her face. "Then I won't ruin it for you," she said, finally taking a bite herself.

"I'm not saying I wouldn't prefer a good curry."

"And how long since you had a good curry?" Her dislike of the dish was clear as she began to ignore it. Instead, she peeled apart a slice of bread with slender, graceful fingers, dipping one piece at a time lightly into her bowl. Must be out of politeness, Troy assumed.

"The other night," he said, still unable to look away from her. The searing late day sunshine behind her, Cully's face was beginning to disappear, illuminated only by the gleaming of that same sun on her pale skin.

"I said a good one, Gavin, not just one from the local takeaway."

"They do a fantastic chicken tikka."

She looked down, staring at the grains in the wooden tabletop. "I'm sure," she said quietly.

"Well they do." Troy took another bite; it was cooler, the flavor of beef finally appearing, but everything else was muddled.

"Just because you can eat it doesn't make it good."

"It's the best I've ever had." She rolled her eyes as she ate the last scrap of the bread she had shredded. "And it's easy," he added.

"You can be right about that."

Troy scowled, letting the spoon fall against the side of the bowl. "There's no use worrying if—" He had to stop before the rest of the sentence came: if it's only me. Her face further hidden by the shadows, her expression remained invisible—but she must have heard.

Neither of them really spoke for several minutes. Cully split the salad between their two plates and Troy briefly interrupted the silence with a "Thank you", but the only sound was the clink of forks and spoons on the dishes.

"At least someone's enjoying it," Cully said finally, though the words were strained. "It's one of Mum's favorite dishes to try again and again. She's always trying to improve it."

"Are you sure?" Troy asked, lifting his spoon again. A long stem was balanced atop it, dangling limply over either side.

She laughed, the sound light and almost musical as it broke through the heavy air. "It's always something new that goes wrong."

Troy couldn't help himself as he glanced at his watch, though he did not let his gaze remain long enough to read the time. He didn't want to know. The sun behind Cully had dimmed to the early evening glare, and surely her parents would not be held up by the funeral for much longer.

"So—all your rehearsals will probably last as long as this?" he asked, almost wincing as he blurted out the first words that came to mind. Meeting Barnaby here—not just at the man's home, not just in the house, but sharing a meal with his daughter as though it was a normal course of events—was not one of the things he wanted to endure this evening. Or ever: all the chief inspector's comments and foul looks would be transformed into...well, he didn't want to imagine it before he had to.

"They could," Cully said, finally pushing her bowl aside. Much of her mother's creation remained uneaten. "But unless something really goes wrong, this was probably the longest until tech."

"Until what?" Troy asked, no longer eating, either. He wasn't willing to miss a single word she said.

"Technical week, Gavin." Propping one elbow on the table, Cully set her chin in the palm of her hand. "The last few rehearsals before opening night, when the director realizes things are never going to work."

"It can't be that bad," he said, leaning forward. She had to feel his eyes examining her face, the desperation to hold them on only her face, every curve and every angle.

She grinned again. "You'd be surprised."

"But not after—how many weeks of rehearsal do you have?"

Even as she sighed, the expression did not fade. "It's all fine on its own, but once you put—"

Until the footsteps rang on the tile in the kitchen, Troy had not noticed them. The only sound in his ears had been Cully's voice, patient as she explained what was so familiar to her and so alien to him. The moment they interrupted his concentration, his heart raced as he anticipated a nightmare that was about about to come true. But they were too light to be his.

Barnaby's wife did not see him at first, even when he turned, his pulse slowing. "How was rehearsal, Cully—" she began, first seeing only her daughter, and finally noticing him. Her eyes narrowed briefly—surely she was not surprised, for his car was still in the drive—but the hidden thought in her gaze vanished almost immediately. "Hello, Gavin." Her voice was the same, even and pleasant.

"Evening, Mrs. B." His own voice almost quivered. The chief inspector's wife—Joyce; he had never used her given name aloud, but in his mind the sound of it did not frighten him as his boss's did—did not react to his nerves. She had to have noticed them.

"Hi, Mum," Cully said loudly as she took her chin from her hand, offering a small wave. "Where's Dad?"

Setting her handbag on the tiled counter, Joyce released an exhausted breath. "He's still in Midsomer Magna."

"What on earth for?" Cully asked as she leaned back in her chair, even the sharpest bones in her face disappearing into the encroaching shadow. Disappointment rushed through him.

"Searching the wood."

"Why?"

"For whoever he called me about, at a guess," Troy said. Might as well get ready to leave, he thought. Just a matter of time.

"I suppose so," Joyce said, nodding as she walked to the end of the table, taking a seat in the chair there. She peered over the dishes, ignoring the remnants in front of Cully. "Oh, good, you finished it."

Cully looked down before she answered. "Uh, yes."

"It was very good," Troy said in earnest. It had been one of the better meals he had eaten in a few weeks.

"I'm glad you enjoyed it, Gavin," Joyce said, sitting straighter and almost prouder.

"What happened in the wood?" Cully went on, her face flushing, the rush of blood potent enough for him to see. Trying to keep the conversation away from her comments about her mother's cooking, he supposed, though Cully's interest in current cases was sometimes endless.

"Nothing, I hope." Joyce drummed her fingers on the table, the tempo accelerating immediately. "One of Mr. Wainwright's hotel managers didn't come to the funeral. Everyone was surprised by it."

Doesn't anyone else hate funerals? Troy thought, preparing to stand, pull on his jacket, and leave. Not enough sensible people in the world.

Cully's posture was suddenly perfect and as her face emerged from the shadow, Troy saw that the blush had vanished. "That can't be enough reason to put together a search," she said, the words harsh and clipped.

Her mother looked at her curiously, her eyebrows furrowing over the bridge of her nose. "Cully—"

"What if he just decided he wasn't up to it?" Cully continued.

"That's a horrible thing to say."

"You can't blame him."

"Even so—"

"No one likes funerals," Cully said, interrupting her mother again.

Troy loosened his fingers from the table's edge, though his arms were tenser. What are you saying? You couldn't believe I said that.

"You should still go," Joyce said. With a sigh, she shook her head. "He was supposed to perform a Punch and Judy show at a child's birthday party afterward, too."

Punch and Judy, Troy thought, shuddering. Wretched little things. "He—wasn't there for that, either?" he managed after a moment. The shaking had returned to his voice.

Joyce's face was still confused, her lips pursed in thought. "No. That has Evelyn quite worried."

"Are you all right, Gavin?" Cully asked, reaching around the dishes for his hand—and pausing before she touched him, drawing her arm away before her warm and smooth skin slid over his.

"Uh, yeah." The image of the bloody puppets was enough to ignite the ridiculous worry: Mr. Punch in his belled jester's hat with his painted crimson cheeks; Judy in her bonnet and apron; and both ready to club another puppet—or one another—at a moment's provocation.

"Are you sure?"

Cully's voice could not push the puppets and their mangled words from his skull. "Yes," he said anyway, hating the frown she now wore.

"Who's Evelyn, Mum?" Cully asked, looking back to her mother. Troy wondered how pale his face was now.

"Evelyn Pope. You must remember her—she was a professor for years."

"No," Cully said, shaking her head, "I don't."

"I'm sure you've seen her perform several times." The puppets were in Troy's head again as Joyce spoke, giggling at the abuse they inflicted. "But how was rehearsal, darling?"

"It went well. I only missed a few lines, here and there."

"Well that's a good start to things." Joyce touched her daughter's hand lightly for a moment—and envy flared in Troy's chest. You're being ridiculous, he thought.

"Gavin didn't believe me," Cully said, waving her other hand toward him.

Quick irritation replaced the envy. "I know half that play, Cully—"

"It always happens," Joyce said quietly.

Troy already fought the itch in his fingers to finish what Cully had started that short moment earlier, to just reach out to her and feel her hand in his own. Stop, he thought, finally murmuring, "So I've been told." It wasn't the time, even if the new, sudden presence in the kitchen was far less threatening than the alternative. He wouldn't try to fool himself, to say that it was not the right place as well. He hadn't given a damn Saturday when he abandoned all caution, uncertain who might be observing and unable to care. But almost instantly, he had at least wrenched back control, punishing himself as he indulged in a brief kiss that hardly satiated the need. The longer embraces they shared in the evenings after the drive had been newly forbidden.

"It does seem to be a lovely cast." The words pulled him back to the kitchen, away from the memory of her soft body pressed to his—now so real that Troy felt her hot breath in his mouth. When had her presence shifted from desire to need?

"Is Higgins irritating enough?" he asked, desperate to forget, if only for a second.

Once more, Cully smiled. "Of course—"

The ringing of the phone in his jacket pocket silenced her, and Troy flung a silent curse at the thing even as he struggled to pull it from one of the interior pockets. "Sorry," he said quietly as he stood and turned away from the table, answering in another moment. "Troy."

The voice at the other end was the one he anticipated. "It's Barnaby." Troy still scowled at the wall. "Meet me at the morgue."

"What is it, sir?"

"We've found a severed hand in the wood."

Incomprehensible words from men and women standing beside Barnaby filled the silence as Troy struggled to think. "A hand?" he asked, unable to believe what he had heard.

"Yes, Troy," the chief inspector said lowly, "just a hand."

"Do you—"

"Yes"—an aggravated hiss of breath broke through, almost crackling—"it probably has something to do with Gregory Chambers. Not too many other people missing who could have lost it."

"Do you want me to call round the hospitals again, sir?" He took a few measured steps alongside the wall, watching each pace. Funerals, dismemberment, and probable murder on the same day...only in Midsomer.

"No, I dare say he probably hasn't turned up."

"Well, that would make sense," Troy said quietly, looking up again at Cully's face and her inevitable curiosity. Could the last few minutes vanish and a new past permit his itching fingers to cross the gap that had remained on the table just to touch her hand? Of course not.

"I'll see you at Bullard's."

"Yes, sir."

"Is Cully done with rehearsal yet?"

Troy's hand froze; he had almost ended the call when Barnaby managed that final sentence. "Yes—sir." A few low words passed back and forth between the two women still sitting there, and he wondered how intently they were listening to his half of the conversation. "Just dropped her off." And both glanced up, Cully's eyes narrowing at the lie.

"Ran long, did it?"

Troy took a deep breath, lifting the phone away from his cheek as he did. "No, I don't think so—"

"Meet me at the morgue, Troy."

"Yes, sir—" Barnaby's end was suddenly dead, and Troy already heard a smattering of the silent accusations waiting for him as they descended the stairs to Bullard's cold, antiseptic realm.

"What is it?" Cully asked as he lifted his jacket from the back of the chair, slipping his phone into the same pocket before sliding his arms into the sleeves.

"They've probably found him—Gregory Chambers." He grimaced as he shrugged his shoulders, trying to persuade the jacket's seams to lie properly. There was no way to avoid the next sentence, not after his careless words. "Or at least part of him."

"Oh no," Joyce whispered.

"So—that's his hand?"

"Yeah, just a hand in the wood." Troy finally tightened the knot in his tie; hell already waited in the near future without inviting it.

"Is Evelyn all right?" Joyce asked, her tone worried.

"He didn't say—" God, the bloody puppets were in his mind again! Troy shivered, turning his thoughts to the severed hand, a less frightening prospect. "I've got to meet him at the morgue."

Joyce tapped her fingers against the table again, the pattern anxious and unhappy. "Did he say how long he'll be?"

"No, he didn't."

Cully stood, touching her mother's shoulder gently, pausing behind her. "It can't be too long if they've only—" She did not finish the sentence as she walked past Joyce.

"Probably not," Troy agreed quietly after a few seconds, fishing for his keys. "Nothing will be back from forensics until tomorrow at the earliest."

"Hmm." Joyce rolled her eyes, not believing a word of it.

"Mum, not even Dad could investigate this without a forensic report."

Troy hardly heard Cully, he only felt the new touch and warmth of her hand on his arm—and the imagined weight of her body pressed to his as he tangled his fingers in her hair. If she intended to destroy the ever loosening grasp he had on his sanity...she was succeeding.

"I suppose," Joyce said, still sounding unhappy.

The daydream vanished at her words, leaving only Cully's hand innocently on his arm. "Well," he managed, swallowing the thought and the burning heat still lingering in his veins, "have a good evening, Mrs. B."

"And you, Gavin." Joyce nodded a goodbye, though Troy had only a weak smile.

Cully had to steer him out of the kitchen; his feet were too heavy to lift, even as relief crashed over him. After all, it could have been far worse, and easily. The brief conversation here had revealed none of the angry yet cautious words he knew waited for him at CID. What was it, one complication that had been forgotten or at least ignored by Barnaby's wife? He almost laughed; that was too much to imagine.

Cully's hand was no longer on his sleeve: her arm was twisted around his, a change he had not noticed as they walked, their footsteps becoming quiet as the hard tile gave way to the soft carpet. It was strange: for he was always aware of her, overly so, whenever he was anywhere near her parents. Only once did Troy remember being so distracted by her, when he had seen her again almost a month ago—before the endless caution had consumed him.

Now, her fingers were tightening around his palm and her pace was slowing as they approached the front door, holding him back. He glanced to her face for a moment, and her expression was distant, almost lost in thought. No use in asking her, Troy knew. If she wanted to share, she would; if she did not, nothing would draw it out. But there was always tomorrow to hear it, and the day after that.