Chapter 41: As the Crow Flies
The next couple weeks were, for almost everyone, little more than a blur. Joyce buried herself in gardening—deadheading their remaining red and orange roses, pansies, azaleas, and peonies—and processing whatever about-to-turn medlars Cherrie Balcombe sent by with Hugo. The Barnaby household was less than enthusiastic about a new supply of the latter, though hopeful for a new crop of fiery blossoms in the garden before the encroaching chill of autumn finally arrived. (Rumors she might enroll in a painting class in lieu of experimenting with more jamming were very well received.)
Cully found herself at the Playhouse nearly every day, whether for an evening performance, a matinee ahead of the evening show, or another rehearsal to correct what Pearson recently concluded was entirely unacceptable. Most days began early and ended late, composed of endless rounds of correction, restaging, and reminders of how lucky they were to be directed in such iconic roles by Paul Pearson. By the end of the first full week of the run, Cully decided no matter how good an idea it seemed in any moment, she would never work with Pearson again. She suspected many of the other cast and crew felt much the same as the man's ego overtook whatever good sense he had.
More than anything, she missed the time she had spent with Gavin, learning her lines and cues...and so much more about him. True to his word, he called her that weekend, still insistent they discuss what had happened after the dress rehearsal. Their conversation had begun all well and innocent with a visit to a café for tea, once the last of his afternoon paperwork was filed and she was released. However, as always, the road to hell was paved with good intentions, and all attempts at mere discussion that afternoon eventually failed miserably. Twice.
After another long week for both of them, she visited him the following Monday evening as well, but apart from those brief hours, she had hardly been able to do anything other than text him. Sharing a short conversation at the end of each interminable day became a rare pleasure. It was rather strange given the past weeks, seeing him almost as often as her own family. Being with him was something she had come to look forward to, precious hours and afternoons she (almost) always treasured. She'd be a liar if she claimed she didn't sometimes roll her eyes at his rushes to judgment.
Barnaby and Troy had no murders on their desks...for once. "We might be out of a job!" Barnaby said a few times in those days. But even with a lack of corpses in the Midsomer villages—Causton always seemed to be spared by the surrounding murderous rage—it was no leisurely time. Instead, their unpredictable burglar grew bolder, the houses he pilfered grander and larger, their owners of higher and higher rank. While Barnaby didn't care about the owners' social status, the upper ranks had different opinions. With every new report of broken windows and smashed doors, missing heirlooms and expensive antiques, the superintendent of the Midsomer Constabulary grew increasingly restless. It all came to a head early one evening in the aftermath of a burglary at Lord Baylor's manor, with a summons to the superintendent's office.
"We're right, I assume, in thinking it's the same man?" Superintendent Edwards asked, pacing behind his desk.
"Or woman," Barnaby said with a nod. "But yes, it's the same person."
Edwards glared, finally standing still again. "Quite." He flipped through the photographs on his desk, image after image of shattered glass and splintered wood, scattering them over piles of paperwork: SOCO reports, fingerprint cards, floor plan diagrams of each crime scene, even an analysis of broken glass. "Then I would be very grateful if you would find this...person...and put a stop to it. Drop everything else. Dig up Midsomer if you have to."
Barnaby shrugged his shoulders; he had witnessed this anger before, though rarely for property crimes. "Luck has it we don't have much else, since you've seen fit to disband the task force. That only leaves me with Sergeant Troy. We might be able to dig up Lord Baylor's back garden. If that." He took a few steps forward. "If you'll bring the task force back together—"
"That's impossible, Barnaby," Edwards said, shaking his head as he scowled. "Troy is more than capable of helping you. We rarely have a man pass the detective's exam so young."
"I don't doubt his work, it's a matter of time!"
"There's more than enough to keep them busy without helping you as well. And it didn't seem to do you much good the last time." Barnaby sighed, retreating from the superintendent's desk. He had heard this tirade more than once in the past weeks. "Look here, Baylor is one of the wealthiest men in the county—in the whole the region, really."
"I am familiar with Lord Baylor, sir—"
"In other words, this is not the case of some ruffian smashing in a pensioner's window for a jolly!"
"It never was. Some of the reported losses are irreplaceable—"
"Dammit!" Edwards slammed his fist onto his desk. "There could have been a priceless Van Gogh stolen, and we would still look into Lord Baylor's case first. You know as well as I do that it makes a difference."
"Not to me," Barnaby said quietly, "and I won't let it make a difference to anyone who works with me."
"Don't be pious," Edwards said, collapsing into his chair and pulling another pile of reports closer. "If you wanted to preach, you should have been a vicar."*
Despite the superintendent's demand for progress, and perhaps because of his unwillingness to assign even one more officer—had the superintendent been reprimanded over the cost of the task force and its utter failure?—nothing came of the scouring of Midsomer. Their burglar remained just clever enough to stay one step ahead of them and, if the past pattern remained, would soon stop altogether only to begin again in a few weeks. And, though Barnaby would never mention it to his daughter, he was a bit grateful the constant running around Midsomer kept Troy under surveillance...if also underfoot at times.
Troy, like Cully, found himself missing the afternoons and evenings they had spent together over the past weeks, wishing almost more than anything to see her as often again. (Troy knew he would be a liar if he denied just how much he enjoyed those few visits they had now, though, tangled together, not ready to regret a moment.) His days were spread even thinner than before, despite a desk of merely burglary investigations and no evenings devoted to Pygmalion. The endless and useless leads took Barnaby and him around the county every day—they spent more time driving than talking to suspects or witnesses—and Troy was finally returning to the occasional evening of cricket practice. He had missed the previous match whilst chasing the last murderer around Midsomer Malham. His batting had deteriorated during that time, though still passable for the local league.
But Troy treasured every moment together just like Cully, for the state of things couldn't go on like this forever: in a few weeks, she would be resting again, and someday the damn thief would be caught. There would be time to decide what to make of things, to decide...well, what lay in the future. Because it was a question that needed an answer. All that time spent reading through lines and scenes—then forgetting the play and reveling in the time with one another—had somehow become a beautiful moment captured in memory, one they both found themselves reliving when the short calls and even shorter texts were not enough to satiate the desire for one another's company.
Sometimes, though, memories reflect wants and desires, not facts and words and actions. Perhaps they should have known it was too good to last, Cully and Gavin, far too good to be true, too happy to be real.
* This whole conversation is primarily an updated/adapted version of the conversation between Inspector Pitt and the superintendent in the film adaptation of The Cater Street Hangman, ya know, back when it was respectable to watch anything on A&E!