Chapter Text
Quinn was not entirely certain what had woken him up; suffice to say, it had not been intended to wake him up, especially not given that it was a Sunday.
A Sunday morning (mid-morning judging by the sunlight streaming in through the tall window) that had begun in the best possible way: with Quinn lazily half-awake in OB’s bed, and OB decidedly not awake right next to him.
Perhaps it had been something in his dream. All he remembered was that it had involved trains, and curtains that were improbably swishy and white, especially improbable given that they were somehow attached to said train. He blinked a few times, then stretched very, very slowly and carefully so as not to upset his pleasantly sore body or his likely pleasantly sore lover still slumbering next to him.
The urge to just roll over and envelop OB in a full-body hug was overwhelming, as it always was before his mental functions were fully engaged, and Quinn had to force himself to lay still and slake that urge with the cocktail of miscellaneous sensations that were available to him.
The softness of the sheets, from being fine linen to start with rather than worn soft from decades of washing like his were; there were no mends to tickle an unsuspecting piece of skin in the middle of the night either.
The scent of their combined sweat and spend, still sticky at least on Quinn’s bare skin; OB had, true to form, used his post-coital bathroom break to wash up and slip into his customary nightshirt while Quinn lounged, naked and blissfully half-passed out, sprawled and messy in a way that he knew was sure to bring out that steely glimmer in OB’s eye.
The glow of the sunlight on OB’s beard, which had always been redder than his hair and was presently, in the mild sunlight, scaling new heights of copper-tonedness that should clash with the soft pink of his half-parted lips but somehow didn’t, because there was nothing about OB that was anything less than perfect, at least in Quinn’s mind.
The man was, of course, covered from neck to calf in the soft rumpled folds of his nightshirt, both out of lifelong habit and because Quinn’s nudist leanings, combined with his tendency to snuggle while deeply unconscious, posed a significant risk of a rude awakening.
The touch of another’s skin on his, bare and unprotected, still made OB grit his teeth and flinch. He’d described it as an electric sensation, a shock that left him numb and with the offended nerves firing random impulses of pain that refused to dull despite lifelong familiarity. Hyperesthesia, the nerve doctor had called it; their family physician had previously called him sensitive to his face and mad to his father’s, and to his credit, the elder Lord Brierley had trusted the nerve doctor, and his son’s judgment; not something to be relied upon otherwise, sadly.
They had, of course, found ways to consummate intimacy, not least due to OB’s resourcefulness and tenacity, combined with Quinn’s only slightly rusty skills as a craftsman. They had developed and tested their way through a fascinating array of sheaths, gloves, and plain old devices that had gone some way towards satisfying Quinn’s near-all-encompassing need for touch as well as OB’s welcoming sensitivity to any touch that eschewed his actual skin.
They’d also found, quite early on, that getting OB significantly drunk had a pleasant, faintly numbing effect as well as making the younger man shockingly pliant, but sadly none of the other drugs they had cautiously tested had had anywhere near the same effect - not even cocaine with its scientifically proven track record as a local anesthetic.
There had been wine involved in last night’s revelries, and Quinn felt it pooling in his bladder, which, combined with the memories, was more than apt to keep his cock at half-mast. Not that contemplating his beloved’s lips was helping with that.
He had just made up his mind to rouse OB by way of what they’d come to call a zephyr kiss (breath rather than actual touch caressing that half-open mouth), possibly followed by an exploration of OB’s body through the soft linen of his shirt, and maybe, if OB was amenable and sufficiently awake to consent, the kind of blow job that involved actual blowing rather than the kind of greedy, hungry sucking that Quinn was only able to indulge in after having maneuvered OB into one of his custom-made sheaths -
A knock on the bedroom door had all his languidly laid plans tumbling down: timid though it was, it had awakened OB instantly.
“Yes?”
Quinn blinked reflexively at the power of OB’s voice; had it not been for his affliction, he would likely have excelled in the military.
“The telephone, sir,” came the stage-whisper of OB’s footman from the other side of the door - James, was it? Jacob? Quinn wasn’t sure, the man was that self-effacing. “The gentleman caller is quite insistent, I'm afraid.”
With one imperious glance, OB bade Quinn cover himself with the sheets before getting up to answer the door, rumpled and scruffy but as close to commanding as a man in a nightshirt would ever get.
Quinn was, once again, or, more likely still, smitten.
He listened to the fading conversation between OB and his manservant as they, presumably, made their way to the parlor where the telephone was.
He didn’t realize he had fallen back asleep until OB unceremoniously pulled the covers off him, smacking him with a pillow for good measure.
“Up, you loveable laggard. We have places to be.”
Quinn blinked. “Who was it?”
“John, of course,” OB replied, then elaborated when Quinn made no move to respond. “Count Sernley. He needs us at the club, post haste. Preferably before he has to involve the police.”
***
The Count looked serious and upright as a fencing blade, as always; to Quinn’s surprise, he made no move to usher them into the privacy of his office, merely closing the front door behind them and throwing the latch. Then, he closed his eyes and drew a deep breath, visibly composing himself, before speaking in an unusually low and soft voice.
“Thank you both for coming so quickly. I fear we have a more than grave situation on our hands.”
OB, taking off his hat and hanging it on the rack in the vestibule, took a look around, then cut to the chase. “Am I correct in assuming that we are alone, and that that is why you are not spiriting us away to your office immediately? Or is the situation located in your office?”
The count sighed. “Neither… technically. No, I was, as is my wont, making use of the early hours of the day to clear away some of the correspondence that had gathered, and, believe it or not, balance the ledger, when -”
A sudden banging noise from the upper regions of the building interrupted him.
“We are not alone,” OB hissed, reaching for the nearest weapon at hand, which happened to be an umbrella, and hefting it in his gloved hand like an expert swordsman.
“We are,” the Count gentled, holding up both of his long-fingered hands in a placating gesture that stopped just short of actually touching OB. “We are not in the company of anybody alive, anyway.” He sighed again. “The sound you are hearing is coming from an upstairs window. And that is what alerted me in the first place.” He gestured at the stairway with its genteel and well-worn Persian runner that was, Quinn noted somewhat helplessly, not showing any footprints or anything.
Not that it would; it was perfectly sunny outside, a blustery, breezy spring day, and even the London streets were, for once, as close to dry as they ever got.
He followed the Count and OB upstairs to a wide landing lined with bookcases on one side and potted plants on the other; a burgeoning coconut palm had been knocked over, spilling soil on the floor that, Quinn noticed, had been stepped on. By whoever had likely forced their way in through an upstairs window.
“Strange way of gaining ingress,” he murmured, taking in the shutter that was barely hanging off its distended hinges, slapping against the window frame whenever the breeze caught it. “I mean, you have perfectly fine ground-floor windows, no?”
“Unbarred too,” the Count confirmed.
“Did they steal anything?,” Quinn asked, emboldened by OB’s silence. “I mean, someone sneaking in through an upstairs window… I’d assume that’s not a prospective new member.”
OB snorted, turning away from his contemplation of the window. “I am willing to assume that the statutes of the Caractacus Club have a clause about the scandalous act necessary for membership not being perpetrated against the club itself. Isn’t that so, Count?”
“Indeed,” the Count replied wearily. “And, please. It’s John. I know we are on club premises, but I must admit I am a little shaken, and deluding myself into thinking the familiarity might help.”
“So,” OB counted on his fingers, “someone broke open the window, which looks easy enough given the right tools and the antique construction of these latches. And it looks like our someone exited this way too, quite possibly in a hurry given the sorry state of the plants and the fact that he must have hung off the shutter with his whole weight at one point. Was that when you discovered him, John?”
The Count shook his head gravely. “I fear that what I discovered in the library was what sent our unknown intruder scrambling to get out of here too.”
“The library is through - hey!” Quinn found himself yanked rudely back by the tie on the back of his waistcoat, and spun around to face the steely gaze of his shorter but no less strong lover.
“The last thing we want,” OB growled, grabbing one of Quinn’s unresisting hands, “is evidence of your glorious paws all over the scene. John mentioned the police, and I’d hate to have them consider you a suspect for whatever happened here. Especially as I’m not keen on telling an officer that your alibi was that you were fast asleep in my bed.”
Quinn blushed, squeezing OB’s gloved hand. “Right. Sorry.” He took a step back, surveying the door he had just been so rudely prevented from opening. “Looks like our burglar tried to force his way in here too, but… less successfully?”
OB nodded slowly, kneeling to examine the splintered portion of the doorframe at eye level. “They managed to expose the lock, but not disengage it,” he opined. “Possibly a rush job.”
“This makes no sense though,” Quinn frowned. “Why come all the way up here to steal something and then run away? Especially if you’re alone in the building, or think you are, and have all the time in the world to get past that lock?”
OB held up an imperious hand, then let out a breath that was as close to a gasp as Quinn had heard his ever-composed lover utter in as long as he’d known him. “I fear I understand why,” OB finally said, turning around from peering through the keyhole. “Do we know who he is?”
The Count nodded. “He goes by Hugh of Damascus here at the club; his real name is considerably more mundane.”
“I must admit I have not seen him around the club in all my years of casual membership,” OB replied. “And he doesn’t look Syrian in the slightest.”
“No,” the Count agreed. “As far as I have been able to ascertain, he chose that name as an homage to the Crusaders. Not that he was a man of the Church, mind. Far from it.” He chuckled.
Quinn took that opportunity to crouch in front of the keyhole and catch a glimpse of what had dragged him away from a perfectly good morning of contemplating the human body.
There was precious little to see; he had to take OB’s and the Count’s word for the fact that this room was a library, because all he could see was the side of a large armchair underneath the room’s sole window. Draped over its arm hung the limp hand of an older man, and, more alarmingly, his head, fallen slack in a position that could only be described as unnatural. Quinn couldn’t make out the man’s features from this angle, seeing as he was basically looking at the top of his head, but his thinning gray hair, cut in a hopelessly outmoded bowl cut, and the resolute absence of any facial hair, was likely enough for recognition, if one had indeed ever met this man before.
Quinn was certain that making his acquaintance was not going to be on the cards. The bluish tint to his lips made it quite clear that he was deceased.
“He wouldn’t be,” OB picked up the thread, sounding more than a little wry. “To be cooped up at a gentlemen's club on a Sunday morning rather than in the house of the Lord.”
“His version of divinity,” the Count continued, “was most certainly not anything preached from the pulpit. In fact, he liked to lock himself in when reading, and tended to make it sound like that was a precaution for the safety of the other club members.” The Count’s raised eyebrow made it more than clear what his personal opinion on such antics was.
“Well, I doubt he’s been killed by a book,” Quinn said, fearing he was stating the obvious. “Unless, I mean, he had a heart attack.”
“Yes,” OB replied slowly. “And I admit I am confused as to how the attempted burglary fits into all this.” He turned to the Count, wiping his gloved fingers on a handkerchief for good measure. “I’m afraid it may be time to involve His Majesty’s Finest. If only to get the door opened in a manner that leaves us above suspicion.”
The Count nodded. “The station is so close that I might as well send one of you.”
OB shook his head. “Telephone them. Let them come to you.”
“Right.”
***
The Count had barely had time to locate the dead man’s membership application and inform Rael that he wouldn’t be home any time soon when the club’s front door shook under a barrage of authoritative knocks.
“Police!” shouted a voice that was clearly unconcerned with what the neighbors might think.
“I’ll get that,” Quinn said, bounding down the stairs and throwing open the door to find a single, heavyset and red-faced officer standing outside, his bluster fading visibly as he craned his neck to look up at Quinn. “Come in please, officer…?”
“Bromley,” the policeman replied. “Constable Bromley. Might leave that unlocked. Kipper was supposed to be with me but he got… held up.” He made a face that betrayed nothing except his evident disgust with whatever had delayed his colleague.
“Thank you for coming so quickly,” Quinn said, keeping his voice neutral.
“Right,” Bromley squeezed past Quinn, taking in the club’s vestibule with a few officious glances. “Nice place you’ve got here.”
“We do,” the Count agreed from halfway up the stairs, extending a hand in symbolic greeting. “And as ever, we appreciate your discretion in keeping it that way.”
“Oh, I’m not taking my shoes off, mate, no way.” Bromley laughed. “Where’s the body, then?”
The Count nodded, swallowing an acerbic retort. “Follow me.”
The constable made his way up the stairs behind the Count, then took in the scene on the landing, scribbling in his notebook before deigning to have the situation explained to him. When OB pointed out the damaged lock on the library door and the Count elaborated on the deceased gentleman’s tendency to lock himself in while reading, Bromley actually guffawed.
“You’re not joshing me, are you gents?”
The Count frowned thunderously. “I could think of far better ways to spend my Sunday mornings than involving the Metropolitan Police in a death on the premises,” he snarled. “And no, unless said gentleman has seen fit to fake his own death, we are deadly serious, sir.”
“Right,” Bromley replied, slightly flustered. “Only… a locked-room mystery, sir. Doesn’t usually happen outside those infernal Sherlock Holmes stories.” He laughed nervously. “Too many folk out there re-enacting those for fun, believe me.”
“There is nothing fun about this, I assure you,” the Count shot back.
“Right, calm your horses, your highness. Right. Anyway. You wouldn’t by any chance have a key, would you?”
The Count shook his head. “The sole key for this door is, I fear, inside. As I mentioned already, the deceased had an unfortunate penchant for locking himself in to read. For privacy.”
“Right.” Bromley made another note. “Do we know the name?”
“We do,” the Count replied. “Under the rules of the club, that is kept in confidentiality.”
Bromley frowned thunderously. “Can’t work like that, mate.”
The Count sighed. “Later,” he replied. “In my office.”
“Right.” The constable cast about the room as if looking for reinforcements. “We’ll have to break the door open, then. Finish the job, as it were.”
“If I might offer my assistance?,” OB asked casually.
“To do what?,” Bromley asked, looking OB up and down.
OB flicked open his pocket knife, pulling free a thick piece of wire with a hooked end. “Pick the lock,” he replied simply. “Wasn’t going to attempt that without proper lawful supervision.” He winked.
Bromley goggled, then made a note in his notebook. “Go right ahead,” he murmured, “If you think you can do that. Name and address please, Mister Gentleman Locksmith.”
“Later,” the Count thundered, “in my office.”
“Right, right.”
It took OB longer than Quinn had expected, mostly on account of him not having his full set of lockpicks on him, the blade of his penknife being too wide to be of use, and nobody in the room being a lady willing to part with a hatpin for a good cause. In the end, Quinn came to the rescue robbing one of the orchids on the landing of its supporting trellis and rudely bending it into a supplementary lockpick that brought a satisfied smile to OB’s face and defeated the battered lock at long last.
What they found inside was no less unsettling than what they had seen through the keyhole.
Hugh - and it was indeed Hugh, that much the Count confirmed with one huffed syllable - was lying sprawled in the armchair, his body twisted in the agony of fighting for his last breath. That breath had, of course, long departed; while his body was not fully cold yet, Bromley quickly ascertained that there was no pulse or reflex to be had.
“Well, that saves us having to call the doctor out on a Sunday I s’pose,” he opined, taking in the surroundings. “Looks like our man died of an ‘eart attack, no?” He pointed at the book that lay face down on the floor at Hugh’s feet, and the bowl of dried fruit that had apparently been knocked over in the man’s final moments, spilling powdered sugar and shriveled dates on the rug. “Rest of the room looks perfectly fine.” The constable shrugged. “No fight or anything. I think you gentlemen will get your wish. No crime ‘ere. No scandal. Unfortunate, that’s all.”
OB had picked up the fallen book and was cautiously leafing through the pages. “An erudite man, was our Hugh,” he mused. “Barely two pages of this are in the same language. Look at those diagrams.”
Quinn and Bromley appeared over each of OB’s shoulders, peering at the book. While Quinn noted that it seemed to be handwritten and smelled faintly burnt, Bromley wrinkled his nose for entirely different reasons.
“Witchcraft,” he grumbled. “All the rage these days. P’raps it was one of his demons that got him. Spell gone very wrong.” He chuckled derisively. “Mind, don’t tell the family that. There’s only one thing I hate more than paperwork, and that’s having the papers come after me for details.” He snapped his notebook shut. “Whichever way you want to spin it, there’s no murder here, gentlemen. You can relax.”
“Why the attempted break-in though?” Quinn asked, genuinely curious.
“Locked doors will attract thieves,” Bromley replied with a shrug. “Nothing’s missing, right?” He gestured at the perfectly neat library with its incongruous addition of a dead body. “Tell you what, I’ll give you my card, Mister Sernley, and if this happens again, you ask for me. Then we’ll investigate. Don’t think it’ll come to that though.” He winked. “And now, if you please, the man’s name, so I can close out the paperwork.”
“In my office,” the Count demurred. “That is also where the telephone happens to be. For the undertaker.”
“No family?” Bromley inquired, incredulous.
“That is too confidential even for my knowledge,” the Count replied archly. “Though you are of course welcome to make your own inquiries, once you have the deceased’s legal name.”