Chapter Text
Elizabeth Tompkins, née Brackley, slipped away peacefully on a cloudy spring day, surrounded by loved ones. A pillar of the community in her 97th year, she’d had, as they say, good innings.
Her grandson, Ben Jones, disagreed. She had certainly led a long and rich life, but he’d never met a batsman who didn’t want just one more over or a bowler one more wicket. He would do anything for even one more day with her. He knew it was selfish – though her mind was sharp as a tack until the end, her body had been failing for more than a year – but the thought of never seeing her again left him rudderless and adrift.
He floated from the hospital to his gran’s home, carried in the wake of his uncles, aunts, and cousins, and there he found an anchor in the file folder of final wishes and key documents she left behind. He called her solicitor first, who confirmed what he already knew. He was the sole executor.
“Call us back on Monday and we can walk you through the process,” the solicitor told him. “You need to take time now to grieve.”
Ben knew that. He also knew that people grieved in different ways, thanks to John Barnaby’s university paper. But when he got the same response from the funeral home and the bank, he realised that the establishment had its own ideas of how people should grieve.
He took the folder, accepted a tumbler of whisky, and made his excuses as soon as the impromptu wake started to break up.
“Do you have a place to stay?” Uncle Harry asked, but didn’t press when Ben just nodded.
He didn’t, and he didn’t think he could face the drive back to Brighton, with just himself and his memories on the motorway, but he knew half a dozen pubs that would have a room to rent, even last minute on a Friday in April.
And there was another possibility. Before he could think about it too carefully, he pulled out his mobile and tapped a number that was still in his favourites, even after five years. He second-guessed himself almost immediately, but before he could hang up, the call was answered.
“Jones,” John Barnaby said warmly. It was the second most common surname in Britain, but Barnaby managed to make it sound as if he were the only Jones in the world. Or at least the only one that mattered. “What can I do for you?”
Ben didn’t have an answer for that. The tears that he’d been pushing back since the doctor called time of death threatened to spill over, and he took a shaky breath. “I…” he started, but the word caught in his throat.
“Jones? Ben?”
He’d done it now, set off all Barnaby’s alarm bells. Barnaby only ever called him Ben when he was worried or feeling protective. He wanted to say something to reassure him, but it was all he could do to keep from sobbing. And that would just make things worse.
“Can you hear me, Jones? Are you in trouble?” Barnaby lowered the phone, but Ben could still hear him clearly. “Winter. Get a trace on this number.”
“No,” Ben managed to say. “Just a bad connection,” he lied. “I’m fine. I’m safe,” he amended, more honestly. But even he could hear how shaky his voice sounded. Maybe Barnaby would put that off to the bad connection, but Ben knew he wasn’t that easily fooled.
“What’s wrong?” Barnaby asked, not fooled in the slightest. “Where are you?”
“Midsomer Parva,” Ben replied, answering the easier of the two questions. “I, uh…” The words dried up again. He couldn’t say it aloud. But he couldn’t not say it either. Otherwise, why call Barnaby at all. He cleared his throat. “My gran. She – she had a stroke. She passed away this morning.” Now the tears came, but he had learned long ago to cry silently, only a slight stuttering of breath to give him away.
Barnaby still heard. “I’m so sorry. She was a marvellous woman.” He let his words hang in the ether a moment before continuing. “You won’t be heading back to Brighton, I’m sure. Leave your car where you are. I’ll come pick you up. Winter can hold the fort for the rest of the afternoon.”
It was more than four years since Ben was promoted and transferred to Brighton, but Barnaby still took charge automatically and Ben let him. It was what he knew would happen when he called, after all.
“You don’t have to do that,” he protested, more out of reflex than conviction. “I’m fine.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Barnaby retorted. “Of course, you’re not fine. Tell me where to pick you up. I can be there in twenty minutes.”
Ben looked around. His grandmother’s bungalow wasn’t far from the village square. There was one thing he could do, at least, while he waited. “I’ll be at the registry office,” he said.
Barnaby paused. “Surely that can wait,” he said finally.
“I have to do something,” Ben replied, his voice cracking. “The solicitor and the bank won’t talk to me until Monday and the funeral home needs the certificate for burial before they’ll do anything.”
Another long pause, while Ben’s words echoed in his head. He could hear the near hysteria and bit down hard on his lower lip to try and ground himself. Barnaby wouldn’t judge him, he knew, but he’d be damned if he broke down in public.
“All right,” Barnaby said. “I’ll pick you up at the registry office. I take it you have everything you need.”
He’d obtained the signed medical certificate of death before he left the hospice and everything else was in the folder. But he had more than that now. “I do. Thank you.”
~~~
When he came out of the office, Barnaby was waiting on the sidewalk, but he wasn’t alone. Betty was beside him, blonde and beautiful, and Ben’s heart healed just a little. Barnaby must have picked her up from nursery school on the way. When she saw him, she waved and ran towards him.
“Hiya, Unca Ben,” she cried.
“Hiya, Betty Bee,” he replied, smiling for the first time since Uncle Harry called the day before.
“Daddy says you need a hug,” she said, holding her arms out.
“Your daddy is right,” Ben replied, picking her up.
She wrapped her arms and legs around him in a full body hug, warming him in a way the whisky hadn’t. When she rested her head on his shoulder, fitting perfectly in the curve of his neck, he turned slightly so Barnaby wouldn’t see him cry. But then he felt a warm hand on his back, rubbing gently between his shoulder blades, and he choked back a sob.
They stood there for a few minutes, Ben taking strength from them, and Barnaby and Betty giving it gladly, just waiting patiently for him. Finally, Betty leaned back and looked up at him, putting her right hand on his chest. “All better?” she asked.
“All better,” he agreed. He wasn’t all right – he wasn’t sure he ever would be again – but he was definitely better.
“Let’s get you home,” Barnaby said, as if home weren’t 100 miles away.
Once it was just down the street, but the bungalow would go to his uncle now, and he would most likely sell it and split the proceeds amongst the family. Part of him had always thought he would eventually come back to Midsomer, maybe even as a chief inspector, and move in with his gran to help her in her final years. But he’d waited too long, unable or unwilling to realise that those final years had arrived. And now it was too late.
Even if a promotion or transfer hadn’t been in the offing, he should have taken a leave when his grandmother’s health had truly started to fail. He finally put in the application just last week, but it was too little, too late. At least it would be easier now to change the request to a compassionate leave, though he had more than enough vacation banked to carry him through the funeral.
“You’ll stay with us, as long as you need,” Barnaby told him, in a tone that meant Ben could object all he wanted but it would do him no good. He didn’t want to object.
“You can sleep in my room,” Betty said, wriggling to be let down. “I have a big bed for sleepovers now.” She took his hand and led him to the car.
“He’ll sleep in the guest room,” Barnaby retorted. “It’s a big bed for two little girls, not one little girl and an oversized inspector.”
Betty looked between them. “Unca Ben’s skinnier than you, and you slept with me last night.”
“Never have children,” Barnaby said, making sure Betty was safely strapped into her car seat. “They have no concern for your dignity.”
There were a couple of cheeky responses Ben could counter with, but he didn’t have the emotional wherewithal to spar with Barnaby right now. Ben could feel Barnaby watching him, knew he was concerned, but he couldn’t do anything about that either. He slid into the backseat beside Betty where it was safe.
Barnaby didn’t comment, which meant he really was worried. Ben didn’t think he was going to crack up or break down, but he also didn’t want to put it to the test. Mostly, he just felt numb and exhausted. It was a long overnight vigil after a long drive and a long shift. He was surprised he was still conscious, to be honest.
He did drift off, while Betty told him all about her best friend Anneke, dozing to the sound of her sweet voice. He woke up with a start when the car stopped.
Sarah was waiting outside. Barnaby must have messaged her that they were en route. She didn’t bother with platitudes, just pulled Ben into a hug. It was comfort and shelter, and while he couldn’t forget, he could at least be soothed for the time she held him. It couldn’t last, of course, and when she let go, he was bereft again.
“You should have called,” she chided gently.
“He did,” Barnaby said, but Ben knew she meant before.
If something ever happened to John or Sarah, or god forbid Betty, he would want to know immediately. But while both Sarah and John had met his gran, they didn’t really know her. It was different. Except he could see grief in Sarah’s eyes, not for Eliza Tompkins, but for him, and he wondered if it was so different after all.
“I wasn’t thinking of anything other than getting here in time,” he said, opting for honesty. “And then just being there for her.” He realised that Sarah would have wanted to be there for him, but she was here now – or he was – and that was all he needed from her.
“Well, come inside,” she said, wrapping her arm around his waist and ushering him through the door. “Have you been up all night? You must be exhausted.” She didn’t give him time to respond. “I’ve got clean sheets in the spare room. Go up and take a nap, and we’ll tackle what needs doing once you’ve rested.”
“I’ll nap with Unca Ben,” Betty announced. “Daddy says my bed is too small, but that one’s bigger.”
Ben could see that John was about to shut her down, and Sarah was searching for a gentler way to dissuade her, so he spoke up. “You’re right. There’s lots of room for both of us.” Betty was a heat factory, and he wouldn’t be able to strip down, but it was worth it.
John swallowed back whatever argument he’d been preparing. Ben didn’t know who he was humouring, Betty or him, but he wasn’t going to give him any excuse to change his mind.
“You can read me a story,” Betty said, taking his hand and leading him up the stairs. “Or we could play Peppa Pig. You can be Suzy Sheep.”
“No reading or playing make believe, Betty,” John said sternly. “Uncle Ben is tired and needs to rest.”
“One story,” Ben said. “And we can play Peppa Pig after naptime.” He wasn’t sure he’d be able to keep his eyes open for even one story, but he could never refuse Betty anything.
~~~
He lasted two stories and a conversation about Anneke’s dress – purple with pink polka dots – before Betty drifted to sleep. He lay still, staring up at the ceiling, memories chasing around his head. He didn’t think he’d ever sleep again, but the next thing he knew, he was alone in the bed, and he could hear hushed voices in the hallway.
The door cracked open, and John poked his head in, looking embarrassed when Ben sat up. “Sorry. I just thought I’d check to see if you were up for supper. But we can keep a plate warm for you, if you’re not ready.”
Ben glanced at his watch. He’d been asleep for nearly three hours. He still felt bone tired, but he knew that was grief, not lack of sleep. “I’ll just wash up, if that’s okay.”
“Take as long as you need.” He ducked away again, before Ben could even swing his legs out of bed.
It lightened his heart a little, knowing John was checking up on him, the way he had so many times before, when Ben had taken refuge with the Barnabys to lick his wounds, physical or metaphysical. John liked to pretend that Sarah was the nurturer, but it was John who had dropped everything to pick him up, John who was hovering like a hawk, and John who would dog his heels until he was certain Ben was all right. It should have felt suffocating; instead it was soothing.
He splashed water on his face and found a new toothbrush in the cup, which he unwrapped gratefully. He’d packed a bag before he left Brighton, but it was in the boot of his car. It only just occurred to him that he’d have nothing to change into in the morning unless he could convince John to drive him back to Midsomer Parva after dinner.
But when he went back into the bedroom, his bag was on the bed. He glanced out the window and saw that his car was in the driveway.
“I picked your pocket,” John said, hovering in the doorway again. “I had a couple of things to finish off at the station, so I got Winter to swing past Parva with me and drive your car here. But if there’s anything you forgot to pack, just let me know. What we don’t have, we can pick up in town.”
Ben didn’t say anything, just walked over to John and hugged him. As always with John, there was a moment’s hesitation, and then he hugged back, fierce and strong. John wasn’t, by nature, inclined to hug, but when he did, he made the whole world feel safe.
“Anything you need, Ben,” John murmured. “Just say the word.”
He couldn’t give Ben the one thing he really needed: a day, a week, a lifetime more with his Gran. But it would hurt him to hear that, so Ben just held tight a moment longer.
“You’ve already given me everything I could ask for,” he said, stepping back. “I don’t know how to thank you.”
“Then don’t,” John said firmly. “Family doesn’t need thanks.”
Family. When John and Sarah asked him to be Betty’s godfather, he’d thought it was just a formality, a name needed on the baptismal certificate. It was an honour just to be asked, so he hadn’t expected anything more. He certainly hadn’t expected to fall head over heels the first time he held Betty in his arms, even before John and Sarah said anything. And even if they’d said nothing, he knew he’d die for that little girl, for John, for Sarah. The title was the formality, just a label on what already existed.
“I called Keith Hicks,” John said, in that bluff way that meant he knew he’d overstepped but was daring Ben to call him on it. “You’re not to worry about the paperwork. He’ll take care of your leave; as long as you need. Apparently, you have a ridiculous amount of time banked,” he added disapprovingly, as if Sarah didn’t have to twist his arm to take time off.
Keith Hicks was Ben’s divisional commander, but he’d been John’s inspector back in the day, and John had no compunctions about using that relationship to meddle in Ben’s life from afar. Not that he really minded – it was John’s recommendation that got him the position in Brighton, the closest and best option after he’d been promoted. That earned him some leeway, as long as he wasn’t actively interfering.
And fortunately, DCS Hicks found it amusing, rather than annoying. “It’s a good look on John,” he said, when Ben apologised for John’s tirade about the C10 operation. “He’s always cared, but he’s never known how to show it properly. Still doesn’t,” he added with a laugh. “But it’s a start.”
Ben wasn’t sure if John’s methods had improved, but he’d learned to identify and appreciate the signs. “Who else did you call?” he teased, knowing John couldn’t help trying to help.
“Just Tom,” John replied, a little defensively. “He wants you to email him details of the service. And I may have mentioned it to a few of the old-timers at the station,” he mumbled.
“Thanks,” Ben said. “That will save me some time.” He’d call Tom, not just email him, though, once the family had set a date. It had been too long since he’d talked to his old guvnor, John’s cousin. He and Joyce had been off travelling again, and Ben wanted to hear all about it.
“Dinner, then,” John said, and gestured for Ben to go downstairs ahead of him, as if he were a child he was minding. “Sarah made enough pasta to feed a small army. It’s a ritual, I suppose. An offering to the living and the dead.”
Ben thought about his aunts, already hard at work in his gran’s kitchen, making soups and casseroles, biscuits and cakes, for the friends and relatives coming to pay their respects, and wondered if he could book some time in the Barnabys’ kitchen. It wasn’t a ritual so much as a tribute to his gran – he’d learned all his recipes at her side. “A way to show you care,” he said and saw John smile.
Betty bounced in her chair when she saw him. “Unca Ben sits next to me,” she demanded.
“Uncle Ben can sit across from you,” John said, taking his own chair across from Sarah.
Ben could see the signs of a tantrum brewing, so he picked up the free chair and moved it to the other side of the table, beside Betty. “Problem solved,” he said, sliding the place setting in front of him.
“You spoil her, Jones,” John said, treading a fine line between indulgence and disapproval.
“It’s my job,” Ben replied, undeterred. He’d seen John do far more just to please his daughter. “And I don’t get to spoil her nearly enough.”
“Unca Ben is sad,” Betty said, slipping her hand into his. “You’re not ‘lowed to be mad at him.”
“That’s right,” Sarah said, fighting back a smile. “But that also means no arguing if he says no to you. And he’s allowed to say no.”
Short of something criminal or dangerous, Ben wasn’t sure what he’d say no to, though he was smart enough not to say that out loud. “And it means you have to eat all your dinner, because that will make me happy.”
“I wish we had pasgetti, because then we could do Lady and the Tramp.” Betty pushed her pasta around the plate, a frown on her face.
Ben was relieved – he didn’t think a grown man sharing a spaghetti strand with a pre-schooler was appropriate, godfather or not. “But penne is just as fun.” He speared two pieces, sucked off the sauce, then placed them against his eyes. “They make excellent binoculars, don’t you think?”
Betty giggled and picked up two pieces and pressed them against her eyes without bothering to lick off the sauce. “I can see you!” she cried, swivelling to face Ben.
He laughed out loud and peered at her through his pasta glasses. “They make a good bugle, too,” he said, placing the penne at his lips and buzzing a tune through it.
“I expect the three-year-old to play with her food, not the 43-year-old,” John said, the words and tone definitely disapproving, only undermined by a glimmer of amusement in his eyes.
“I’m nearly four,” Betty announced.
Ben realised with a start that her birthday was in a couple of weeks. He hadn’t given thought to anyone but himself and his gran. Death had a way of overshadowing everything else. It was a professional hazard; he didn’t like that it had become a personal one as well.
That meant Tom’s birthday was coming up as well, just a few days before Betty’s, and it was a big one, 75. Another reason to call instead of emailing.
Then he realised that his mother had died thirty years ago, nearly to the day. He wondered if his gran had felt the presence of her long-lost daughter at the end.
“Everything all right, Jones?” John asked softly, and Ben shook himself free of the memories.
“I was just thinking,” he covered quickly, though he knew he wasn’t fooling John. He turned to Betty. “You haven’t told me what you want for your birthday. After dinner, you can show me on my phone so I can save it.”
“I’ll show you now,” Betty replied, starting to slide out of her booster seat.
Ben shook his head, lifting her gently back up. “After dinner. If we eat all our binocular penne, then we’ll have super-binocular eyesight and I can see exactly what you want.” He dipped his napkin in his water glass and carefully wiped the traces of marinara sauce from around Betty’s eyes.
“I don’t know if you’d make a terrible father or a brilliant one,” John said with a sigh, as Betty delicately nibbled her pasta, one piece at a time.
Ben didn’t think he was likely to find out. It wasn’t as if he had avoided marriage or children, but things had never seemed to work out. When he was younger, he concentrated on his career, telling himself there would be time later. But there never had been. Or never time for anything serious. Now that he was older, he was settled in his ways, and starting a family seemed inconceivable. John had been older than Ben was now when Betty was born, but he and Sarah had been married for more than fifteen years at the time and together since university. Kate Wilding was the only woman he could imagine spending the rest of his life with, but she was on sabbatical in the States, and she had made it clear she wasn’t interested in having children.
He regretted that he hadn’t given his gran more great-grandchildren to spoil, but she had loved and delighted in Betty as much as he did. “I’ll settle for being the fun uncle,” he said, digging into his own dinner. It would do until Betty became a teenager and ignored everybody over the age of twenty. In the meantime, at least she was eating her dinner. Results had to count for something.
After dinner, Sarah took care of bath time while Ben and John cleaned up, but Ben was put in charge of bedtime at Betty’s insistence.
Once Betty fell asleep – three books, two songs, and a long Peppa Pig roleplay – Ben joined John and Sarah in the living room. Sarah made room for him between them on the sofa and poured him a large glass of wine.
Ben flipped through some photos on his phone. “Is it okay if I get her the motorhome?” he asked, showing Sarah one of the images Betty made him save.
John frowned. “That’s a lot to spend on something she’ll lose interest in before the month’s out.”
Ben remembered what it was like being a child, passions changing with the tide. Tonka toys replaced by Playmobil replaced by LEGO, past favourites gathering dust in the closet. “I don’t mind, as long as it makes her happy for a few days.”
“You’re a brilliant godfather,” Sarah said, brushing her hand down Ben’s arm. “I love it when you prove how right I was to choose you.”
John huffed in exasperation. “You always make it sound like it was solely your decision,” he complained. “I was entirely in agreement, as you’ll recall.”
“Just not your first choice,” Ben teased. It had stung a bit, he had to admit, when he learned that it was Sarah who had wanted him, not John, until he remembered that it was always Sarah who made the important decisions.
But John was unexpectedly defensive, or maybe he was still coddling Ben. “It wasn’t that you weren’t the first choice,” he protested. “But I’m godfather to Terrance’s two children, so it seemed appropriate…”
“Stop!” Ben exclaimed, laughing. “I don’t care if I was first or tenth choice. I know Tom essentially foisted me on you. I’ve just always been grateful that you’ve included me in your lives.”
“Is that what you’ve thought, all these years? That you’re our friend by default?” Sarah asked. She smacked him hard on the shoulder.
Ben yelped and flinched back, bumping into John. But instead of pushing him away, John pulled him closer in something between a hug and a headlock.
“It’s true I inherited you from Tom,” he said slowly. “But an inheritance is a gift, something precious passed along. That’s what you’ve been to us.”
Ben sagged against John, exhausted and overwhelmed. Sarah leaned over and kissed him on the forehead, and Ben closed his eyes, fighting back fresh tears.
“You weren’t the first, or second, or tenth choice,” Sarah said. “You were the only one.” She tried to draw him into a hug, but John’s arms tightened around him, causing him to choke slightly. Sarah made an exasperated sound through her nose. “Stop strangling Ben,” she chided her husband.
“I’m protecting him in case you try to hit him again,” John retorted, but he let go, patting Ben on the head.
Ben would have been insulted, except he knew that being treated like a dog or a small child was deep affection from John. He sank back into the sofa, eyes still closed, and listened to them bicker. It should have been uncomfortable, but Ben knew there was no heat in their words. He didn’t have much experience with happy families, not from his childhood, nor through his professional life, but the Barnabys – both couples – had shown him how wonderful they could be.
The last thing he felt, before he dropped off to sleep, were two hands carding through his hair, one from either side.