Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

*

“That's why I've come to you. I want you, you see, to do something fantastic!”

*

Aziraphale Fell looked at the young woman sitting opposite him. Her note had arrived the same morning and had held no indication as to what her case might be – a mere request for a consultation.
And here she was now in person. A straight, slender creature with dark hair and intense eyes. There was intensity all about her – a vibrant, arresting vitality that had one look twice. Something that transcended mere beauty. She was someone who would catch attention, attractive in a slightly disconcerting but fascinating way.
Aziraphale thought that whatever her plea was, it would be something of interest. Something extraordinary.

She was watching him, studying him silently. There had been no words since the very proper and rather stilted greeting they had exchanged. He had offered her tea which she had graciously accepted. Newton had prepared it almost to perfection this time, he would have to laude him for it – even though there had been the slightest splutter when his secretary had served their guest. There would be no reprimand for that.
He looked at his potential client and smiled.

"Yes, it needs to be decided. One has to make sure."

She blinked, almost a bit unsure, as if she felt caught out.

"Pardon?"

"I do understand." His inviting smile did not waver. "The person has to be right. You are deciding if I am the right one for the task."

Anathema chuckled a bit at that. "Yes, one could say that. You see, I fear I come to you with something quite unusual."

"That sounds very promising." He looked expectantly at her, waiting for her to continue.

She took sip of her drink, then set her cup on the saucer with a decisive clank.

"My name is not actually Device. Not my original name. I grew up in America and took on the name of the relatives I've been living with. My original name – " she hesitated for a moment, then drew herself up straighter, "my original name was Anathema Crale. And my parents were Gabriel and Beelzebub Crale."

"Crale," he murmured. There was something to that name. A famous case, a long time ago. Back when he had still been part of the police force. He grasped for the vague memory.
"Gabriel Crale, he was a famous painter. And Beelzebub Crale…"

"Beelzebub Crale was convicted of murdering him." Anathema said, her voice clear and emotionless.

"Ah, yes." Aziraphale nodded.

They sat in silence for a moment, then Aziraphale cleared his throat.

"And what can I do for you?"

"What you are famous for." Anathema answered with a wry smile. "Investigating a murder."

Aziraphale blinked. "But my dear lady –"

"No, listen," Anathema interrupted, voice suddenly full of agitated urgency. "I know what you might think. But there's the letter."

"The letter?"

"The letter Beelzebub wrote before their death. They died in prison, you know, but before that they wrote to me – told me they didn't do it."

They Aziraphale noted with interest while he splayed his hands in an eloquent gesture. "All the same…"

"Oh, I know what it might sound like. A gentle gesture - a nice comfort for their daughter. Maybe that's really all there is to it, but I feel there must be more." Anathema's face took on a contemplative air. "I don't remember them. Was a mere infant when it happened, just about a year old, so I can't really say what sort of person they were. All I have is what people told me about them. And the official reports. And that letter."

"I do sympathise with your wish, but…" Aziraphale interjected.

"No." Anathema said firmly. "I might not have known them and have no reason to believe what they wrote to be true, but this isn't about belief. This is about the truth. I want to know. I want to know what really happened."

Aziraphale hummed. He could understand the sentiment, approved of it even. "How long ago was it exactly? I do remember the case vaguely, I wasn't involved in it myself."

"Almost twenty years. That is why I've come to you."

Aziraphale smiled at that. "Is it now," he said although being sure he knew what she meant by it.

"Yes. I need someone who won't need to look for clues. I don't care about the clues. I need someone who will understand, really understand, what happened. Who will talk to the people involved, they're all still alive. Who will find out how it all came to be."

"It has been a long time ago. They might not remember."

"Maybe not everything, but I want to know what there is to remember. The important things. And you will find them." A gleam flared up in Anathema's eyes. "I have heard of you – read about you, too. It's the psychology of the people involved that interests you. Their personalities and feelings. Discovering the threads that connect them. Those things are still there, even after twenty years."

"That might be true," Aziraphale concurred, "but it seems unlikely that there are facts to be found that you have not heard of yet."

"I want it all." Anathema's jaw was set tight now. "I've read all the articles and official documents. All the polished and nasty words that have been written - but I want to know what really happened. I want to know the things that haven't been written down. - Of course, I could talk to the people involved myself, but they wouldn't answer me openly. Not like they would to you. And if it is as I suspect, then there's still a murder to be investigated." She hesitated a moment, then bent to lift her purse up to her knees. "Maybe you should read the letter."

"You have it with you?" Aziraphale eyed her.

"Yes. Would you like to see it?"

"Very much," Aziraphale agreed eagerly. "Yes, that would be very interesting."

Anathema handed him an envelope, the hand holding the yellowed paper somewhat tense. Aziraphale took it with a small bow of acknowledgement and began to read.

My Dear Child

- although you should not be addressed as such, since if everything went as intended, you will be of full age when you receive this letter.
What a thing to imagine. The last I remember of you is holding you in my arms, soothing you as you cried… How I wonder what your life will be like by then time you are reading these lines.

I hope it was the right thing to do, you being handed this when coming of age. It is difficult to say – we must aim for the future but can only understand the past. Never will I get to know whether I did right by you. Would it have been easier had you gotten to know what I am about to write earlier?
You must have learnt of what has happened. Must have heard people talk, may have read of it. I do hope it did not brand you deeply. People talk, they always will.
I wish you strength, my child, and determination, so you shall walk through the world as you choose. Do not allow the talk and belief of others to hamper you in your progress, go out and make your life your own.

We named you in duality, something that is cut loose and therefore free. I wonder if you will keep it, your name. Maybe by now you have chosen one to fit you better. How can one know what person a child will be growing into. I wish I were there to see your progress. To learn what life you will make for yourself.
May you be brave, my child, and daring. We need it in this world.

Perhaps, if my own convictions are not proving true, there will be something after death. If that is the case, be sure that both me and your father are watching over you.

This might be cause of surprise to you, since it will not be in accordance with what you have learnt, but let me offer you these words of truth: I did not kill Gabriel.
I lay this in your hands, for your consideration, for I cannot prove it to you. Things happened as they were meant to. Still, in case you find it in yourself to believe me, you might find solace in the knowledge that I did not commit this crime.

May you reach all your goals, fulfil all your desires. Grasp life at its fullest and never surrender.

Your Parent,
Beelzebub Crale

Aziraphale sighed and folded the sheet of paper neatly, brushing over the sharp edges before placing it in its envelope. When he looked up to hand it back to Anathema, the young woman was watching him, her lips a firm line and shoulders straight.

"I see…" He tilted his head to one side. "I can't deny that your request might be interesting. But – " He raised a finger and looked into her earnest eyes. " – I approach all of my cases the same way. I will only trust in facts that I have confirmed myself. And once started, I will not stop until I've found the truth."

Anathema nodded gravely. "I can accept that."

"So, if it turns out that Beelzebub Crale was indeed guilty…"

She met his eyes, expression firm and hard. "I'm their daughter. I want the truth."

"Good. Then I accept your case, your journey into the past - and I will find out what happened all those years ago."

Mr Ericson was young for an established solicitor but he had an air of competence about him that Aziraphale appreciated.

"So, the Crale case," he said and eyed the private detective. "It was a long time ago. Quite a while before I've started with Hastur & Ligur. I've never handled the affairs of the Crale family myself."

Aziraphale nodded. "I am aware of that but do hope that you can give me all the information available to you."

"Of course," the solicitor agreed. "I did receive the letter from Ms Device and as the direct descendant of the parties involved, she's more than eligible to arrange for you to receive the documents in question." He handed over a heavy folder. "This is all we have on file. You might want to talk to Mr Hastur. He's retired now, of course, but still alive. And he knew the people involved personally."

"That would be advisable." He had already intended to do just that, had found out that one of the two older solicitors was living nearby Alderbury, the estate where the tragedy had taken place. Since he planned on going there anyway, he had Anathema prepare a letter of recommendation.

"I thank you for the documents, they will be very helpful." he smiled at the young man. "Do you know about the people that were involved in the case? Where they are now?"

"I've made some inquiries after you contacted me." Ericson took up a sheet of paper and glanced at it. "There were mainly five people involved. Uriel and Sandalphon Blake were friends with the Crale family. Ms Uriel Blake is living on the adjacent estate to Alderbury, her younger brother Sandalphon Blake has an address here in London as well as in the country. Currently he is residing out there – although I'm not sure for how much longer, golf season is coming to a close," the solicitor added in what seemed like an afterthought. "Then there was the cause of all the trouble, as you know by no doubt: Ms Michael Greer."

"Michael Greer, yes…" He had started on his research before meeting with Ericson. Michael Greer, the supposed motive for the murder. Young and wilful and very much in love with Gabriel Crale. They had an affair and by far not a secretive one. Affairs appeared to be rather common with the painter but they usually did not lead to much. This one was different. It had been established that Gabriel intended to leave his spouse for the young Michael who was sitting model for a picture at the time.
He would look into that particularly. There was something in that constellation that interested him… Not the sordidness of an affair and a jilted spouse, that was common enough, but something more. Something that had led Beelzebub Crale to go as far as poisoning their husband.

He brushed a finger over the files stacked in front of him. "Who else was there? You spoke of five people?"

"Yes. There was also Dagon Williams, who was nurse and governess to both the child and Beelzebub's half-brother, Anthony J. Crowley, when he was younger. And Dr Crowley himself, who was not involved in the investigation. Anathema Crale had been sent away to a great-aunt immediately and Crowley followed after he had given his statement. - And then there was the staff of the house, of course, but they were not considered to have been involved. Most of them had been in a long-standing employment with the family and were fiercely loyal. No motive could be found there and only basic statements had been taken from them."

Aziraphale sighed. Not for the first time he regretted the indulgent ignorance of valuable sources. Nobody better to read the atmosphere of a household than the people working there, living along the official inhabitants unseen and unheeded.

"Is anyone of the staff still alive?"

"Only an old housekeeper. She is taking care of the estate."

"Very good." That sounded promising. "Who does the estate belong to?"

"That would be Anthony Crowley."

Aziraphale frowned. "Not Anathema Device?"

"No. Beelzebub Crale became the legal guardian of their half-brother after their parents had died and it had been put into writing that Crowley was to inherit Alderbury. I assume that the Crales intended to change the will after the birth of their daughter but did not get around to do so."

This was interesting! Aziraphale wondered if Crowley had known of that prior to coming into his inheritance.

"Very well, in that case I know who to contact about visiting the estate. Would you know where those aside from the Blakes can be found at present?"

"Michael Greer is living in London. She is, in fact, Lady Dittisham."

"So I have heard," Aziraphale confirmed.

"Something of a social climber, I gather." The young solicitor added.

Aziraphale wondered about that. He would have to see for himself.

"How about Dagon Williams and Anthony Crowley?"

"Ms Williams has lodgings nearby Alderbury, as far as I could find out. And Dr Crowley… Well, if he's staying anywhere it's here in London, I presume."

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow at that.

"He's a rather… alarming character, or so they say. An archaeologist, travels all over the world."

"That is an uncommon profession maybe but not really that much out of the ordinary," Aziraphale replied. He had met his fair share of archaeologists and while they could be a peculiar sort, he would not exactly call them alarming.

"Yes, perhaps," Ericson conceded. "But his views are considered radical. He got almost kicked out of the RGS a few years back. He is, however, currently in London - so you're in luck there."

"Indeed. It would do well to meet him soon."
The very least to gain access to Alderbury. He wished to visit the location of the tragedy, to experience for his own the place where it had happened. Where these people had lived - and loved - and must have hated. Where one of them had died.

"There is also the sergeant who was working alongside the local inspector at the time. He still lives out there, his name is Shadwell."

"Sergeant Shadwell," Aziraphale said with surprise. "Would you look at that."

"You know him?" Ericson chuckled. "Quite the original, it seems."

"One could say that. And yes, I do know him." This might come in handy, Aziraphale thought.

"Well – " The solicitor put down the note. "That is all I have for now. Is there anything else I can do for you?"

"No, I think that would be it." Aziraphale said and stood up. "I thank you ever so much for your help, it was most obliging."

Ericson took his offered hand and shook it. "My pleasure. Although, may I ask one thing?"

"But of course."

The young solicitor cleared his throat. For the first time during the interview he appeared a bit uncertain of himself. "It's just - the general opinion seems to be that this was an open and shut case. I don't mean any disrespect, far from it - but what are you hoping to achieve with your investigation?"

"Finding out the truth." Aziraphale smiled and put on his hat.

Chapter Text

*

"Funny thing, romance."

*

Beelzebub Crale had been fascinating.

Aziraphale brushed over the yellowed picture in front of him. It showed the accused at their trial, head held high as they faced the judge.
There was something in the line of the shoulders, the straight back, that spoke of a fierce will. They were small, the counsels for defence and prosecution towering over them, but the whole attention was focused on them. He did not think it was only because they were accused of murder and very likely to be proclaimed guilty.

It had been relatively easy to gain access to the archived police files of this old, closed case. His long-standing relationship with Scotland Yard had certainly helped him more than once and this had been no exception. He shuffled through the papers in front of him and picked up another photograph.

Lady Dittisham, Michael Greer at the time. She and Beelzebub Crale seemed like day and night. Where Beelzebub was small and strong, Michael was tall and slender. Beelzebub's strangely burning spirit that seemed to linger just beneath the surface was contrasted with a cold, detached aloofness.
Two people so very different and both had captured Gabriel Crale.
Although it seemed that Michael had won. General conclusion was that Gabriel had intended not only to leave but to actually divorce his spouse and marry Michael. Beelzebub, while apparently somewhat accepting of his regular affairs, would not stand for that. They would not let him free for someone else.

He considered the two faces and wondered, in a battle of will – not emotions - which one would have won. He was not sure. In the end, both of them had lost.
He would have to speak with Lady Dittisham. He wished he could speak with Beelzebub Crale.

Sifting through the plethora of information contained in the files spread across his desk, he took notes. Wrote down what he wanted to know more about and which questions to ask.
The case seemed so clear and judging from all the documents he had been reading, there had never been any doubt at all that Beelzebub Crale had been guilty.

Aziraphale looked up from the stacks of paper when Newton carefully placed a cup of hot cocoa by his elbow.

"Thank you, my dear."

The young man tilted his head in a nod. He had long since gotten used to his employer's phraseology.

"You wished for me to arrange appointments with Lady Dittisham and Dr Anthony Crowley – "

"Ah, yes." He confirmed and took a sip of cocoa.

Newton cleared his throat. "Lady Dittisham is currently abroad. She is expected to be back in London in about a fortnight. I have arranged for an interview with her and shall receive a conformation in due course."

"And Dr Crowley?"

"Dr Anthony Crowley is currently in London. He will be holding a lecture at the Royal Geographical Society tomorrow at noon."

That sounded promising. "One with open attendance or a private one?" Aziraphale asked.

"It is for the public. He will comment on rare finds of the Fayum, if I understood it right."

Aziraphale nodded and set his cup down. "I would like for an appointment after his presentation, if he is free. And for a car to take me to the RGS at the appropriate time. If there is a limit on attendees, please make sure to secure me a seat."

"Very well, Mr Fell. Will that be all for now?"

"Yes, thank you."

He watched as the secretary left the room, then sank back into his comfortable reading chair, fingers steepled against his lips. It would have been advisable to speak with Michael Greer as soon as possible but nothing could be done about that, not until she was back in the country. At least he might be able to meet the proprietor of Alderbury the coming day and could get ahead on that line of inquiry. He did hope to visit the estate soon and talk to those that were residing in its vicinity.

His hand fell on a folder beside his cup and he took out a sheet of paper.
Anthony J. Crowley. Not present at the trial but most definitely mentioned. Several times. It had been the general consensus that Beelzebub Crale had had a fiery temper, liable to outbursts of rage, and one of the most poignant examples of this had been what had happened to Anthony Crowley.

He skimmed the paper containing the meagre amount of information that had been collected on the accused’s half-brother. Eighteen years of age at the time of the tragedy, he was about Aziraphale’s own age now. An archaeologist, and a famous one at that - although what his fame was based on, Aziraphale was not sure. There seemed to be an air of controversy surrounding his research topics and scientific approach, some lauding him as ahead of their time while others were accusing him of being extravagantly provocative. Still, all of them seemed to agree that he was well-versed in his field.

The archaeologist seemed to have rallied from the tragedy that had struck early in his life rather well. Of two tragedies, as it were. Anthony Crowley had been cited as the very first victim of Beelzebub's ungovernable temper. The accused's mother had married again a few years after the death of her first husband and young Beelzebub had been viciously jealous of their newborn brother. So jealous in fact that, in a fit of rage, they had thrown a paperweight at the baby, disfiguring their half-sibling for the rest of his life.

He wondered how Anthony Crowley felt about the incident. There was no record of later discord between him and the accused. On the contrary, after the death of their parents, Beelzebub had taken in their half-brother and given him a home. It was certainly most interesting,

Well, he would get to see for himself soon.

The lecture had been a good one, Aziraphale found.

The archaeologist had spoken clearly and with a pleasant voice, his explanations easy to follow for a public made of laypersons. But there had been more than that. Anthony Crowley possessed that strange gift of being able to conjure up images and taking his audience on a journey. His elaborations had been colourful and engaging, inviting his listeners to sink into the past and try to imagine how those people long gone may have lived.
Aziraphale himself had done his best to concentrate on the bare facts of the talk, curious as to whether he would be able to catch a glimpse of the controversy he had been hearing about. There had been nothing. No hint at all as far as he could tell, maybe one had to be part of the scientific community to spot it.

However, whatever controversy might have been lacking in the content of the lecture, it had definitely been made up for by the man himself.
One glance at the archaeologist and Aziraphale had understood why he might be called an alarming character, no matter his research topics. People looking like that were seen about more and more of late, that was true, but they were usually moving among artists, the young bohemians. He had never met a man of advanced age who dressed in such a way – completely in black with a velvet waistcoat over a light, billowing shirt and no tie. Dark glasses and hair long enough to fall freely to his shoulders. There seemed an incongruously sharp lavishness to the archaeologist.

It was not a bad look, Aziraphale had to admit. He approved of someone who made specific stylistic choices, who followed a certain aesthetical decorum, he himself having been called a dandy more often than he bothered to remember. But he could see how some people would scoff at the way Crowley, in his position and age, presented himself. It made him wonder where the image of his avantgarde ideas really came from, the content of his work or people's perception of his character.

Once the presentation had come to a close, Aziraphale took to strolling along the display cases which lined the lecture hall. His request for an interview had been accepted and he had been informed that he would be collected here.

"Splendid examples, aren't they?"

The voice sounded closer than he had expected and he turned his head to find Anthony Crowley standing next to him, staring down at the delicate pottery arranged on silk drapery.

"Just don't believe the dating of these. All bollocks."

"Is that so?" Aziraphale studied the face of the man beside him.

"Yes. Hell forbid that a local tribe could come up with something of this quality before the great empire inspired them to do so. Can't have that." The archaeologist's mouth quirked, one corner curling into a condescending sneer.

Aziraphale merely hummed. The man was definitely not shying away from sharing his opinions. Nor from trying to push buttons.

"Anyway," Crowley said and turned towards him. It was impossible to see what exactly he was looking at with the dark glasses hiding his eyes. "Mr A. Z. Fell. Interested in archaeology? Looking for a little keepsake? Something nice and golden? You will have to support our next expedition quite heavily for that."

Aziraphale blinked. True, he had not said what the interview was about…

"Well, what I want to discuss is of a private nature, I am afraid. Would there be a room where we were undisturbed?"

Crowley studied him for a moment then smirked. "Office. Still got one. They haven't tossed me out just yet."

He followed him up a flight of stairs and down a narrow hallway before being invited into a room at the end of it. It was small and cramped but the limited amount of space had been made full use of. The walls were lined with bookcases, filled to the brim. Warm autumn light fell through the window opposite the door and onto a heavy desk which was crafted out of a dark, burnished wood. It was completely bare except for an exquisite set of stationary. To the right of the door a low table was placed, flanked by two modern looking armchairs.

"Drink?" Crowley asked and strolled towards a small cabinet nestled into the corner behind the table.

"Wouldn't mind if I do."

"Can’t offer you any fancy tea. Whiskey or sherry?"

"Sherry will be just fine, thank you." Aziraphale confirmed and allowed his gaze to wander through the room while his host prepared the drinks. It was stylish in a dark, severe way. The only specks of life were the books. Rows and rows of them. He itched to take a look at them. One could find out a lot about a person by looking at what books they preferred – and which of them they put on display.
Although, this being Crowley's office, they most likely were scientific texts predominantly. He wondered if the archaeologist's own publications were among them for visitors to see and for him to cross-reference. He had to admit that he was not sure.
Going by first impressions, one would assume so. Crowley was flash and almost distastefully forward but he knew better than to be swayed by first impressions. There was something in the archaeologist he could not read, not yet. He was sure there was more to him than the bold choices in words and appearance.

"Here you go."

A glass was held under his nose and he frowned. He usually prided himself of a very exact awareness concerning the people surrounding him but Anthony Crowley had managed twice to surprise him with his presence. The man moved as silently as a snake.

There was a slight smirk on the archaeologist's lips and Aziraphale's frown deepened. It was as if he had read his mind…

"Thank you, Dr Crowley."

"Just Crowley. No Dr, no Mr." Crowley tossed himself into one of the settees, limbs arranged in an indecent sprawl. "The famous Mr Fell - to what do I owe the pleasure?"

Aziraphale seated himself primly, drawing his knees together and sitting straighter than usual. He took a sip of his drink which was, he had to admit, of excellent quality. It displeased him not to be addressing the man with his proper title but he decided to go along with it for now. He really did want to visit Alderbury.
"So you know who I am."

"Who doesn't?" Crowley replied. "And even if not, I'm in the habit of making inquiries about people who are asking for an interview." He gave his drink a little swirl. "And I've worked with both Leidner and Carey." *

"Have you now…" Aziraphale took another sip. He thought of it sometimes, what it meant to friends and acquaintances of the people he met during his professional endeavours. The consequences of his investigations.

"I have. It was a bloody waste."

Aziraphale nodded. "I assume you knew her, too?"

"Lovely Louise?" There was a leer. Wry and beyond suggestive. "Oh, I knew her, alright."

He refused to raise to the bait, merely nodded. "In that case you are aware of my profession."

"Of course. Mr A. Z. Fell - your fame precedes you. Not many people that haven't heard of you. You're supposed to be the best."

"So it is said," Aziraphale agreed demurely. "Which is why Anathema Device has hired me."

"Anathema?" Crowley's eyebrows rose above the edges of the dark lenses. "She's alright, I hope?"

He considered the question for a moment. "I would say so. But she is set out on a mission. Or rather, she has set me onto one.

"Intriguing," Crowley murmured, raising the glass in his hand to his lips. The dark liquid gleamed in the golden sunlight.

Aziraphale tilted his head to study the other man, curious as to how he would react. "She wants me to find out who killed Gabriel Crale."

Crowley's eyebrows rose even higher. "Does she now? Good on her."

"Is that what you think?"

"Of course it is. I’ve always known that Beelzebub didn't do it."

Aziraphale leaned a bit closer. "You surprise me. From all the evidence and statements I have seen up to date, everybody seemed completely convinced they convicted the right person."

"So they were. Still are, I guess." Crowley sneered. "It's a shame they didn't allow me into court, I could have told them that Beelzebub didn't do it. Although –" He shrugged. "- they probably wouldn't have listened to me. Too young. No criminal experience. Personally involved."

"But you are quite sure that they were innocent? How do you know?"

Crowley sighed and put his drink on the table between them. Something seemed to unwind from his posture. How that was possible, Aziraphale was not sure. The man could hardly be sitting any looser than he had been before.

"For one thing, they wrote me a letter from prison. Just a few days after they were convicted."

"Did they?" Aziraphale had not heard of that before. "What does it say?"

"It convinced me that they didn't do it, among other things."

"Do you still have it?"

"Of course I do," Crowley snorted.

"May I read it?" It would be immensely valuable to see, to hold that document, read what had possibly been the first words Beelzebub Crale had written after being found guilty of murder. Words that had been sent not to their daughter but their half-brother. It was their sibling that Beelzebub had thought of, not their child. It was not until later, shortly before their death, that they would write to Anathema. Oh yes, he was sure that letter would be very illuminating.

Crowley was studying him, face calm and even, a finger tapping against his glass. "Maybe I will. At some point. Is it of importance?"

"You tell me," Aziraphale retorted with a small smile. The archaeologist drew his head back as if to appraise him.

"In any case, I’d be sure that Beelzebub didn't do it even without their letter."

"How so?" Aziraphale looked at him expectantly. He found it fascinating, this ostensibly absolute belief in Beelzebub Crale’s innocence. He wondered what that certainty was based on, could not believe it being only because of their familial bond.

Once again Crowley observed him silently for a moment, then raised his hands to the dark glasses. He took them off, folded them neatly before lifting his head to look Aziraphale right into the eyes.

Aziraphale did his best to match the calm on the other man's face. The sight was… startling.
Fine but very prominent lines were surrounding his right eye - the angry, puckered skin of old scars. They certainly caught one's attention but Aziraphale found that the truly disconcerting thing was not Crowley's false eye, it was his healthy one.
They had done their job very well, whoever’s task it had been to manufacture the artificial iris. They had gotten the colour almost right, but only almost. A light brown, warm and intense - it was nothing compared to the real one. It was not only the unusual colour itself, a shade of amber he had never seen in eyes before, it was the intensity with which it burned. As if a fire was captured in it, straining to break free.

He blinked and, almost in a daze, noticed that Crowley was putting his dark glasses back on. The inexplicable craving to stop him from doing so took hold of Aziraphale and he stared at his drink. It was most unlike him to lose his composure like this.

"Yeah, quite the… eye-catcher, isn't it?"

There was something challenging in Crowley's tone and he looked back at the archaeologist.

"Pardon?"

"The scars. 'Disfigured for life', as they put it at the trial."

Aziraphale frowned, not sure where the other man was heading with this.

"It is however the reason why I'm sure that Beelzebub didn’t murder their husband."

Now, that was interesting. "I believe the opposite was stated."

"Yes," Crowley scoffed. "Quiet. They said it was proof of Beelzebub's unrestrained temper – and in that they were right enough. Where they went wrong was in assuming that only because Beelzebub had injured me in a fit of jealousy as a child, they would also poison their unfaithful husband."

Aziraphale nodded. "I see what you mean. One implies an action in the spur of the moment. A sudden surge of rage that needed an outlet – the other is the careful and deliberate planning of a murder. Yes, I do appreciate the difference."

"That, too. Anyone with some basic perception should have seen that." Crowley waved dismissively. The elaborate, elegant gesture almost distracted Aziraphale from the callous arrogance of the statement. Still, he could not help but agree with the man. The parallels between the two incidents were rather forced and anyone with a mediocre knowledge of psychology would agree on that. But the trial had been twenty years previous. And there had been no lack of both motive and opportunity for Beelzebub to commit the crime. It had been but one insignificant point in a chain of evidence.

"What I actually meant," Crowley continued, "was something a bit different. Beelzebub was not a nice person, I’m the first to admit it. They were fierce and proud and had a tendency towards violence, but they were loyal - once their regard had been truly gained."

A smile flitted over the archaeologist's face, softening it a little, and Aziraphale was struck by the unusual beauty of it. He had realized that Crowley was handsome, of course he had, had tried not to pay it any mind during the lecture but it was hardly possible to miss. It was a strange sort of attractiveness. There was something in that angular face and the way he moved which transcended mere good looks…

Aziraphale cleared his throat. "And if one was favoured by Beelzebub?"

"Then they would've gone through hell for you." Crowley said firmly, all softness vanishing from his features in an instant. "I was one of the lucky few, so was Gabriel. But they were as they were and perceptive enough to know themselves. To know what they were capable of. And this," he gestured nonchalantly at his hidden eye, "was a constant reminder. They've never forgiven themselves for what they did to me. And as a result were looking for other outlets for their temper - so they’d never hurt anyone they cared for again."

"This is very interesting." Aziraphale leaned forward. "So you are saying that despite Gabriel's constant betrayal of their relationship, they would never have harmed him?"

"Betrayal of their relationship…" Crowley's mouth twisted into another sardonic grin. "That's what they called it in court, isn’t it?"

Aziraphale did not answer, just looked challengingly at the other man.

Crowley huffed a laugh. "You don't have to goad me. I'm more than willing to talk about how I remember Beelzebub, as you must have realized by now."

"You are very perceptive." Aziraphale answered, softening his own expression a little.

"You aren't very subtle," Crowley shot back immediately.

Oh, that rankled. Aziraphale was known to be subtle. He could be incredibly subtle. Subtlety was one of his trademarks! He scowled at the man opposite him and was met with a small smile. He was not entirely sure what to make of it.
"In any case – you were saying?" He prompted and did not sniff.

Still smiling, Crowley picked up his drink again and took the smallest sip, just a wetting of his lips.
"I was saying that, yes, Gabriel had Beelzebub’s loyalty. And the relationship between those two has been completely misinterpreted. Of course, you only have my word for it and can take it or leave it." He shrugged.

"And if I ask you to elaborate?"

Crowley tilted his head slightly and seemed to contemplate him. "Then I'd tell you that you better talk with the other people involved in the whole mess first. Wouldn't want to influence your investigation."

"Wouldn't you?" Aziraphale threw back at him and noticed the challenge in his own voice with surprise. It did gain him another huffed laugh however.

"No I wouldn't actually. I don't. I'm quite curious about what your own conclusions will be – and I'm more than happy to confirm or correct them afterwards."

"Ah, the scientist's mind." Aziraphale felt his mouth curl into a smile, allowed it to happen. Crowley would soon learn that he could not get to him with his brash display of arrogance.

"That's a charitable way to call it." The archaeologist retorted good-humouredly and drained the rest of his drink. He placed his glass firmly on the table and looked up at him.

"Most people that were involved live close by Alderbury - and I expect you'd like to see the estate?"

"Yes, I would like that very much. If it you are amenable?"

"Of course," Crowley answered, almost absentmindedly. He was staring at the table, drumming his fingertips against the polished surface. Apparently having come to some sort of decision, he looked up again. "How long are you planning to stay there?"

Aziraphale shrugged. "A few days the very least, maybe a week. From what I have learnt there are six people I would like to talk to the very least. Would you have any recommendations for a suitable accommodation? Maybe a reasonable guesthouse?"

Crowley studied him for another short moment.

"You could stay at Alderbury, if you like."

Aziraphale raised his eyebrows in surprise. "Well, that is rather obliging of you. I am sure I would not want to inconvenience your housekeeper too much."

"Don't worry about her." Crowley waved carelessly. "She'd be ecstatic to have guests. Constantly on me about a house like that needing life in it." A small grin flitted across the expressive mouth. "In any case, the offer stands. If you don't mind me being there as well. I do promise not to try and influence your investigations."

Aziraphale felt his own lips quirk into an answering smile once again. The archaeologist's mirth was oddly infectious. "Oh, do not worry about that, my dear boy. I never permit anyone to influence my investigations."

He noticed with slight satisfaction that it was Crowley who was raising an eyebrow now, whether at the form of address or his display of self-confidence was left to be seen. It was certainly exciting, the prospect of staying on the estate for a few days. Living there, taking in the atmosphere even though it must have changed in the last two decades. Still, some things lingered.
He glanced at the man opposite him and thought, yes, it would be very interesting indeed…

"I am more than happy to accept your kind offer," Aziraphale said at last, before taking another sip of sherry and graciously ignoring the way Crowley's face twisted into an expression of distaste at the word kind.

The archaeologist tilted his head. "So, how are you getting to Alderbury?"

"The train, I supposed." Aziraphale shrugged. "There must be a station nearby?"

"There is one not all too far from it." Crowley confirmed. "And I certainly could arrange for someone to pick you up. However…"

Aziraphale looked at him in silent question.

"Since I'm driving there anyway, you could join me. Less bothersome."

He considered the proposal for a moment. He did not like automobiles, preferred the comfort of trains by far. But it would probably be easier to get there that way and something about the idea was strangely appealing. Nothing like travelling together to be getting to know people. He suspected that there was a lot Crowley had not told him yet – and there was that letter. The faster he could get the other man to trust him, the more likely it would be for him to get to read that letter.

He smiled at the archaeologist and reached out his hand. "Again, I thank you for your offer. I would be delighted."

Chapter Text

*

"It is the things that are left out that are the things that matter."

*

The drive to Alderbury was not pleasant.
Crowley while evidently a skilful driver – they were both still alive, so he must be – seemed completely ignorant of what would be considered adequate speed.

Aziraphale ground his teeth and clutched at the handle and tried not to look out of the window where the idyllic scenery was flying by in a blur. Crowley navigated the winding country roads as if they were racetracks and was only beginning to slow down once they had been out of London for a bit over two hours. Aziraphale sent a silent prayer to the Heavens above. He had never understood the appeal of autocar racing and was definitely less than enthused about playing at being participant in one.
They were following a road along the seashore and Aziraphale dared to glance out of the window, catching a glimpse of steep cliffs and the deep blue ocean. The air was fresh and heavy with salt and something else. He wrapped his coat around himself and was grateful to have packed for the occasion. Autumn days by the coast could get cold rather fast.

"There might be a storm coming," Crowley said. He had been quiet for most of the drive, Aziraphale hoped due to concentration on the road. "Smell that whiff of seaweed?" The archaeologist raised his chin a bit as if to sniff the air. "Means the wind's coming from the sea. Often brings storms along at this time of the year."

He looked outside the window again, taking in the brilliant blue sky and soft sunlight that cast a golden glow over the smooth hills. Even for England it was hard to imagine grey clouds and rain pouring down, but he knew how fast the weather could change.
It was magnificent, he thought. Green hills clashing with harsh outcrops of rock which gave way to deserted beaches. A wild sort of landscape. The weird, stray thought crossed his mind that Crowley fit here. That this was a scenery just right for him.
He frowned and shook his head slightly.

"So, you aren't usually staying at Alderbury when in the country?" Might as well collect some information now that the drive had approached an acceptable speed.

"Not really," the archaeologist confirmed. "Have been mostly abroad lately and London's more my scene."

Aziraphale glanced at him. There had been a cadence to his voice Aziraphale had not heard before and he wondered if he had said the whole truth. It would not be surprising if Crowley was not keen on staying in a house that had witnessed the ruin of his family.

"The place should be Anathema's anyway."

"Is that so?" Aziraphale asked with interest.

"Yes," Crowley confirmed while swerving along a bend, causing Aziraphale to catch his breath and grasp for the handle once more. He decided to ignore the smirk his reaction brought onto the other man's lips.

"Anathema should be the heir and I'm fully intending on settling things with her now that she's of age."

"That is very considerate of you."

Crowley snorted. "I don't have any use of the house. And the only reason it's mine is because Beelzebub and Gabriel didn't get around to adjust the will. "

Aziraphale directed his gaze back towards the sea stretching alongside the road. That was certainly true and it was not as if Crowley needed the property. Aziraphale had done his check-up and as far as he had learned, the archaeologist was not exactly low on money. His father had left him his whole fortune and the share he had inherited from his and Beelzebub's mother had not been meagre either.

"We're getting closer." His companion said, dragging him out of his thoughts. He looked ahead and saw that the road was leading up towards a creek which was dissecting the shoreline and running far up inland. There was a junction just ahead of them.

"Alderbury is on the other side of this. We'll have to drive around it. If we turned left here, we'd get to Handcross Manor."

"The Blake estate?"

"Yes." Crowley nodded. "You'll be going there soon, I guess?"

"The day after tomorrow. They are not both staying at the manor, if I understood correctly?"

"Just Uriel, she barely leaves the estate. Sandalphon's staying at his place in Lymington. Probably more on the links or his yacht than anywhere else." There was a certain tilt to Crowley's lips that Aziraphale could not decipher.

"You do not like him very much?"

The archaeologist gave a half-hearted shrug. "Never had much to do with him."

Aziraphale kept his eyes on him, waiting for the statement to be expanded on. From how he had been experiencing Crowley, he did not precisely hold back.

"Look," he huffed and pulled the steering wheel to the right. "I told you, I'm not going to give you ideas. Go, talk to them, make up your own mind."

Aziraphale gave him a pointed look. "And I told you that I'm not one to be influenced. Plus, you are one of them. Of the people present at the time. Your impressions are valuable."

"And if I'm lying?" Crowley said, something teasing in his voice.

"Even so. As long as people talk, they always give themselves away."

"Is that so?" Crowley glanced away from the road and at him, an expression on his face Aziraphale had not seen before, as if he was regarding him in a completely new light. Then a corner of his mouth curved up. "Maybe I better don't talk to you at all?"

"If you have something to hide, you would do well not to." Aziraphale replied and could not keep himself from returning the smile. "Although I would get suspicious, of course, were you to refuse any further information."

Crowley's grin only grew at that. "Definitely something to keep in mind. But to get back to Sandalphon Blake, I'm rather curious about what you'll make of him."

As they drove up to Alderbury, Aziraphale took in the beauty of the place. Despite the gardens not being taken care of as well as they once must have been, the setting of the old house was truly picturesque. Tall trees were running along the driveway leading up towards the Georgian building, which was surrounded by lush greenery, their unkempt wildness softened by the kind autumn light.

Crowley parked the car on a round patch of gravel beside a flight of wide stone stairs that led up to the main entrance. As they got out of the car, the big doors opened and a woman wearing a flowing dress stepped out, approaching them with a beaming smile.

"Anthony, how nice of you to drop by." She marched right up to him and grasped his hands, then looked over at Aziraphale. "And you brought a guest. How delightful!"

"Mr A. Z. Fell, this is Madame Tracy, the good soul of the house."

"Oh, shush you." She tittered and playfully smacked his arm. "Pardon my lack of decorum, Mr Fell, but I have known this rascal ever since he was an unruly youth."

"That is quite well." Aziraphale could not help but smile at her. The housekeeper then, although she seemed much more than that. It would be very interesting to be talking to her. With a glance at Crowley he noticed something that looked a lot like fondness softening the lines around his mouth.

"You must be tired from the drive. I've prepared some tea. Leave the luggage, Adam will bring it to your rooms."

"Adam?" Crowley asked, obviously surprised.

"A boy from the village. I know his mother fairly well. He likes the gardens and is helping out with odd jobs here and there."

"I do hope you're not exploiting the local youth?" One of Crowley's eyebrows raised above his glasses.

"Quiet you. I pay him the usual fee plus extra. It's all in the accounts – which you would know if you ever bothered looking at them."

Crowley snorted good humouredly and allowed to be led up the stairs, Madame Tracy holding on tightly to his arm. Aziraphale followed them, a small smile lingering on his lips as he entered the building. He handed Madame Tracy his coat and turned to take in the simple entry hall, discreetly brushing his fingertips along the wall as he stepped further into the house. He knew how to sense places just as well as people and yet it was not often that he got such an intense impression instantaneously. The moment he had crossed the threshold, he had started to see it, feel it – the people who had lived here, leaving their imprints in warm sandstone and worn wood.

This house had been a home, not just some cold, stately manor. It had been filled with life and laughter and – yes – love. How very different from the implications of the dispassionate police reports. There had been talk about endless quarrels between the Crales. Gabriel's constant infidelity and Beelzebub's vicious jealousy. There had been mentioning of cruel injuries inflicted on a younger brother and a callous disregard for their own child.
But standing in the inviting entry hall, he felt nothing but warmth. His smile withered. What had happened here, twenty years ago, that had led to murder?

"Mr Fell?"

He blinked and turned around. Madame Tracy stood in a doorway to the left of him, Crowley must have already gone ahead.

"I have prepared some refreshments in the drawing room, if you would like to join Anthony?"

"Yes, thank you, that would be splendid." He followed her into the room. On a round table in front of a big window platters of sandwiches and tiny cakes were arranged in a colourful display. It looked delightful! Just the thing after that atrocious journey.

"Tea? Or would you prefer coffee?"

"Tea would be lovely."

"How nice to have someone who knows how do things properly." She winked at Crowley before bustling off.

Aziraphale sat down opposite his host and let his gaze wander through the room. It was set with rich and heavy furniture that spoke of wealth. Wealth and taste, taking form in a curious mixture of what must have been rather modern when the Crales had lived here and antiques, possibly family heirlooms. And yet, they all fitted the room. A clever hand had positioned them to create a welcoming atmosphere, highlighting the more opulent pieces in an unobtrusive manner. It was a lovely room, Aziraphale approved of it. The window beside their table gave view to a part of the gardens and a path which must lead towards the cliff.

Tracy appeared beside him, pouring him tea and then filled Crowley's cup from another pot. The strong smell of coffee wafted through the room. She smiled at them and placed the two pots on warming plates before leaving the room.

"Please, help yourself." Crowley nodded at the food between them and Aziraphale hesitated for a moment, wondering if he would offer him the platter. Crowley just raised his cup to his lips, looking out of the window. He reached for the food himself, choosing a nice selection of sandwiches and cakes, then glanced back at the other man.

"Are you not joining me?"

Crowley seemed to start, as if roused from deep thought. He turned back towards the table, frowned a bit, then picked two sandwiches.

Aziraphale tilted his head and studied the man opposite him. It had struck him when seeing the archaeologist sitting in this room, looking so much like he belonged here, that the glasses seemed weirdly out of place. They never had up until now, not even when he had given the lecture, and Aziraphale wondered why Crowley kept them on. He did not think it was from uneasiness or shame. When he had taken them off back in London, he had done so without hesitation.
He remembered the pictures in his files. There had not been many depicting the younger brother of the accused but the few he had seen had shown him gazing straight into the camera, barefaced and challenging. He wondered whether his host would greet him with his eyes shaded the coming morning.

Realising that he had been staring, he cleared his throat and cut off a dainty piece from one of the sandwiches. He closed his eyes and suppressed a sigh of relish that threatened to escape his throat at the taste of it.

"Good, aren't they?" Crowley was grinning. "Madame Tracy is a true treasure."

"I do not doubt it." He admitted and took another bite. "These are her masterpieces then?"

Crowley nodded. "She's never been trained as a cook but enjoys preparing food, or so she says. And she's a marvel at baking, you should try one of the cakes."

Eager to follow the recommendation, Aziraphale cut one of the tiny cakes in half.

"Oh, this is scrumptious!"
He pierced the other half and savoured the rich, buttery taste, closing his eyes once again and allowing himself a low, pleased hum. When he looked back at the other man, Crowley seemed to be staring at him.

"I will have to ask Madame Tracy to join us next time. She'll love seeing someone enjoying her creations that much."

"They are delicious!" Aziraphale said with enthusiasm. His gaze fell on Crowley's plate and he noticed that he had finished the sandwiches but had not picked anything else. Taking a sip of his tea, equally prepared to perfection, he leaned back against the chair, cradling the warm cup in his hands.

"Madame Tracy has been with the family for a long time, I gather?"

"Yes, she's already been here before I came to live with Beez. "

"I would like to speak with her, if possible."

"But of course," Crowley agreed. "No reason why that should be a problem. I'm quite sure she'll be happy to help."

"What is her opinion of what happened, do you know?"

Crowley seemed to ponder the question for a moment, stirring his coffee absentmindedly. "To tell you the truth, I'm not completely sure. She's always kept her opinion on Beelzebub and Gabriel's relationship to herself, same as to what she thought of the murder."

Aziraphale was watching him closely. He spoke with what seemed unaffected indifference, did not stumble over the word murder. Did not skirt around it either. Not for the first time he got the impression that while appearing aggressively overt about his opinions, there were some cards that Anthony Crowley kept very close to his chest. He wanted to know what they were, wanted to know it with an intensity that surprised him. It must be the challenge, he assumed. He usually got a feel for people rather quickly, could discern what drove them on the very least - but despite two conversations and a car trip together, he still was no closer to having a reliable read on the man. It felt as if there was an air about him that deflected all attempts at getting to his core.

"It would not really be in her place to comment on the relationship of her employers, I assume."

Crowley waggled his head. An odd, almost hypnotic movement. "Probably not. And I'm not sure if she was asked about her opinion on Beez's guilt."

"She was not." Aziraphale had checked up on that. As Ericson had said, most of the staff had been left out of the investigation beyond confirming the course of events. He still found it a deplorable oversight. "That's why I'm very glad she is here."

Crowley nodded. It felt as if his eyes were fixed on him and Aziraphale got the strange impression that the archaeologist could see right through him. Could dissect his every thought. He drew himself up a bit, straightening his impeccable posture.

"How reliable is her memory, do you think?"

"Difficult to say." Crowley grimaced and looked out of the window again. "She'll remember the main points, I'd imagine. It's not something you forget… And I'm pretty sure she had her ideas about the whole thing which she won't have forgotten either. But when it comes to the finer points –"He broke off.

"It has been twenty years. Yes, I know."

Crowley glanced back at him. "So, you will ask all of those involved what they remember of that day?"

"Yes," Aziraphale confirmed. "That is exactly what I will do."

"You do know that you'll get as many different stories as there are people."

It was not a question but a statement. Aziraphale smiled against the rim of his cup and took another sip. "But of course. It will be most intriguing."

Crowley scrutinised him with the same appraising gaze he had earned during their drive. "I guess I don't have to point out again that they might be lying."

Aziraphale just continued to smile.

His guestroom was quite lavish. Aside from the luxurious four-poster bed, a big wardrobe, a chest of drawers and a dresser, there was also a wide desk with a comfortable chair placed directly in front of the high window.
Aziraphale had stepped up to it after unpacking his clothes and had appreciated the splendid view. It encompassed most of the sprawling gardens, all the way to where they were cut off by the cliff. Beyond that there was nothing but the endless blue of the sea, crowned with white foam. He had glanced up at the sky and had noticed grey clouds approaching.

Later, he was sitting in bed, a warm blanket drawn up to his hip and a cup of hot cocoa on the bedside table. The wind was battering raindrops against the house and he had decided to go through his notes while being warm and comfortable rather than shivering at the table.
It had been a calm evening. After having settled into his room, Madame Tracy had given him a tour through the house, promising that she would be more than happy to talk with him properly one of the coming days. Then she had gone off to prepare a cold supper which had turned out as delectable as Aziraphale had hoped it would be.
The meal itself had been a quiet affair, both the housekeeper and his host had appeared to be deep in thought. Crowley had excused himself soon after its conclusion, telling him to just ask Madame Tracy if he had any wishes. An offer the housekeeper had readily agreed to. In the end, Aziraphale had decided to withdraw to his chamber as well and review the information he had gathered so far.

He was curious what the next day would bring. He was to visit both the former police sergeant as well as the old solicitor of the Crale family, maybe some further facts could be collected from them. Knowing Shadwell, he would also gain some local colour which would be very interesting.
And then, the people involved. They would be most valuable. From what he had learnt so far, not a single one of them had doubted Beelzebub's guilt. He wondered if that was still the case. So far only Crowley seemed to believe them innocent and Aziraphale could not rely on his judgement. It was not based on facts but on his interpretation of Beelzebub. Aziraphale acknowledged the evidence of personality and psychology, of course he did, but he could not be sure whether Crowley had judged his sibling objectively.
Nor whether he was being honest about it.

Chapter Text

*

“The accepted version of certain facts is not necessarily the true one.”

*

Breakfast was being served in the drawing room, just as tea had been the day before. Aziraphale did not mind at all, luxuriating once again in its lovely, understated opulence. He took a seat at the table and gratefully accepted Madame Tracy's offer of a full English after having asked whether his host would not be joining him. Apparently Crowley had already eaten and was out on the grounds.
Aziraphale sipped his tea while his meal was being served and contemplated the absence of his host. Sure, it was not as if he was here on a social visit, but he did start to wonder whether he was imposing on the man.

His pondering could not distract him from the delicious breakfast however. Savouring every bite, he smiled to himself. The perfect thing after the simple supper of the night before. The air had been crisp this morning, when he had opened the window of his room for a moment. Heavy with the lingering scent of rain and autumn leaves and that distinctive fragrance being carried inland from the sea by a light breeze. He had closed the window soon after, wrapping his warm morning robe around himself to ward off the chill.

He was sipping his second cup of tea, the empty plate had just been taken away by Madame Tracy, when Crowley sauntered into the room. All in black again, Aziraphale noted and wondered whether the man owned a single piece of clothing in any other colour. The gentle morning light brushed across his hair with a strange lustre, before it moved on and reflected off the dark glasses in front of his eyes.
That answered the question whether they would still be present at least. Aziraphale speculated once again why his host found it necessary to wear them here, in his house. Maybe there was nothing more to it than a stylistic choice, but he doubted it. Not with only him here. He also doubted that Crowley was wearing them in an attempt to be provocative. Aziraphale had not been reacting to them in any way and he did not think the archaeologist would take on the bother for no gain at all.

His host threw himself into the chair opposite of him with a jumble of limbs and Aziraphale noticed that he was holding a cup of coffee. It was a minor miracle that he had not spilled the pungent liquid all over the table.

"Slept well?" He asked between sips and Aziraphale nodded.

"Splendidly, thank you." He finished his tea and set down the cup. "I am very grateful for your hospitality. And you are quite sure that I am to stay here?"

Crowley observed him in silence for a moment before answering.

"Of course. Why wouldn't it be?"

"Just wanted to make sure." Aziraphale gave a one-shouldered shrug.

"Don't tell me you need me around to hold your hand all day?"

"Hardly." Aziraphale shot a glare at the impertinently smirking man. "I merely want to be sure that I am not imposing. Or keeping you here unnecessarily."

"Ehh," Crowley waved an elegant hand. "No. It's good to be here for a few days. Just don't expect me to play Lord of the Manor and we'll be alright."

"I do not expect anything at all of you, my dear."

Crowley stared at him and Aziraphale blinked, cleared his throat and looked out of the window. Where had that come from? Sure, he was well-known amongst his close acquaintances for his slightly unconventional mode of speech, but this was hardly the sort of situation he usually employed it in. He regretted having already finished his tea, wanted something to direct his attention towards without giving away how unintentional this choice of words had been. When he finally glanced back at his host, the thought he saw the slight trace of a smile on the expressive lips.
He cleared his throat once more.

"Anyway. I have an appointment with Hastur at eleven o'clock."

"So you've said." Crowley took a long drag from his coffee. "And I've just met Tracy on the way in. She confirmed that Shadwell has time for you at two."

"That will do very nicely." Aziraphale said, pleased. He was eager to complete collecting the legal facts of the case so he could move on to talking to the people actually involved.
"How do I best get to Winchester?"

"I'll drive you."

Aziraphale furrowed his brow. "You really do not need to trouble yourself with –"

"No trouble at all." Crowley interrupted him. "Have some things I want sorted myself. Might as well do that today. And it's a real pain getting into town from here. We used to have a driver, of course. But as you see there is no staff left."

"Well, thank you." Aziraphale said, feeling strangely taken aback by the offer.

"Don't mention it."

They took the same road as the day before. When they passed the junction that would lead to Handcross Manor, Crowley spoke.

"So, you'll be meeting Uriel tomorrow."

"Yes. It will be most interesting. The first one, so to say – aside from you."

Crowley glanced at him shortly, then looked back at the street stretching out in front of them.

"I do want your recollection of what has happened as well, you know. I hope it will not be too painful…" Aziraphale did his best to sound solemn rather than curious.

"Not really painful, no." Crowley shrugged. "Just not sure how helpful it'll be. My memories of that summer are a bit muddled."

"I can imagine." Aziraphale conceded. "All the same, there might be some details of value. Something you remember or have experienced that the others don't know of."

"That'll be your angle, won't it?"

He glanced at Crowley who was staring intently out of the front window. Keeping his gaze on him, he waited for him to continue.

"You'll have everyone remembering the event. And then you'll sit down and look at what you've collected. Where the stories line up, where they complete each other and where they contradict each other."

"Of course," Aziraphale confirmed. "That's what detective work mostly is."

"No wonder this case's lack of cigarette stubs and footprints in flowerbeds doesn't seem to worry you."

He grimaced but then saw the tell-tale quirk of Crowley's lips. "Ah, yes, the fine ways of detecting. Unfortunately I will have to limit myself to the dullness of talking to people." He smiled smugly and leaned back into his seat.

"Yes. Talking. Always coming back to that, are we not."

He frowned, not sure what to make of the undercurrent in Crowley's voice.

"In any case, there is something I would like to see."

Crowley hummed noncommittally.

"The place where Gabriel Crale died."

He kept his eyes fixated on the other man but could read absolutely nothing on the even features. Not the slightest flinch nor hint at tension or discomfort. It was as if he was sitting beside someone who was absolutely uninvolved in the whole business.

"Of course." Crowley agreed loftily, his voice back to its conversational tone. "It was in the garden, as you must know. I can take you there this afternoon. Or tomorrow morning, in case we're back too late."

Aziraphale nodded. "Yes, that would be ideal. Thank you. Yet again."

"Really, it's no bother."

Is it not? Aziraphale wondered. How can it not be? From what he had learnt so far he knew that there had been a closeness between Crowley and his sibling. A deep familiarity and intimacy. How could the same person who seemed to blindly believe in Beelzebub's innocence appear so completely detached about it all?
Beelzebub had died in prison. They had appeared healthy and vital at the trial but had died, wasted away before the question of execution had been cleared – their defence had been in the process of appealing for mitigating circumstances. Within one year, Anthony Crowley had lost not only his sibling who had been like a parent to him but also his home and the life he had been used to.
And yet here he sat, talking about it as if it had happened to someone else.

He met Hastur at what had once been the main office of Hastur, Ligur & Ericson. The solicitor had long since retired but kept the rooms as he still administered the papers of a few select clients.

"We have represented the Crale family for several generations," Hastur said.

"You must be rather well acquainted with the family history."

"That I am," the solicitor confirmed. "Most of our files have been moved to the London office, of course. I've let Ericson take over bit by bit. Once I'll have handed over my last clients, I expect most of the business will move permanently to town. However, you're not here for papers, are you? You received all the documents we had in archive, as far as I know."

"Yes. It was of something else I wanted to talk to you. The people involved, at least those you knew personally. I have all the written facts, what I am looking for is the people behind them. Their personalities, so to say."

Hastur studied him for a moment.

"I've heard of you. It's the things behind the obvious that interests you. The why of a crime."

"Precisely." Aziraphale nodded. "And I hope you can give me some information on that. The very least concerning Gabriel and Beelzebub Crale.

Hastur leaned back into his seat. "Yes, I might be able to help. I've known Gabriel Crale ever since he was a boy. Already knew his father and grandfather, in fact. When it comes to character, he ran very true to his family."

"Did he?"

"So he did. He was a ruthless egoist. There is really no other way to put it. All the Crales were, never thought of anyone but themselves."

"It must have been difficult for his spouse."

"It might have been," Hastur said thoughtfully. "But Beelzebub Crale was an extraordinary person. I knew them from before their marriage, too. Beelzebub Spalding. An intense creature with a somewhat turbulent home."

"How so?"

"Their father died when they were very young and for the longest time it was just them and their mother. They were an only child at first and deeply attached to their mother. Then their mother re-married and that in itself brought conflict already. It all culminated when their little brother was born. Beelzebub was fiercely jealous of the child."

"They were a jealous person?"

"In a way." Hastur contemplated the question for a moment. "They were as a child, for sure. They might always have been but learnt to control it in later years, it's hard to say. It is however what has been brought forward as the main motive of the murder, of course."

Aziraphale nodded. He had read of that more than once.

"I assume you know what they did to their baby-brother?"

"Yes, I do know." Aziraphale said. "However, it appears that Dr Crowley does not hold a grudge?"

"He never did as far as I could say. On the contrary, the siblings grew to be extremely close. Their mother and her second husband died in a car accident when young Crowley was about six years old and his sibling took him in. Beelzebub was already married to Gabriel and living at Alderbury at that time."

"How did the marriage come to be?"

"Ah, Beelzebub was childhood friends with Gabriel and the Blake siblings. Beelzebub and Uriel were at school together, that's how they got to know each other. The four young people often spent their leisure time at Alderbury and Handcross Manor. The affinity between Beelzebub and Gabriel showed itself very early on and in due time, they married. It was a bit surprising, in a way…"

"How so?" Aziraphale asked.

"They were both quite… unconventional. Gabriel had already gone against his family by becoming a painter. But yet again, he did as he pleased. His mother was fairly supportive of his artistic ambitions. His father however – I don't think he ever rallied from strong, handsome, virile Gabriel becoming an artist of all things. Nor from his – ahem – broad romantic interests…"

Hastur trailed off with a little cough and Aziraphale tilted his head to indicate that he understood.

"And then there was Beelzebub, of course -" the solicitor continued, "- who never as much as pretended to confirm to social norms and standards. They were always vehemently opposed to following societal rules. So, all in all it was surprising that those two people agreed to something as traditional as marriage, but marry they did – and I've always thought that it was a love match."

Aziraphale hummed and considered how to broach a topic he had been curious about for a while.

"There is something I have been wondering…"

"Yes?" Hastur asked with interest.

"Beelzebub's pronoun. It is still rather uncommon around here and I have never met anyone who has managed to have it used for them so uniformly. Not a single person I have spoken to has referred to them in any other way. Same as to the written records."

"It certainly was a struggle for them as a child. But Beelzebub would not accept anything else. And with time, nobody remembered them in any other way. They still got the odd look from strangers now and again, but they had taken to ignoring anyone who did not address them appropriately. Very pointedly so."

Aziraphale nodded. It fit with the impression he had gotten of the accused.

"A rather headstrong, combative personality?"

"That one could say." Hastur smiled. "But fiercely loyal at the same time."

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow at the repetition of how Crowley had described his sibling.

"Yes, I have heard that before."

"Which is why, in my opinion, the relationship between Beelzebub and Gabriel worked for that long. It might sound strange but, despite everything, those two were loyal to each other. Gabriel might have been an incorrigible egoist and Beelzebub was constantly pushing boundaries, but they did love each other. They had affairs but those always blew over and I doubt that there were ever emotions involved. Not until…"

"Not until Michael Greer."

Hastur shook his head. "Pathetic child."

Aziraphale looked at him in surprise. "Is that how you think of her?"

The old solicitor shrugged. "She was so insistent. So very much in love with Gabriel. And when he was killed, it completely broke her."

Aziraphale steepled his fingers against his lips in contemplation. It broke her…

"She was very young, of course," Hastur continued, "so very young and very earnest."

"And Gabriel fell for her?"

"It looked like it for sure. According to the witnesses, there was talk of him divorcing Beelzebub so he could marry Michael. And that was something Beelzebub would not accept."

"You think they killed him?"

Hastur blinked and stared at him. "But of course. That's a given."

"Is it?"

"There was never any doubt about it."

"Yes," Aziraphale said quietly, "that seems to be the consensus. There was never any doubt about it."

Aziraphale and Sergeant Shadwell met for a late lunch. The former police officer had deposed a folder on the table and then ordered a Guinness and the daily special.

"So, what're you up to again?" He asked with a grin.

Aziraphale eyes twinkled with amusement. "The usual, my dear Sergeant."

"Raking up some old dirt, that is." Shadwell pushed the papers towards Aziraphale. "That's all we've got on file. You're lucky that I'm still cosy with the local officials. We mightn't be Scotland Yard but still don't just hand out our stuff to anyone."

"I am well aware of it and very grateful." He took the folder and carefully put it in his messenger bag. "They will be returned to you by the day after tomorrow the latest."

"Fast as always, aren't you?"

Aziraphale just smiled in reply.

They went silent when their lunch arrived, both enjoying their food and drink, although Aziraphale had opted for a glass of red instead of the sergeant's preferred Guinness.
As their meal concluded with coffee and port, Aziraphale cleared his throat.

"So, the murder of Gabriel Crale…"

Shadwell nodded and took an indulgent drag of his coffee. "Just like you to get your nose into a clear open-and-shut case."

"There was never any doubt whatsoever that Beelzebub did it?"

"None. All the evidence pointed into that direction. No lead or hint that anyone else might 've wanted to kill Gabriel Crale. And then there was their behaviour…"

"Yes?" Aziraphale pressed on, eagerly.

"You should have seen them when we took them in. They barely even declared their innocence."

"What did they say had happened?" Aziraphale knew, of course. Had read it in the court records, what the defence of Beelzebub Crale had been based upon.

"Suicide. That was their angle. Gabriel Crale committing suicide, not bloody likely."

Aziraphale hummed. "From what I have heard of the man it does seem wildly out of character. But one never knows…"

"One does know in this case. Out of character or not, the evidence did not match up with suicide."

"Would you mind recounting your part of the investigation?"

"Not at all." Shadwell said and finished his coffee. "We arrived at Alderbury early in the afternoon, the exact time is in the files. It was the local GP who called us in. Said there had been a death in Alderbury and we better come take a look. Gabriel Crale was lying dead in what they called the Wall Garden, where he had spent the morning working on a painting. Time of death must have been approximately two to three hours prior to our arrival. When interviewing the people present we very soon got to know that a lethal dose of coniine had been stolen from Uriel Blake, a neighbour of the estate who messed around with homebrewed poisons.
When searching the house, a phial was discovered in Beelzebub Crale's room which contained dregs of coniine."

"Could it not have been placed there?"

"It probably could, but they admitted to having taken it."

Aziraphale nodded and the sergeant continued.

"At the accused's assertion that their husband had committed suicide, we examined the phial of course."

"And there were only the fingerprints of Beelzebub on it?"

"Even worse, there were no fingerprints at all. They must have wiped them off."

"How was the poison given to Gabriel Crale?"

"It was put into his beer with one of those little pipette things. We found it crushed on the path connecting the house and the scene of the crime."

Aziraphale frowned. "Yes, I see now what you mean. That would make no sense had he committed suicide."

"It's impossible. There were also the fingerprints on the beer bottle."

"On the bottle?"

"Yes, there were only Gabriel Crale's prints on the bottle and they were placed at an impossible angle. Beelzebub had brought him the beer, you see. So theirs should have been on the bottle as well. And it was silly, really. There wasn't even any poison in the bottle. It was in the glass. Must have been put into the beer after it had been poured."

"This is all very strange." Aziraphale's frown deepened. The same mistake twice, it made no sense. It was too much. "Were they really that stupid?" he mused half-aloud.

Shadwell shook his head. "Beelzebub Crale wasn't stupid, not really. I guess they just didn't think clearly. Were so taken up with jealousy and rage that they only had one goal in mind - to kill Gabriel. And when it was done, they realised that they had just committed murder. And they panicked, tried to fake their way out of it. Tried to make it look like suicide and botched it up in the heat of the moment."

"Possible," Aziraphale admitted, tapping his fingertips against the table. He was not convinced. If nothing else, this was a trace of light at the horizon. A first hint that there might be something very real in Crowley's conviction.

"Anyway," Shadwell huffed. "You wanted to know about the proceedings. We found the phial and the pipette, both containing traces of coniine. Uriel Blake had noticed the theft of the poison the same morning.
We interrogated the people present. Sandalphon Blake was staying with the Crales at the time. His sister had come over to Alderbury after finding the coniine missing. She had wanted to talk it through with her brother and was invited to stay for lunch. After lunch, Beelzebub Crale went to bring their husband coffee and found him dead – he had skipped the meal to continue painting. The governess, Dagon Williams, was with them at the time. Ms Williams ran back to call for a doctor and met Uriel Blake on the way. She handed the task over to Uriel so she could return to Beelzebub. When the doctor arrived, he could only confirm death and call us in."

Aziraphale sighed. "And there were no hints at all that someone else might have had a motive?"

Shadwell looked at him intently, studying him for a while. "Why're you so set on someone else killing him?"

"I would not say I am set on it." He shrugged. "My commission is to find out the truth."

"And who're you commissioned by?"

"Anathema Device."

"Anathema…." The sergeant drew out the syllables. "Sounds familiar."

"She is the daughter of Gabriel and Beelzebub Crale."

Shadwell's eyes cleared. "Ah yes, of course. The child."

"That she is. Or was. She is by far no child anymore."

"She got sent away the next day, after it happened. That nurse of theirs brought her to some relatives. Heard she left the country later?"

"Yes, she grew up in America."

Shadwell hummed and nodded. "Poor kid. And she wants the truth?"

"That she does," Aziraphale confirmed and watched Shadwell's face distort.

"I'll have you know that we're sure we got the truth."

"And I take that very seriously," Aziraphale said, putting as much sincerity into his voice as he could. "I think of you as a diligent and honest investigator."

Shadwell grumbled, somewhat appeased. "What got the girl on the case then?"

"She received a letter, written by Beelzebub before their death. Stating that they were innocent."

"They wrote that?" Shadwell stared at him.

"It surprises you?"

"Very much. They never said so. Not during the investigation, not during the trial. Never clear out said they were innocent. Just repeated again and again that Gabriel has committed suicide."

"And still there is this letter."

Shadwell sighed. "So there is. Maybe a natural thing, wanting to spare their daughter. Hoping for some forgiveness from her."

"Does that sound like Beelzebub Crale to you?"

"No," Shadwell said sourly. "No, it doesn't. Not at all."

A low drizzle had started to fall by the time they arrived back at Alderbury and Aziraphale readily agreed with Crowley to postpone visiting the site of the crime until the coming day.

"We'll pass by there on our way to Handcross Manor anyway, if the weather plays along for once," the archaeologist said as they entered the house.

"How so? I thought one had to take the way around the creek?"

"You'll see." Crowley smirked. "I'll show you how we used to get from one estate to the other. And we can stop by the Wall Garden on the way."

Aziraphale nodded, curious as to what that was all about. It had been an interesting day altogether. An image was beginning to form itself in front of his inner eye. An image of summer days. Of Beelzebub and Gabriel Crale and five people surrounding them.
He had read the official statements and was eager to go through the documents Shadwell had handed over, but it was from these five people that he would learn the truth, he was sure of it. Five people, the first of which he would meet tomorrow.

No, the second of which, he admonished himself and frowned. He had met Crowley already. Crowley was one of those five people, it would not do to forget that. He had been left out of the police inquiry at large but Aziraphale would not be as negligent. No, he would judge Crowley's recounting of what had happened just as he did with everyone else.

With a pensive look he watched as his host shrugged off his black coat with a sinuous movement and hung it neatly on a hook beside the door.
He swallowed. No, it would not do to forget that Crowley was a potential suspect.

Chapter Text

*

"When he was painting a picture, nothing else mattered. Nothing could be allowed to get in the way."

*

Alderbury's gardens were a sight. Aziraphale wished he could have seen them in their prime
Ignoring Crowley's huffing and mumbled curses, he followed the archaeologist along a soft path that was leading towards the cliff.

"This is a disgrace. Just look at the state of these creepers. All over the place. That's what happens without proper discipline."

Crowley gesticulated at the plants and Aziraphale watched the expansive, eloquent movements in silence.

At last they arrived at a little gate let into wild hedges.

"The Wall Garden is right through here."

Aziraphale nodded and followed him. It was a beautiful morning, the sun shining brighter than one would think possible after the damp weather of the previous night. He shielded his eyes as he stepped through the gate, the glare of the light blinding him for a moment.

He blinked, then took in the small garden unfolding in a chaotic sprawl in front of him. Despite the decrepitude he could feel the charm of the place. Secluded and sheltered away from its surroundings by high hedges, it felt like its own little Eden. There was a pond in the middle of it, now overgrown with greenery but he could imagine how it once had been - clear water crowned by lilies. Patches that must have been host to beautiful flowers were surrounding it and at the border closest to them, the remnants of a bench were falling to ruin. A low, collapsing wall, which must have given the idyllic place its name, separated the garden from the cliff. And beyond it all, there were the deep blue of the see and a brilliant horizon.

"So here it happened," Aziraphale breathed as he stepped further into the green wilderness.

"Yes. She was sitting model there." Crowley waved disparagingly at the bench and Aziraphale noticed once again how expressive those hands were. How they could convey disdain or excitement or complacency with a single elegant gesture.

When had he taken to noticing them?
He hummed and stepped towards the lake, bent at the knees to brush his fingertips along the rotting wood of the bench.

"That's also where he died."

If Crowley expected to get a rection out of him, a flinching back or tension in his shoulders, he would have to go disappointed. Aziraphale pressed his palm firmly against the rough surface. Warmed by the mild morning sun, it scraped against his smooth skin.
Finally he drew back and straightened himself.

"He died while the rest of you were at lunch."

"Yes."

Aziraphale felt the other man stepping up beside him, caught a glimpse of black lines out of the corner of his eye as they both kept their gaze fixed on the pond.

"Uriel Blake went to collect Gabriel and Michael for lunch but Gabriel said he wanted to get on with the picture. It wasn't unusual. He was in the final stage, or so he said, and he often worked through meals when that close to completion. Nobody suspected anything, it was such a common thing…"

Aziraphale nodded. He had read that in the police statements. Michael had left with Uriel. The house party had lunch and then –

"Beelzebub found him afterwards," Aziraphale said.

"Yes." There was something strained in the archaeologist's voice now. "They went to bring him coffee. Dagon was with them. She told the Blakes what happened and Uriel went to call the doctor. But I don't actually remember any of this…"

Aziraphale frowned and turned to look properly at the other man. Deep lines were furrowing the archaeologist's brow as he was scowling at the bench, something tense hardening the lines at the corner of his mouth. They still had not spoken about it, about Crowley's memory of the day. He knew that he would have to ask soon, would need his detailed recounting of what had happened. Why had he not asked for it yet? There had been more than enough opportunities. He did not usually beat about the bush when it came to gathering information, except when holding back served a purpose in his investigation. There was no such purpose here.
And yet, watching the still face of the man beside him, he decided this would be enough for one morning. He could get a full account later - but there was something in what Crowley had just said that caught his interest.

"You don't remember?"

"No," the archaeologist made one of his wiggling head-motions, "not personally. It's just what I've been told and read afterwards. I wasn't along when he was found. I was up there – " he waved at the manor. "Was sitting on the front stairs. They were always warm around noon, but shaded by the house. Nobody was ever there right after lunch. Perfect place for reading. Don't remember what book it was. Something big and leather-bound. Was nice, actually, the heavy weight on my knees when I –"
He broke off suddenly, wrangled his speech to a halt with a sour tilt on his mouth, as if he had said too much.

Aziraphale could not sense anything in the words that might lead to such an abrupt reaction. He kept his eyes on him, waiting for more, but nothing came. Crowley drew his shoulders back and turned away, took to stalking around the lake. It made Aziraphale feel strangely left behind.
He straightened his waistcoat and circled the pond as well, mirroring the archaeologist pace until he met him right at the old, crumbling wall. They looked out onto the sea for a moment then Aziraphale sighed.

"It really is very beautiful here. The whole estate."

Crowley hummed noncommittally then turned around, his gaze travelling over the small, secluded space and past it to where the house could be seen beyond the trees.

"We should be going. Uriel Blake is expecting you at ten. She does not appreciate unpunctuality and I assume you want to make a good impression."

"Yes, you assume quite right." Aziraphale confirmed although it had been a statement, not a question. A piece of paper was handed to him and he looked at Crowley with confusion.

"Recommendation. You probably have one from Anathema already, but the more the better."

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow. "Do you think Ms Blake would refuse talking to me?"

"Probably not," Crowley shrugged. He started towards the gate again. "But it might help. She does put a lot of claim on propriety – and I am the current holder of Alderbury."

Aziraphale nodded and followed him out of the garden.

Uriel Blake sat with perfect posture as she served him tea.
He had taken notice of her clear-cut clothes and proper demeanour the moment he had been greeted and led into the drawing room.

Crowley had left him on the path leading up to Handcross Manor, muttering something about Uriel bringing him back. Aziraphale was not looking forward to that. The boat ride over the creek had not been to his liking and he had spared a glance at his ruined shoes.

Still, it had been interesting to see how the two estates had been navigated, back in the day when regular visits between Handcross Manor and Alderbury had been a common occurrence.
"It's just easier, taking the boat," Crowley had explained. "Don't have to bother taking the whole detour inland around the creek. So, let's row over. Put that broad back of yours to some use."
Aziraphale had stared at him but Crowley had already turned away, busying himself with unmooring one of the boats. He had wondered for a moment whether the archaeologist had tried to insult him, but the tone of his voice had not quite sounded like an insult.
In the end, he had made Crowley do the rowing. He was a guest, after all. He had kept his gaze on the approaching beach of the Blake estate, only vaguely distracted by the well-practiced ease with which his host was navigating the vessel. Quite surprising for someone so scrawny, he had thought and had frowned at himself.
They had climbed out of the boat once they had reached their destination, Aziraphale quite thoroughly ruining his lovely shoes in the process. Crowley had politely – or possibly impolitely – ignored his plight. Had only asked him to give Uriel Blake his regards as he led him up the path towards the gardens of Handcross Manor.

And here she was now, the current head of the Blake family. Small and compact, she had a capable and well-poised air about her. Aziraphale had taken in her sensible tweeds, the straight line of her back and the appraising eyes and had decided that a direct approach would serve him best.
He watched her reading both the letter of Ms Device and Crowley while sipping watery Earl Grey with too much milk. His nose wrinkled but he did his best to keep his features placid. Uriel Blake was not someone who would take lightly to being spurned.

After what seemed her having read each letter twice, she set down the papers and looked at him.

"Is this really necessary? After all this time."

He tipped his head slightly. "I do believe Ms Device is rather set on it."

"So it would seem." Uriel glanced at the letters. "Well, as unpleasant a business it was, I do owe her that much."

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow. "What would you mean by that?"

Uriel folded her hands on her knees and leaned back against her seat. "I know of you, Mr. Fell. Of course I do. And while I'm not in the habit of needing the services of… private investigators… I am led to believe that you are a capable man." She gave him a look which had Aziraphale assuming that she would very much make up her own mind on that matter. It irked him, being appraised in such a manner by this country woman who, as far as he was aware, had never even left her estate. But he knew better than to argue with this type of person. Let them look down on him, it would only serve him well in the end. And so he smiled guilelessly at Uriel.

"It is said so, yes."

Uriel's expression did not change as she continued to study him. "In that case I'm sure you have done your research before coming here and must know that the poison employed came from my stock."

"Ah, I see," Aziraphale took another dainty sip of the milky liquid, doing his best to suppress a shudder. "But still, this is in no way your fault."

Uriel's lips twitched for a second and she glanced towards the window. "Perhaps one could say that. It was not I who killed Gabriel Crale, but still… It was me who brought up the poison in question in the first place. And it was me who had it at hand."

Aziraphale set down his cup and leaned forward, placing his hands on his knees. "Would you mind telling me? What you remember of that day?"

She looked at him again, hard and searching. "I will. Because it is my duty to Anathema Crale. Because I had a hand in what happened to her parents. I would not do it for sating idle curiosity."

Aziraphale lowered his eyes for an instant and smiled demurely. If that was the way she wanted to play this out, so be it. It would make her all the more open about her memories.

"You see, it all started the day before the murder. The party of Alderbury came over for tea –"

"Who was present for that?" Aziraphale interjected and ignored the pointed look the interruption earned him.

"Gabriel and Beelzebub Crale, Michael Greer, Anthony Crowley – and my brother Sandalphon Blake. He was staying at Alderbury at the time."

"Did he stay there often?"

"Rather, at least in the last years. He and Gabriel were… great friends." Something in her tone made Aziraphale look closer. There was a little furrow between her brows. "He was very put out when Gabriel married Beelzebub. So much that he had not visited them during the first few years of their marriage. But after a while he realised that Beelzebub would not stand in the way of his friendship with Gabriel and he was at Alderbury quite often."

Aziraphale nodded, taking a mental note of that.

"In any case," Uriel continued, "he was a guest at the Crale estate when it happened. And came over to tea along with them the day before."

"There was no one beside yourself and those five people here at Handcross Manor the day before the murder?"

"No, who else would there be?" Uriel frowned at him.

"I was thinking of the governess."

"Ah yes, the governess…" Uriel seemed to take a moment to contemplate. "No, I can't remember her coming along."

"And what happened when the party from Alderbury arrived here?"

"Tea was served in the garden. It was a lovely day, sunny and warm, but I noticed that there was something off, mostly about Beelzebub and Gabriel."

"How so?"

"Well, Gabriel was tense, for one. Which was very unlike him." Aziraphale was not surprised by that. From what he had learnt of the man, tense was not one of his marking features. Callous would have been more like it.

"In any case, there was a certain vagueness about him that surprised me. And then there was Beez…"

"Yes?" Aziraphale pressed on, both interested in the description of Beelzebub Crale as well as taking notice of the abbreviation of their name. Something he had only heard being used by Crowley so far.

"Beelzebub was… I wouldn't call it distraught. I don't think I ever knew Beelzebub being distraught. But there was something about them that I had never seen before. Something that dimmed all about them, weighted them down. It's difficult to describe." Uriel sighed. She suddenly looked tired and Aziraphale realized how old the woman actually was. It had not shown itself up to now, hidden behind her perfect posture and stern, even face.

"Did you know Beelzebub Crale well?"

"I would not say well, precisely. But I had known them for a very, very long time. We went to school together. They had always behaved as something of an older sibling to me back then, despite being two years my minor." There was a slight smile on Uriel's lips now. "We bonded over not being particularly keen on what was perceived as our intended fate in life."

"Which would have been?"

"Marrying and being selfless mothers and wives."

"Ah," Aziraphale nodded. He appraised Uriel with a new eye, took notice of the hidden strength under the polished surface. Of a certain harshness… Yes, he could see that. He could see a young Beelzebub Spalding finding stimulating companionship in Uriel Blake.

"In any case, to get back to the topic at hand. After tea I took Beelzebub aside and asked what the matter was. They told me Gabriel was intending to leave them. Not only leave them but divorce them. Divorce them to marry Michael."

"And what did you think of that?"

"To be honest, at first I could not believe it. Their relationship had always been rather open - but when it came down to it, they were completely devoted to each other. Which might seem strange to most people who did not know them, but I always believed it to be true. The thought of either of them leaving the other was just so incredibly outlandish."

"So you did not believe it?"

"My first instinct was not to. But then I considered what I had seen of late. How Gabriel had been behaving. How he had brought Michael to Alderbury, how he had her stay there for an extended period of time. He had never done that before. And he did act very differently around her."

"How so?"

"More careful. Almost caring. Gabriel had not been a caring man, it was odd to see him like that. And yes, all of this made me wonder whether there might be truth in what Beelzebub was worrying about."

"Did you tell her so?"

"Of course not!" Uriel drew herself up. Regaled him with a stern look. "I did not wish to cause Beelzebub more pain and worry than they might already be carrying with them. They were -" she considered her words for a moment, "- proud. And it would not do to injure that pride. I did however plan to distract the party from the uncomfortable atmosphere and also to confront Gabriel."

"And did you do so?" Aziraphale asked.

"I did. The topic of lesser-known poisons had come up during tea and I thought it a good opportunity for a distraction. I invited everyone to my laboratory. As the others went ahead, I had the chance to catch Gabriel on his own."

"And what did he say?"

Uriel sighed. "You must understand, Gabriel was an extraordinary person. And as such, he had a tendency to see past other people's wishes and sentiments." She paused for a moment but Aziraphale stayed silent, waiting for her to continue. "He was an incredible painter. One of a kind, really. And into his art went all of his focus and devotion. He did not treat people with much consideration, even those near and dear to him. He was not a very sensitive man. But his pictures - there was always… something… in his pictures. It's hard to describe. But most importantly, his art would always take first place for him."

Aziraphale nodded, eager in how Gabriel was taking shape in front of his inner eye. He had learnt the bare facts about him through the reports and various biographies he had got hold of. Gabriel Crale's body of work was still of great fame and recognition. But all of these facts had been impersonal, clinical. It had been difficult to get an impression of the man behind them.

"So, bearing that in mind," Uriel continued, "it comes as no surprise that his prime focus was on the picture he was painting. I asked him if he indeed intended to leave his spouse and if so, why in Heaven did he not just go off with Michael. Make a clean break and start anew instead of bringing Michael into Beelzebub's home. A situation which must doubtlessly have been intolerable for both of them. If he did not care about Beelzebub anymore, at least one would think him to be more considerate towards Michael."

"And his answer?"

"Was unsurprising. Gabriel rarely was considerate towards anyone. All he told me was that everything would be alright. That this picture was going to be his greatest work yet. And that he would under no circumstances let a bunch of quarrelling naggers stand in the way of what was going to be his masterpiece." Uriel sighed. "There was really no way to reason with him once he was in such a mood. His work would always come first. And, as he put it, everyone else would just have to suck it up." Her lips twisted in distaste.

Aziraphale nodded once more. "Yes, I see what you mean. The situation did not seem to bother him at all?"

"Not in the slightest, from what I saw," Uriel confirmed. "He merely repeated that all would be fine. That I would understand in a few days and everything would turn out well."

Aziraphale shook his head. "That sounds blindly optimistic."

"Things had always turned out well for Gabriel up to that point, so it was no surprise."

"Did he finish the picture in the end?"

"Almost. He said it needed one or two days more, then it would be done." Uriel shifted in her seat, a shade of uncertainty settling over her for the first time. "Actually, I have bought the painting. Would you like to see it?"

Aziraphale felt his eyes widen. He had hoped to see some of Crale's work, had been trying to do so before leaving London but had not managed. And to see what the artist himself was considering his masterpiece…

"Yes, I would like that very much!"

They moved through the house in silence and Aziraphale took in the bleak dimness of it. It felt like a ghost, as if nobody was living here and he realised with wonder that, in its own way, it was much more dead than Alderbury. Perhaps more so than Alderbury had ever been. Whatever had happened on Crowley's estate, there was so much life in it. Even after all those years. Even after the death it had witnessed.

When they entered the room that appeared to be their destination, he did not have to ask what it once had been. Dust covered what was left of the apparatuses, the glass of the windows was coated and yellowed. The shelves were empty but he could still see where once bottles had been standing in row. The proud display of a collector.

"You have stopped then?" He asked, glancing at Uriel.

"Of course I have. How could I have gone on after all of it." Her lips curled in what might have supposed to look like disapproval but betrayed something much deeper.

"This was not your fault."

"Was it not?" She turned towards him, challenge in her eyes. "Was it not I who rambled and ranted about my little plants? The concoctions I could wring from them? My silly little hobby." The sneer looked wrong on her face. A copy. He wondered who had been saying those words to her, looking at her with that exact expression.

"No," he shook his head. "If someone has murder in their heart, they will find a way to commit it. Unknowingly handing them the tools does not make you responsible."

She shrugged and turned towards a corner where an easel was standing. Whatever was placed on it was covered with a white linen dustsheet.

Like a ghost, Aziraphale thought. This whole house, like a ghost. Ghosts everywhere…
He approached the easel, came to a halt just as Uriel raised her hand, drawing the flighty material from the painting.
Aziraphale's breath caught and he took a step back. Put distance between himself and the picture.

It was the painting of a young woman – 22 years of age, he remembered. She was sitting on the bench in front of the small ornamental lake he had seen just this very morning. Surrounding her were plants in bloom, verdant and flourishing and depicted in such riotous colours that felt like they should have had his eyes watering.
There was a certain coldness to the picture. It was meticulously crafted, he would have thought it a photograph were he not standing right in front of it. The scene had been captured by a distant, detached eye that had caught even the slightest detail – how the leaves bent, petals weaved through each other, the light glinted off the smooth surface of the pond.
But underneath it all, there was something startling. Something that drew in the eye, grasped for attention. A strangely unnerving sense of power that made you want to look, compelled you to bare yourself and surrender…

And then there was the woman herself. Michael. Sitting straight on her perch, she was looking out into the world, right at those who were daring to cast a glance at her painting. She was wearing a simple ensemble, grey trousers and a ruffled white shirt. She should have rightfully been overpowered by the violent life surrounding her, the bright colours and wild flowers should have washed her right out.
There is no question about who the real focus of the painting is, Aziraphale thought as he looked into hard eyes staring back at him. The chill that seemed to emit from her radiated, dominated the whole scene. A proud creature. Proud and wilful and ready to do whatever necessary to reach her goals.

A slight shiver ran down his back.

"Remarkable," he breathed.

"Yes. She was a rather remarkable girl." Uriel confirmed, her expression closed, not giving anything away. "And, of course, Gabriel was a rather remarkable artist."

"He must have been," Aziraphale agreed. He took a deep breath and looked into those indomitable eyes once more. There was something in them… Something he could only catch a whisper of. A vague whisp, gliding through his grasp before he could get hold of it. As if they wanted to tell him something. Something he could not understand.

She was so intense, he thought. So young – they all had said. And yes, she had been that. Young. But there was nothing of sweetness there. Nothing of innocence or playfulness or vivacity. All those things people usually associated with youth seemed to be missing from the fierce expression that was bearing down on him.
Yes, she had been young. And cold. And, he thought, ruthless. Maybe even cruel…

With a last glance at those eyes he stepped back, still not able to shake the feeling of there being something.
As he turned away, he almost felt as if the picture was watching him.

It was past lunchtime by the time he returned to Alderbury.
Uriel had been gracious enough to drive him back to the estate, not wanting to take the boat herself. He could not fault her for it and was, if he was to be honest with himself, fairly relieved about it.

Madame Tracy had tutted at his arrival, surreptitiously glancing at his soiled shoes and trousers and then offered him a late lunch after he, if he liked to, had freshened up.
He had liked to very much.

Lunch itself was as splendid as he had been expecting it to be. It really was quite a pleasant stay, he had to admit. Although, there was one thing –

"Would you be free to have a little tête-a-tête with me later today?"

"Aren't you a suave one!" Madame Tracy tittered and played at smacking his arm. "I'm sorry, love, but it's my afternoon off. And I already have an appointment." She winked at him while pouring him a cup of tea. "Would tomorrow afternoon be alright with you?"

"But of course." He smiled in reply, then fidgeted with the cup. "And where is Crowley, if I may ask?"

"In his study, I presume. He usually is. You wouldn't mind taking some tea along to him? This boy is far too fond of skipping his meals. Let's get him something hot and steamy at least, shall we?"

She winked again and bustled off before he could even answer. Coming from anyone else, he would have been offended. He was A. Z. Fell, not a random footperson. But there was something so endearing about Madame Tracy that one could not really fault her for her rather uncouth behaviour. Nor her… interesting… choice of words.
She is lucky, he thought while carrying two cups to the study, that she ended up with a master such as Crowley – and as Beelzebub had been before him. Something about this family, this cluster of exceptional people, seemed to attract a certain sort of person. It was interesting that Uriel Blake had kept up her friendship with the Crales. Despite everything, she did seem more traditional where manners were concerned. He wondered about the other people he was to meet. Sandalphon Blake and Dagon Williams. How did they compare to the Crales? How would they fit into the picture?
And Michael Greer. Yes, he wondered very much about Michael Greer.

He stopped in front of the heavy door that led to Crowley's study and stared at it for a moment. His feet had brought him here on their own accord and he realised how used he had gotten to the mansion, how easily he was navigating it after only a few days.
Balancing the tray on one hand, he knocked softly.

"Enter."

He pushed the door open and stepped into the spacious room. He had seen it once before, of course, when he had been given the tour of the house and had appreciated the tasteful wooden panels and laden bookshelves.

Crowley was seated at the heavy desk, head bent down over a stack of papers in front of him. His hair was loose and falling across his cheek, shielding him from view.
Aziraphale cleared his throat.

"Apparently I am to be making sure that you are drinking your tea."

There was a slight start to the figure at the desk and he saw his hand scramble for something, then reaching towards his face.
His glasses, the thought. He must have taken them off for work.

When Crowley finally looked up, dark shades were hiding his eyes but the rest of his face looked relaxed, almost welcoming. There was a small quirk to his lips.

"Being promoted to nursemaid, were you?"

"Apparently you are not eating enough." He said in what he hoped was an even voice as he placed the cups on a small table near an empty fireplace. Then he turned to cast another appraising glance about the study.
"This is a lovely room."

"It was Beelzebub's." Crowley said and stood up, slowly strolling over towards one of the two armchairs framing the table. "Please, have a seat."

Aziraphale took in the room once more, then sat down and reached for his cup.

"So, you are not using Gabriel's study?"

"No." Crowley answered simply, taking a sip of his tea.

They drank in silence for a while and Aziraphale wondered yet again about his own reluctance of digging deeper. Digging deeper was what he did. It was how he got his results. Crowley was one of the five people he had set out to interview, to talk to, to read and analyse and finally, if he was honest, to judge. Still, something held him back. Something made him want to wait and see what his host would offer by himself. There always that semblance of a mask covering something much deeper. That veneer of smooth aloofness and superiority that he felt was not ringing all true. Sure, he could needle and ask and try to pry away the walls that Crowley had put up surrounding himself, but somehow the thought did not appeal to him. Somehow he found it much more compelling to try and gain the other man's trust.
He had never been interested in anyone's trust before. Not on a personal level. Not in any way unrelated to his investigations.

"So, what did you think of her?"

Aziraphale blinked and looked up, dragged out of his quiet contemplation.

"Of whom?"

"Uriel Blake."

"Ah," Aziraphale leaned back. "Very proper, very Old Money. I think it well that I had those letters along."

Crowley snickered and he felt his own mouth twitch in response.

"Yeah, proper she is. Always was. So, found out anything interesting?"

Aziraphale wiggled his head. "This and that," he hedged.

"Ah, yes!" Crowley exclaimed before Aziraphale could say anything more and the detective looked up in surprise.

"Everything alright?" He watched as his host drew out a letter from his pocket.

"Almost forgot. This arrived for you while you were at Handcross Manor."

Aziraphale leaned forward, carefully plucking the envelope out of the long, slender fingers. There was a crest on it that looked familiar but he could not place it at the moment. He opened the letter, perused it with a swift glance and huffed in annoyance.

"Anything wrong?" Crowley asked, scrutinising him intently.

"Not as such. It is from Lady Dittisham's secretary. Apparently she is ready to receive me the day after tomorrow." Aziraphale explained sourly.

At Crowley's unflinching gaze he sighed and folded the letter, brushing his thump along the edge of it to smoothen it out.

"I had intended to visit Dagon Williams that day. It seems that I will have to try and reschedule. Hopefully Ms Williams won't be taking too great an offence."

"Well, you got one thing right at least."

"And what would that be?" Aziraphale frowned, momentarily confused, not sure what to make of the wry timbre to Crowley's voice.

"The fact that Lady Dittisham certainly is someone who expects everybody's plans to be arranged around her wishes."

Aziraphale raised his eyebrows at Crowley. It was the first time he had heard the other man speak with so much derision, so much obvious disdain. It was not surprising, really, considering everything that had happened. Considering that Michael Greer could very well be seen as the catalyst that had set into motion the events which had led to the deaths of Gabriel and Beelzebub Crale. Still, it took him by surprise. He thought back to their first encounter and how the archaeologist had spoken with dry haughtiness and it was then he realised, that all traces of that tone had been missing ever since they had gotten to Alderbury.
Something had begun to change and for once he was not sure whether he wanted to know the meaning behind it.

Chapter Text

*

"I don't know that there was much subtlety about it. It was a pretty obvious business. Crude […] jealousy, that's all there was to it."

*

Sandalphon Blake was a short, stocky man, running to baldness. Aziraphale was observing the way his movements had a stilted, somewhat theatrical air to them as he was receiving him in the smoking room of his small but rather opulent abode in Lymington.

"You smoking?" Sandalphon asked, opening a heavy looking silver case in offer.

"Ah, thank you," Aziraphale replied, "I prefer my own." He took one of his dainty, foreign cigarettes and accepted the light, ignoring Sandalphon's obvious disdain at his preferred smoke.

"So. The Crale case," Sandalphon prompted after they had smoked in silence for a while. "You’re commissioned by Anathema?"

"I am."

Sandalphon nodded and seemed to study him. Aziraphale wondered what he saw, how he was being perceived by the younger Blake. He got the impression that it might do well to play on the man's air of self-importance, to present himself as something lesser.

True to type, had been said of Gabriel Crale. And here he also found a person true to type. Steady and complacent and, as he suspected, quite unsatisfied with his existence. He could not help but compare him to his sister and there, too, type showed itself. Both of them being of a small statue but strong. And, more importantly, both of them were surrounding themselves with a certain air of righteous superiority that chafed at him. People of that sort were easy, he knew. They did not take him seriously and he had learnt early in his profession how to capitalise on that.

Still, it did not mean he liked it. It did not negate the fact that some fragment of his being strained against playing into their hands. That somewhere deep down he felt the urge to prove himself to them - which was ridiculous. He knew he easily outclassed and outwitted both of them taken together.

"So, what does Anathema want out of this?" Sandalphon eyed him shrewdly. "I'd assume she has a specific goal in hiring you. Your fees must be pretty high, what with all that fame of yours."

There was a very pronounced sneer accompanying the words. Aziraphale smiled placidly at the other man.

"It pleases me that you acknowledge my renown. And yes, Ms Device does indeed have a goal in mind."

"Which would be?"

"To prove her parent innocent."

Aziraphale watched Blake closely, eager to see his reaction. It was instantaneous and glaring. There was a flash of distaste, quickly masked by derision.

"Prove that Beelzebub Crale was innocent? And you took on that commission?"

"So I did." Obviously, Aziraphale added in his mind. He would not be sitting here for pleasure. The more time he spent in Sandalphon's presence, the wearier he felt.

"Must be needing the money then. Guess you'll be getting paid no matter what the result?"

"Yes, my payment is not dependant on what the investigation yields. But that is not why I accepted the commission." Aziraphale smiled. "The money is of no consequence." He added, not able to prevent a trace of smugness creeping into his voice.

It was clear from his house to his clothes and demeanour that Sandalphon Blake valued success. Success in all its forms, Aziraphale suspected, but mostly the sort that could be measured by monetary gain.

As expected, Blake gave a little snort.

"Must be nice that, not worrying about money."

"From what I gathered you yourself are very successful in your trade?" It would do well to play nicely. He still wanted Sandalphon's recounting of the murder and the little man did look rather smug at that. He reminded Aziraphale of a content little pig.

"That I am. It's pretty ironic, really. Gabriel was always the successful one when we were young. But nowadays my wealth would probably surpass his by far."

Aziraphale nodded, trying his best to pour admiration into his expression while feeling pleased with how they were easing into the purpose of his visit.

"Gabriel Crale was rather famous even before his death, was he not?"

"That he was and rightfully so. His work was extraordinary. Have you seen his paintings?"

"A few," Aziraphale lied. He did still remember, and vividly so, the only one he had seen so far. The portrait of Michael Greer. "They are marvellous."

"They really are. He was a genius – and fortunate that his talent and skill was recognised early on. I'm in the possession of an early Crale myself. A gift from Gabriel… It's the one over there."

Sandalphon nodded at the wall to his right, indicating the picture positioned above the mantlepiece of a small fireplace.

Aziraphale stood up, eager to take a closer look. It showed a scene of the Passion. Christ on the cross – a motive depicted in all sorts of media, all over the ages. And yet…. Aziraphale took a deep breath.
There was something in the face. In that haunting, tormented, gentle expression that seemed to stare right into him, deep into his soul.

It was a simple painting, the surroundings and background strangely vague, which only served to increase the focus of the viewer on the suffering figure. And how could Gabriel Crale capture suffering like this? How could he infuse a hollow expression with so much pain and kind forgiveness?
Aziraphale felt a chill pricking at his skin…

"Impressive." 

"So it is. So was all of Gabriel's work. Who knows what else he'd have created had he not been torn out of life."

There was bitterness in Sandalphon's voice and Aziraphale took a moment to contemplate how to progress. What line to take.

"Yes, it was a great tragedy," he said noncommittally.

"That is exactly what it was. A tragedy! A senseless loss of a life so full of potential. And for what? All because of one spiteful, possessive rat!"

Aziraphale blinked, the pure venom in the words and voice taking him by surprise.

"You did not sympathise with Beelzebub Crale?"

"Sympathise?" Sandalphon almost shrieked. His lips were drawn back, baring two rows of clenched teeth. He was breathing heavily, then visibly took a hold of himself. "No, I did not sympathise with Beelzebub Crale."

Aziraphale chose his next words carefully. "I have been told that Gabriel Crale used to have his fair share of affairs," he said in a calm, detached tone of voice.

"Yes. And Beelzebub wasn't any better. Gallivanting about with that governess of theirs. And it wasn't the first time, either."

"And Gabriel was not aware that?"

"He knew." Sandalphon looked as if he had just taken a bite out of something exceedingly sour and distasteful.

"So, then…" Aziraphale trailed off, waving his hand in a telling gesture.

"That's just the thing. They both had affairs. But Beelzebub always had to come first. Heaven and hell forbid if they did not come first. Gabriel had to always dance precisely along their tune."

Aziraphale raised his eyebrows. That was certainly a new take on the relationship between the Crales.

"I have heard that despite the liaisons, they really were a devoted couple. That they loved each other."

Sandalphon's expression turned even more sour. "They were a devoted couple, in their own way," he admitted. "Out of whatever unfathomable reason Gabriel was playing along with Beelzebub's possessiveness."

"So you do not think they were happy?"

"Happy?" Sandalphon snorted. "How could anyone be happy like that? Especially a man like Gabriel, who just wanted to concentrate on his work. How could he be happy with the constant nagging and scraping and bickering? He enjoyed his liaisons," Sandalphon sneered, imitating Aziraphale's voice, "they inspired him. And he'd have done better just leaving it at that. The only mistake Gabriel Crale ever made was to marry."

Aziraphale hummed. "Interesting."

"It's not interesting at all. It's plain and simple. He should not have tied himself to someone like that. Someone who laid claim on his whole body and soul. He should have kept himself free."

Free for whom, Aziraphale wondered but did not say. He cast a glance at the other man who had gotten quite red in the face by now. Interesting indeed…

"So you did not approve of Michael Greer either, I assume? Since she seemed to have laid claim on Gabriel Crale as well?"

Sandalphon shrugged somewhat petulantly. "I didn't care much for her, true. But she might have been better for him. Could imagine that she'd have left him more freedom. And she was very young. There’s a good chance that she’d have got tired of him after a while."

"But Gabriel seemed to have been very serious about her?"

"Seemed like it. There was talk of him divorcing Beelzebub to marry Michael."

"Yes, how did that come to light?" Aziraphale asked, doing his best to hide his excitement. He had read about it in the reports but was eager to hear it from someone who had been present at the time.

"It was the day before the murder. At breakfast. We were all in the dining room – "

"Who was there at the time?" Aziraphale interrupted.

"At first it was me, Michael, Beelzebub, that governess of theirs and Anthony."

"And Madame Tracy?"

"Who?" Sandalphon stared at him with a complete lack of understanding.

"Madame Tracy. The housekeeper of Alderbury."

Sandalphon stared at him for a while longer and Aziraphale did his best to meet the other man's disbelieving gawk with a wide, guileless smile.

"How the devil would I remember the housekeeper? I guess she was serving breakfast, or something like that. Does it matter?"

"Probably not," Aziraphale conceded. "But please, do go on."

Sandalphon gave him another perplexed look but then continued.
"As I said. We were in the dining room. Breakfast and supper were usually served there, lunch as well when the weather did not allow it being taken on the terrace. That particular morning was very nice. Strong sunlight and all. Michael made a remark on it. Pretty rude, in her own way."

"Was she now? What did she say?"

"She said that it was a lovely room - especially in the mornings when the sun was shining through the window. Said that once it was her house, she would take it as her personal study and hang up some light curtains that would catch the sunlight just right."

"That was indeed rather presumptuous."

"Quite. And naturally Beelzebub jumped right on it."

"How did they react? One of those… outbursts?"

"Oh, nothing like that. It was always icy detachment when it came to Michael. No, they just asked whatever Michael might mean with saying such a silly thing."

Aziraphale leaned forward eagerly. "And then?"

"And then Michael said, in front of all of us, with that polite, calm voice of hers, that Beelzebub would do well to stop lying to themselves. That they all knew Gabriel meant to divorce them and marry her. And that once she was his wife, she naturally would be mistress of Alderbury as it was his estate and not Beelzebub's."

Aziraphale raised his eyebrows at that. "And how did Beelzebub react?"

"With the derision they had shown Michael from the start. Just smiled at her, all sugar and sweetness, and said she must be quite mistaken. But I knew Beelzebub. There was definitely tension in them. And of course, that was the moment when Gabriel came it and was barged upon right on the spot, the poor sap."

The poor sap who had brought this situation entirely on himself, Aziraphale did not say. He merely nodded in encouragement for Sandalphon to continue.

"Well, there he was. Both Michael and Beelzebub demanding of him to confirm whether it was true. He tried to hem and haw, did his best to calm the whole unsavoury scene, but they would not let it go. In the end, he had to admit that it was true. That yes, he did mean to marry Michael. But he would not be talking about it any further until the painting was finished."

"He really was singularly focused on that painting, was he not?"

"You did not know him." Sandalphon sighed. "He was a genius. His art was his life. Another reason why he should not have married at all."

"That," Aziraphale said somewhat stiffly, “might very well be true. However, I would like to ask something more of you."

"Yes?"

"Could you recount the day of the murder?"

Sandalphon's face took on that sour expression once again. "I expected you'd ask me that." He sighed heavily. "I'm only doing this so you understand there really was no doubt of Beelzebub's guilt. It's unfortunate for Anathema but if she’s so set to have the truth confirmed, I can't help it."

"It would be very kind of you. I do value your recollections very highly."

Sandalphon eyed him somewhat suspiciously but then drew his shoulders back and pursed his lips before he continued to speak. "As you must know, the poison that was used had been stolen from my sister. We were at hers for tea the day before. You can imagine how comfortable that was after the whole spectacle at breakfast. Anyway – somewhen during the visit Uriel started blathering about her little hobby. Even went as far as taking us to what she called her laboratory. Showed us some of her brews. I didn't really pay much attention, dreadfully dull the whole thing. Beelzebub must have paid attention though, because during the following morning I was being called to the telephone. It was Uriel. One of her brews had gone missing. The one she had been on about the day before. Something she got out of a plant or another."

"Yes, the coniine. Someone had taken the flask?"

"No. Drained it. The flask was still there but as good as empty. Uriel was in a right state. Wasn't sure what to do about it. She was never licensed, you see. Got into quite some trouble because of that at the trial, not that it helped much by then. In any case, I told her to come over to Alderbury and we would talk it through. Talk it through! If I could change one thing in my life, it would be that!"

"How so?" Aziraphale asked in surprise.

"Don't be stupid! I should have gone to Beelzebub right away and confronted them. Told them that I knew what they were up to. Or I should have warned Gabriel. Or better yet, both. But no, I was worried about legal implications. Legal implications! This was the one time I failed Gabriel. The only time I ever failed him and…"
He broke off, his small, strong-looking hands were clenched to fists.

Aziraphale took a deep breath. "This was not your fault," he repeated the words he had told the older Blake sibling just the previous day. Sandalphon heaved a chortled, dry laugh.

"I could have prevented it."

"You might have delayed it. But you acted to the best of your knowledge – "

"No, I did not!" He interrupted, his voice hoarse. "Have you not listened? Have you paid any attention at all? I should have gone to Beelzebub at once, even you must see that."

Aziraphale drew in a deep breath. Sat a bit more upright. Straightened his waistcoat. "I have listened very well. But you could not possibly have been certain that it had been Beelzebub who took the poison."

"Who else could it be? Who else had any reason to want Gabriel dead? And it was them, they did admit it."

Aziraphale just nodded. There was no use, he thought, in pointing out again that Sandalphon could not objectively have been sure at the time.

"So, your sister came over to Alderbury. What happened then?"

"We met on the path leading up from the beach, right outside the hedges of the Wall Garden. I was just about to ask Uriel to explain when we heard voices. It was Gabriel and Beelzebub, they were in the garden."

"And they were fighting?"

"If you want to call it that. Beelzebub was tearing into poor Gabriel. Kept on telling him that it was cruel and he was playing with fire and he should really be more careful. He tried to placate them. I remember him saying something that everything would be fine."

Aziraphale stared at him. "Gabriel Crale, who had admitted to intending to divorce his spouse, told them that everything would be fine?"

Sandalphon shrugged. "As I said, Gabriel wasn't really a man for marriage. However, Beelzebub seemed about as incredulous as you are."

"What did they say?"

"Told him something along the lines of 'you're blind – and if you ever as much as think of divorcing me, I will drag you to hell'."

Aziraphale let out a long-drawn breath.

"Yes." Sandalphon agreed tersely. "Uriel and I went on, neither of us keen on hearing more about that. We continued up towards the house and met Michael on the way. Apparently she had taken a break from sitting model. When we came to the house, we were first accosted by Anthony who rambled at Uriel about one thing or another and then afterwards met the governess who asked us if we knew where Beelzebub was. By that time Beelzebub had caught up with us. They wished us good morning as if nothing had happened at all and invited Uriel to stay for lunch. The whole house seemed busy and there was nowhere calm to properly talk, so we decided to get back to it after lunch. If we had only…"

Aziraphale sighed and shook his head. "And after lunch?"

"You know very well what happened after lunch. Beelzebub and the governess went to bring Gabriel some coffee. It wasn't unusual, him not joining in on meals when he was focused on his work. They had left the sugar behind and Gabriel was very opinionated about taking his coffee with sugar. Uriel offered to go after them, no doubt in hope to avoid anything else putting a strain on the tense atmosphere. Next thing I know is her running back towards us, white as a sheet, yelling that we have to call the doctor immediately. That's when I knew. Michael had realised that something was wrong, too. She sprung up and started running towards the garden. I followed her, not sure what she would do when she found out. Good thing, too. She was like a fury. It took both me and the governess to keep her back. I've never seen anyone lose control like that. She was ready to tear Beelzebub's face off with her bare hands. Break every bone in their body. Throw them over the wall and down into the sea… I wish I could have let her. I would have stood right beside her, watching Beelzebub crash onto the rocks below."

Chapter Text

*

"There are things I know without having to be told."

*

It was a relief to be back at Alderbury, Aziraphale thought as he allowed himself to sink into sun-warmed cushions. Madame Tracy was serving him and herself afternoon tea on the terrace, tutting about him having missed lunch due to being back from Lymington that late.

"I wish Anthony had let me know you weren't going out for lunch. I would have prepared something for you. Only because he has no regard for the proper appointment of meals…" She pursed her lips in what Aziraphale suspected was supposed to be a show of reprimand but appeared more as warm concern.

"That is quite alright, do not worry." He smiled at her. "And all of this really is delightful. You spoil me terribly."

"Nonsense," she replied sternly and then returned his smile, "it's entirely my pleasure, I assure you."

"A pleasure it is indeed," he confirmed. He was not one for abundant praise - but credit where it was due and she deserved all of it. "Your skills are marvellous and the company does not fall short of it."

"Ah, you…" she tittered and fluttered her lashes at him. "You really are a smart one, aren't you!"

"In more than one way, I would hope."

She chuckled mildly and lifted her cup. "I have heard of you and your accomplishments."

He raised his eyebrows at her while finishing a delectable liver and salmon sandwich.

"I'm surprised that Anathema has got herself on this mission. Although, maybe I shouldn't be if she resembles her parents in any way."

"You have not met her?"

"Not often, no. Here and there. She has visited the estate, of course, and I did get the impression that she got both of her parents' purposeful will."

It was said kindly and Aziraphale nodded. "Yes, I think that is a rather fitting way to describe her. And I have been wondering – " She glanced at him with an eager although somewhat guarded expression " – what are your thoughts on Beelzebub and Gabriel Crale? And the tragedy that occurred?"

"Straight for the money." Her lips twitched and something in her demeanour shifted. Settled. As if she was letting go of a coat she had been wrapping tightly around herself. He waited in silence for her to continue, made sure to appear friendly and welcoming.

Madame Tracy heaved a sigh. "You know my real name, I assume?"

"Marjorie Potts, yes, it is mentioned in the police files."

She nodded and stirred her cup. "Beelzebub found me, shortly before they married Gabriel."

Found. Aziraphale frowned but did not interrupt.

"I don't know what they were doing in that part of London," she raised her eyebrow at Aziraphale with a twinkle in her eyes, "but they looked interesting enough to catch my attention."

"Ah," said Aziraphale because he really was not sure what would be an appropriate response to this. It seemed to amuse the housekeeper and she chuckled.

"Oh, don't act so scandalised. A man of the world like you, you must know about all sorts of places and the things that take part there."

"Madame, I assure you –"

"Madame indeed," she interrupted and outright snickered, then leaned over and patted his hand. "Don't you mind me. I have never been ashamed of where I've come from. In any case, Beelzebub caught my attention and I approached them, offering them some… company."

"And their reply?"

"They asked me whether I liked my current working conditions. That they were in search of a housekeeper for their future home, three evenings off during which I could follow whichever pursuits I was inclined to, and that I would be perfect for the position."

Aziraphale stared, teacup raised halfway to his lips.

"Yes, quite." Madame Tracy smiled at him. "I'm rather sure my expression must have been about the same as yours is right now. They did give me a few days to consider. Gave me the card to a very respectable club they were staying at in case I would accept their offer. I'll admit, I was quite sure there would be a scandalous side to the whole thing, but there never was. I went to the club, they took me out to meet their fiancé, both assured me that the offer was completely respectable and I was free to do as I chose in my free time and that was that. I took the chance. Maybe the risk, thinking back on it now. But it was a risk that paid off well."

Aziraphale hummed, taking a sip of his tea.

"Why I'm tell you that, Mr Fell, is to try and explain the sort of person Beelzebub Crale was. They had their own way about things. Their very own moral code and an exceptional skill to judge character. I was, and always will be, extremely fond of them. However, beyond everything else, they were an honest person. And in their memory, so will I be. If you're asking me whether I can imagine them having killed their husband, then yes, I can imagine it very well."

And with that she raised her own cup to her lips again and looked at him earnestly.

Aziraphale drew in a low breath.

"Why do you think so?"

"Because while Beelzebub and Gabriel scraped and bickered and often fought and each had their little liaisons, they truly used to be a devoted couple. As I said, Beelzebub was a good judge of character and as such bestowed their loyalty only on a very select amount of people. Of all those people, I've only seen them being disappointed once before. And they did not take to it prettily. I won't go into further detail, but let me assure you, once Beelzebub Crale's trust was broken, you wouldn't want to be the one who did it. So for Gabriel, who had always been the closest and most important person in their life, to divorce them for a girl he had known but a few weeks – yes, I do find it believable that they killed him."

"How did you learn of Gabriel intending to divorce them? Did Beelzebub tell you?"

"No. I'm not sure when they would have done so. Despite the occasional flare of temper, they were very private where their true feelings were concerned – a trait their brother most definitely shares with them," she sighed and Aziraphale's hand clenched around his teacup, "yes, they could be very private, in their own way. I learnt about the divorce the same way everyone else did, with Michael Greer saying so the day before the murder and Gabriel having to confirm it. And then there was the morning of the day itself…"

"Yes, Aziraphale prompted. He had read of this but had not expected a recount of it before meeting Michael Greer.

"Most of the people were in the gardens that morning and Gabriel was just getting ready to head out as well, when Beelzebub went to his study to talk to him. I didn't catch much of their conversation, could only hear fragments along the lines of don't you see how impossible you're behaving – I will not stand for it – don't you dare not taking this serious, you will take me serious or I swear you'll regret it."

She sighed and Aziraphale sat in quiet contemplation for a while. Yes, he had read a similar accord in the case notes of Michael Greer's statement as the young woman had overheard the conversation as well. He was very eager to hear how she would be remembering it.

"I'm sorry for Anathema," Madame Tracy said at last. "I'd wish for her to get better news, but I can honestly not imagine anyone else having a reason to have killed Gabriel. He might not have been the nicest man but it seems impossible that it could have been anyone but the people present and from those, only Beelzebub had a motive."

Aziraphale nodded silently, lost in thought. Yes, that what it always came back to. The motive. Incongruences in evidence and psychological discrepancies aside, who would have had a motive aside from Beelzebub Crale? He thought of those five people, how their memories interweaved, how this whole house, this whole estate, seemed to be populated with them. How, if Uriel Blake's estate was a home to ghosts, Alderbury was one to memories.

"They tended to be underestimated," Madame Tracy's soft voice brought him back into the present.

"Pardon?"

"Beelzebub Crale, they tended to be underestimated," Madame Tracy repeated.

"How so?" Aziraphale asked with interest. From what he had learnt, he did not think anyone had ever underestimated Beelzebub Crale. Not considering everyone saw them capable of committing murder.

"They tended to provoke people, be it intentional or not. Many left it at that and just saw them as some sort of enfant terrible, out to garner attention. Some, however, saw past that - and what they saw was a loyal person terribly in love with their husband and slave to their uncontrollable temper. And they left it at that, did not look any further."

"What else was there to see?" Aziraphale asked, not doubting that these were just fractions that made up Beelzebub Crale.

"So much more," Madame Tracy replied. "They were loyal and caring and, yes, provocative although not because of a performative urge. But there was also another side to them. Something potentially vicious. I can't really explain it. Gabriel knew of it, I'm sure. And that side, people did not see. They saw them as a ridiculous farce or a petty spouse. Even as a murderer, they were always seen as driven by jealousy and helpless in face of their own emotions. People did not see their unyielding mind and an almost merciless force behind it and, as such, they underestimated them. It's the same with Anthony…"

Aziraphale tensed. "How do you mean?"

"Maybe it's something in the blood. I don't know about those things, but maybe there is something to it," Madame Tracy mused. "In any case," she shrugged, "with Anthony, too, people tend to underestimate him."

"In what way?" Aziraphale asked, observing her closely.

"You know, Mr Fell," she said, not really in answer, "I once asked Anthony what he perceived as the most challenging thing in his work. It was right after his first expedition, I was curious, you see." For the first time her eyes left his. She watched the gardens, unfocused and almost as if caught in a dream. "And he answered that the biggest challenge was to not stop at the layer you expected to find. To take it in and document it and then break it apart to learn what lies below, to look for the full picture. That the most challenging thing was to not only see all the details that supported your ideas, but to search for those that contradicted them. That from the things you didn't like and wished they weren't there it was that you were to learn the truth."

Aziraphale sat still for a while. There was something in the weight of the words that made him wonder whether he had just received a hint. Or a warning. At last, he straightened up and cleared his throat.

"I understand that very well. It is the same in my profession."

"Yes," Madame Tracy said, still dreamlike. Then she turned her head back towards him and he saw a small smile on her lips. "Yes, I thought you might understand."

Supper was a quiet affair once again. Crowley and Madame Tracey were busy discussing various points pertaining the management of the estate while Aziraphale reflected on the two conversations of the day. Both Sandalphon Blake and Madame Tracy seemed in accordance where it came to Beelzebub Crale having poisoned their husband. And yet… It was the end of his talk with the housekeeper that kept on creeping back into his mind. More than once he glanced over to where his host was talking and wondered…

Still deep in thoughts, he barely registered as the meal came to a close and felt a bit guilty not having given it the full attention it undoubtably would have deserved.

"How about the two of you settling in for some nice port. The fireplace is just the right thing for an evening like this," Madame Tracy chittered with glee and Aziraphale blinked. He glanced at where the fire had been lit some time before their meal and then over at Crowley who stared at his housekeeper with something Aziraphale strongly suspected was a perplexed frown.

"Well, I'm certainly happy to offer," Crowley said with a glimpse at Aziraphale who smiled in return.

"That would be rather nice, thank you."

They settled into luxurious wing chairs placed at an ideal angle in front of the fire and both appeared content to sip their drinks in silence for a while after Madame Tracy had wished them good night.

"So," Crowley said at last, "Sandalphon Blake…"

Aziraphale hummed, contemplating the lovely ruby colour of the vintage.

"What did you make of him?"

"That he was not overly fond of Beelzebub Crale."

Crowley snorted inelegantly. "That's one way to put it."

"Jealous?" Aziraphale asked. It was not really a question, he was very secure in the conclusion he had drawn. Crowley's mouth curved into something scornful.

"As hell, if you ask me."

Aziraphale nodded. "Yes, I thought so. Was there… I mean, were he and Gabriel…"

"Yes," Crowley confirmed. "Nothing official, mind you, but yes."

"You seem very sure of that?"

"I am absolutely sure of that."

"Ah," said Aziraphale and felt slightly uncomfortable all of a sudden, although he could not understand why. "And your opinion on that?"

Crowley studied him for a long while and he wished he would not wear those dark glasses. He was rather curious about the look in his eye.

"Are you asking me my opinion on Gabriel having affairs – or on the variety of those affairs?"

"Either, I suppose. Or both."

Crowley eyed him, tapping the rim of his empty glass against his lips, then straightened up and put it on the small table between their seats.

"Neither was of any significance to me," he answered while refilling his drink. "And you must have heard by now that Beelzebub and Gabriel lived in rather liberal circumstances."

"Until Michael Greer."

"Yes," Crowley said sourly, "until Michael Greer." He set down the decanter with a sharp clink.

Aziraphale took him in. The tense jaws. The twist to the mouth. The furrowed brow. The way the firelight reflected in his glasses.

"You will not talk to me about Michael Greer, will you? Not until I have met her for myself."

There was the curve of a smile. It looked amused and not particularly kind.

"Well observed."

"Observation is my profession," Aziraphale said. "Why are you always wearing those glasses?" he blurted out.

The amusement on Crowley's face grew.

"Took you long enough. I was wondering when you'd ask about that."

"So, why then?" Aziraphale pressed on, not about to be distracted now that he had raised the topic. "I know it's not for provocation nor shame."

"You do know that, don't you?" Crowley tilted his head, a smirk on his lips.

"Yes, I do. You must have realised I am not bothered by them. And I know of shame, have seen it many times. It is not that either."

Crowley was studying him, took a sip from his drink. "No, I'm certainly not ashamed of my injury," he said at last and set his drink down. He reached up to take off his glasses, folded them neatly and put them on the table.

Aziraphale tried his best not to stare. It should be impossible but the low light made the scars appear even more prominent. The fire sent an unnatural sheen across his false eye but the real one…

"Yes, that's why I usually keep them on."

Aziraphale frowned and noticed the wry slant of what had before been an amused smirk.

"I… don't understand," he admitted.

Crowley raised an eyebrow at him and he really tried not to stare. He tried.

"I don't have an issue with people staring." Crowley picked up his drink again. "I don't mind people seeing it, I just got tired of it being a distraction."

Aziraphale felt realisation hit him. Yes, that made sense.

Crowley waved at his face. "They see the scars and the false eye and as much as they try to ignore it, their attention always goes back to it."

"And you want them paying attention to you." Aziraphale pointed out and there was something almost pleased in Crowley's expression. As if he was proud of him for understanding. Aziraphale nodded to himself and took a sip of his own drink. It would keep him from saying something untoward. Like implying that the reason why people stared might not be the damaged eye but the disconcerting intensity of his real one.

"The glasses help. People's minds register them as part of my clothing but don't fixate on them. And if they do, it's in outrage." He grinned and Aziraphale rolled his eyes. "Anyway, enough of that, why did you leave the police force?"

"Pardon?" Aziraphale blinked.

"You asked me a personal question, I'm returning the favour."

"Of course I am asking personal questions. I am conducting a murder investigation -"

"- which my wearing dark glasses has absolutely nothing to do with. So, why did you leave the police force?"

Aziraphale gaped at the man. At the eyes, so clearly mismatched in the firelight, one visibly dead while the other gleamed with life. He lifted his drink and suppressed a shiver. Something in that gaze compelled him to reveal himself. To lay himself out, find himself bare because this man knew and understood all of him. It was a ridiculous notion that he could not shake, had not been able to shake ever since he had met him. The uncanny sensation that the archaeologist could see right through him.

Crowley was watching him with warm, inviting curiosity. He swallowed down a gulp of excellent vintage and took a deep breath.

"I wanted to be free," he confessed.

Crowley nodded slightly, something that looked dangerously like appreciation in his unsettling eye.

"I wanted to be free from the regulations and the papers and the bureaucracy. I was tired of being told which cases to take and when to hand them over to someone else. I was tired of…" he broke off. Filled his mouth with port.

Crowley was nodding again. He was solemn now but there was still the overwhelming feeling of inviting comprehension.

"I wanted to be able to pick my own cases. Conduct my investigations as I see fit without having to defend my methods. To be able to refuse a commission, to decide - " He cut himself off, having said enough already.

Crowley's lips curled into a smirk. It was less wry now, more teasing. Maybe challenging. "Policeman and judge. No, our polite society is very loudly opposed to one person filling both roles."

"I have never – " he began to protest.

"Oh, I'm not accusing you of foul play while in service of the public, Mr Fell, not at all." Crowley was looking at him over the rim of his port glass, "I'm only implying that you seem much better suited as a private investigator. And in any case," his expression grew pensive, "I don't think you've ever been the hangman. No – you haven't come to the point where you've taken on the hangman's hood, I'm quite sure."