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Chapter Text

Advent Sunday

Christmas in the Barnaby household was a time of festive cheer, community spirit, and endless social gatherings. And by the final Advent Sunday, DCI Tom Barnaby was exhausted and ready to convert to Buddhism or book the month of January for a silent retreat. It didn’t help that family tensions too often boiled over into violence that required the intervention of the police, ruining what little peace and joy he’d managed to find. He’d lost track of the number of times he’d had his Christmas dinner spoiled by the Midsomer citizenry’s inharmonious ways. It was little wonder he anticipated the advent of Advent with a mixture of trepidation and resignation.

So it was with some concern and a great deal of disappointment that he saw a tiny Christmas tree appear on the desk of his junior partner, DC Ben Jones, on November 28. Up until this point, Barnaby had found Jones to be an eminently sensible young man, occasionally irreverent and not always able to school his reactions, but hardworking and eager to please. Christmas decorations before December did not please him.

It wasn’t that he objected to a bit of festive cheer. He was perfectly happy to wear paper hats and steal a sanctioned kiss under the mistletoe, but there was a time and place. And the time did not include November, no matter what the Advent calendar said.

But he held his tongue. The first murder or major assault on Christmas Day would strip away Jones’s enthusiasm about the holidays. He could put up with a mini faux fir for now. And really, there was no harm in building the momentum for the annual Causton Constabulary Christmas party a little earlier than usual, as long as he wasn’t expected to be involved in any way other than as a guest.

Over the next week, the decorations multiplied; a silver garland that Jones draped along the front of his desk; a string of twinkling fairy lights that Tom refused to admit were festive. And then the Christmas cards started to arrive.

“What are you doing?” Jones asked, as Tom read and binned the morning post.

“They cause too much clutter,” Tom replied, looking pointedly at the cluster of cards surrounding Jones’s tree.

“I can fix that,” Jones replied. He found a clear space at the bottom of the bulletin board, spaced out two push pins and tied a string between them. Then he retrieved the cards from Tom’s recycling bin and hung them on the line. “There we go. Out of the way.”

Tom searched for another objection that wouldn’t make him sound like a grumpy old man, then gave it up for a lost cause. “Don’t get your hopes up. More often than not we get called out over the holidays. Christmas seems to bring out the murderous spirit in Midsomer.”

“That’s all right,” Jones replied. “I was going to volunteer to be on call over Christmas anyway. Let the ones with families have the day.”

Tom frowned. He’d heard Jones mention grandparents and uncles, and he knew at least some of them lived locally. “I thought you had family in Midsomer.”

“I do, but it’s not the same as having kids at home. I can drop by my Gran’s any time on Christmas Day.” He grinned. “She just turned eighty and she still won’t let my aunt cook Christmas dinner.”

No parents mentioned, Tom noticed. In fact, he couldn’t remember Jones ever mentioning his mother or father. Back in Wales, he supposed. “We’ll make sure you get to your Gran’s,” he promised. “Christmas is a time for family.”

Jones smiled his thanks, but it was surprisingly muted. Tom was about to ask if anything was wrong, then hesitated. He made it a policy not to pry too deeply into his colleagues’ lives. What he didn’t know he wouldn’t be expected to care about, Christmas or not.

Second Sunday

The Monday after the second Advent Sunday brought a body. A retired barrister, found by his housekeeper collapsed on the hearth, tangled in Christmas lights. He and Jones were called in because the first officer on the scene noted a cut and bruise on his temple.

“Not much blood for a head wound,” Jones commented. “Could he have been killed somewhere else and moved here?”

“Unlikely,” George Bullard said, looking up from his examination of the body. “Wound is consistent with him hitting his head on the mantle.”

Jones frowned and stepped back. “Someone could have pushed him, he hit his head on the mantle, and pulled the lights down as he fell.”

“That’s a very dark outlook for one so festive,” Tom said, nodding at Jones’s tie, dark green with red flecks.

Jones glanced down. “Too much?” he asked, looking tentative enough that Tom almost felt bad for teasing him. “My Gran gave it to me.”

Tom definitely felt bad. “Very nice,” he said. And it was. If anything, it was a bit too nice. Tom preferred a more subtle look, understated authority.

“I can’t rule out foul play until I’ve done the post mortem,” Bullard interjected, “but I’d say this is a case of clogged arteries. The only bodily harm here is self-inflicted.”

“I’ll talk to the neighbours,” Jones volunteered. “See if they noticed anything suspicious.” He slipped away, notebook already in his hand.

“Oh, to be so young and enthusiastic,” Bullard sighed, his knees cracking as he stood up.

“It’s a welcome change from Scott, whose enthusiasm began and ended with attractive witnesses,” Tom said, “but all that unbridled energy can be exhausting. The other day I asked him to break down a door and he looked as happy as if I’d given him a puppy.”

Bullard smirked. “Enjoy it while you can. He’ll be annoyed by your unnecessary requests soon enough.”

“My requests are not unnecessary,” Tom protested, though he knew that many of the tasks he assigned to Jones were more often carried out by uniform. Jones, however, had a wealth of experience with those tasks, and didn’t need to be instructed or briefed on the situation. But he knew he would need to make sure Jones’s duties properly reflected his position, especially as he expected Jones to be featured in the next round of promotions. He wished the wheels of bureaucracy turned a bit faster - it would have been a perfect present for his Christmas-loving constable to become a sergeant.

“I’ll have the results of the PM to you by Wednesday,” Bullard said. “Hopefully we’ll be able to cross this one off our Christmas list.”

~~~

On Tuesday, Barnaby was left to his own devices when Jones was co-opted to join the Christmas party planning committee. Things had remained blessedly quiet, so Tom was happy to share Jones’s holiday enthusiasm for the benefit of all.

It had to be said that Jones possessed admirable organizational skills, which boded well for the party. Tom didn’t normally mix socially with the ranks, but the Christmas party was an exception. There was something comforting about celebrating the emergence from darkness into light with the men and women who saw so much darkness from day to day. His musings were interrupted when Bullard stopped by to drop off the post-mortem report on their body. Things really must be quiet for him to have finished it ahead of schedule.

“It’s a Christmas miracle,” Bullard proclaimed. “Died of natural causes. Massive heart attack. Dead before he hit the hearth, which is why there was so little blood from the head wound.”

“The heart attack couldn’t have been induced?” Tom asked hopefully. It wasn’t that he wanted Gregor MacCreary to have been murdered, but he’d hoped that a murder now would lessen the chances that he would be called out on Christmas Day.

“I know how suspicious you are, so I did a full tox screen,” Bullard replied. “Nothing unexpected.” He glanced around, smiling when he saw Jones’s desk. “Nice to see someone is in the Christmas spirit around here.

Tom sighed. “Easy for you to say. Did you know he was singing Christmas carols in the car this morning? Christmas carols. Before 8am.” Tom would never admit it, but he was singing along by the time they arrived at the station.

“I can think of worse ways to start the day,” George replied. “He’s a lovely lyric tenor.” He looked speculatively at Jones’s desk again. “You know, if you convinced him to come back to the choir for our Christmas concert that might channel his festive spirits elsewhere.”

“Or I’ll have to listen to him rehearsing,” Tom pointed out. He might have missed the Four Choirs competition, but between Jones and Joyce, he’d heard enough of the music to have “Fair Phyllis” running on a loop in his head for days.

On the other hand, Joyce would be overjoyed if Jones rejoined the choir and domestic tranquility in the days leading up to Christmas was a precious commodity. “Just leave me out of it. If he says no, Joyce will find some reason to blame me, so I need plausible deniability.”

Bullard just laughed, but he studied Jones’s display almost as carefully as a crime scene. The next morning, he dropped by again, ostensibly to update them on the pathology lab’s holiday schedule, but Tom knew he had an ulterior motive.

“I was admiring your holiday display yesterday,” Bullard said casually, though nobody was fooled in the slightest. He handed Jones a jaunty Santa figurine. “Kath says there’s no more space on the mantel, but I didn’t want this to go to the charity shop. I thought you might have a place for him.”

Jones’s smile was radiant. “Thank you, sir,” he said, posing the figurine next to his phone, all the better to take messages about who has been naughty and nice.

“Call me George,” Bullard said. “It’s Christmas, and we’ve stood over enough dead bodies together to dispense with formalities.”

It was chilly in Causton, even for the season, but Tom thought it would have to get a lot colder in a certain subterranean site before that would happen. It was one of the things he liked best about Jones; he was respectful without being obsequious.

Bullard’s intentions might not be diabolical, but they were far from pure. “The choir has a concert on the 21st,” he said casually. “We could really use another tenor for the Biebl.”

Surprisingly, Jones seemed to understand the reference, humming a few bars. “We sang that one at school,” he said, correctly interpreting Tom’s expression. “Ave Maria. The choirmaster was very keen on it.”

Tom tried to imagine Jones as a choirboy and failed miserably. He was barely able to imagine him as an adult choir member and he’d witnessed it firsthand.

Bullard, on the other hand, was clearly envisioning - or hearing - choral harmony. “You can have the third verse,” he said. “Stephen Latimer has been useless since Carolyn Armitage agreed to see him. You would think that love would improve his voice, but it’s just made him a mess.”

“Et Verbum caro factum est, Et habitavit in nobis,” Jones sang, and this time Bullard looked as surprised as Tom felt. Jones blushed and looked down at his desk. “It’s on my Christmas playlist.”

Of course he had a Christmas playlist. Tom made a note to avoid riding with Jones for the balance of the month. Though he did like the Biebl.

“Does this mean you’re in?” Bullard asked hopefully. “Rehearsals on Mondays and Wednesdays, with the concert on the 21st. Really, Ben, it would make such a difference to the choir. And the new conductor is wonderful. Much less critical than Laurence.”

Jones tried to look stern, but the effect was undermined by his inability to keep the corners of his mouth turned downwards. “Undue influence, bribing a police officer,” he said, nodding at the Santa. “If this weren’t Christmas, I’d have to charge you, Mr. Bullard.”

“George.”

“Not at work,” Jones replied.

“But at rehearsal?” Bullard pressed, breaking into a smile that could power the fairy lights for the duration when Jones nodded. “Excellent. I’ll email you the parts, and Tom will make sure you can get away.”

It wasn’t a request, but Tom also knew it wasn’t an option. “Then you’d best leave us to it, so Jones can clear his desk.” He waited until Bullard was gone before he grabbed his phone. Even if he couldn’t take credit, he could at least reap the benefit of being the first to tell Joyce.

Gaudete Sunday

The third week of Advent was when things really started to ramp up in Midsomer, as the villages all tried to outdo each other on the festive front. Christmas markets and choral concerts; baking competitions and holiday parades around the village square. It meant all hands on deck watching for wrongdoings and Barnaby forced to trek about the county as the face of CID.

Jones was in his element, sipping hot apple cider in Midsomer Herne, browsing the craft stalls while keeping an eye out for pickpockets in Binwell, and taking charge of the safety inspections on the parade floats in Little Crosby. It took very little to convince him to judge the Christmas wreath competition in Fletcher’s Cross, which did much to increase Tom’s enjoyment of the holiday season.

“If you sing like that in Midsomer Worthy,” he said, after listening to Jones join in with some carollers in Luxton Deeping, “Joyce and George will never let you leave the choir.”

Jones smiled at the implied compliment. “Oh, I don’t think that will be a problem,” he said. “There’s a critical incident management course that starts in January on Wednesday evenings. I sent the professional development request to HR.”

Tom admired his initiative and deviousness, and he particularly appreciated being left out of the loop. Jones clearly understood the concept of plausible deniability and how it related to his marriage. “In that case, sing your heart out. And you can head off when we’re done here. Wouldn’t want you to be late for rehearsal.”

Jones’s smile broadened. “Thank you, sir. What’s on the schedule for tomorrow?”

“Paperwork in the morning. The Chief Super wants a year-end review on Friday. Then we’re off to Midsomer Parva for the Christmas baking competition. I think I can handle the judging on this one,” he said, patting his stomach. “You keep an eye out for sore losers.” He’d known more than one Midsomer competition to end in bodily harm.

Jones pursed his lips to keep from smirking, but the corners of his eyes crinkled in amusement. “Understood, sir. Best I keep out of it. Conflict of interest and all.”

Tom cocked his head to the side, then understanding slotted into place. “Your grandmother lives in Midsomer Parva. A baker, is she?”

“One of the best,” Jones said. “You’re in for a treat.” But there was a wistful note in his voice that pinged Tom’s police radar.

“Everything all right?” he asked, forgoing discretion this time.

“Sure,” Jones said, looking surprised. “Why?”

“No reason. Christmas can be a difficult time of year in our profession.”

Jones glanced around the gaily decorated village hall and looked pointedly at the mug of mulled wine in Tom’s hand.

“Yes, well, we’ve been lucky so far this year. Last year I got called out on Christmas Day. Though it was a welcome break from the in-laws.”  Not such a welcome break for Lydia Villiers, though.

“In-laws joining you again this year?” Jones asked, no sign of wistfulness now, just the quiet amusement that Tom had come to see as affection rather than insubordination. “I can keep an eye on the call sheet, if you like.”

“Cheeky bugger,” Tom chided, but he didn’t tell him not to.

~~~

Friday brought with it a visit from Chief Superintendent Roger Bannon, who descended from his office to spread fear and loathing through CID. Bannon was coasting his way to retirement, more interested in his golf handicap than day-to-day operations, but when the weather turned cold, he turned his attention back to the job, especially those areas of the job that had the potential to reflect well on him.

Hence the year-end reports, required well before year end, because Bannon was flying to Mauritius for the holidays. Tom had dutifully - albeit begrudgingly - submitted them first thing in the morning and assumed that would be the end of it. But just before noon, Bannon appeared in the flesh on his way to lunch.

“Tom,” he said, walking right past Jones without acknowledging him. “Good work on the closure rate this year. The Chief Constable will be very pleased.”

“I have a very good team,” he said, smiling at Jones, who ducked his head and moved to add some information on a series of burglaries they were monitoring to the whiteboard.

“About that,” Bannon said, lowering his voice. “I realize Scott went on leave with very little notice, which called for unusual measures, but it’s really not appropriate for a DCI to be partnered with a DC.”

“I agree,” Tom replied evenly, though he was seething inwardly. He hoped Jones was out of earshot, but doubted he was that lucky. “I expect that will be rectified in the new year promotions.”

Jones had passed both parts of the sergeant’s exam handily while he was still in patrol - he’d checked that before he arranged for the transfer - and Tom had written a glowing work performance assessment, but the final decision came from the promotions board. Though Tom was not without influence there, and Bannon knew it.

“Looking a bit like a panto around here,” he said spitefully, glancing dismissively at Jones’s desk. “Don’t forget that this is Serious Crimes.”

Tom frowned and looked over at Jones, who stood frozen by the whiteboard, pale even for an English winter. “I think you’ll find we take crime very seriously,” he said pointedly.

“Yes, yes, of course,” Bannon said, already moving on to other ways to ruin Tom’s day. “I’m sure that will be reflected in your presentation this afternoon.”

“What presentation?” Tom hissed, once Bannon had blown away on his ill wind.

Jones shook himself, still looking stricken. “The one he requested as a follow up to the reports. I put together a quick PowerPoint presentation on the key figures and sent it to you.”

“Oh, is that what that was?” Tom had seen the email, but as it hadn’t seemed to be about a current case, he’d filed it for future reading. “Thank you, Jones. An extra glass of eggnog for you today.”

But Jones couldn’t be jollied into a smile, and Tom wanted to smack CS Bannon, even more than usual. He would have to satisfy himself by confounding him with statistics and wasting both their afternoons.

When he came back after the meeting, the garland and lights were gone, the strings of cards packed away, and the tiny tree in the waste paper basket. Tom fished it out, tried to straighten the branches, but it was beyond repair. Bullard’s figurine had been spared the purge, but was tucked out of sight by the monitor.

“Where’s Jones?” he asked one of the other detectives, an inspector in Fraud.

“Took a call,” he said. “D&D at the White Hart. Rugby club Christmas party starting early.”

“That’s uniform’s problem,” Tom said, though he suspected Jones was on to the desk sergeant as soon as he went upstairs.

“Ah well, you know Jonesy,” the inspector replied, looking pointedly at Jones’s unadorned desk. “A good bust up will raise his spirits.”

That was true enough. Jones was always ready to jump into the middle of a brawl. Though if he got hit in the face and it affected his singing voice, there would be hell to pay.

He was more than done for the day, so he packed up and headed out, detouring to the Hart to check on the situation. But the patrons were back to drinking peacefully and there was no sign of Jones, just a patrolman taking statements.

“You just missed him,” PC West said, when Tom enquired about the whereabouts of his detective constable. “Said something about heading home before the next fight kicked off.”

Tom nodded and beat a hasty retreat. The last thing he needed on a Friday evening was to break up a brawl. He was looking forward to a quiet evening. Joyce, he knew, would have a full itinerary planned for the weekend. He wondered idly if he could order Jones to take his place on the inevitable craft crawl, but decided his authority and influence didn’t extend quite that far.

“How was your day?” Joyce asked when he went straight for the sofa after greeting her with a kiss. She handed him a tumbler of whiskey.

Tom grimaced. “The Chief Super blew through today, wrecking his usual havoc,” he said. “I had to spend half the afternoon explaining the year-end forecasts to him, and that was after he made a snarky comment about young Jones’s Christmas decorations. It was completely uncalled for, but Jones took it to heart and took everything down.”

“I thought you found his decorations excessive,” Joyce said

“Yes, but I have to look at them day in and day out. What business is it of Bannon’s?”

Joyce just smiled knowingly at him. “Have you invited him yet?” Joyce asked.

“Invited him to what?” Tom asked.

“To Christmas dinner, of course,” she replied, as if he were completely oblivious, which in this case he was.

“Why would I invite him to Christmas dinner?” he asked. It wasn’t that he objected. Jones was good company and would provide gender and age balance to the table, but he was fairly certain they hadn’t discussed this before.

“Why wouldn’t you?” Joyce countered. “You invited Daniel. And Gavin before him.”

“We knew Troy for years. And Scott never missed the chance for a free meal. But Jones says his grandmother does Christmas dinner.”

Joyce frowned. “Isn’t his grandmother Eliza Tompkins?”

Tom hadn’t the faintest idea, though he did remember that name from a very fine plate of shortbread at the Midsomer Parva baking competition. And Joyce was rarely wrong about the tangled relationships in Midsomer. Though it irritated him that she knew something about Jones that he didn’t.

“She’s going to Mallorca with her son’s family for the holidays. It’s a shame Ben couldn’t get the time off to join them.” The look she gave him suggested that it was somehow his fault.

“Before you cast me in the role of Scrooge,” Tom protested, “he never asked.” But he had made it clear that they would likely be working over the holidays, so Jones may just have assumed it wouldn’t be possible.

“Well, he’s hardly going to ask to come to ours then, is he?”

That was clearly the final word in her mind, not that Tom was inclined to object further. “I’ll invite him on Monday,” he capitulated. Unless, of course, the citizens of Midsomer had plans to ruin their weekend.

Chapter Text

Fourth Sunday

The fourth Advent Sunday came and went with no calls or major incident reports, and Tom was beginning to think the spirit of Christmas had temporarily reformed the criminal class in Midsomer.

He’d done his bit to help that spirit along with some assistance from Joyce. On Sunday, on the way back from the craft fair in Badger’s Drift, they stopped at the station to do a little decorating. Garlands draped along desks and over filing cabinets. Curled ribbons dangling from the ceiling. Joyce restrung the Christmas cards, while Tom tacked cedar boughs and holly around the doorway and windows. Joyce had wanted to add mistletoe, but Tom drew the line at that.

Jones didn’t say anything when he walked in - Tom had made sure to arrive early to see his face - but his smile of wonder and delight was all the thanks Tom needed. He’d brought his own Christmas cheer, a plate of gingerbread that Tom thought must have been made by his grandmother before she left for Mallorca.

He meant to ask about that as a pretext for inviting Jones for Christmas dinner, but then Jones got called away to a party planning meeting, and Tom left to meet with CPS on a case coming to trial in January, and before he knew it, the day was over and the invitation forgotten. The gingerbread was delicious, though.

Their luck held through Wednesday, and even though that meant more mornings catching up on paperwork and afternoons spent circulating among the Christmas crowds, it also meant that Jones made the Christmas concert and Tom was in the audience, shoulder to shoulder with Cully, who’d come home early for the holidays.

It was a lovely evening, with a sing-along of familiar carols, but also a selection of traditional Christmas music from other cultures. The finale was the “Ave Maria”, and Tom found himself tensing when it came to the third verse. But Jones’s voice was clear and warm, and Tom ignored Cully’s teasing nudge when he couldn’t stop a sigh of relief and appreciation.

“You were wonderful,” he told Joyce after the concert. She was flushed with excitement and pleasure, and he thought her as beautiful as the day he married her.

“Well done, Ben,” Cully said, giving Jones a hug and a peck on the cheek, and Tom had very mixed feelings about that, which he chose not to examine too closely.

“Yes, well done,” he said, inserting himself between his daughter and his constable to give the latter a firm clap on the shoulder. “I’m impressed you learned those songs in just two weeks.”

“I’m a quick study, sir,” Jones said, but he was preening at the compliment.

“Ix-nay on the ir-say,” Cully said. “I feel like I’m back in school.” Everybody laughed except Jones, who looked doubtful.

“Quite right,” Bullard said, joining them with his wife. “George, Kath, Joyce, Tom,” he said, pointing at each in turn.

Jones allowed himself a small smile. “Cully, Ben,” he added, looking pointedly at Tom.

“That’s right,” Cully exclaimed. “No going all headmaster at the Christmas table.”

At which point, Tom remembered that he’d forgotten to ask Jones to Christmas dinner, but before he could say anything, the new conductor, Samantha Foley, came over. She was young and pretty, and Tom suspected that Jones’s proficiency had come with some private tutoring, based on the way she smiled at him.

“I think that went very well,” she said, beaming. “It’s such a pleasure working with a choir so well-tuned. Pun totally intended,” she added with a self-deprecating grin. “George did a marvelous job stepping into the conducting breach. And recruiting.” She turned to Jones. “Surely we can convince you to stay with the choir.”

“I’m sorry,” Jones stammered. “Work. I’ve a course.” He sounded much less convincing than he had to Tom, but he clearly hadn’t anticipated having to make his excuses to an attractive and charming conductor. Laurence Barker would have been much easier to disappoint.

Jones looked around for back up, but Joyce and George were firmly on Samantha’s side, Cully was an amused and neutral bystander, and Tom’s allegiances were split, so he opted to abstain.

“Well, you’ll always have a place with us if your schedule changes.” She waved at another choir member who was trying to get her attention. “Excuse me. Merry Christmas to you all!”

“She seems very nice.” Tom spoke generally, but he was looking at Jones.

“She’s married,” Jones retorted, rolling his eyes. “Your dad thinks I’m interested in every woman we come across, and vice versa,” he complained to Cully.

“To be fair,” Cully replied, “your predecessor was. And they were.”

“Well, I’m not him.”

Tom was surprised at the vehemence in his voice. But the Chief Super wasn’t the only one who had made a snide comment about Jones’s appointment these past months. “Of course you aren’t,” he said mildly. “And I, for one, am very glad you are who you are.”

Jones flushed and looked away, heaving a little sigh of relief when his phone rang. “Excuse me,” he said, stepping away.

“What was that about?” Joyce asked.

“Bloody Roger Bannon. He made a comment about it not being appropriate for me to have a mere constable as my bagman. I hoped Jones didn’t hear, but he has ears like a fox.” He’d also hoped that Jones had seen his appointment for what it was - a testament to his abilities - but Jones was far more likely to brush off a compliment and take criticism to heart.

“I’m sure it will all be moot in the new year,” Bullard said. “I’ve given the promotions board my thoughts on the matter, for what they’re worth.”

“They’re worth a great deal, George. Thank you.” Tom was pleased that someone else had recognized what Tom had seen in Jones from the very first.

Jones hung up and walked back over. “Sorry, sir,” he said, ignoring Cully’s look of disapproval. “There’s been another burglary. I’ll go check out the scene and fill you in tomorrow morning.”

“Oh no, Ben,” Joyce said. “I was hoping you could join us for a drink. There’s a lovely pub just down the road.”

Jones smiled genuinely at her. “Another time. If I don’t see you, have a very Merry Christmas.”

Joyce watched him leave with the mixture of confusion and disappointment she’d perfected over the years. “Did he have other plans after all?” she asked Tom. But when she looked at him, the confusion disappeared and the disappointment deepened. “You didn’t ask him. Honestly, Tom. Do I have to call him myself?”

“We’ve been very busy,” Tom said, though they’d been anything but. It had simply slipped his mind.

“I’m meeting him for lunch on Friday,” Cully said. “If Dad hasn’t done it by then, I’ll make sure he’s coming. It’ll be a Festivus miracle.”

“Festivus?” Tom said, torn between confusion and concern. It wasn’t that he objected to Cully and Jones meeting socially, but Jones had better things to do than skive off in the middle of the day.

“You know, from Seinfeld. Festivus for the rest of us. Feats of strength, airing of grievances.” She emphasized the last point, giving Tom a sense of what their conversation was likely to be about.

“I’ll talk to him tomorrow,” Tom said, feeling set upon by all sides. “I’d hate to give you any more grievances to air.”

~~~

But the next day was the station Christmas party, and Jones was caught up in the final preparations once he got back from sitting in on the Burglary briefing.

It was, in fact, an excellent party. The punch more than lived up to its name, the lucky dip left all players satisfied, and Jones had arranged for a karaoke machine, kicking off the party with a cheeky version of “Merry Christmas, Baby”, complete with air sax. Tom tried to corner Jones to extend the invitation several times, but each time somebody pulled one of the other of them away. By the end of the evening, Tom was in no condition to remember anything other than his address for the taxi.

On Friday, their luck came to an end with the report of a break in at the Midsomer Wellow Anglican Church, which just happened to be the Chief Constable’s parish. CID went from monitoring the investigation to leading it in one irate phone call.

“I’d better call Cully and tell her lunch is off,” Jones said, correctly anticipating a long day ahead.

“I’ll do it,” Tom replied, calling her number. “I have a great deal of experience disappointing Barnaby women.” And he could get Cully to warn Joyce that it might be a late night.

Cully, predictably, saw right through him. “Cowards. Both of you,” she said, but without any real malice. “Tell Ben I’ll see him on Sunday,” she added.

Tom took it as the warning it was. “By the way, Ben,” he started, then sighed when his phone rang. It wasn’t good news. “Another one,” he told Jones. “Catholic Church in Aspern Tallow. Our burglar is ecumenical. And busy. I’ll take Midsomer Wellow and the Chief Constable. You head to Aspern Tallow.”

But there were no witnesses and far too much extraneous forensic evidence - the fingerprints alone would take days to sort out. They regrouped at the station in the late afternoon, and Jones pulled all the case reports to review with not-so-fresh eyes. Tom looked at times and places to see if there was any kind of pattern, while Jones compiled a list of the stolen goods and matched them to pictures from the insurance companies.

It was slow and painstaking work, but Tom knew that detecting meant digging through the details; hard work was rewarded more often than sheer luck. Though luck sometimes speeded up the process.

“I recognize this,” Jones said, pointing to a set of silver candlesticks. “I’m sure I saw it at a stall at the Binwell craft fair. I remember thinking they were much better than the rest of the tat on the table.”

Tom peered over his shoulder at the picture. One set of candlesticks looked much the same to him, but Jones had a tendency to notice and remember details that he didn’t. “Are you thinking our burglar is fencing his goods at craft fairs?”

“It’s a step up from the usual jumble sales,” Jones replied, “but a lot of the stuff that was taken was pretty artsy.”

Which was Jones’s way of calling it worthless. It was apparently too much to hope for a partner whose idea of art extended beyond the funny pages. Choral music appeared to be Jones’s limit, and probably only a grudging one.

“Print out a set of those photos,” Tom said. “Between the two of us, we’ve probably been to every Christmas market in Midsomer. Maybe we’ll recognize some of the other pieces and can figure out who set up the stall.”

It took another hour, but between them, they identified two more items that they’d thought they’d seen at different craft fairs: a vase at Badger’s Drift that Joyce had nearly bought, and a painting at Midsomer Parva. It might have been faster, Tom mused, if they’d brought Joyce in to look at the photos, but she was volunteering at the hospital all afternoon.

When they compared notes, their recollections of the vendor were similar enough to suggest the same man. Jones tracked down the organizers and asked them to send a list of exhibitors. Several individuals were at two of the three fairs, but only one was registered at all three, Terence Reynolds. While Jones ran a check on him, Tom looked at the craft fair listings on the Midsomer tourism site.

There was one on at Midsomer Malham, but it would be closed by the time they got there, and it was too close to the locations of the latest burglaries, which would increase the likelihood of the stolen goods being recognized. He checked Saturday’s events. Two possibilities, one at Morton Fendle and the other at Martyr Warren, which was also too close.

“No criminal record,” Jones reported back. “He lives in Newton Magna. No robberies reported there, so at least he isn’t stealing from his neighbours.”

“Let’s leave it for today,” Tom said decisively. “I think our best hope is to catch him in the act at another craft fair. I’m putting my money on Morton Fendle, so we’ll try there first. I’ll pick you up here at eleven tomorrow morning. With luck we’ll have a suspect in custody by noon.” He wouldn’t count on it, though. Things never went that smoothly at Christmas in Midsomer.

~~~

Christmas Eve dawned with no new reports of break-ins - probably because Reynolds was running out of fencing opportunities, Tom mused. “Sorry to bring you out on Christmas Eve,” he said when they got in the car.

“You did warn me,” Jones replied. “And if we catch him today, you can have Christmas free.”

“If we catch him, we’ll both have Christmas off,” Tom promised. He would work something out. He’d already checked the rota, and CID would still be covered in the case of an emergency. Jones wasn’t the only unattached officer on call. “If you’re not busy…” he started to say, but then Jones flipped on the radio, turning to a modern Christmas station. “My car, my music,” he said and turned it back to BBC 3.

Jones wrinkled his nose, then smiled, when a program of Christmas carols came on after the news. It was a compromise, Tom supposed, even if it meant the likelihood of singing. Fortunately, it was only half an hour to Morton Fendle from the station, and the program started with instrumental music. Jones hummed along, but it was soothing rather than annoying. Or perhaps Tom had simply grown accustomed to it.

Jones had arranged for a patrol unit to meet them at the old mill where the fair was taking place, in case they needed any assistance making the arrest. He gave them each a photo of Reynolds, but told them to stay outside until he called. Tom stood back, satisfied that he could leave the little details in Jones’s competent hands. 

The craft fair didn’t start until noon, but a flash of their badges got them early entrance. Jones had spoken to the organizer before they left and confirmed that Reynolds had a table. “Over there,” he said, looking at the map at the entrance before pointing to a stall in the corner.

No one was behind the table, which was already set up. Jones pulled out the list and pictures of the stolen items and started checking for matches. “Here’s the vase,” he said. “If you’re still looking for a present for Mrs. Barnaby.”

Tom gave him a look intended to demonstrate that this was not a laughing matter, but Jones just shook his head and laughed to himself. Apparently not even a call out on Christmas Eve could dampen his spirits. “Is Terence Reynolds around?” he asked the woman setting up the next stall.

“He was,” she said, “but he had to leave to drive someone to the airport.”

That dampened Jones’s spirits, his face falling at the thought of the investigation stretching out over the holidays, but there was still a little Christmas magic in the air.

“He should be back shortly, though,” the woman continued. “I said I’d keep an eye on his table if he was late. Is there a problem?”

“Not at all,” Tom said casually. “We just need to talk to him.” He probably should have suggested they dress casually to avoid raising suspicions, but it went against the grain.

“It’s very eclectic,” Jones added, nodding at Reynold’s table.

The woman, a potter named Dorothy Skillings, according to her sign, laughed. “It’s not his work,” she said. “He acts as an agent for different artisans.”

Tom had a sudden vision of Reynolds as a modern-day Fagin, sending urchins to break into homes and churches. He shuddered inwardly at the thought of the amount of paperwork that would entail.

“Those are nice,” Jones said, pointing at a set of bowls with a whimsical dragonfly design. “You’re very talented.”

Jones wasn’t as charming as Dan Scott, but he was more sincere, so Tom left him to reassure Ms. Skillings, while he watched the entrance. The fair was open now and the hall was starting to fill up, so he wandered a few feet away to get a better vantage point. Which was why he was caught unawares when the potter pointed to someone entering via the back door.

He definitely decided they should have dressed casually when Reynolds caught sight of Tom sticking out in a suit, and then clocked Jones starting to move towards him. He bolted and got out the door before Jones could reach him, and Tom chased after both of them, dodging his way through the growing crowd. He pulled out his walkie talkie to alert the patrol unit, and by the time he got outside, he could just see Jones disappearing down a wooded trail.

“Jones!” he shouted, realizing that the path led to the old mill pond. Back in the day, it was a popular place for skating, but it hadn’t been safe for years. There’d been a cold snap earlier in the week, more than enough to freeze the pond over, but the past few days had been warmer. “Watch the ice, it won’t hold!” But even as he shouted, he heard a terrible crack and a cry.

He rushed forward, turning the corner, heart in mouth when he saw Jones flat on his stomach, inching out towards a hole in the ice. “Get back, Jones!” he shouted, though when he saw Reynolds scrabbling to hold on to the edge of the ice, he knew his order would fall on deaf ears.

It wasn’t a large pond - no more than fifty feet across - but Reynolds had gotten a good twenty feet in before the ice gave way. Tom knew it was deep enough at that point that Reynolds wouldn’t be able to touch bottom for purchase. He pulled out the walkie talkie. “Suspect has gone through the ice on the old mill pond. Bring blankets and rope and call an ambulance.”

He looked around wildly for a long branch or vine that he could use to assist Jones, then pulled loose his scarf. It wasn’t long, but it would give Jones a few more feet of reach and safety. “Jones!” he shouted, trying to get his attention before he inched too close to the edge.

“Stay back, sir,” Jones called out. “It won’t take any more weight.”

It wasn’t taking the current weight. Tom could see cracks starring out from the hole and knew it was only a matter of time before the edges gave way. “Keep as far away as you can,” he ordered. “Use my scarf.” He balled up the scarf and pitched it as close to Jones as he could.

Jones reached back for it, then inched a few feet closer to the hole in the ice. “Grab hold of this,” he called out to Reynolds, tossing the end of the scarf towards the hole. It fell short, so Jones inched forward and tried again. This time, Reynolds was able to catch it, though when he grabbed hold, his weight pulled Jones forward another foot. Somehow, he gained traction, though, pulling the scarf tight.

For a few long minutes, Tom stood helplessly by, as Jones slowly inched backwards, pulling Reynolds’ upper body out of the icy water. One of the PCs ran up at last, a coil of rope over his shoulder. Tom grabbed it from him and threw one end to Jones. “Use this instead!” he shouted, watching impatiently as Jones pushed the rope towards Reynolds. At first, he thought the other man was too cold and tired to grab the rope, but then he saw Jones wave and shift his grip from the scarf to the rope.

Tom pulled tight and the constable grabbed hold, adding his weight as an anchor. A few tugs, and Reynolds was out of the water and flat on the ice. The other constable arrived with an armful of blankets, and together they started pulling both Reynolds and Jones towards the edge of the pond. But then Reynolds scrambled to his feet and the ice creaked in protest.

“Stay horizontal, you fool!” Tom shouted, but it was too late. Another chunk of ice broke away, as Reynolds started to run. Jones managed to turn around, making it easier for them to pull him to safety, but then the ice gave way under his legs, dunking him nearly to the waist.

They redoubled their efforts, pulling Jones back on the ice and quickly to shore, until Tom could let go of the rope and haul him onto the bank. Somehow Reynolds had managed to avoid falling in again, but he was intercepted by the second constable, who cuffed him and then wrapped a blanket around him.

“Get him out of here,” Tom ordered. “Have the medics check him for hypothermia, then put him in a nice warm cell for Christmas.” Forty-eight hours meant they wouldn’t have to deal with him until Boxing Day. He had more important things to worry about than a frozen thief.

He was still holding Jones upright, and he could feel the younger man shaking. The first constable handed him a blanket, and he tucked it around Jones. “Well done, Jones,” he murmured, rubbing a hand up and down Jones’s back until the shivering eased. “Well done. Let’s get you someplace warm and dry.”

They stumbled towards the old mill, where the medics were already ministering to Reynolds. “I’m okay,” Jones said through chattering teeth when Tom waved one of them over.

“Let him be the judge of that,” Tom scolded. “You’re soaked and freezing.” He pulled a pair of gloves from his overcoat pocket and forced them on Jones’s hands.

“Let me take your temperature,” the medic said, leading Jones to a nearby bench. His partner was loading Reynolds into the ambulance, a constable cuffed to one wrist. The medic stuck a thermometer in Jones’s mouth and waited for it to beep. He hummed as he looked at the readout. “95.2. Borderline hypothermic.”

“Here, Jonesy,” the other constable called out. “Some hot tea. Just what you need.”

Jones took the thermos gratefully and took a careful sip. His whole body shuddered as the hot liquid went down.

“How long were you in the water,” the medic asked, noting the reaction.

“Thirty seconds, maybe less.”

“But he was lying on the ice for at least five minutes,” Tom interjected.

“He needs to get out of those wet clothes and into a shower,” the medic told Tom. “He’ll be fine, but monitor his temperature for the next few hours. If it drops below 95, take him to the hospital.”

“Right,” Tom said. He handed Jones the car keys. “Go sit in the car, turn the heater up. I’ll be as fast as I can.”

“I can get uniform to run me home,” Jones protested. “You don’t need to bother.”

“Just do as I say,” Tom said, suddenly exhausted and unwilling to argue. For a moment he thought Jones would dig his heels in, but then he sighed and shuffled away. A moment later Tom heard the engine start. He nodded, satisfied. “Anything else I should watch for?” he asked the medic.

“Confusion. Slurred speech. Loss of coordination. Shivering is good. Means his body is doing its job.”

Tom nodded and stuck his head inside the ambulance. “Stay with him,” he told the constable. “If he needs to be admitted, call the desk sergeant and arrange for a guard 24/7.”  At least someone would pick up some overtime out of this debacle.

He thanked the constables who had helped with the rescue, arranged for the stolen goods on Reynolds’s table to be taken to Causton for processing and eventual return to their owners, then called the Chief Constable to let him know the burglar had been apprehended. His gratitude was both pleasing and useful.

Jones was dozing in the passenger seat, the car toasty warm. Tom leaned over to do up his seatbelt, trying not to disturb him, but Jones shifted and opened his eyes.

“All right?” Tom asked, embarrassed that he’d been caught fussing.

But Jones just smiled. “Fine, sir. Already feeling warmer.”

Tom resisted the impulse to reach over and feel his forehead, but only just. It was a little unsettling, but he put it down to the Christmas spirit. There had been a moment, though, when he thought Jones would go under the ice, and it had scared him in a way that surprised and disturbed him now. Danger was inherent in their jobs; he couldn’t afford to let worry get in the way of what needed to be done. Perhaps it was just that Jones was still relatively new. He hadn’t yet built a callous around his affection for the affable young man. Though what he planned to do next surely wouldn’t help.

He pulled away and headed to Jones’s bungalow on the outskirts of Causton. His house was closer, but they were no longer in any hurry, and Jones would object to being dressed in Tom’s old clothing again.

“I’ll just get changed quickly,” Jones said, when they pulled up.

Tom shook his head. “We’re done for the day. Long shower, quick change. I’ll make some tea.” He didn’t wait for an objection, just walked up to the front door and waited to be let in. 

Jones sighed and unlocked the door. “You don’t have to hover. I’m fine.”

Over the years, Tom had learned the importance of timing when it came to imposing his will, so he just waved Jones towards the bathroom. If nothing else, he would have some time to poke about Jones’s personal possessions. “Stay in until the water runs cold,” he ordered.

The bungalow was unsurprisingly neat and spartan. He didn’t think of Jones as a reader, though he was a quick study on more than just choral music. But there was a bookshelf with handbooks on police methods, including study guides - not just for the sergeant exams but for the inspector exams as well, already well-thumbed - mixed with some popular novels and several science fiction series.

What was surprising was how muted the Christmas decorations were - just a small tree with some mismatched ornaments and a string of lights, plus a small nativity scene on the coffee table. Jones clearly saved his enthusiasm for the office.

The kitchen was also surprising. A well-stocked pantry - and Tom had to wonder when he’d had time to go grocery shopping - as well as signs that Eliza was not the only baker in the family. He quickly turned on the kettle and dropped two tea bags in a pot when he heard Jones start to sing. Not choral music, but a more modern Christmas carol.

“A white Christmas, indeed,” he murmured, thinking Jones had surely had enough ice and snow. But he listened with a smile and took the opportunity to peek into the bedroom. It wasn’t as neat as the rest of the flat, the bed unmade and clothes strewn on the floor. There were a few framed photos on the wall: Jones with the Midsomer Constabulary gun team; an older woman that Tom thought must be his grandmother; a woman in her thirties with a young boy that was clearly Jones. No pictures of a father anywhere.

He darted back into the kitchen when the kettle whistled and made himself comfortable at the kitchen table while the tea steeped. It had been years since he was on tea duty in a strange kitchen. He was pleased he hadn’t lost his touch. 

When Jones came into the kitchen, he was dressed in joggers and a hoodie, his hair damp and tousled. He looked about twelve years old. Tom fixed him a mug of milky tea with a dash of honey. “Pack a bag,” he said, once Jones had taken a few sips. “Enough to last you to Monday.”

“Why?”

Baffled was Tom’s favourite expression on Jones, possibly because he saw it so often. “You’re staying over tonight so I can keep an eye on you. And tomorrow I’ll be far too relaxed to drive you home.” By relaxed he meant tipsy; he expected Jones to be in the same state. 

Jones just stared at him, and Tom felt suddenly uncertain. “Unless you have other plans, of course.” Perhaps Joyce was wrong about his grandmother.

“I’m on call,” Jones replied, finding his voice.

“Not any more. The Chief Constable was very pleased with today’s results. You’re on sick leave and I am enjoying the benefits of seniority.”

“I’m not sick,” Jones protested.

But Tom had seen how slowly he was moving, even after the hot shower, and knew they would both be stiff and sore tomorrow. “Call it pre-emptive sick leave. You’ve earned some R & R.” He thought of something else. “We could see if there are any flights to Mallorca tomorrow. It might not be a long holiday, but you could still spend Christmas with your family.”

Jones looked at him wide-eyed. “How did you know? I didn’t say anything.”

“No, you kept that very close to your vest,” Tom scolded. “But unfortunately for you, Joyce is tapped into all the local comings and goings. I could have arranged something,” he added, a little more gently.

“It’s all right. I had an early celebration with Gran. And I would have felt awkward tagging along with Uncle Harry’s family.”

“Well, I very much hope you won’t feel awkward tagging along with ours. Joyce and Cully have been insisting that I ask you over. We all want you to join us for Christmas.”

Jones ducked his head down. “I’d like that as well,” he said softly. “But I can come tomorrow. I don’t want to intrude.”

“You’re not intruding, and I’m afraid I’m going to have to put my foot down. You heard what the medic said. Your temperature needs to be monitored.” This time he had no qualms about reaching out and feeling Jones’s forehead. Even after a hot shower and drink, his skin was still too cool to the touch. “If you don’t come now, I’ll just have to drive straight back as soon as Joyce and Cully hear what happened.” He pulled out his phone. “I’ll let them know we’re on the way and to make up the spare room.”

“What about the in-laws?” Jones protested, not giving up the fight quite yet.

“At Joyce’s sister’s this year. So there’s plenty of room at the inn.” He dialed the landline before Jones could think up any other objections. “Joyce, love,” he said when she picked up. “We’ve cracked the case and are free for the holidays. I’m bringing Jones home with me. He’s agreed to stay until Boxing Day.” Jones had agreed to no such thing, but that was an unimportant detail.

“Oh, how wonderful.” Tom held out the phone so Jones could hear her response. “I already had the spare room made up, just in case.”

“You see?” Tom said. “Now go get packed.” He pressed the phone back against his ear.

“What happened?” Joyce asked. “What made you finally ask him?”

She knew him too well, knew that essentially kidnapping Jones for the weekend was easier for him than simply extending an invitation. He would examine that later, over a glass of good whisky. “He took an unplanned dip in the old mill pond at Morton Fendle. He’s fine, but his temperature should be monitored, and I don’t actually believe he owns a thermometer.”

Joyce hummed sympathetically, but Tom could hear a triumphal note in it. “Cully’s going to pick up Chinese food for an early supper,” she said. “I’ll make sure she gets hot and sour soup.”

“And spring rolls,” he said. “He likes spring rolls.”

Now Joyce laughed at him. “I’ll dig out the electric blanket and make some hot buttered rum. It’ll be a cozy Christmas Eve.” She hung up before he had a chance to protest.

Jones emerged from the bedroom, carrying a sports bag. He’d changed into a button-down shirt and slacks and combed his hair. Tom missed the tousled look already.

“Don’t forget your stocking,” he teased. “Santa tells me you’ve been very good.”

Jones rolled his eyes and scooped the presents from under the tree into his bag. “You don’t need to go to all this trouble, sir.”

“It’s no trouble at all. And it’s ix-nay on the ir-say, Ben.” The first name felt odd on his tongue, but he had all weekend to get used to it.

Chapter Text

Tom woke early; a vestigial memory, perhaps, of the days when Cully would run into their room long before dawn on Christmas Day. But it had been years since Cully woke early on Christmas.

Which was why the sound of someone moving about downstairs sent him into high alert. Joyce was still sleeping, so he slipped out of bed without waking her and moved quietly downstairs.

The first thing he noticed was that the tree was lit up, even though he distinctly remembered turning the lights off the night before. Then he heard soft singing from the kitchen, a lovely lyric tenor.

Still, he grabbed the fireplace poker before he went into the kitchen, just in case. But as he’d expected, Jones was in the kitchen, singing along to the radio. What he didn’t expect was to find him rolling out dough. “What on earth are you doing?” he said, a little louder and more sternly than necessary. He was rewarded when Jones jumped in his seat, his eyes comically wide.

He recovered quickly, however, smirking at the poker Tom was still wielding. “Baking,” he replied, rubbing the excess dough off his fingers.

“Why are you baking at -“ he checked the time “- 6:30 in the morning?”

Jones shrugged. The tousled look was back, which made it easier to think of him as Ben. “I woke up around six and couldn’t get back to sleep, so I thought I might as well make myself useful. Mrs. Barnaby said it would be okay.”

Tom was more than okay with freshly baked goods, “You don’t need to work for room and board,” he said. “You’re our guest.” He looked at the dough, which Jones had rolled into a log. “Shortbread?” he asked.

“My gran’s recipe,” Jones replied. He neatly cut the log into rounds, arranging them onto a baking sheet. “I was going to prep the vegetables while I was waiting, but what do you usually do for breakfast?”

It was too early to think. Tom needed coffee or another hour of sleep. He decided on the former. Jones, he saw, already had the coffeemaker primed, so he switched it on. “First one up decides,” he said with a little yawn.

“Crepes all right?” Jones asked. “I mixed up some batter while I was waiting for the dough to chill.” He balanced the sheet of shortbread on one hand as he pulled out a loaf of bread that hadn’t been there the day before to make room in the freezer to lay it flat. “I have some plum jam from the summer. I’ve always thought plums were best in winter.”

Jones had insisted on packing another bag from the pantry, saying he couldn’t come empty handed. Fruits of his grandmother’s labours, Tom assumed, but then he remembered Jones insisting on stopping for plums at a farm stand on the way back from Fennecombe Bay, saying they were the best in the county for making jam.

“Singing, baking, jam making. What other hidden talents do you have, Constable Jones?”

“Ben,” Jones reminded him. “And I think you’ve ‘plum’-bed my depths,” he said, with a pleased little grin at his pun.

“I doubt that very much.” But Tom looked forward to finding out. He poured them each a mug of coffee and stretched some of the stiffness out of his back. He then stretched some more to grab the bottle of Baileys from the cupboard over the fridge. The sun was over the yardarm somewhere in the world.

“Ta,” Jones said, taking an appreciative sip.

“Thank you,” Tom replied. “Homemade shortbread is a real treat. But you didn’t have to get up before dawn to make it.” Though he wondered if Jones had any other of his grandmother’s recipes. The gingerbread really had been delicious.

“I was going to make some to bring over yesterday, but someone shanghaied me and then made me nap before dinner. I’m surprised I didn’t wake up even earlier.”

Tom had done no such thing. Jones had barely stayed awake on the drive home. All Tom did was steer him to the recliner, pour him a stiff drink, and let nature take its course. Then the rest of the sentence sunk in. “Wait. You mean you knew about Christmas dinner?”

Jones let one corner of his mouth twitch upwards, but otherwise managed to keep a straight face. “Cully called me after the concert. She didn’t want me to make other plans while you were procrastinating. Said last year you dragged Sergeant Scott back straight from a crime scene.”

That was partly because he’d felt sorry for Scott being stuck on call, but mostly to use him to run interference on his father-in-law. Scott could charm the spots off a leopard. “To be fair, I did start to ask you several times, but we kept getting interrupted. Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Cully told me not to. She wanted to see how long you would take.” Jones allowed himself a full grin. “She was betting you’d remember around about the time the turkey went into the oven.”

Tom had seen Cully pass something to Jones as they were leaving for the carol service and wondered if the betting had been literal. “And what was your guess?” he asked, deciding to find the humour in the situation.

“I said you would ask when the time was right. But definitely by Christmas Eve.” He laughed. “Cully tried to renege by claiming I’d fallen in the pond on purpose to force your hand.”

Tom shuddered. The nap and the electric blanket had done the trick and Jones’s temperature had been back to normal by dinnertime, but he could still hear the crack of the ice breaking. “She might have a point,” he admitted. “Though we wouldn’t have parted company yesterday without a formal invitation. I hadn’t given you your present, after all.”

He stood up and retrieved an envelope from the mantle, tucked behind the manger. “I was going to slip this into your stocking, but I think it’s better now, just the two of us.” He handed Jones the envelope and watched as he opened and read the piece of paper enclosed. “It’s the report I sent the promotions board,” he added unnecessarily.

Jones looked at it long after he’d finished reading, then carefully folded the paper and slipped it back into the envelope. He cleared his throat, blinking rapidly. “Thank you, sir.”

“Tom.” He thought it would take a few more drinks before that would happen, though. “Do you know why I made you my bagman?”

“Proximity?” Jones suggested.

Tom glanced up to see if that was another one of Jones’s little jokes, but he looked completely serious. “I suppose that was part of it. But you weren’t the only constable on the scene that day. You were just the right one.” He thought about the past few months, how Jones had grown from a convenient assistant to an invaluable colleague. He could - and did - write a glowing report about his work, but he didn’t know how to articulate how much he valued Jones as a person.

“The ladies will be stirring soon. Stockings and treats in bed and then breakfast. I’ll make some more coffee while you bake the shortbread. We’ll prep the veg together while we wait.”

Jones nodded. “I’m a good sous chef,” he said. “Just tell me what you need.”

And that was why Tom had made him his bagman. “I know I can count on you,” he said lightly, but gave Jones a meaningful look.

Jones nodded again. When they both stood, he leaned forward and gave Tom a quick hug. “Merry Christmas, Tom.” Jones could always surprise him.

It sounded strange, his first name from a subordinate, but Tom thought he could get used to it. And it was Christmas, after all. He smiled and tousled Jones’s hair a bit more. “Merry Christmas, Ben.”