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Chapter Text

It was the summer of 1989, and Charles Rowland had decided that this would be the year he fell in love.

He was rather looking forward to it, all told. Girls were pretty and nice, but he was ready for the excitement that was supposed to come when one looked at you and smiled. His friend Bill was proper obsessed with his girlfriend, Helen, and Charles was getting kind of sick of hearing Bill wax poetic all the time.

Charles didn’t get it, but he was eager to figure it out.

He was home from St. Hilarion’s for the summer, freshly sixteen, and his mum had given him enough money for an ice cream at the soda shop. Bill was supposed to meet him there, but when Charles shoved his way through the door, Bill was nowhere to be seen.

That figured, thought Charles. Bill was always running late.

The soda shop was mostly empty. Martha Winter was behind the counter with her name tag printed in red and white, and she smiled when she looked up to see Charles. Charles smiled back. He’d known Martha since they were little; they’d gone to the same primary school before he’d been shipped off to St. Hilaron’s.

Nobody else was in the shop except for an old man at the counter, delicately poking at his purple ice cream with a spoon.

“Hiya, Charlie!” said Martha. “Can I get you something?”

Charles hopped up on the stool in front of Martha and grinned. “Blueberry sherbet,” he said.

Martha raised an eyebrow. “Sherbet? Sure you don’t want actual ice cream? It’s way sweeter.”

Charles shook his head. “It tastes like summer,” he said. “Fresh. Fruit’s for summer, and sugar’s for winter.”

Martha shook her head with a laugh. “Suit yourself.” She walked down the counter to scoop it as Charles swiveled on the stool.

“Commendable choice,” said the poshest old accent Charles had ever heard.

Charles stopped spinning and looked down the counter.

Two seats away, the old man was looking at him. His face was severe, and his bow tie looked like it had been pressed into perfect corners. He seemed like the kind of grumpy old person who liked to pretend Charles didn’t exist.

But here he was, looking at Charles, and clearly waiting for an answer.

“Er, thanks?”

The old man gestured at his own ice cream with the spoon, and Charles recognized it.

“Oh! You like blueberry sherbet, too?”

“Yes,” said the old man. “It was my favorite, when I was your age.” He gave a wistful sort of sigh, then turned back to stare at his spoon.

He looked kind of lonely, Charles thought. Maybe his friends were late to the soda shop, too.

Martha slid Charles’ scoop across the counter. “Here you go,” she said.

“Thanks,” said Charles, and he passed her his money. He looked at his sherbet for a moment, then hopped over to the next stool to be closer to the old man. “Why’s it your favorite?”

The old man blinked at him, surprised to find Charles closer than before. “There weren’t this many kinds of ice cream, back when I was a boy.” He gestured at the menu printed above Martha’s head. “Blueberry was the sweetest.”

“Wow,” said Charles, and he shoved a massive spoonful of sherbet into his mouth. It was going to give him brain freeze, but he always got brain freeze when eating ice cream, and it was his personal philosophy to just get it done with as soon as possible. The old man looked appalled.

Charles’ teeth were aching from the cold and the brain freeze was quickly setting in after he finished his first bite, and a distraction always helped for the worst of it. He racked his icy brains for something to say. What did old farts like to talk about?

“So, how old are you?”

Charles regretted it as soon as it came out. He could faintly hear his mum scolding him for being impolite in the back of his head.

“Eighty-nine,” said the old man, who was now revealed to be absolutely ancient.

Charles stared. “The year is ‘89,” he said. “You were born in 1900?”

“That is how the math works out, yes.”

“That’s brills,” said Charles. “Turn-of-the-century man, huh? I bet you never forget how old you are. All you need’s the daily news.”

“I suppose so,” said the old man, “But I wouldn’t forget my age. I have an excellent memory.”

“I don’t,” said Charles. “I’m failing Latin, actually, because of how bad my memory is.”

“Audere est faucere?”

Charles rolled his eyes. “It’s summer,” he told the old man. “I don’t have to do any learning at all in summer. But that’s my school motto, so I know it.”

The old man looked surprised. “You attend St. Hilaron’s?”

Charles’ stomach went kind of queasy. Some of his schoolmates’ fathers had also been surprised to see him there, lugging his trunk into the dorms, and hadn’t been quiet when they talked about the way that times were changing. “Yeah.”

“They must have changed the dress code,” said the old man. “Because I can tell you that piercings were certainly not allowed back when I attended.” He nodded at Charles’ earring, and Charles breathed a sigh of relief.

“Oh, it’s still against the dress code,” he assured the man. “I’m just too cool for school.”

At that, the old man snorted out the start of a laugh, then nearly choked on his sherbet. His eyes went wide, and he coughed hard, reaching for a napkin, and Charles was suddenly struck with a horrible vision of having killed a fragile old guy in the middle of a soda shop, which would definitely ruin his chances with girls.

“Hey, er, guy, you all right?” Charles shot to his feet and scrambled closer to pat the old man on the back, but his foot tangled in something and he went down hard. His elbow caught most of the impact, but Charles rolled to his feet quick, kicking away the thing that had tripped him, to find that the old man was shaking his head and coughing into a napkin.

“No, no, I’m fine,” he said, around coughs. “You merely surprised me, that’s all.” He finally stopped coughing and set the napkin down. “Is that what the young men are saying these days? ‘Too cool for school’?”

“Yup,” said Charles, and he glanced down to see that the thing that had tripped him was actually a walking stick. “Sorry mate, kicked your stick.” He leaned over to grab it and propped it next to the old man, hopping up onto the stool right next to him and sliding his sherbet over.

“Mate?”

“Oh, sorry,” said Charles. “What’s your name?”

“Edwin Payne,” said the old man. “And you are?”

“Charlie Rowland,” said Charles. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Payne.”

“Nice to meet you as well, Mr. Rowland,” said the old man, formal and polite. He gave a little smile when Charles wrinkled his nose. “What’s the matter?”

“Don’t call me Mr. Rowland,” said Charles. “Mr. Rowland’s my dad. That makes me sound old.” The old man raised an eyebrow, and Charles hastily added, “No offense, Mr. Payne.”

“You seem to have quite a fixation with age,” said the old man. “Perhaps I should be offended.”

Charles was a little nervous, but there was a glint in Mr. Payne’s eyes he kind of liked, so he trusted his gut and said, “Nah, it’s just that you’re new. Most old farts don’t even give me the time of day. Think I’m trouble, don’t they? So I’ve never actually talked to a bloke as old as you before. Kind of interesting.”

Mr. Payne blinked. “And you are a most interesting young man,” he said. “I should think a young man with such exciting sartorial choices would find an old fart like me to be boring.”

“No,” said Charles. “My mum’s always going on about how important old people are. You’ve got stories and stuff, haven’t you? Wisdom to pass on?”

“I suppose,” said Mr. Payne. “No one’s asked me for a story in quite some time.”

“Well, tell me one, then,” said Charles, swinging his legs at the counter.

“Very well,” said the old man. “How do you feel about mysteries?”

Twenty minutes later, Bill walked in the door and Charles was perched on the edge of his seat.

Mr. Payne, it turned out, had been a lawyer, which Charles would never again consider boring after today. He was in the middle of telling Charles about an inheritance case in 1953 that he had lawyered for, about how if he couldn’t prove his client’s copy of the will was the real one, she’d be destitute.

They had just gotten to the good part where Mr. Payne was looking for clues in the grandfather’s apartment when Bill walked in.

“Sorry I’m late, Charlie!” He ran up to the counter and grinned at Martha. “A chocolate shake, please.”

Mr. Payne, who had paused mid-story, looked a little wistful. “Well, I suppose I should let you boys enjoy your afternoon.” He pushed his empty ice-cream bowl over the counter, and reached for his walking stick.

“Wait,” said Charles. “You haven’t finished the story.”

Mr. Payne’s hands had a small tremor, but he was able to get down from the counter and stand in front of Charles. “Oh, we figured it out in the end,” he said. “It’s not nearly as interesting as you may think. Thank you for indulging an old man for a time.”

Charles hopped down from the stool. “Can I at least walk you out?” he asked, offering his elbow. Mr. Payne raised an eyebrow. Charles grinned. “It’s polite, innit?”

“I can walk perfectly well with my cane,” said Mr. Payne, but he placed his arm on Charles’ elbow and Charles, at least, felt better about that, since Mr. Payne’s feet seemed kind of shaky.

“Be right back, Bill!” Charles called over his shoulder, and heard an affirmative grunt before they were at the soda shop door and Charles was nudging it open with his shoe.

“My car is at the end of the block,” said Mr. Payne, nodding toward the oldest car Charles had ever seen in his life. It looked as if it barely ran.

“Wow,” said Charles, then added, “I do really want to hear the end of your story. Can I see you again sometime?”

There was a moment of silence as they walked down the sidewalk.

“I suppose my social calendar is free. I live in the flats on Baymont, number sixteen-A. You may come there on Friday or Saturday afternoon.”

It was Wednesday. “So long?” Charles was only kind of joking. “I’m gonna have to wait two whole days to find out what happened?”

There was a dry chuckle next to him. “Patience is a virtue, young man.”

“Well, I haven’t got any,” said Charles. “So I’ll be there on Friday.” They had reached Mr. Payne’s car, and Charles held the door for him. The engine started up with a surprisingly smooth growl, and Mr. Payne nodded to him on the sidewalk.

“Good afternoon, Charles.” His car started off down the street.

“Bye!” hollered Charles, and he waved for a bit before jogging back to the soda shop where Bill was waiting.

“Wow, Charlie,” said Martha, when he came in. “That was really kind of you.” She smiled at him and blinked, and Charles smiled back, mind elsewhere. How would Mr. Payne have proven that the will was the real one? Was there some sort of signature test they could do?

Bill had taken up a spot in a booth, and Charles flopped down across from him. “I saw Helen, earlier,” said Bill. “Did you know that she’s learning Italian?”

“No,” said Charles, “I bet it’s easier than Latin, though. Pasta. Fettucine. Look, I already know Italian.”

Bill laughed, and Charles grinned, and in the end he had a pleasant time with his friend at the soda shop before they went to gather up what lads they could find for kick-the-can.

Still, in the back of his mind, Charles was wondering: How would he have proven that the will was the real one? Was there some way of testing how old paper was?

Friday at noon, Charles was walking down Baymont Avenue, looking at flat numbers. They were tiny and hard to see from the street, but then Charles spotted the oldest car he’d ever seen just ahead of him, and that made it easier.

Charles went up and buzzed the button next to 16A, and after a moment the door unlocked and Mr. Payne was standing in front of him, looking bemused.

“You certainly are eager,” he said.

Charles bounced on his heels and said, “I was thinking, all yesterday, and I think I know how you did it! Can I tell you my guess, first?”

Mr. Payne smiled. “You may. Would you like to come in?”

Charles did. Mr. Payne’s flat was small and clean. There was a little gray couch with a white knit blanket over the back, and a little table with two porcelain cups set out. The window looked out onto the hot summer street, and Charles could see an attached kitchen and a hallway that probably led to a bedroom.

“I was just making tea,” said Mr. Payne, leaning on his walking stick as he made his way back to the kitchen. “Would you like some?”

“Yes please,” said Charles, and the little voice of his mum in the back of his head congratulated him on being polite.

After a moment, they were settled on the couch with matching cups of tea, and Mr. Payne said, “Very well, what is your guess?”

“Well first,” said Charles, “I’d’ve read your client’s will and the fake will over, really closely. Because the original was supposed to have been written in 1937, right?” Mr. Payne nodded. “So that was before World War 2,” said Charles. “And maybe the forger made a silly mistake and said something like, ‘My medal from World War One goes to so-and-so’ and then you’d know it was fake because he wouldn’t have known it was World War One in 1937.”

“Very clever,” said Mr. Payne, and his smile made him look years younger. “As a matter of fact, I did check for errors like that. Unfortunately, our forger was clever. No errors in the writing. Do you have another solution?”

Charles frowned. “I think I’d compare handwriting,” he said. “Could you find a copy of the grandfather’s signature, like on a bank slip or something, and compare it to the two wills?”

Mr. Payne inclined his head. “That is a possible solution. Unfortunately, I don’t have an eye for signatures, and our deadline was fast approaching. Would you like to hear what I did instead?”

“Yes,” said Charles, and Mr. Payne launched into a tale of water damage because the grandfather had been a sailor, and examined the effects of salt on old paper versus new. In the end, he’d proven that his client’s will was the real one, and she’d gotten her inheritance safely and gone off to start a career as a successful actress.

“That’s brills,” said Charles, and then Mr. Payne frowned and he added, “Brill-i-ant, I mean. Brills is modern slang, too.”

“I see,” said Mr. Payne. “Well, there is the end of your story. You’ve certainly livened up my afternoon, but I’m sure your parents are expecting you.”

Charles winced. He’d been distracted last night, thinking about how he’d solve the false will, and he’d done something to tick off his dad, though he still wasn’t sure what. His dad had blown his lid, and he’d still been in a mood when Charles had come up for breakfast that morning.

It was his dad’s day off on Fridays, and he’d be at home in the yard or the office all day, which meant that Charles wasn’t planning on being home until three minutes to dinner.

“Nah,” he said easily. “They don’t mind that I’m out. As long as I’m staying out of trouble, I can go all over.”

Mr. Payne had a weird expression on his face. Sort of confused and sort of happy.

“Got any more stories?” asked Charles.

“Well,” said Mr. Payne. “I suppose.”

Darkness had fallen by the time that Charles finally left Mr. Payne’s flat. It had been the most awesome afternoon Charles had ever had with an adult. And it had just been talking, which normally drove Charles up the wall after half an hour because he just had to move sometimes, and adults didn’t get that, but Mr. Payne did.

Mr. Payne didn’t mind when Charles leapt up off the couch in excitement and paced around the living room while he pitched solutions to the case he posed. Mr. Payne didn’t mind when Charles talked with slang that definitely wasn’t proper English as long as Charles explained what he meant, after. Mr. Payne didn’t mind when Charles interrupted him to shout out an answer, and Mr. Payne smiled and told him, “Brilliantly reasoned, Charles,” when Charles guessed the solution Mr. Payne had found, ten or twenty or thirty years ago.

After an hour or so of talking through Mr. Payne’s old cases, he’d observed that Charles “had quite an affinity for mysteries,” and went to his closet to bring out a box of really old detective novels and magazines.

The box had been on the floor, and Mr. Payne had made kind of an ‘oof’ sound as he leaned down to grab it, so Charles had just popped himself over there as quick as could be and said, “Here, let me get it, Mr. Payne,” and picked up the box himself.

Then they talked about Max Carrados, and Sherlock Holmes, and Hercule Poirot, and lots of other fictional detectives that Charles had never heard the names of before.

“I loved these, as a boy,” said Mr. Payne. “I believe most of this collection has been with me since my own time at St. Hilarion’s. They certainly livened up the school day.”

“Yeah, I get that,” said Charles. “School’s boring. What’ve I got to know Latin for, anyway?”

“So you can read older books,” said Mr. Payne, perfectly serious, but he didn’t seem to mind when Charles laughed.

“I’d rather read these,” said Charles, gesturing at the box.

Mr. Payne glanced down for only a moment before he said. “You can.”

“What?”

“You can read them. You may have them all, if you like.”

Charles blinked. “But these are, like, special, aren’t they?”

“Yes,” said Mr. Payne. “But my eyesight’s not what it was, and I’m hardly enjoying them if they’re in the bottom of my closet. I’d much rather they be appreciated than left to gather dust.”

Charles looked at the whole box of treasured mysteries, and his throat felt full of something. Mr. Payne was the nicest old guy he’d ever met.

“Thanks,” he managed to say, “But I couldn’t take them from you.” Mr. Payne looked down for a moment, and Charles added, “But I would borrow a couple, if that’s okay. Then I can come back, and you can tell me about them.”

Mr. Payne smiled, wide. “A sort of mystery book club? That sounds delightful, Charles.”

“Aces,” said Charles, and he meant it.

Chapter Text

That summer, Charles spent three afternoons a week in a flat on Baymont Avenue. He read Mr. Payne’s detective stories at night, and came back to return them with a head full of questions and solutions and what he would have done. Mr. Payne was always delighted to hear what he thought, as if Charles – who was failing Latin and barely passing maths – was the cleverest young man he knew.

Sometimes Mr. Payne would read to him, from the novels that were old and dusty with a weird font that made Charles’ eyes hurt. Mr. Payne’s eyes weren’t what they once were, but Charles had a feeling that Mr. Payne had mostly memorized all the stories anyway, since he barely looked at the page. Even so, Mr. Payne would pretend that he didn’t know the ending, and they would try to solve the mystery together, before the fictional detectives did.

Sometimes Charles found mystery comics from the library, and brought them to show Mr. Payne, and his eyes would flick over the little colored-in squares with delighted interest.

And sometimes, they wouldn’t talk about mysteries at all.

Charles came in limping one afternoon, and Mr. Payne, whose eyes were sharp even if they weren’t strong, asked what had happened.

“Fell down the stairs,” Charles muttered.

“I see,” said Mr. Payne. “Can I get you some ice?”

“If you want,” said Charles. Mr. Payne did want, and soon Charles had a little bag of ice and a towel on his ankle, propped up on the couch.

That was nice, but what wasn’t nice was the fact that Mr. Payne was hovering. He seemed anxious, somehow, and kept darting glancing at Charles’ ankle like he expected it to change, and clearing his throat as if he was about to start a sentence.

He asked Charles if he was comfortable three separate times before Charles snapped, “Yes, I’m fine! Stop worrying, you’re not my mum!”

Mr. Payne froze. “No,” he said, “Of course not.” He sat very stiffly in his chair, and his hands shook, even when they were laced in front of him.

Charles felt bad. “Sorry.” That wasn’t good enough. “Really, Mr. Payne, that was rude of me. Just ‘cuz my dad’s a tosser doesn’t mean I have to be one too, right?” He forced a laugh, but Mr. Payne just kind of looked lost.

“I’m sorry, Charles,” he said at last. “That sounds- difficult.”

“It’s whatever,” said Charles. “Nothing you or me can do about it, right? So I’d just rather not think about it, if it’s all the same to you.”

“Whatever you wish,” said Mr. Payne. “Only- This may not be my place to say, but Charles, you know you may come here at any time? If you need to- need a place to be, for a bit. The spare key is beneath my begonias.”

Charles looked around the cozy little living room, one of the safest places he’d ever been, where there’d never been any yelling, or even harsh words until he’d brought them in, and thought how wonderful it would be to have a place like that of his own one day.

“Cheers,” he said. “Thanks.”

Another afternoon, Charles came up to Mr. Payne’s door with his shoes in one hand, a fishing pole in the other, and mud caked up to his knees.

“Charles Rowland,” said Mr. Payne when he opened the door. “Surely you know that you are not going to enter my flat with your feet in that condition.”

It was funny, because coming from his dad that sentence would’ve put a chill down Charles’ spine, but coming from Mr. Payne it just made Charles grin. Sure, he sounded all strict and put-out, but he’d come up with something to fix it.

Besides, Charles figured, it was probably good for Mr. Payne. Kept him on his toes instead of getting set in his old-man ways.

Mr. Payne brought him a pitcher of water and an old towel, and loaned him a pair of socks for his wet feet once they were judged sufficiently clean.

“You ever been fishing, Mr. Payne?” Charles asked as he settled himself on the couch and looked through the mystery box for his next read.

“Once or twice. I can’t say it had much appeal for me. Far too many bugs for a supposedly peaceful excursion.”

“That’s what bug spray’s for,” said Charles. “I think you’d like it. Could bring one of your books and just sit out on the water.”

“I tried that a few times at St. Hilarion’s,” said Mr. Payne. “But in the end the library was the optimal location for reading.” A sudden grin flashed across Mr. Payne’s face, and he leaned forward, conspiratorial. “Though there were a few locations that were a close second. Do you know the shortcut through the woods?”

“There’s a shortcut?”

Mr. Payne grinned. “There is. Halfway along the path there is a charming little tree in a clearing that I used to climb with a book. No one ever found me there.”

“All right, spill,” said Charles.

“You’re familiar with the usual route to the lake,” said Mr. Payne. “The sporting fields, the storage shed, the trail through the woods, then the lake. That all curves to the left, if you’re heading from the school to the lake.” Charles nodded. “However, if you go behind the storage shed and turn right, there’s a deer trail. It’s not visible from the main path – you’ll have to go through at least a yard of bushes, if it’s still there – but once you’re on it, it takes you directly from the storage shed to the back of the nurse’s office in the main wing. Straight through the woods.”

“Huh,” said Charles. “Did anyone else know about this when you went there?”

Mr. Payne looked embarrassed. “Not to my knowledge. I discovered it myself when I was-” Mr. Payne flushed for a moment. “Never mind.”

“I hope it’s still there,” said Charles. “I’ll find it when I go back to school.”

Charles hesitated. Mr. Payne had spoken a few times about his time at St. Hilarion’s, swapping stories with Charles, but the difference between Charles’ stories and Mr. Payne’s was that Charles’ stories were full of his mates and the lads from the cricket team, and Mr. Payne’s were about himself and maybe a teacher.

“Mr. Payne, you can tell me to sod right off and I will, but were you- did you not have a good time at St. H’s?”

Mr. Payne wouldn’t look at him. “Not the best, I am afraid. Though it may come as a shock,” he held out one of his shaking hands, “I was not the most sportsmanlike child.”

“That’s okay,” said Charles. “You were smart, though. Didn’t you know any of the other smart lads?”

Mr. Payne shook his head. “The cleverest boys in my class were of the sort to be officers-in-training for the war. I was more interested in literature, and I think we all knew that I wasn’t the sort for fighting.” He nodded at his leg. “And after my- incident, I wasn’t medically fit to enlist, so I spent a lot of time on my own.”

Charles, who had been kind of assuming Mr. Payne hurt his leg in World War One, or on a dramatic lawyer case, was surprised. “You hurt your leg at St. H’s?”

Mr. Payne nodded.

“What’d you do? Fall out of a tree?”

“No,” said Mr. Payne. “Just some boys played a prank that escalated to roughhousing. My foot got caught in a doorway. That’s all.”

To Charles’ eyes, it didn’t look like ‘just a prank.’ Roughhousing was wrestling with your mates in the grass, not something that ended up with a permanent limp. Especially not as a young man, when broken bones were supposed to heal right quick.

“That sounds hard,” said Charles. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s quite all right,” said Mr. Payne, taking a deep breath. “It’s in the past, now. What do you say we read aloud some Agatha Christie for a little while?”

Charles’ mum found out eventually, when she asked where he was all day after Bill came to the door looking for him. “I assumed you were with Bill,” she said, worry in her voice. “Were you wandering on your own all day?”

“No, Mum,” said Charles. “I was hanging out with a new friend.”

“Oh? Who’s this, then?”

“His name’s Mr. Payne,” said Charles.

Charles’ mum’s eyebrow shot up. “Mr.?”

“Yeah,” said Charles. “He’s eighty-nine, and he lives alone, and he hasn’t got any grandkids or family or anything, so I figure he’s pretty lonely. Bill’s mum makes him go visit his grandpa all the time because she says old people get sad when they’re all alone, and I figure somebody should be visiting Mr. Payne.”

That explanation was easier than saying what he really felt, which was that Charles just really liked Mr. Payne, and wanted to hear him talk about mysteries and everything.

“That’s very kind of you, Charles,” said his mum, and her eyes were soft. “Volunteering your time. Helping the elderly is the duty of everyone.”

“Yeah,” said Charles, but it wasn’t really duty. Not to him.

One bright shining day before the end of summer, Charles and Mr. Payne actually got to solve a real-life mystery.

Charles was walking up to Mr. Payne’s flat, old magazines tucked under his arm, when he heard someone calling.

“Hi! Hello!”

Charles glanced over to see a man standing in the bushes of the neighboring building. He wore a smile and a lot of rings that flashed in the light as he waved at Charles.

Charles smiled back. He had no idea who the man was, but he liked to be friendly. And it was kind of nice to see a man who looked a bit like him around town. Not a lot of people did, and though Charles’ mum said he looked like his grandfather, Charles had never met his grandfather on his mum’s side. He didn’t really know what he’d look like when he grew up.

“Hi,” he called back. “Nice day, innit?”

“Very nice!” said the man. “I don’t suppose you know anything about fish?”

Charles shrugged. “I know a bit about fishing,” he said. “What do you need to know about fish?”

The man pushed through the bushes to come stand in front of Charles. He was shorter than Charles expected, and he was wearing a nice kind of coat that made him look important.

“Do they often go on land?”

Charles blinked. “Fish?”

“Yes.”

“Er,” said Charles, suddenly confused. “No. They can’t breathe.”

“Ah,” said the man. “My case is unusual, then.”

Charles, who had been reading through the stacks of Encyclopedia Brown at the library even though it was for little kids, asked, “Case?”

“My fish,” said the man. “She lives in a pond not far from here, and sometimes she is not in the pond. Sometimes she is, and all is well, but sometimes she is nowhere to be found. It is most curious, is it not?”

“Yeah,” said Charles. “Are you sure you’re not mixing her up with any other fish?”

“Very sure,” said the man, but he didn’t seem to be offended. “My fish is very distinctive, and she is the only one in her pond.” He leaned in, conspiratorial. “She does not like to share. But if she is not walking about the forest, I cannot think where she might be.”

“I could find her,” said Charles, and he was as surprised as the man to hear the words come out of his mouth.

“Really?” The man seemed delighted.

Charles thought it over a bit more. The voice in his head that sounded like Mr. Payne advised patience, so Charles took the time to lay out the facts. It was a mystery, even if it was just that his fish was hiding under a dock. Charles liked mysteries. He liked fishing. And he couldn’t think what pond this man could be talking about, so it would be a chance to explore somewhere new.

“Charles?”

That was Mr. Payne’s voice. Charles leaned around the man with the fish problem to see Mr. Payne standing on his own front step, leaning heavily on his cane.

The man spun around. “Hello! Greetings!”

“Hello,” said Mr. Payne coolly. “Can I help you?”

“Possibly,” said the man. “Though I believe this young fellow is about to decide whether he can bring me aid.”

Charles jogged up to Mr. Payne. “He’s got a case,” he said, “A proper mystery.” Saying it out loud made it sound childish and silly, and Charles ducked his head and scuffed his shoe on the sidewalk. “I was gonna ask if you wanted to try to solve it.”

Mr. Payne cleared his throat. Charles was abruptly certain that this whole thing was stupid.

“Well,” said Mr. Payne. “I suppose I had better hear the facts before I agree. What is your name, sir, and what is your problem?”

Charles’ head shot up, and he knew he was grinning like mad.

The facts were these: The man’s name was Kashina, though he told them with a smile that they could call him Kashi. He had a fish named Angela in a pond at an address Charles had never heard of, and sometimes she was there, and sometimes she was not. He himself had been off traveling for the past decade, but he was here in London for a month, and so was his fish, but only sometimes.

“Mr. Kashina,” said Mr. Payne, “This is a most unusual situation. Charles and I will do our best, but we cannot guarantee a solution.”

“That’s all right,” said Kashi. “All we can do is try. These things have a way of working themselves out.”

“Where may we find you, if we have further questions?”

“Just here.” Kashi waved a hand at the flat next to 16A. “I’m renting the flat until the end of the month.

The end of the month was in a week.

“Well,” said Charles, bouncing on his heels. “We’d better get started then, right Mr. Payne?”

“Very well,” said Mr. Payne, holding out his hand to Kashi. “We’ll take your case.”

Kashi shook it, and his rings sent glitter and sun all over the sidewalk.

Charles loved riding in Mr. Payne’s car.

The seats were old and cracked, but the metal was polished to a reflective shine, and Charles felt like he’d jumped back in time when he sat in the passenger side.

Mr. Payne drove with his hands firmly at ten and two, and he didn’t even ask Charles to look at the map tucked into the passenger side door as he drove them to the address Kashi had recited.

They turned down a lane just outside of London that Charles had never seen before, and very suddenly they were surrounded by trees.

“Whoa,” said Charles, looking around. “I never knew this was here.”

Mr. Payne frowned. “Neither did I. I thought I knew all of London, by this point.”

But at the end of the drive, there was a little patch of grass to park, and a pond that was perfectly circular.

Charles hopped out, and after a moment of fiddling with his cane, Mr. Payne came around the side of the car to join him in staring into the pond.

The water was pretty clear, for a wooded pond, and the trees were so thick that Charles couldn’t see the buildings on either side. It was like a hidden park, and blissfully quiet.

There didn’t seem to be any fish in there. There also wasn’t a dock.

“Well,” said Mr. Payne, “I had thought that he was merely losing track of which fish was which, but this pond is empty.”

“Suppose he lost track of his fish in a different way then, huh?” said Charles, and he grinned when Mr. Payne couldn’t hold back a snicker.

“The most likely scenario is that something has eaten his fish,” said Mr. Payne. “A hawk or an eagle, would be my guess.”

Charles looked up at the trees around them. No nests that he could see. “But he says the fish comes back,” he said. “It disappears, and then it comes back. Couldn’t do that if it were in a hawk’s belly, could it?”

“No.” Mr. Payne stepped a little closer to the water. “It could not.”

They stared at the clear little pond in silence for a moment.

“Right then,” said Charles, “Time for some hands-on investigating, then.” He hauled his shirt and polo off over his head and kicked off his shoes before he launched himself off the edge of the pond, tucking in his knees. “Cannonball!”

There was a big splash, and his knees hit rocks and mud, since the pond was rather shallow. Charles pushed himself up to standing, sputtering out water, and wiped the water out of his eyes as he turned to look back at Mr. Payne.

“Water’s nice!”

Mr. Payne looked horrified. “Charles! You cannot just leap into ponds on a whim! What if it had been deeper than it looked?”

Charles looked at the water lapping just above his knees and shrugged. “I can swim.”

Mr. Payne took a deep breath. Charles grinned. Mr. Payne sure was easy to rile up sometimes.

“What, exactly, were you hoping to accomplish in there that you could not accomplish out here?”

Charles shrugged. “Looking for a hiding spot, probably. Maybe there’s a rock or something the fish is napping under? Also, it’s just bloody hot out.”

Mr. Payne shook his head. “I suppose you’re in it now. Very well. You can investigate for napping rocks and I will make my way around the circumference. Do make an attempt not to drown, because I will not be getting in to rescue you.”

Charles held out his arms and fell into a belly flop with a smack that sent ripples all over the pond. Mr. Payne just sighed and started to make his way around the pond, poking at the grass with his cane.

The water was cool, and the day was very pleasant. Charles got to work.

Charles had lifted up at least a million stones by the time he found a clue. He was digging around in the mud on the far bank of the pond, looking for toads – and also clues – when his hand found something hard and metal.

“Oi!” he called, glancing over to where Mr. Payne had wandered into the tree line, looking up at something in the branches. “I think I found something!”

“Yes, Charles?” Mr. Payne started making his way over, and Charles squinted down through the water. The mud on the banks had been stirred up from all his digging, and the water had gotten significantly less clear.

“There’s something here,” said Charles. “Feels kinda metal. And curved?” He leaned down further, following the shape, and paused when his chin hit the water. “Hang on,” he said, “I gotta go under.”

“Careful-” started Mr. Payne, but Charles had already taken a deep breath and ducked under.

He kept his eyes closed – it was too muddy to see anyway – but crouched down and ran his hands along the curved metal edge. It went down, and around, and then up again to connect, and Charles knew what it was. He stuck his hand through the middle of it and brushed mossy pond grass and nothing else.

Charles surfaced with a gasp. “It’s a pipe.”

Mr. Payne was standing right in front of him at the water’s edge, looking concerned. “A pipe?”

“Yeah,” said Charles, trying to swish away the muddy water and just muddying it up more. “You can’t see it now, but it’s all covered in pond grass and stuff. Blends right in, but certainly big enough for a fish to pop in and out of.” He gave up on trying to clear the water for Mr. Payne to see, and started sloshing forward towards the bank. “Bet you anything that’s what Kashi’s fish is doing. Going out to nibble grass in the pipe when she doesn’t want to muck about in the pond all day.”

“Well then,” said Mr. Payne, offering him a hand up. Charles took it, but he was careful not to tug too much, since he had a feeling that Mr. Payne was more fragile than he looked. “I suppose the next step is to find out where that pipe leads.”

They traipsed through the trees for a while before they ran into a fence that neither of them recognized, and decided to backtrack to the car.

By the time they got there, Charles wasn’t soaked anymore, but he was still damp and his hair was dripping water down his neck. Mud was drying up his legs, and Charles was grateful that it was still so warm out, or else he’d be freezing.

He stopped at Mr. Payne’s nice shiny car and Mr. Payne looked at him, assessing, for a moment before saying, “Ah,” and taking off his jacket to spread it on the passenger seat. “There you go.”

“You sure?” said Charles, feeling guilty.

“It is merely a jacket,” said Mr. Payne. “Far easier to wash than these seats, I assure you.”

Charles smiled and hopped in. Mr. Payne handed him his cane to stow as he started up the car.

“About our next steps,” said Mr. Payne. “While we could tell Mr. Kashina about his fish’s point of egress, I find myself wishing to unravel the mystery a little further. What do you think, Charles?”

“I think it’d be neat to find out where that pipe leads,” said Charles, and figured he’d dig out the dictionary when he got home.

Mr. Payne smiled. “Precisely,” he said. “Shall we continue our investigations at the library another day? I believe drainage pipes are a matter of public record.”

“Sounds brills,” said Charles, “Tomorrow?” He looked up at the sun sinking low in the afternoon and was glad they were headed home. He didn’t need to be late for dinner.

“It is not urgent,” said Mr. Payne. “If you wish to investigate on your usual days of visiting, I will wait for you.”

“Aw, cheers,” said Charles. “But I’m not busy. Besides, Kashi’s gone by the end of the week, isn’t he? Kind of is urgent.”

“Very well,” said Mr. Payne. “Tomorrow we go to the London Library.” He hesitated, glancing at Charles in the passenger seat. “Do you need a ride?”

Charles had gone to the London Library only a few times before, and it was an agonizingly long bus ride. “A ride would be aces.”

“Very well,” said Mr. Payne, but he still seemed uneasy. “Do I need to speak with your parents?”

Charles flinched in his seat. “What? Why?”

“I am a stranger to them,” said Mr. Payne. “And I’ve already taken you gallivanting on one day trip without their permission. It would be the height of irresponsibility-”

“Whoa,” said Charles. “Don’t freak out, Mr. Payne. My mum knows all about you, yeah?”

Mr. Payne glanced over at him, which was odd because he hardly ever took his eyes off the road. “She does?”

“Yeah,” said Charles. “I told her about mystery book club a while back. She thinks it’s nice. Don’t really see half my grandparents much, so I think she wants me to soak up all the wisdom I can get.”

“I see,” said Mr. Payne. “Well then, perhaps I should introduce myself properly and assure her that you are a bright young man.”

Charles’ back kind of itched at the thought of bringing Mr. Payne – old, kind Mr. Payne with clever eyes and shaky hands – into the house where his dad stomped about and yelled some nights.

“Nah,” he said, deliberately easy, “She’d be all in a fuss if we sprung a surprise visit on her. She’d want to send you home with food, and it’d be a whole to-do. I promise it’s fine. Look, do you want me to have her sign a permission slip? I think I have an old one from St. H’s I never filled out.”

Mr. Payne laughed, and Charles grinned.

“I’d like to think I’m not as strict as St. Hilarion’s,” said Mr. Payne. “All right. Just promise me you’ll tell her our plans for tomorrow, and we’ll head to the library whenever you arrive.”

“Aces,” said Charles, and they passed the rest of the drive in pleasant silence, enjoying the sun and the breeze.

Chapter Text

“Hey mum,” Charles said when he walked in the door before dinner. “I’m going to the library tomorrow with Mr. Payne. That all right?”

Charles’ mum turned around and Charles abruptly remembered that he’d been swimming in a pond for most of the afternoon. “Charles Rowland,” she scolded, “What kind of state is this? Go wash up, quickly, before dinner.”

“Course,” said Charles. “But the library? Can I go?”

His mum waved an acknowledging hand as she turned back to the stove. “As long as you are staying out of the water, I am content. You can catch your death swimming in the creek, you know.”

Charles elected not to tell her that he’d been swimming in a new spot, since she was convinced stagnant water made people sick, and he didn’t want her to worry. “I know, mum,” he said. “Thanks.”

The next day, Charles and Mr. Payne went to the library. Mr. Payne seemed to know exactly what he was looking for, so Charles just trailed after and looked around, wide-eyed, at all the books and people. He always forgot how big it was.

Eventually Charles caught up to find Mr. Payne speaking with a librarian, and then she went away for a bit before returning with a rolled-up map. Mr. Payne took it and thanked her before spreading it out over the reading table.

“That’s the pond,” said Charles, pointing. Sure enough, tucked next to the little lane was a blue dot.

“That’s so strange,” said Mr. Payne. “I swear I’ve driven down that road many a time, but never seen it. But it certainly is there.”

It looked small on the map, nestled between buildings and houses and a network of thinly marked drainage pipes, and Charles’ brain kind of hurt because it had seemed so much bigger while they were there. But everything was supposed to look smaller on a map, so he didn’t worry about it.

“Pipe was heading south, yeah?” Charles placed a finger on the edge of the pond and started to trace.

“Yes,” said Mr. Payne. “Which means it should connect to- there! Is that line labeled at all?”

Charles leaned down close to squint at the tiny printed letters, and Mr. Payne traced his own finger down the key as Charles read them out.

“That’s the Dover Lane Pipe A,” said Mr. Payne, “and it leads to-”

“A river, looks like,” said Charles, who’d just started to trace the pipe with his finger until it ran into a blue line.

“Brent River,” said Mr. Payne, “and that hooks up with the Thames, eventually, and after that the ocean.”

They both stared at the map for a moment.

“So really,” said Charles at last. “His fish could be anywhere.”

“Absolutely anywhere,” agreed Mr. Payne.

Kashi took the news surprisingly well. “She’s exploring,” he said, delighted. “She’s venturing out to dip her fins in the ocean before coming back to visit me at her pond. An adventurous spirit.”

“I suppose,” said Mr. Payne. “We were unable to actually find your fish, but I’m afraid that is quite impossible.”

“Oh, not impossible,” said Kashi. “Just improbable. And now, thanks to you two, I know her route. I think that shall be my next adventure, don’t you? Accompanying a young fish on her first journey is always guaranteed to be very interesting.”

Charles smiled. Kashi was odd, and maybe a little crazy, but he said everything with such conviction that Charles couldn’t help but believe things would work out for him. “Good luck, mate.”

“Thank you,” said Kashi. “In return for your good turn, I shall offer you this.” He flipped a coin out of his pocket and caught it on his palm before offering it to Charles. “The greatest journeys are always shared,” he said, conspiratorial, and then he winked and strode down the sidewalk like a king of the world.

The coin was an ordinary twenty-pence piece, but it was polished to such a shine that it gleamed like Kashi’s rings.

“Look at that,” said Mr. Payne. Charles could hear the pride in his voice. “Your first job as a real detective.”

“Our first job,” said Charles. “We both did the detecting, didn’t we? Does that make us an agency, you think?”

Mr. Payne looked happy, standing in the late afternoon sun. “I think it can be whatever you want.”

Charles hummed in thought. “You know what I want? Blueberry sherbet. That’s the sort of thing a detective deserves after a job well jobbed.”

Mr. Payne smiled. “I quite agree.”

Charles and Mr. Payne sat at the counter of the soda shop and had matching blueberry sherbets, and Charles kicked his feet against the chair and thought that he’d never had such fun.

Solving mysteries in stories was all well and good, but solving mysteries in real life felt like magic. He wanted to do it all the time.

Maybe they could, thought Charles. It had seemed easy enough in those American books, the Encyclopedia Brown ones. They just had to put up a cardboard sign that said DETECTIVES FOR HIRE and solve whatever cases came their way.

They could do that, Charles thought, and then he realized it was dark out.

He glanced at the clock on the wall, a little frantic. But it wasn’t dinnertime yet, just dark. Charles spun around on his stool to look out the window, where the sun was disappearing.

The sun was setting earlier and earlier now.

Charles realized that a summertime detective agency would have to wait. He didn’t want to wait, but he would have to.

Summer was nearly over.

The next time Charles visited Mr. Payne, Mr. Payne met him at the door and said, “You’re going back to school next week, aren’t you?”

Charles nodded his head, miserable. He’d spent all day saying goodbye to Bill and Helen and Martha and all the other kids from his neighborhood, but it was Mr. Payne he was going to miss the most.

It was Mr. Payne that he was going to worry about the most, because over the course of the summer, Mr. Payne’s hands had gotten shakier and he’d stopped driving around so much, and Charles had suddenly remembered that dying was another thing old people could do.

“Don’t look so sad,” said Mr. Payne. “You’ve got the whole school year in front of you. Aren’t you excited to play cricket on the team again?”

“Yeah,” said Charles. “But I’ll miss you, won’t I? And who’s going to check on you, when I’m gone?”

Mr. Payne smiled. “Don’t worry about me, Charles. It is the privilege of the elderly to worry about the youth, not the other way around.”

“Yeah, well, you’re hardly elderly,” said Charles. “Eighty-nine’s the new forty, you know. So just don’t go falling down any stairs or nothing, and I won’t worry.”

That was a lie. Charles was definitely going to worry.

“I have a suggestion,” said Mr. Payne. “So that neither of us may worry.”

He held out a Max Carrados magazine – his favorite, Charles knew – and Charles took it. He hated how much it felt like a goodbye, and he kind of wanted to cry.

“Open it,” said Mr. Payne.

Inside the magazine, tucked into the center pages, was a little stack of envelopes and stamps. Mr. Payne’s address was written out carefully in a shaky old hand in each one.

“Write to me,” said Mr. Payne, “and I’ll write to you, and then we can be pen pals, and continue our mystery discussion via the post.”

“Oh,” breathed Charles, “That’s brills!” He lunged forward and threw his arms around Mr. Payne, careful of his walking stick, and Mr. Payne’s spine went all rigid for only a moment before he patted Charles on the back. “I’ll write to you every week,” he said. “I promise!”

Charles could feel Mr. Payne chuckle in his chest. When Charles stepped back, Mr. Payne looked unbearably fond. “I must ask you a favor, Charles.”

“What?”

“When you write to me,” said Mr. Payne. “Could you call me simply Edwin? It’s only that I haven’t been Edwin in such a long time, not since my boyhood, and seeing you this summer has made me miss the sound of my own name. I think I’d like it, to be a boy with a pen pal for a time.”

“Yeah,” said Charles, wiping at his eyes. “Yeah, of course. You know, I think if you and I had gone to St. H’s together, we’d have been real good friends, you know that?”

Mr. Payne looked a little misty-eyed, too. “I have thought much the same,” he said. “Good-bye, Charles.”

Charles sniffled once. “Bye, Edwin.”

Charles held the magazine and the envelopes close to his chest as he walked away from flat 16A, but at the street he stopped and looked back to see Mr. Payne standing at his doorway, watching him with a sad sort of smile.

That was the last time he ever saw Edwin Payne.

For the next three months, Charles wrote to him. He wrote every week, as promised, and Edwin wrote back.

Charles told him that he’d found his secret shortcut through the woods, and that he was doing a little better in Latin, and that he’d traded a pack of gum for a mystery magazine from another boy that he’d have to bring back over winter holidays.

Edwin wrote about how his car had finally broken down, and how he’d gotten one of Charles’ comics from the library, and how he’d taken up baking bread. He came up with the idea of writing each other mysteries – little paragraph-long puzzlers to challenge each other to solve, and Charles loved coming up with a new one each week as he cracked Edwin’s.

Charles’ school mates noticed that he was writing an awful lot, more than in previous years, and though some of the boys tried to tease him about a girlfriend, Charles just said, “It’s my mate from home, Edwin. He goes to a different school, but he’s proper clever.”

After that they didn’t give him too much trouble about it, since homesickness and childhood best friends were one of the common types of things that the boys at St. H’s politely pretended nobody had.

Charles knew that they assumed that his best mate Edwin was a boy his own age, and Charles kind of liked that daydream. That the Edwin on the other side of the letter was a boy he could drag to the lake to go fishing, or wander through the parks, or maybe even start up a summertime detective agency with.

But in the end it was only a daydream. Edwin’s letters got shorter, and his handwriting got messier, and Charles had known something was wrong for weeks by the time Edwin finally wrote that he’d fallen, and had been in the hospital for some time.

Charles read that letter and cried, but at least the letters kept coming. They talked of easy, lighthearted things, and they didn’t talk about death, but they stopped making plans for the future.

One day, mid-November, Charles got a letter in a blue envelope.

Edwin had never sent him a letter in a blue envelope before, but Charles knew that blue was his favorite color.

Charles knew what it said before he opened it.

He didn’t open it.

He held it on his palms for a moment, just breathing, before tucking it into the Max Carrados magazine. Then he walked out to the sporting field to clear his head.

Charles didn’t end up clearing his head. He broke up a fight, instead.

And then, all of a sudden, he wasn’t breaking up a fight, but being chased straight down to the lake.

Charles was cold, and wet, and tired, and he hurt all over as he shivered and sprinted through the woods. The boys were shouting behind him, and he saw the storage shed. He could run straight past it through the sporting fields, but then he’d be in clear view and the boys would catch him.

He could try to hide, he thought. He’d explored the storage shed attic, and it was full of nooks and crannies he could hide in for an hour or two.

Charles had his hand on the door of the storage shed when he remembered that he had a third option. Edwin’s path. A path that nobody had found but him, in over seventy years.

Going through the woods at night would suck, and all he wanted to do was sit down for a little while and rest, but Charles thought of the letter that he still hadn’t read yet, and made his decision.

He pushed through the bushes and found the little deer trail. After the pack of boys had run onto the sporting fields, shouting, Charles crept through the forest and came out by the main wing.

He’d been planning on sneaking up to his dorm to sleep it off, but he tripped on the step in front of the nurse’s office, and the nurse on the night shift came out and screamed, and then all of a sudden there were a lot of raised voices and flashing lights and nobody was letting him sleep at all.

Twenty-four hours later, Charles woke up covered in bruises but pleasantly warm. He was not entirely surprised to find himself in a hospital after the whirring blurry memories that were the last thing he remembered.

A nice nurse came by and brought him some water to sip, and told him that his parents had been phoned and his mother was on the next train out. She assured him that he’d be fine, but he couldn’t play high-contact sports for a month and they wanted to watch his cough for a few days more.

Charles nodded.

Then she told him that he had a visitor – one of the boys from his school.

Charles was a bit more wary about that one, but he still agreed.

When Rohaan walked through the door, Charles was glad he’d agreed. “You alright, mate?” he asked, trying to sit up a little straighter to get good look at him. Rohaan had a bruise on his cheek, and he was clutching a paper bag tightly, but he didn’t look like he was in pain.

“Am I all right?” Rohaan’s face was distraught. “Am I-? Charles, you nearly died!”

Charles blinked. “What?”

“There’ve been doctors in and out of your room all night,” said Rohaan. “Do you remember any of that?”

“Not really,” said Charles. It was all kind of a blur. “But are you all right?”

Rohaan looked incredulous. “Yes, I’m fine! The real question is, are you all right?”

Charles winced. “Well, I’ve definitely been better. But the nurse says I’ll be out of here in a couple of days. Just stay out of trouble ‘til then, you hear?” He smiled, but Rohaan looked serious.

“Thank you,” he said. “I mean it. You’re the bravest person I know. They’d been bothering me for a while now, and I was just going to wait it out, but they nearly killed you! So I told the headmaster, and they’re all suspended for at least a week while they do an investigation.”

“Really?” said Charles. “I thought St. H’s didn’t like drama. Didn’t they just make Frankie and Ted shake hands after Frankie punched Ted’s tooth out?”

“I think they wanted to do something like that,” said Rohaan, “But I also told my dad, and he’s a lawyer, so-” he shrugged meaningfully, and Charles smiled.

“Aces,” he said. “Well, thanks for coming to visit me. I’ll probably be bored out of my mind ‘til my mum comes.”

“That’s what I figured,” said Rohaan, and he stepped up close to Charles and held out the paper bag. “I went to your dorm and grabbed some of your stuff.”

“Really? Cheers, mate,” said Charles, and he looked in to see his Latin textbook, a mystery novel he’d borrowed off of Ted, and the Max Carrados magazine.

After Rohaan left, Charles pulled the magazine out. His body hurt, and his head hurt, and he didn’t really want to read whatever was in the letter because he felt like he was already about to cry at the drop of a hat, but he figured that since everything else hurt, his heart might as well, too.

Charles pulled out the blue envelope and opened it.

Dear Charles, said the letter, and Charles was already crying.

I am sure by now you have guessed what this letter contains, so I shan’t beat around the bush. I have passed away, Charles, and I’ve left this letter to be sent to you upon my death. My entire “Mystery Box” is yours (as I have written in my authenticated will) and I hope it will continue to bring you joy throughout the years.

These past months conversing with you have brought more joy to an old man’s heart than I ever knew possible, and I count myself lucky to have considered you a friend. Thank you.

If you’ll indulge a whim for a moment, I wish to propose an idea that may make my passing easier on you. Have you ever heard of reincarnation?

I’ve been spending much of my old man’s time considering death, and I no longer fear it as I did when I was young. It is simply the next step in any person’s life. So no matter what awaits me, I face it honestly. But a part of me hopes it is reincarnation. Another shot at the wheel, as it were.

I like that idea, of lives moving round on a wheel. Sometimes the wheels turn and put two lives together, and sometimes they match them up right at the end of things, where one life ends and another begins.

Sometimes I wonder if I have lived too long. If I’ve messed up my wheel and lived past when I should have started over. Still, there’s nothing to be done about it now.

You must do me a favor, Charles. Live a good life. Be happy. Live well. And when you are done, go onto the next thing. If it is reincarnation, I’ll wait for you. I’ll muddle about on the other side as much as I can before going back, and then maybe our wheels will line up again.

I like that thought, don’t you? That in a hundred years or so a young man will walk up to an ice cream counter and order blueberry sherbet because it’s summer, and another young man will commend him on his choice, and later they might go fishing or start up a detective agency together.

So you go on and live your life, Charles, and don’t be sorry. I’ll see you again, if I can.

Your friend,

Edwin Payne.

Chapter Text

Charles' hospital room was quiet and dark. His Max Carrados magazine was resting on the table next to him, and the room was silent except for the soft sound of his breathing.

Charles was fast asleep, letter crumpled in his hand. A faint blue light was shining on his face.

“Are you ready to go?” asked Death.

“Not quite yet,” said Edwin Payne. “My unfinished business isn’t finished yet, you see.”

Death smiled, gentle. Edwin smiled back. He was certain that she knew what he was planning, but she asked anyway. “When do you think you’ll be ready?”

“Oh, seventy years or so, I imagine,” said Edwin. “That seems like enough time for a good long life, don’t you think?”

“You don’t know how long he has,” said Death. “And I can’t recommend haunting a person. It’s not good for them.”

“Oh, I won’t,” said Edwin. “He can’t very well move on if I’m around here reminding him of me. But I trust him. He’s a good boy who’s going to grow up into a good man, and he’ll do just fine.”

“That’s a lot of faith,” said Death. “I admire it. Are you sure you don’t want to move on now? Find out what comes next? He’ll be along eventually.”

“I know,” said Edwin. “We can find out together, when we’re both old men.”

“What do you plan to do in the meantime?”

“See the world,” said Edwin. “Read. Walk on beaches. Learn languages. I’ve got enough plans to keep me busy for a whole lifetime.”

“Okay,” said Death. “You can call on me when you’re ready. Take care of yourself, Edwin Payne.”

Charles grew up.

He sat through his graduation at St. Hilarion’s and cheered at Rohaan’s valedictorian speech.

He went to university and never moved back home, and he found people who loved him just the way he was.

He graduated university and went home long enough to help his mum pack, and they flew to India together. In India, Charles met the rest of his family for the very first time.

Charles went back to London alone, but his heart was happy because his mum was, too.

Charles had a couple of girlfriends, and after some self-discovery, a couple of boyfriends, and eventually he found a partner who had a heart just as large as his. Together, they had a son who stole both of their hearts the instant that he came into the world.

Charles was a great father, and the only scrapes his son ever got were skinned knees from falling out of trees into his father’s arms. Charles read him mysteries and took him fishing and taught him to play cricket, and when his son quit the cricket team to join the debate team, Charles showed up and cheered just as hard for that, too.

Charles eventually had a grandchild, and then several more. Charles lost his partner, and he grieved, and when the grieving eased into the fabric of his life and he could breathe again, he moved in with his son. Charles spent his days sitting in the shade watching his grandchildren play and reading them stories when they got tired.

Charles got a cane, eventually, and let his grandchildren play pretend with it when they sat in the booth of an ice cream shop.

And then, one warm summer morning, Charles woke up in his bed. He heard his grandchildren chattering over the clink of breakfast bowls down below, and the rumble of his son’s voice, and he was happy.

“This was a good life,” he said to himself. “Absolutely aces.”

He reached over to the nightstand and pulled over a magazine that was worn thin and delicate. He wasn’t wearing his glasses, and he could barely see the words, but that didn’t matter. They had been memorized long ago.

Charles read himself a story until his eyes got tired, and the sunlight wasn’t too bright on his face that he couldn’t go back to sleep for a little while. So he rested the magazine on his chest, pages open to mark his place, and closed his eyes.

Charles Rowland went to sleep.

“Knock-knock,” said Death, as she poked her head into a dusty reading room.

Edwin Payne put down his Latin text and smiled at her. “Is it time for our annual check-in already?”

“No,” said Death. “But I think you might be ready to move on anyway.” She stepped to the side and beckoned the person behind her forward. Edwin shot to his feet.

“Charles?”

“Edwin?”

The ghosts of two old men who’d lived long lives embraced. Death smiled.

“You really waited?”

“Of course I did. You look well.”

“Well, somebody told me to live a good life, didn’t he? Had to follow through.”

Death walked up and placed a hand on each of their shoulders. “Are you two ready to go?”

“Yes,” said Edwin Payne.

“Yes,” said Charles Rowland.

“Good,” said Death.

“Is it reincarnation?” Charles asked as they followed her through the library.

Edwin shrugged. “I haven’t a clue. She’s been stubbornly cagey about it whenever I ask her. But we’ll find out together, now.”

“That’s right,” said Death, and she took their hands and pulled them forward to the next thing.

One day in the future, a young man walks into an ice cream shop. He’s decided that this is going to be the year he falls in love. He orders an old, out-of-style ice cream flavor that no one gets anymore.

Another young man commends him on his choice.

Shortly after that, two best friends start up a detective agency.

Further in the future, two detectives are in the middle of a case when one of them kisses the other.

Many years down the line, Death shows up to find two ghosts, holding hands.

“Ready to go?” she asks.

“We think we’ll stick around here for a while,” says the first one. “Now that we’re ghosts, a whole new category of mysteries has been opened up to us.”

“And apparently you’ve got a massive backlog of unsettled spirits,” says the second one. “Figured you might need some nice and settled spirits to calm them down. What do you think?”

Death smiles. “If you’re sure,” she says. “But you can always let me know when you want to move on.”

“I know,” says the first ghost. “We’ll call you when we want to go around again.”

Death looks back at him, surprised.

He smiles. “There are certain spells to awaken memories of past lives,” he says. “I have a very good memory.”

Death laughs. This is why she loves her job. People are always surprising her. As she walks away, she hears his partner speak.

“We should open the new detective agency this summer. Summer’s a good time for starting new things.”