Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Gertrude’s fear was slim pickings for a man as used to a feast as Jonah Magnus. But he had so seldom tasted it, these last few decades, that even the few, reluctant drops she yielded, as he shot her three times in the chest, were as sweet as the finest raspberry jam, delicately licked from a slice of freshly made Victoria sponge.

The last two shots were more out of satisfaction, than necessity, as well as being a noble and generous attempt to ensure that her final moments hurt just as much as she claimed to have anticipated. He had a suspicion that she was already too far gone to appreciate the courtesy, however.

Rather a pity.

“It was very kind of you to give me an excuse, Gertrude,” he told her slowly cooling body, “I do so hate senseless violence.”

That was a whole different area to his own and the messiness and impulsiveness of the Slaughter was not exactly to his taste. But, really, he most hated those moments when his temper got a little … out of control. Not at all the calm and measured persona he liked to see in himself. He might occasionally pretend a carefully calculated level of incompetence, of course, when it suited his purpose; but, secretly, he was so many steps ahead of everyone else, that it was frankly embarrassing for the rest of the world.

The Beholding was all about watching and waiting and allowing the victim to torture themselves, with their own thoughts, their own actions, their own memories; their own brutally exposed selves.

Certainly there was often a nudge or two involved in getting them there, but that could be done with rather more finesse than a mere revolver or the … other methods that Jonah had, regrettably, had to employ on certain occasions in the past.

He hadn’t expected the key to immortality to involve the unorthodox use of an ice-cream scoop, for example, but sometimes, sacrifices had to be made.

And he would have had to deal with Gertrude very soon, in any case, even had she not been so presumptuous as to actually try and destroy him, and his own, in this fashion.

Jonah had finally made a decision on his next Archivist - his unwitting Archive-to-be - and he had a very, very good feeling about Jonathan Sims: Web-marked and driven, with a fierce curiosity that was a delight to both himself and, he was certain, to Beholding.

It was time to start on his plan in earnest; to mould and shape something beautiful.

Something, very literally, world-changing.

There was a real art to wringing every drop of fear out of a situation and Jon’s uneasiness at being summoned for an interview, with no clues and no context, made for a light, but pleasantly refreshing, little appetiser; Jonah metaphorically licking the spoon.

His stern opening expression was carefully crafted to crank up those nerves to the maximum. It was very gratifying to feel the effects.

But, snacktime done, it was time to get down to business.

“Head Archivist? That’s … very flattering, Elias, but …”

“Please, Jon, no false modesty.” The slightly reproving tone was just right, he felt; twisting Jon’s perfectly reasonable doubts and concerns, into childishness. “You’re an excellent and diligent Researcher, very well versed, by now, in the ways of the Institute and more than ready for a new challenge. I’m quite certain that you’re the right person for the job.”

Jon’s nervousness and self-doubt was still a little too strong; very pleasant to sip from, but not ideal for the purposes of ensuring that he accepted the job. Jonah swept on relentlessly into discussion of his new duties, as if the matter was already decided.

Which it was. Jonah was not in the habit of failing when he really, really wanted something.

Even that long ago Ritual, which had … not gone as expected … had left him with a new power and a new perspective, which had slowly led him along the path to greatness and revelation. A necessary step in his journey.

“I am particularly concerned about making the Archives more accessible and I would like to make that a priority of your role. Recording the statements …”

There was a knock on the door. While it made Jon flinch, in a reflexive way which was rather intriguing, it was, otherwise, rather an annoyance. Had he forgotten to ask Rosie that he not be disturbed, during this rather delicate and important process?

The door opened, before he could decide whether to be graciously accommodating, or brusquely dismissive. A smallish figure shambled in, more raincoat than man, with a mess of curls - mess being the operative word - and a sheepish expression. He looked to be somewhere between his late thirties and early fifties, but where, precisely, along this sprawling line, was unclear.

“Ah, so sorry to bother you, I can see you’re busy, but, if I might just have a word with a Mr …” - the man surreptitiously checked a notebook, as if his failure of memory might somehow be hidden from plain sight - “Elias Bowtchard?”

“Bouchard.” Jonah leant a little heavily on the correct pronunciation. He didn’t bother to mask his annoyance. He did, however, mask his curiosity as to why some scruffy, uncouth American was wandering loose about his Archives.

“Right, right, Bouchard. I’m sorry, sometimes my tongue just can’t always get a handle on these names. Slips right off ‘em.”

He smiled at Jonah and Jon, wide and self-deprecating.

“And who, exactly, might you be?” Jonah folded his hands together, taking care to keep within the bounds of politeness. It was really an excellent weapon, if used correctly, and a skill sadly in decline, these days.

“Oh, right! I should have introduced myself straight away.” He fiddled in his pocket for something; which turned out to be a police badge. “My name is Lieutenant Columbo, LAPD … well, that is, usually, but I’m currently seconded to the Metropolitan Police … it’s a sort of exchange programme, fostering understanding across the pond, I’m sure you know the sort of thing.”

“Indeed, Detective. Our own Institute has sister organisations overseas, with which we are frequently in contact. I find it’s unwise to confine oneself to a parochial view of the world.”

Not that they were anywhere near as important as his own Institute; but useful, in their way. The Eye reached across every corner of the Earth, after all, and even he could not be expected to cover all of it.

Not yet, anyway.

Jonah’s police contacts hadn’t mentioned anything about dragging in some bumbling American, but he supposed that he only really checked in when he needed to. Perhaps he should be paying more attention.

“And to what do we owe the honour of your visit today? As you can see, I do have some very important business to be getting on with.”

He had hoped to make Jon a little flattered at being the ‘very important business’ in question, but his Archivist was too distracted by the officer, and a myriad questions visibly rushing through him, to really pick up on it.

“I do see that, sir, and I’m very sorry to trouble you, both of you, but this is also important business, as I’m sure you’ll agree. See, what with all the blood and everything, we really did feel that it was important to consider the disappearance of your Head Archivist … Ms Gertrude Robinson, was it?”

Jonah nodded automatically.

“Well, we have to consider the very strong possibility that it was murder. So, you can see, sir, that I really need to ask a few questions and we can hopefully get this all straightened out.”

“I see.”

Jonah didn’t, in fact see, which was infuriating. He had reported Gertrude as missing and received the distinct impression that the matter was going to be left there; as was usual with most of the unfortunate occurrences on Institute property. Mysterious disappearances and unfortunate accidents, were, after all, not uncommon, especially in Artefact Storage. Why would the police be sending someone to investigate the Magnus Institute over this comparatively trivial incident, when they largely gave it a wide and prudent berth?

But, of course, they might have felt, having a naive, and clearly incompetent, American ready to hand, that they could send him on this wild goose-chase, and keep him out of the way of their ordinary business. And a visiting officer might be seen as more disposable than one of their own.

That was a line of thinking which Jonah could readily appreciate

“Well, then, perhaps we can reschedule this meeting, Jon, to finalise the paperwork?”

Jon nodded and said his polite goodbyes to the detective, who shook him warmly by the hand, before turning his attention back to Jonah.

For a rather clumsy-looking, foolish man, he did have quite the piercing gaze, Jonah had to admit. After all, he was something of a connoisseur of such things.

“I’m afraid that you’re wasting your time, Detective. Gertrude’s disappearance is certainly mysterious and the blood was admittedly … extensive. But it was not conclusively her own and, while she was hardly prone to practical jokes, she did have her little eccentricities. Especially near the end.”

“Eccentricities involving redecorating her office with blood?”

The detective looked dubious, as well he might. But Jonah knew a fair amount about the blood which Gertrude had on her hands, both literally and figuratively, so it was no effort at all to convey an air of absolute conviction that it was possible for her to have embraced the fact in her interior design choices.

“What can I say, she was rather an unpredictable woman. Prone to vanishing on field trips, for instance, and doing her own thing.”

“So, you think that she might just be on a very extended field trip, sir?”

“It would certainly be in character.”

“Huh. Well, see that’s very puzzling.”

Lieutenant Columbo scratched his head, the very definition of baffled, in human form.

“And why is that, Detective?”

“Well, because here you are, in the middle of appointing a Head Archivist …” he waved at the contract which Jonah had ready on the table, so damn close to being signed, “… which seems to me kind of a funny thing to be doing, if you thought that your current Head Archivist might be coming back. Do you understand my confusion, sir?”

Jonah was a little annoyed to have left himself open like that, but it was trivial enough to set right.

“I don’t believe that I stated at any point that I actually believed Ms Robinson to be coming back. Indeed, while I had been overlooking quite a severe decline in her work ethic and reliability, for rather longer than I should, in honour of her long service, I had actually been intending to let Gertrude go, just as soon as I found a suitable replacement. She simply … preempted me, in the matter.”

“I see, sir. Yes, that makes a lot more sense. So, can you tell me anything more about Ms Robinson? It would be very helpful for me, to build up a picture.”

Oh, I could help you with a picture, Jonah thought, with some satisfaction, as he summoned up a few polite and professional words about Gertrude Robinson.

I could show you the very moment of her death; the impact of the bullets; the fear she couldn’t hide, at the last; the frail humanity which she clung to and despised, in almost equal measure.

I could make you feel it.

“ … a shame, really, that such an exemplary employee should have gone into such a decline. But age, I suppose, catches up with us all.”

Unless you have a workaround, he thought, rather smugly.

“Thank you very much, sir, that will be a great help, I’m sure. I’ll let you get on with things, now. Sorry to be such a bother.”

He smiled at Jonah and shook his hand, his grip firm and friendly and far too trusting.

He was lucky that it suited Jonah’s purposes not to thoroughly shred that trust and naivety into a delightfully terrified confetti.

Not yet, anyway.

Jon had noticed that Sasha James - one of the more competent of his fellow researchers, if a little apt to frivolity and pointless arguing over trivialities; well, okay, he might not be immune to the latter himself - seemed distracted, but he was too consumed by his own work (and his own clogged and disturbed thoughts) to pay much attention, until she leaned back and addressed her desk neighbour, Tim (also an admirable worker, though his flippancy exceeded even Sasha’s).

They had a closeness, those two, which Jon refused to envy. He wasn’t interested in having his work interrupted every five minutes for small talk and irrelevancies, thank you.

“Hey, Tim, did you see that odd little guy going into Elias’ office, earlier?”

Tim, rather mortifyingly, immediately leapt over to Jon and clapped his hands over his ears, as if shielding him from disrespect.

“Rather rude way of referring to our Jon, Sash.”

Sasha threw a pencil at him, which, thankfully, meant that he had to release Jon’s ears to defend himself. This sort of thing wouldn’t happen if he was Head Archivist, he thought; despite his lingering doubts on the idea of the promotion; a job he would have to learn from scratch while pretending he knew what he was doing.

Then he considered the idea that they just might and was confused by his own mixed feelings on the subject. A head of department needed a proper dignity and distance, surely? It was their responsibility to set a good and steady example and not be … jauntily pounceable, at any given moment.

“You know who I meant. The man in the crumpled raincoat, looked a bit Italian. Though, now that you mention it …” Sasha turned her gaze on Jon, a sharp, sudden interest locking onto him like a tractor beam, as she realised that she had overlooked an important information source. “You would have seen him up close, right?”

Jon considered his workload; and the vanishingly small chance of being allowed to get on with it, uninterrupted, if he ignored the question. But, in any case, he sympathised with curiosity too much not to share most information he had available to him, if asked. Except for the strictly personal, of course.

Accordingly, he gave a brief summary of Lieutenant Columbo’s presence here; though carefully omitting the reason Jon was in the office in the first place. He still wasn’t sure how he felt about the job offer, or if it was even still on the table, after all this upset. Maybe it was just a momentary aberration, which Elias would rethink, given time to reflect.

To his surprise, the possibility that the Head Archivist might have been murdered, was greeted without much surprise.

“There was a whole lot more going on with Gertrude than most people realised. She was very smart and very closed off. I really admired her, but … I don’t know, she just had ‘secret badass gang member’ vibes.”

“Gertrude Robinson.” Jon stared at Sasha, trying to reconcile the vague mental picture he had, of fluffy, slightly scatterbrained, cardigans, with this unexpected image. “Wasn’t she well over sixty?”

“There’s no age limit on a badass gang member, Jon. At least, if you’re badass enough to survive that long.”

Which he had to concede, was a fair point.

Tim was more hung up on Lt Columbo.

“Huh. I never heard anything from my usual sources about getting a temporary American in. Maybe my flirting is slipping.”

Sasha nodded gravely at Tim.

“I have noticed a downslide in your technique, recently. Obviously, I didn’t want to bring it up …”

“You wound me to the heart, Sasha. To the heart, I say!”

At which point, sensing that he had been entirely forgotten, Jon felt he could safely leave them to their banter and get on with his work.

He hadn’t got nearly far enough into it, however, when a figure suddenly materialised at his elbow, making him give a small, but embarrassing, jump.

“Oh, my apologies, sir, I didn’t mean to startle you. I just had a few questions for you, about Ms Robinson. It won’t take a moment of your time.”

No, in fact it would take a lot of moments, none of which Jon could easily afford, if he wanted to leave this place on time. With an aggrieved sigh, which he tried - and probably failed - to smother, Jon allowed himself to be gently steered off to a quiet, empty room (was this HR? Jon had never been sure if there actually was a functioning HR department or just a perpetual out-of-office email) for questioning.

Lt Columbo, himself, seemed very friendly and apologetic for the inconvenience, but Jon couldn’t help stiffening under the weight of, both his sudden realisation that he might be seen as having a motive to kill Gertrude, now that he was under consideration for her job; and the memories of his numerous police encounters as a child, being scooped in, not always gently, when he strayed. Not to mention some clashes as a student, with certain ideals …

“I’m afraid that I never actually met the woman, Lieutenant. I knew of her, of course, but only in outline, as it were.”

Columbo was very good, Jon noted, at dragging out little details, without seeming to push. The amiability … wasn’t a mask, exactly, but it wasn’t the whole story. Jon felt a little drained, by the time he had finished recalling every detail he’d ever heard on Gertrude Robinson and quite a few on other people, as well.

“And when did you apply for the job of Head Archivist?”

“I didn’t.”

Columbo looked surprised by that, scratching his head and widening his eyes.

“You didn’t? I thought that was the usual procedure for these things.”

“Generally speaking, it is. But I’m not … technically qualified for the Head Archivist position and it hadn’t occurred to me that I would even be considered. Being called in and offered the job was a complete surprise.”

Which was entirely the truth, but Jon wondered if it actually sounded like it. People didn’t always believe him when he told the truth (even outside of that one terrible (impossible) incident, which he stuffed back down in its mental box, with some difficulty) and he was a little too used to being dismissed and misunderstood.

Columbo nodded, eyeing him with just a little too much sharpness, behind the soft, friendly smile.

“I see. Well, that’s very interesting, Mr Sims. Very interesting indeed.”

When Jon was released back to his work, it felt like being dropped from the jaws of a fox which had decided to let this particular rabbit go; for now.

Jonah was deep into his weekly scheduling, when there was a knock at his door, interrupting the soothing rhythms of organisation.

That damnable cloddish Lieutenant, again. Still, Jonah had decided that his role, for now, at least, was to be helpful and pliable and perfectly innocuous. Fun as it was, to let his metaphorical claws out and to delight in - and feast on - the resultant whimpering terror, he also rather enjoyed concealing his sharp, cutting edges, and immense power, and luring his opponents into a false sense of security.

It was highly amusing to be so underestimated.

“How may I help you, Detective?”

“Well, thank you, sir, I really appreciate you being so understanding, what with you being so busy and all … this place must be quite something to run, I expect. The Magnus Institute, now that really has a ring to it.”

Jonah kept his preening private, but he was pleased to see that the detective had the proper respect towards his noble institution.

“We’re a very well-established bastion of supernatural investigation.”

“Right, right, that’s exactly how I understood it. I did look into things a little, routine research, you understand, and it sure is a well-known place, in certain circles. You know, my wife was delighted when I said I’d be visiting here? She’s very into all that stuff, ghosts and spooky things and all that. Me, I was never sure what to believe, but she’s just fascinated by it.”

“Well, I’m sure that we could arrange a visit, if she was interested.”

Yes, please do deliver up any and all weaknesses you have, Detective, Jonah thought, as he summoned up his blandest smile. I’ll be very pleased to take them and stack them up as ammunition, to use against you. To pry into your wife’s every dark and terrible secret and be ready to rip her apart, whenever I choose.

“Really? Well, that’s incredibly kind of you, Mr Bouchaid.” The name was almost, but not quite, pronounced correctly. The man was trying, he supposed. “I’ll have to have a talk with her and see when she’s free. Between you and me, she’s kind of treating this secondment as an excuse to tick off every tourist attraction in London. But seeing this place … I’m sure that’ll just make her year.”

Columbo shook his head slightly, in pleased disbelief at this ‘kindness’ and looked around, a little awkwardly, as if slightly abashed by being treated so thoughtfully, when he was here specifically to be a nuisance.

“This is a very neat place you have here. You know, my own desk is a terrible mess? Never can get everything into order. A pen spillage here, a paper slipping askew there. But you … so tidy and clean and precise. Not a thing out of place.”

“I find it pays to be organised, Detective.”

More than you know, he thought, with satisfaction, as his meticulous plans for the future unfolded in his mind, step by careful step, ever a joy to follow to its natural conclusion.

If only he could get the first of those steps completed. Jonathan was already the Archivist in his mind, of course, but until he signed that contract, he could, theoretically, still slip from Jonah’s grasp.

And, while Jon wasn’t the only possible candidate, he was both the best - Jonah could feel that in his bones - and, even more importantly, he was Jonah’s own, carefully selected, choice.

He did not like to be thwarted.

“I’m sure it does.” Columbo stared around at his office a little more, just standing there, smiling and nodding, like a fool, while Jonah’s precious scheduling time ticked away.

“Well, Detective, as enjoyable as your company is, I do have some important work to be getting back to, so …”

“Oh! Yes, of course, sir. I get so distracted, sometimes, it’s a terrible habit. I just have one question and then I’ll be out of your hair. That young man you were interviewing for the job, Mr Jonathan Sims, was it? How much do you know about him? Personally, I mean.”

Ah, of course. The bumbling detective must have been scrambling around for motives of who might have killed this eccentric, but apparently harmless, old lady and could only find the meagre one of succession. Which … was not entirely incorrect, of course, in a sense. It wasn’t the most immediate factor in her death, but it would certainly have led to it, soon enough, even without provocation.

Jon’s being made a suspect in her death had certainly been factored in as a possible future tool to be used, when necessary, to create a certain jeopardy and desperation, at the correct moment; but, right now, it was a decided inconvenience.

“Jonathan is one of my best researchers. A very conscientious and hard-working young man, if … perhaps a little lacking in the social graces, at times. But rather more soft-hearted than he usually lets on.” A weakness which Jonah was very much aiming to exploit. “A little timorous, perhaps, though I hope to improve his confidence as he progresses in his career.”

“So, you had your eye on him for the post for a while? Mr Sims stated that he didn’t actually apply, is that correct?”

Was there a trap here? If he hinted that Jon had pushed for the job, it would paint him as likely to be guilty in this man’s eyes, but if he confessed that he had pushed Jon, instead … what did that reveal? Or suggest?

Nothing that he couldn’t handle, he decided.

“That’s correct, Detective. One of Jon’s little flaws is his insecurity, when it comes to his own capabilities. But I pride myself on being able to recognise talent and I like to nurture it, wherever possible. And, as Gertrude was on the verge of retirement and the Head Archivist position is a key part of our organisation, naturally, I’d been scouting out candidates for a while.”

“Of course, sir, of course.” Columbo nodded, approvingly. “What about Ms James, though?”

Jonah blinked, slightly thrown.

“Sasha James? I’m afraid I don’t see how she’s relevant.”

The detective frowned slightly.

“Well, it’s just that I heard she worked with Ms Robinson occasionally, in the Archives. So, she might have expected to be considered as a candidate.”

Ah. Interesting. That was an angle Jonah hadn’t considered; but it could be very useful.

“I see. May I speak candidly, Detective?”

“Please.” He gestured for Jonah to go on, with the light of interest kindled in his eyes.

Perfect.

“Ms James is a very intelligent and capable researcher and she did, indeed, occasionally work with Gertrude Robinson, giving her the edge in terms of experience. However …”

The pause was very artistic, Jonah thought, with a certain pride.

“… apart from being no more formally qualified for the position than any of the other researchers, I have certain private reservations, about Ms James as a department head. Apart from a rather … flippant and argumentative character … well, let’s just say that her ideas of confidentiality don’t meet the stringent standards that I require for a position of such responsibility.

“So, while I do believe that you’re correct in that she had some aspirations to the role, perhaps even an idea that it belonged to her, it was never going to happen. Perhaps I should have made that clear rather earlier, to avoid any … disappointments. A mistake, on my part.”

Jonah watched, with interest, to see if the bait was being swallowed. Sasha was an excellent asset to the Eye, with her drive for answers and casual disregard for privacy, but far more disposable than Jon. And her fear at being suspected would be very pleasant indeed.

And he would find it exceeding easy, with Sasha, to plant some clues and suggestions which pointed at her a little more decisively. Just to be sure that the detective followed his lead.

“Is that so, sir? I see.” A gratifyingly thoughtful look; as of a horse being led straight to water and lapping away, like a champion. “Well, thank you very much for your assistance. I’ll get right out of your hair.”

Jonah smiled sweetly at him, careful to radiate politeness and harmlessness in a blinding halo.

“Not at all, Detective. Always happy to assist the police in their duties.”

“That’s very good of you, sir, really.”

He shuffled to the door, a rumpled caricature of a man, in severe need of ironing. Jonah was just returning to his work, when the man paused, just at the door and pressed his hand hard against his forehead, as if something had just fallen out of it.

The man was probably in the habit of losing braincells that way, Jonah thought, irritably; his soul starved of its necessary scheduling activity.

“There’s just one more thing, sir, I almost forgot.” He turned to Jonah with the apologetic air of an errant puppy, which knows what it’s done, but is hoping for forgiveness anyway. “I just need to clarify what everyone was doing when Gertrude disappeared, purely routine, of course, so, could I just trouble you for your movements on the night before you reported Ms Robinson missing?”

Jonah almost laughed aloud at this absolute amateur, only just now coming round to checking these very basic things. He could probably do with a Baby’s First Book of Police Procedure to help him through the investigation. Hmm. Jonah wondered if that insufferable Jurgen Leitner had ever had one of those. He couldn’t decide if the thought was more disturbing, or amusing.

“Certainly, Detective. It’s easy enough to remember, as I simply followed my usual habits. I’m rather of the age to fall into something of a rut, I’m afraid.”

He gave a dry outline of his usual routine, which was carefully noted down.

“And I believe that there is security footage which can be made available to you, if you require confirmation of any details.”

“Thank you, sir, I believe I’ll take you up on that.”

Jonah would have to tweak it a little, of course, not just on his own account, but to throw doubt on Sasha’s movements; and, if necessary, to clearly exonerate Jon. But that was a trivial matter to achieve.

Still; the spirit of mischief entered into him and he couldn’t resist poking at the detective’s certainties, a little.

“But, of course, we can’t be certain that is when Gertrude died, if, indeed, she did die. I don’t believe that you’ve actually found a body?”

“You’re absolutely correct, sir, we haven’t found a body yet. And we can’t say for certain that she’s dead, let alone murdered, that’s very true.”

Not impossible to have a murder conviction without a body, but it did make things more complicated. And the police didn’t tend to have an interest in combining ‘complicated’ and the Magnus Institute.

“Still, you know, we’ve checked over her flat and it doesn’t look like she’s been back since her disappearance. Not even to pick up the two packages which arrived for her … a mobility cane and a course on learning braille by touch. It seems odd to have ordered something like that and just not bothered to retrieve them.”

Ah. Gertrude had planned ahead, of course, for the aftermath of freeing herself from the Institute and maintaining as much independence as possible. And she had come dangerously close to succeeding. A small surge of rage swept through Jonah, at the thought, which he carefully concealed.

“As I said, Detective, she was a very eccentric woman.”

“You did say that, sir, yes.”

Lt. Columbo gave him one of those goofy little smiles he threw around so freely, along with a small wave, and finally - finally - left Jonah to his work.

But the usual pure bliss of scheduling had been sullied and gnawed at, as if by small, irritating rat bites; and he spent a very clouded, resentful afternoon.

Chapter Text

Sasha seemed to be getting on very well with Lt. Columbo. They laughed at something together, before he said his goodbyes, turned, gave Jon a friendly nod and smile, and left (and Jon might not have actually physically ducked under the desk in utter embarrassment, at being caught nosily staring, but his spirit was definitely there, curled up into a ball and groaning in mortification).

“He seems surprisingly nice.” Sasha strolled back to her desk with a jaunty stride. “For a cop.”

“Would you like me to teach you some flirting techniques?” Tim propped his legs up casually on his own desk. “I had a little try earlier, but I think he’s more receptive to tall, dark and female.”

“Have you considered that maybe it’s just you, specifically, he’s resistant to? He does keep smiling at Jon.”

Jon rolled his eyes at Sasha’s mischievous grin and Tim’s faux-shocked face. Yes, yes, very amusing that anyone could consider him more attractive than Timothy Stoker. That anyone might consider him attractive at all, was probably joke enough.

It hurt, though; he deeply disliked being made fun of, even when it was clearly not aimed at him. Maybe, in particular, when it wasn’t aimed and he was just ‘banter collateral damage’.

He decided not to point out that the reason Lt. Columbo kept being all friendly at him - and far more like a kindly uncle, than a paramour - was not because he had bad taste in men, but because Jon was a suspect and he was probably just trying to lull him into incriminating himself.

“He’d heard a few conflicting stories about Gertrude, so I set him straight.” Sasha threw them a cheerful grin. “Think he actually listened to me, as well, for a wonder. Too many people think your personality gets shrunk to some generic ‘old woman’ stereotype, as soon as you pass sixty. Sometimes earlier.”

Jon winced at his own previous unthinking reduction of Gertrude. Sasha was right, people didn’t just shed their personalities, like skins, when they reached a pre-determined birthday and shrugged on the expected persona, instead. They were still themselves, all through, though there might be changes wrought by age and experience.

He imagined slipping off his essential ‘Jonathan Simsness’ and being possessed by some walking ‘grumpy old man’ meme. It wasn’t a comfortable thought.

Particularly as it felt a little too close to coming true.

No, he’d like to both keep himself fully intact and be understood to do so; not to have people look at him and see the ‘what’ and not the ‘who’.

The least he could do was offer Gertrude Robinson the same courtesy.

It felt wrong, suddenly, to be considering taking her place, when she was still so freshly … something. Missing, murdered, absconded.

And it - rather belatedly - occurred to him to really take in the fact that, if dead, she had been killed at the Institute itself. A burglary? Someone deliberately breaking in to kill her? Or one of the staff here, someone with a grudge?

The Lieutenant was investigating, of course, and would no doubt find the answers out in time; but, meanwhile, the questions were going round Jon’s head, nagging at him, all loose and flapping and irritating.

Maybe it would help to just take a quick look at the Archives. Not that he expected to find clues, but … it felt like it would settle something inside him.

Even if it was just a whispered goodbye, to someone he never knew.

Jonah was having some difficulty keeping track of the detective - there was some unexpected interference, which was making him uneasy; he hoped the Web wasn’t … but, no, it had practically gift-wrapped Jon and sent him over - but he did manage to watch the conversation between him and Sasha, through Tim and Jon’s eyes.

The detective had played it surprisingly cunningly, pretending that he had no suspicions of Sasha at all and listening earnestly to her ill-informed opinions of Gertrude. If Jonah hadn’t already planted the seeds himself and watched them germinate, he would have actually believed his facade of a friendly chat.

As it was, he rested somewhat easy that the detective had her in his sights, rather than Jon. Jonah would never let him be actually convicted, of course, but it wouldn’t do to upset his Archivist right now, before he was officially locked down. This whole business had clearly put him on edge and Jonah had no intention of giving him the chance to think things through too deeply or get any unfortunate ideas about the potential dangers of the position, before he was thoroughly entangled in it.

Curated and managed ignorance was a very important part of the plan.

And, speaking of which, he really needed to arrange that follow-up meeting and contract signing, now that his more urgent duties had been cleared out of the way.

No time like the present … Jonah checked in on Jon, to ensure that he wasn’t looking too jittery to give a satisfactory answer and was intrigued to discover that his most diligent employee wasn’t at his desk.

In fact, he was heading down towards the Archives; as if they were calling to him already. Jonah felt a warm glow of rightness at the thought. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so difficult to get him to sign after all.

The blood had already been cleaned away, of course, and the Archives were open and eager for their new Archivist to enter. Jonah was certain he didn’t imagine the satisfaction of the building - of Beholding - as Jon tentatively made his way inside, eyes wide and curious, taking in the place in greedy, heaving gulps.

It didn’t take long before his nervousness turned to annoyance.

“Well. Whoever else you were, Gertrude Robinson, you were clearly not a good Archivist.”

Right to the heart of the matter, Jonah thought with approval. Gertrude had been an excellent survivor, an effective destroyer of rituals and a dedicated thorn in the side of pretty much everyone (which had, as he was willing to concede, distinct advantages, as well as drawbacks).

But, as an Archivist, with both a small and a capital A - in all the most important ways - she very much made the choice to be as little ‘good’ at it, as possible. It was one of the reasons why Jon needed not to know anything in advance. Not to realise that there was anything to fight against, before it had him wrapped up and swallowed whole.

Did it ever hurt Gertrude, he had sometimes wondered, to keep the Archives in such disarray? To fight against her own purpose and the force to which she belonged (as much as she loathed the fact)?

Or had she kept herself just distinct enough not to feel the effects of her deliberate chaos; like a nagging toothache, a jangling wrongness, which was clearly getting Jon’s hackles up already, even without that last binding step.

No. He really couldn’t lose this one.

So, when that shambles of a detective hove into view, making a beeline for Jon, like the stinging little pest he was, Jonah decided that, for once, it might be prudent not to simply Watch.

“Quite the place, isn’t it, sir? All those people’s stories, like a supernatural treasure trove. If my wife ever saw this, well, I don’t think I’d be able to drag her away.

“Though, between you and me, I think I’d get a little claustrophic in here. I like to be out there, meeting people, always moving, that’s me.”

Lt. Columbo hadn’t asked yet why Jon was down here; which was fortunate, because he was struggling hard with that particular question.

It had all seemed to make sense, just a short while ago - Jon would pay his respects; look for hints of what happened; maybe get a clearer idea of the place where he would be - might be? - working, very soon.

The ‘paying respects’ part had fallen at an early stage, as soon as he’d seen the wretched disorganisation, promptly forgot all his good intentions and cursed out Gertrude’s ghost. Which was probably not good dead person etiquette.

As for looking for clues; well, what exactly was he expecting? A dropped shirt button from the attacker; a note written in blood? Some minute, overlooked detail, the significance of which would only be clear to him personally?

Quite embarrassingly hubristic, in hindsight. The place had been thoroughly cleaned and examined already. There was nothing left of Gertrude, but the hurricane she had wrought.

Maybe that was why she’d been murdered, Jon’s brain unhelpfully suggested, because of her criminal lack of a coherent filing system.

He shrugged off his petty thoughts and focused on the detective’s words.

“I’ve never really been much of a people person. Facts are … easier.”

Jon found his hand trailing over the strewn paperwork on the desk, almost in a caress.

The Lieutenant watched him with a small, oddly paternal, smile.

“Well, from my point of view, they can both get kind of complicated. But, you know, there are some facts I’ve regretted learning, but there’s not a single person I’ve regretted meeting? Not even the murderers. They all add something to my experience and understanding.

“No sir, I can confidently say that people are my favourite part of the job. And, what’s more, I get the feeling that you aren’t as indifferent to them as you think you are.”

Tim and Sasha burst, unbidden, into Jon’s mind, full of life and humour and teasing; and a kindness which he had always been wary of, in case he got too used to it and it was abruptly snatched away, like a conjuring trick, leaving him cold and empty and angry at himself.

Georgie blithely poked her nose around his corners, too - where she hadn’t been for years - reminding him of the good times; that connection and easy comradeship they’d once shared.

His grandmother, stern and dutiful and loving, in her way; who had been there - sometimes - when he needed her. A space inside him, where she used to be, all tangled up and stuffed with grief and an unexamined anger, which felt like betrayal to open.

And all the people whose statements he’d investigated; who annoyed and who touched him; who unsettled and scared; who stirred his empathy, to the depths; his frustration, to the shallows; and roused a thousand other feelings, dancing through his blood like lively ants.

“It’s not … obviously, I care about people, I’m just …”

Not very good at understanding them; or being understood by them. An annoyance. A walking fit of temper. Something small and cold and dry, in a sea of boundless warmth.

“…not very well suited to a customer facing role.”

Lt Columbo chuckled and shook his head.

“You might have a point, at that.”

There was something in the statement which reminded Jon that the man had almost certainly caught his irritated snapping at Gertrude, earlier; and his mortal soul immediately deserted him, to sink under the nearest desk again.

“But my advice is, don’t discount people so easily. And, most especially, not yourself.”

Before Jon could work out how to take that, the door opened and Elias came in, his eyes notably harder than their usual bland politeness ; reminding Jon that he was absolutely not supposed to be here, right now; and, indeed, had a good deal of research to be getting on with.

“Detective. Jonathan. I do hope I’m not interrupting something?”

“My apologies, Mr Bootchard, for borrowing Mr Sims for a while. I have to try and get as many background details as I can, you understand. He’s been very helpful.”

Jon - having not been of any help, whatsoever - probably looked a little too confused by this, for a moment; before realising that he’d been given an out for abandoning his work. He hoped that his grateful glance at the detective was received as intended. Body language and subtle cues were … not his strong suit.

He had been soundly critiqued, once, on what he thought was a perfectly friendly smile and had never quite got over it.

“I’m very pleased to hear it. All of my staff have been requested to assist with the investigation, of course, to the best of their abilities.”

This was a flat-out lie, which Elias delivered with such impressive conviction, that Jon had to think, for a moment, whether he’d missed the email.

The two of them smiled at each other, oddly dangerously; and how had Jon missed that Elias’ habitual ‘amicable’ was so paper thin? Jon’s own tells were so obvious, that he often struggled to notice the smaller details in others. The very slightly clenched jaw; just a sliver of an edge to a word, so that you almost didn’t notice getting cut on it.

Jon wondered if he should leave, while feeling glued to the spot. There was more going on under the surface, he could feel it, but the shape of it was so faint and ungraspable (as delicate, yet threatening, as a spider’s leg … Jon firmly squashed that thought, almost before it was born).

He took a step, almost without conscious thought; and promptly tripped over something on the floor. Or, rather, nothing on the floor, which made it all the more excruciatingly humiliating.

Real Head Archivist material, he told himself, with bitter sarcasm. At least Gertrude could probably navigate empty air, without snagging herself on it.

Though, when he looked more closely at the place he’d tripped - as both the Lieutenant and Elias, deeply embarrassingly, helped him up - it wasn’t quite nothing.

“Is that … a trapdoor?”

Lt. Columbo felt around the edges with care; and a look of deep interest.

“You know, I do believe you’re right.” He stood up and smiled at Jon and then at Elias.

“Well, now, that’s very interesting. Very interesting indeed.”

Elias’s face, before it smoothed over into bland curiosity again, did not suggest that ‘interesting’ was the word he was thinking of.

Jonah was not foolish enough to expect his schemes to go completely smoothly and without any bumps and snags. He had a lot of built-in contingency plans, alongside a certain belief that his intentions were - for want of a better word - blessed, by the Fears themselves.

And Jon connecting so instinctively with the Archives, the eyes there settling on him, almost magnetically, like a clowder of cats to the perfect lap, was delightful to Watch. It reinforced the correctness of his choice; his plan.

The fact that Jonah was destined for this.

So, he swallowed down any little annoyances and the itching in his fingers for his revolver, when that blasted detective vanished down the tunnels - not, sadly, alone and vulnerable, but with a sensible amount of back-up - and came out with a grave face and the location of Gertrude’s last resting place.

That, in itself, was hardly an insurmountable obstacle to Jonah’s schemes. Gertrude would have been found eventually and Jonah had the alibi of the, nicely malleable, CCTV footage. And even if he was arrested - which he had accounted for, naturally, as a possibility - the whole affair would be a mere formality, in any case.

It was the timing which was infuriating. And the fact that Jon had - with one of those bursts of stubbornness which Elias much preferred when he envisaged using them to his own ends - refused any, and all, little hints that he should just get his new contract neatly signed and out of the way.

Any more leaning on him, would turn vague suspicion into something a lot harder and more set in place. And, while Elias was not above using some form of pressure - even outright force - to get him to sign, it would tip his hand way too early and require a significant shift in his planning and subsequent approach.

Besides, it was far preferable to Watch his victims walk the path he chose for them, of their own accord (or with just the lightest of nudges); becoming wracked with guilt, later, as they realised what they’d done and struggled with the question of their own complicity and their own choices (however limited, in actuality, or impossible to guess the consequences).

Jon’s prospective future struggle with his dwindling humanity was something Elias could almost taste, a deliciously sweet and juicy morsel. If he felt as if he had been shoved summarily into monsterhood, with a sharp blow to the shoulder blades, rather than have slowly become entangled, through his own decisions and inquisitive nature, then it would be a lot less satisfying.

It was imperative, therefore, that Gertrude’s death should be cleared up as quickly as possible and in the way most beneficial to his own aims. Pinning the murder on Sasha was the swiftest and simplest path to this goal.

Mere suspicion wouldn’t be enough. There would have to be some convincing evidence. It was too late to plant anything with Gertrude’s body - a careless slip-up - but he could certainly find a way to use the revolver.

And Sasha, herself, had certain, very useful, habits which could be exploited to wonderful effect. He’d barely even have to try.

Jonah turned over ideas in his head, picturing Sasha’s slow-building fear and confusion as she was steadily boxed in and accused.

A very delightful appetiser, indeed.

The Lieutenant was surely wrong about Jon’s being more people-oriented than he thought himself, because, though he could see that Sasha’s habitual liveliness had been flattened and chilled, by the discovery of Gertrude’s body - and watched the way that Tim had been a constant, reassuring presence, with just the right balance of banter and touch and silence - Jon, himself, had been helpless to warm her, with his few clumsy words and the hot chocolate (with cream and that ridiculous layer of hundreds and thousands which she liked to add ‘because it made it more fun’ ) he had left for her; and which she had barely touched, though her hand had stayed curled round the mug for a good while.

All he could really do was sneak some of the work she had no energy for, and turn his focus to his beloved facts; slotting firmly back in his narrow little comfort zone. Uncovering far more straightforward mysteries than the baffling one of how to be a good friend.

Sasha stared, unseeing, at her computer screen.

“You know, I think part of me didn’t quite believe that she was dead? Maybe it’s ridiculous to say that she was more alive than most people, but she just had that presence, you know? A charisma and, I don’t know, a really powerful sense of herself? I always wanted that, I think. To know exactly who I am, unaffected by what anyone else thought of me.”

“Trust me, Sasha, you are the most absolutely Sasha James anyone has ever been.”

Tim gently squeezed her hand, his tone both light and sincere at the same time, a trick which Jon envied. His own ‘sincere’ mode was far too intense and his attempts at ‘light’ had a tendency to slip accidentally into ‘disturbing’, he’d been told; or to be read as completely straight, with no humour detected.

Sasha smiled, in any case; not as bright as usual, but it was something.

“Thanks, Tim. It’s just … it’s actually real now, you know? And I’m going to miss her more than I expected.”

It was a salutary reminder that Gertrude wasn’t just her job (at which she had clearly been woeful) but a whole actual person, who was now gone, leaving a hole in the world which no one else could ever fill, in quite the same way; and people who had been affected by her, far more than Jon would ever know.

The sombre atmosphere continued into the afternoon, when the whole rest of the department was out on field work, leaving their quiet little corner to brood, unchecked; so, when Lt Columbo walked in without his usual friendly smile, it just felt like an extension of that air of contemplation and reflective grief.

Elias - composed, and slightly severe - followed him, hovering in the doorway like some ominous raven, in a business suit.

The Lieutenant cleared his throat.

“I’m very sorry to be bothering you all, but some new evidence has come up in the case, so, I’m afraid that I have to ask just a few more questions.

“Ms James, would you prefer to be alone? This is quite a sensitive conversation.”

Sasha’s eyes widened a moment, in surprise at this grave address, after their last, almost giggly, chat.

“I’d prefer Tim and Jon were here. As I said last time, I don’t have anything to hide, Lieutenant.”

“As you say, Ma’am. Well, it seems that a witness has come forward to report a fraught conversation between you and Ms Robinson, three days before her death.”

He took out his notebook, frowning down at the pages, with a clear unhappiness.

“They state that she sternly suggested that your curiosity was ‘commendable, but dangerous’ and that you needed to be careful not to let it consume you. And that you countered something about Ms Robinson being far too fond of secrets and that you planned to ‘crack her open and pull them out, one of these days’.

“Is that how you recall the conversation, Ms James?”

Sasha nodded readily enough, her uneasiness showing only in her lightly tapping foot.

“I wouldn’t exactly call it a fraught conversation, but, yes, I suppose. Obviously I was joking about the ‘cracking her open’ part.” She looked suddenly nauseous. “God, that wasn’t how she died, was it?”

Jon really wished that he hadn’t had a boiled egg for breakfast, because the image of someone tapping Gertrude sharply on the head with a teaspoon and her splitting into jagged, horrible cracks, while the top of her head was scooped off, leapt immediately into his brain and flatly refused to leave.

“That hardly sounds like anything very important, Lieutenant.” Jon stood up, in order to look as formidable as possible (he hoped to achieve a minimum of ‘angry mongoose’) and crossed his arms, fiercely.

Tim rose to stand next to him, moving slightly closer to Sasha in the process.

“Yeah, I mean, if you take jokey conversations as grounds for suspicion, then I’m pretty much a suspect, twenty-four seven.”

“Yes, sir, I agree that it’s really nothing much by itself. However,” he turned back to Sasha, “I was also shown footage of you concealing something in your desk in the early morning of the day after Ms Robinson’s disappearance. Before normal working hours.”

Sasha looked too stricken for this to be a lie.

“That should have been … I mean …”

“You mean that you tried to delete it?” The Lieutenant spoke softly, but looked even more grave, the seriousness of the situation radiating out clearly, in the way that there was no longer a single trace of amiability or foolishness in him at all.

Sasha slumped a little, Tim instantly pressing defensively against her side, while Jon patted her shoulder with outstanding awkwardness, like a man who had only the barest concept of the verb ‘to pat’ and was trying it out for the very first time.

“Fine, yes, I hacked into the system. It’s really not that hard, actually, someone should probably fix that. But it wasn’t anything to do with Gertrude, I swear. You know, I was probably the only person here who really gave a damn about her, about the real Gertrude Robinson, not all the conflicting versions of her? She was my friend and I didn’t kill her.”

Lt. Columbo looked searchingly at her and nodded.

“I believe you, Ms James. I do. But you understand that I can’t just ignore this. Could you tell me why you tried to falsify the security footage?”

Sasha sighed. “Two things, really. One, it’s just kind of fun to see what I can get access to? Not to use it for anything bad, of course, just for the challenge of trying. And …” she visibly squirmed a little, “I, er, also have a secret compartment in my desk, which I wanted to actually keep as a secret. It’s not for anything sinister, just a silly, fun thing to have, mostly to hide stuff to use for pranks and my favourite biscuits, so that Tim doesn’t eat them all.”

“Hey! Is that why I can never find a Viscount any more?”

“You were on a five a day habit, Tim, someone had to stop you.”

They smiled at each other and the atmosphere lightened for just a moment; before the
Lieutenant coughed, delicately, and reminded them that this was serious.

“You understand, Ms James, that I have to search your desk now?”

She nodded, resigned. “Just watch out for the glitter. And the pots of slime. And …” she looked slightly embarrassed, “ … the fart machine.”

Ah. That explained The Week That Elias Ate Too Many Beans, as Tim had dubbed it, when his every little visit to Research had been accompanied by loud and unfortunate noises.

From the look on Elias’ face, as he watched, hawklike, from the doorway, he, too, recalled the incident. And without any fondness whatsoever.

Sasha showed the detective a neatly concealed button, which opened the hidden compartment.

“I discovered it about a month into the job. And it does seem to just be my desk which has one. So, I mean, I couldn’t just not use it. It wouldn’t be human.”

The drawer was surprisingly roomy; enough to fit the aforementioned items, along with some stray feathers, a glue pot and a notebook, which Lt Columbo opened, raised his eyebrows at, and then pocketed, without comment: to Sasha’s evident relief.

It also, as it turned out, had just enough room for a handkerchief, lightly covering a medium sized revolver.

“Wha … I didn’t put that there!”

Lt Columbo slipped the gun into an evidence bag and looked at it, thoughtfully.

“No, Ma’am, I’m rather inclined to believe that you didn’t. But I do have a feeling that this is the weapon that killed Gertrude Robinson. And I’m afraid that I will have to take you in for further questioning.”

He looked genuinely apologetic as he ushered Sasha out, managing, somehow, to gently, and politely, detach Tim from her, before leaving; Elias trailing importantly behind, with a ‘more disappointed than angry’ expression.

Tim paced from desk to desk, kicking the occasional chair, with an unaccustomed viciousness.

“This is bullshit. Sasha didn’t kill Gertrude. Some bastard’s trying to frame her.”

“Clearly.” Despite uncovering some unexpected new wrinkles in her character, Jon found it impossible to suspect Sasha of murdering Gertrude. Her grief had been too real. And the motive was paper thin. If Sasha killed anyone, it would be in self-defense or protecting a loved one, not for some paltry promotion.

Especially if …

“Tim, how much do you think that Sasha hacked into?”

Tim glared at him, his lip curling in anger.

“If you think that changes anything about …”

“No. No, it wasn’t an accusation.” Jona raised his hands, trying to get his meaning across. “I mean, that I know for a fact that Elias never intended to promote Sasha to Head Archivist. And it’s entirely possible that there’s written evidence for that. So, if Sasha hacked into the records …”

“She might have already known that killing Gertrude wouldn’t get her the job.”

Tim looked a little too eager, so Jon hastened to throw a damp flannel over both of them.

“It’s rather a long shot … it only works if Elias made a note of his decision against Sasha, or his plan to promote me instead, and if he did so before Gertrude’s death, and if Sasha accessed any documents mentioning the fact, which … makes quite a lot of ifs.”

Tim deflated a little.

“Right, we shouldn’t get too … wait, what makes you think he wants to give you the job?”

“He, ah. He already offered it to me?”

Tim’s blank disbelief was unsurprising, though rather unflattering. But that was hardly the point, right now.

“So, if we just ask Elias …”

“No. Absolutely not.” Tim’s response was immediate and vehement, to the point that Jon took an involuntary half step back.

“But … you don’t think …”

“Oh, but I do think.” Tim’s mouth shifted into something which should have been a smile, but had too much snarl in it to fully qualify. “I saw that bastard’s face when the search was going on. I swear he knew exactly what was in that desk.”

Jon hadn’t been really paying attention, and facial expressions, in any case, were often confusing and ambiguous things; but … he did have to admit that his previous, vaguely favourable, impression of Elias had been crumbling at the edges, recently. It wasn’t anything concrete, just little things here and there; a turn of phrase, a glint of - possibly misinterpreted - savagery; a slightly too insistent manner, when pressing contracts on people.

Not enough to assume the man’s guilt; but enough not to dismiss the possibility out of hand. Especially when Sasha’s freedom was at stake.

It looked like he was going to have to speak directly to the Lieutenant.

And very discreetly.

Jonah smiled indulgently, as he Watched Jon talking earnestly to the detective. A useless effort, of course - more ‘evidence’ could be provided, if necessary, to counter any flimsy defense; while the gun, and the tampering with security footage, was already rather damning - but it was very encouraging, this care and protectiveness towards his colleagues. Exactly the sort of trait which could be twisted and used against him, in a myriad ways.

So piquant, to get him to destroy the world, through trying to save it. To destroy himself, in the course of trying to survive.

The Lonely mark would be laughably easy to achieve, he thought; near the end of it all, when Jon had - oh, so tragically - lost, or alienated, all his assistants and his heart throbbed with emptiness and despair.

Jonah felt a mixture of longing for that moment, for the perfection of his project, his Archive; and a wish to fully savour the journey. After all, despite his absolute certainty in the beauty and divine rightness of his ultimate goal, there was something just a little too close to a death, in the change he was planning to bring about, for him not to have a little apprehension, as well as anticipation.

He would be unfathomably powerful, certainly, and an immortal, but the precise shape of that immortality was unclear. Would he retain this body? Return to his own? Have no body at all?

He wished for this, he truly did, his apotheosis; his glory ... and that of his god, of course. He had no regrets and no intention of failing in his purpose; and yet …

There were some things about this life that he would miss. A personal failing, perhaps; and one he would overcome.

But it wasn’t entirely an unwelcome thought, that he had a little time, yet, in which to do so.

Not too much time, however; or, at least, so he sincerely hoped. The sooner that Sasha James was formally charged and Jonah could lock Jonathan down and get on with things, the better.

Honestly, he wasn’t sure why Ms. James wasn’t practically convicted already, when he had delivered her up, so elegantly, on a finely-made silver serving platter.

Perhaps he should have taken the detective’s evident lack of refinement into account and chosen a cheap, plain chilli dish, instead.

Never mind. Impatience was never helpful; and it surely couldn’t take much longer to close the case.

Meanwhile, it gave him time to consider a replacement assistant to send to the Archives, if Jon, himself, had no strong preference. And, perhaps, one whom he would have the opposite of a preference for, just to make things … interesting.

He had decided on giving Jon at least three assistants, to allow for natural wastage. Selecting the perfect candidates, and idly plotting their potential demise, would be an excellent way to spend an afternoon.

Elias made himself a cup of tea; selected a cherry bakewell from the array of breakroom snacks; and settled down happily to work.

Chapter Text

“It’s certainly worth looking into, sir. I’ll be sure to check with Ms James, if she had any idea about your promotion in advance.”

Jon received a small, but radiantly approving, smile (he felt it rather like the gaining of a small gold star for effort; and immediately hated himself for the thought).

“I have to be straight with you, though, Mr Sims. Hacking into the security system and having that gun in her desk, will weigh pretty heavily against Ms James, even without an obvious motive.”

Jon bit down, hard, on his frustration, before it surged out of him, in an uncontrollable burst of temper. It wouldn’t be any more helpful than anything else he was doing (resoundingly failing at); and, police or not, it was hardly fair to hold the Lieutenant responsible for circumstances beyond his control.

“How’s she doing?”

“Oh, she’s a very resilient young lady.”

Jon got a consolatory pat on the shoulder (a masterclass in the art of patting, he noted, with envy).

“And, you know, I wouldn’t give up just yet, sir. See, the truth can be hidden, sometimes, and twisted out of shape, but it’s still always there, underneath. If you just look in the right place.

“And I’m looking, sir. Believe me, I’m not done looking.”

It was odd how someone could look so like an affable uncle, and an intent and prowling fox, at one and the same time.

Jon felt very glad, suddenly, not to be the prey.

Back in Research, Tim was also betraying somewhat foxesque behaviours: though, in his case, more like one caught in a trap and just getting started on chewing its own leg off.

“Tim, you’re … you’re not thinking of doing anything rash, are you?”

“I don’t know, Jon, what would you define as rash? Punching Elias’ face in, until it forms a sheer and perfect vertical? Stealing the revolver from evidence and putting it to much better use?”

“Both of those would qualify, yes.”

Jon considered attempting some sort of patting manoeuvre again, now that he had a solid example to follow: but he wasn’t any more confident than before that it would feel like a plausible human action, rather than alien possession.

Instead, he opted for the more manageable informality of sitting on Tim’s desk; not something he usually attempted, because it felt childish and also made his legs dangle, a sensation he distinctly did not enjoy.

It did, however, distract Tim from his choice of rashnesses.

“I just feel so useless, sitting here, wading through ghost stories, while Sasha’s being fitted up for murder. I mean, even if they can’t make it stick, then she’ll almost certainly be fired, without a reference, and I know how much her career means to her. She doesn’t deserve this.”

“No. No, she doesn’t.”

They sat together a moment, being useless in company. Which should have been uselessness squared, yet it didn’t feel like that.

“But, whatever happens, she won’t be alone.”

Tim looked at him properly for a moment, then nodded. It felt like a pact.

“She won’t be alone.” He summoned up something close to one of his usual Tim smiles. “Even if we have to tunnel into prison with spoons.”

“I’ll start sharpening some at lunch break.”

The resultant laugh was very small; but very much worth it.

Having considered the whole Gertrude affair essentially closed, with the only question remaining being how long did he give Jon to recover from the shock of discovering that his co-worker was a murderer, before gently sliding the contract in front of him again - two days should be more than sufficient; perhaps one? - Jonah had not expected to see Lt Columbo again.

And yet, somehow, there he was, infesting his Institute, like a cockroach in a cheap trenchcoat. Perhaps the man had links to the Corruption. And, if he didn’t, Jonah might be able to arrange him some.

A pleasing image of the detective meeting Jane Prentiss and slowly becoming a horrified Flesh Hive, flailed and screamed in his head for a moment, as the officer waved at him and approached.

“Mr Bowshed! There you are, sir! I was hoping to have a chat with you.”

“Then our desires are not mutual, detective.”

He resigned himself, however, to the undaunted enthusiasm of his current side-based thorn, who matched pace with him, as he strode through the corridors.

“I’ll try not to take too much of your time, sir, I know you’re busy. It’s just these little things that keep bothering me. I’m sure you know how it is. When something just doesn’t add up right.”

“I fail to see how things don’t add up. Sasha James was caught tampering with security footage and with what I assume to be the murder weapon, hidden in her desk. I hardly see what’s missing from the equation.”

Good grief, was he going to have to sit the man down and walk him through the evidence, piece by piece? Did he have to actually have to arrange a written confession, or an eyewitness? He was sure both could be managed, but it was far more time and effort than he should really be forced to go to. Besides, his metier was twisting the truth, or weighting it like a loaded die, not outright lying.

But Columbo was scratching his head again, with that infuriating look of bemusement.

“Well, see, it’s just like you said, sir. She got caught. And that puzzles me.”

He turned wide, baffled eyes on Jonah, a positive caricature of confusion, and it was highly fortunate for the man that there wasn’t a blunt instrument to hand, because otherwise Jonah might have done something rather regrettable.

But entirely satisfying.

“Forgive me, Detective, but if the concept of a criminal being caught in the act of committing a crime puzzles you, then perhaps you should consider an alternative profession.”

The detective chuckled, a little sheepishly.

“Well, you got me there, sir.” He smiled up at Jonah, his utter lack of offence an irritation in itself. “But, see, when I talked to Ms James she freely admitted that this wasn’t the first time she’d amended the footage. Apparently it was something she was in the habit of doing quite regularly, in order to conceal her secret hiding place. And we confirmed that. It wasn’t easy to tell, but it was possible, with her assistance and the help of an expert in these things, though we couldn’t restore the original footage.”

“Then I really fail to see the problem. The woman is a habitual criminal, by her own confession.”

A nice sledgehammer, or a length of sturdy piping, he mused, would solve the Case of the Infuriating Detective quite beautifully.

“Well, you see, sir, the problem is that Ms James didn’t do anything differently on the night in question. And she was very practised at it, by then, not much chance at making a mistake. So, why is it that the footage from that particular evening, when there was so much at stake, was such a clumsy, failed attempt, when none of her previous efforts had been?”

A unexpectedly fair point. But child’s play to counter.

“Consider, Detective, the difference in the state of mind of someone who has just concealed a contraband fart machine in her desk,” - and, honestly, Sasha deserved all she got, for the crime of that humiliating episode alone - “and that of someone who has just committed a brutal murder.

“It would hardly be surprising if she was a little … off her game, shall we say?”

The detective nodded, thoughtfully.

“Yes, sir, you do have a point. That might well be it. I’m sure that’s the explanation.”

He took out his notebook and carefully wrote something, muttering, not quite under his breath, ‘Altered state of mind, due to murder being materially different from fart machines.’

“Yes, sir, that does explain it. Well, don’t let me take up any more of your time.”

The detective gave a cheery wave and slipped away; to scurry into a crack, no doubt, and pop up again when he was least welcome.

Despite his attempts at composure, Jonah felt very ruffled indeed, as he headed into his next meeting.

Jon and Tim had both turned up early at work, the next day, with dark circles under their eyes from a restless night of worry. They didn’t discuss it, just took turns in making drinks; Jon wordlessly covering Tim’s research, alongside his own, when his early attempts at throwing himself full-tilt into work, turned gradually into a fragmented distraction and an internet search for ways to avert a miscarriage of justice.

“Don’t, for god’s sake, try the fake confession route, Tim. Not only is it wildly unlikely to work and ridiculously cliched, but Sasha will never forgive you.”

“Didn’t cross my mind.”

Tim surreptitiously scribbled through something in his notebook.

“I just … I hate waiting.”

Jon rather hated it, too, but he hadn’t been able to think of anything truly constructive he could do to help Sasha; and, besides he had a strange confidence in Lt. Columbo which was settling the more reckless side of himself.

As for the many unconstructive things he might otherwise have launched himself into, anyway; well, it had occurred to him that Sasha would never forgive him for letting Tim go off the rails in her absence.

He wasn’t a people person, he knew that (he’d been very much told); he was argumentative, unsociable, snappish and easily frustrated. A man who would be voted ‘least huggable’ in any given line-up, even if it included a stinking compost heap, Darth Vader and Edward Scissorhands.

But … maybe he could fake it enough to be useful?

Perhaps Gertrude Robinson’s clear sense of presence and self-confidence was just a remarkably robust suit of armour she had made for herself, and grown into over time. Maybe Jon just needed to figure out who he wanted to be and stitch himself into it.

And he wasn’t at all sure that he liked the inward, increasingly petty and bitter mindset he’d been slipping into, unchecked. His increasing focus on the plain, unemotional facts (and his determined avoidance of the facts which were far less plain and less unemotional), because the ‘people’ of it all hurt too much.

The way that past injuries and affronts (and the vanishing of a boy into an impossible door; it was polite to knock … ) had scarred his mental landscape into something he had never agreed to; and would like to change, actually.

Lt. Columbo had looked at him and seen something warm and human. Maybe he was wrong. But he didn’t have to be.

And Tim was starting to doodle a figure with a very familiar tie and air of superciliousness, being killed in various creative ways; the look in his eye far too speculative to be comfortable.

“Time for a break, I think.”

Tim looked rebellious for a moment, then glanced down at his notes, again - at the words, ‘Die, Elias, die!’ scribbled just by a sketch of the man himself in a nicely rendered snake pit - and sighed.

“Yeah. Maybe a breath of fresh air isn’t a bad idea.”

“Well, you’re in luck, because I’m the breath of fresh air in person.”

They both turned round in unison, a picture of utter surprise, in duplicate, as they took in the sight of Sasha, smiling warmly at them, from the doorway.

Tim, of course, rushed over immediately to hug her and Jon trailed after him, mentally preparing a polite welcome back handshake.

He was somewhat surprised to get drawn into a hug, too. Take that, Darth Vader, he supposed.

They went to the breakroom, for tea, biscuits and jokes, until the initial giddiness had worn off. Then there was a silence, while Sasha collected her thoughts.

“I was really, really stupid. It was just so easy to crack the system, it felt like a game. Not like doing anything wrong.”

“Not really so wrong, not when it’s this place you’re hacking.” Tim reached out for her hand, but Sasha hesitated to be comforted.

“No. No, it wasn’t just messing with the security cameras. I need to tell you, that notebook … I wrote down a few things that … that I’m not proud of. That I had no right to know.”

Jon remembered catching a momentary glimpse of a birthdate, before the Lieutenant had closed the book: something that looked like names, details; perhaps from their private files. It made him uncomfortable, certainly; but he also understood that level of curiosity. The itch to know what was beyond every closed door, like it belonged to you.

Tim took her hand more firmly.

“Sasha, that’s … okay, it’s not great, but …”

“But it doesn’t make a difference to our caring about you,” Jon utterly surprised himself by adding, with a certainty that came through, loud and ringing.

There was a brief interlude of apologies, thank-yous, more hugs, and the general sense of being buffeted by waves of emotion, which ended up with wet eyes all round and a somewhat cathartic feeling, like a new understanding had been reached.

“So, did that bastard fire you?” Tim looked all ready to go commit violence if he had, but Sasha rested a hand gently on his arm.

“I don’t think Elias knows I’m even here, yet, but I can’t see him letting it go. He might even press charges and it’s not like I can argue.”

There was a general sense of dejected slump, which even Viscounts and double helpings of hundreds and thousands couldn’t lift.

“But, at least I think the police believe me about the murder. So it could be a lot worse.”

They drank to things not being worse, with a slight resumption of cheer, which was materially increased after Tim solemnly imparted their list of plans for breaking her out of prison: including the great spoon-tunneling caper; smuggling in parts for a trebuchet, so that she could self-fling herself to freedom; and bribing the prison governors with kittens.

“Darn. Now I almost want to be wrongfully convicted, just for the trebuchet.”

Breaktime became a little extended, as they concocted more, and increasingly elaborate, schemes; but Jon found, to his surprise, that he was okay with allowing work to take a back seat; just for this once.

Jonah was on the alert for Columbo, this time, and yet, somehow, the man was still able to sneak up on him, jangling against his every last nerve.

“Detective. What an unexpected surprise to see you. Again.”

“Oh, don’t worry sir. I don’t think I’ll be bothering you for much longer. I think I have the general shape of everything, now, it’s just getting that final piece into place.”

“Well, I’m glad you’ve finally come to your senses.” It came out a lot snappier than Jonah usually allowed himself; a loss of control which he was by no means happy about. He took a breath and changed tack. “I suppose some of the blame was mine, for not realising how dangerous Ms James was. If I’d been more vigilant …”

“Oh, I’ve released Ms. James, sir. Her story held up very well under questioning and it turned out that she did, in fact, know that you weren’t considering her for Head Archivist, due to a note on her private file. She had no reason to kill Ms Robinson.”

Jonah really, really was going to kill this man.

“And I suppose that the gun was just for a prank? An amusing pretend heist, perhaps?”

“She claims not to know anything about the gun, sir. And I believe her.”

The detective radiated sincerity and a sickening faith in human nature which Jonah would usually delight in crushing. But he still couldn’t quite get a handle on the man’s mind and simply crushing him in a more literal sense would probably be … unwise.

Though enormously tempting.

Jonah swerved from his intended path to his office, into the breakroom, feeling the need for a good, strong coffee and a slice of whichever cake had been left unguarded. He stopped short, at seeing Sasha there, boldly laughing with his Archivist and that Stoker fellow. It was, at least, something, to have the laughter turned instantly into wariness, when he appeared. The tension soothed and eased him a little.

“Ms James. It was my understanding that you were currently suspended.”

Unfortunately, Sasha seemed to recover her courage very quickly.

“I haven’t received any notice to that effect.”

Which … was probably true. He had been too caught up in other things to get around to any official paperwork.

“I’ll remedy that when I return to the office. The police may have accepted your story, for now, but that doesn’t mean I plan to ignore your other breaches of conduct.”

Sasha looked more resigned than upset about that. He would have to work on her fear of unemployment later.

“I’ll arrange a formal meeting shortly, to discuss the next steps. Mr Stoker, Mr Sims, perhaps you would be so kind as to return to your work.”

He got a delicious flinch from Jon for that, but nothing from Tim, beyond his background fear for Sasha. Still, there was plenty of scope for making that particular fear very much worse.

Before he could put a little subtle pressure on, so that his employees would scurry away like the frightened bugs they were, the detective raised a hand.

“Actually, Mr Booshad, if you wouldn’t mind indulging me a little … I’d like to borrow all of you, just for a short while, for a little experiment.”

Jonah did mind indulging him, very much, and yet, somehow, they were all being ushered to the Archives, with an insistent politeness. Something, he had to concede, which the detective weaponised very well indeed.

“What’s this all about, Detective?”

“Well, see, I’ve been having a few nagging questions since I saw the body. Some things that troubled me. So, if you don’t mind, I’d like to do a little reenactment of the crime to try and clear those things up in my mind.”

“That hardly seems in the best of taste.”

“No, sir, but it is in the interests of justice and I do believe that comes first. Now, Mr Sims, if you wouldn’t mind being the Archivist for a short while? I believe you and Ms Robinson were of a similar height.”

He handed Jon a thin protective layer and a cardigan, remarkably similar to the one Gertrude had been wearing when she died; which he donned with a bad grace.

Despite the situation, Jonah was rather pleased to see him in the role of Archivist. It sent rightness singing through his veins.

The detective unsubtly eyed Tim and Sasha - both tall, to very tall - and then Jonah, who was of a more sensibly medium height. Jonah supposed that the detective might be concerned about the angles of the bullet wounds and their indication of the height of the murderer; which would not, in that case, match Sasha at all.

There had been quite a lot of changes in forensic techniques - and, indeed, in the establishment of a police force - since Jonah’s very far off youth, and usually he was all in favour of such things, bringing the truth to light. But not when the truth in question was inconvenient for him personally.

He would have to be very careful in his aim.

“Thank you sir,” the detective steered Jon gently into position, “now, if you stand about here … we can’t be perfectly accurate, of course, but from the photographs of the blood this is the most likely place … good, just like that.”

He looked at the others.

“Now, the murderer had to have been standing close … say about here. If you wouldn’t mind taking this, Ms James.” He handed Sasha a small gun. “Perfectly safe to shoot, I promise you. And, Mr Sims, if you’d just wear these goggles, just as a precaution.”

Jonah held back a sigh, as he connected the dots. If Lt. Columbo hoped to prove something by having them play stationary paintball, he was going to be sorely disappointed. But Jon was clearly extremely nervous at having a gun pointed at him, which gave a very pleasant little frisson to the whole ridiculous exercise. Jon really did do fear so very well.

He was going to be perfect.

“Now, if you don’t mind getting into character a little bit, first, so that the shooting feels quite natural. And then, Mr Bootshard, and Mr Stoker, if you could do the same when Ms James is done. It will all make sense, I promise.”

The detective made an encouraging gesture and Jon blinked; looked briefly panicked at being in the spotlight; and then visibly shifted posture, managing to mimic Gertrude’s defiantly upright stance remarkably well, for someone who had never met her.

Perhaps the Eye was already giving him a little help. Welcoming him into the fold.

“Ah, Sasha, good. I have a statement that needs some urgent follow up, regarding the sighting of a werewolf, three Loch Ness monsters and a handful of pixies.”

Flippancy aside, it was actually quite uncanny how well he did the intonation. Almost like Gertrude was standing there in front of them.

“I’m sorry Gertrude,” Sasha waved the paintgun around recklessly and Jonah tried not to flinch. He really would be furious if his suit was ruined. “Normally, I’d love to help with your multiple monster mystery. It’s just that, for some inexplicable reason, I feel the sudden urge to shoot you. Bang.”

Sasha pulled the trigger with a commendable lack of hesitation, shooting a splodge of yellow paint onto the cardigan, right around the heart area.

“Thank you, Ms James, an excellent job. Mr Sims, if you could change your cardigan for me?”

Lt. Columbo carefully put the used cardigan into an evidence bag; as if it would actually help with anything. Still, best to let the man get on with his nonsense. Jonah was carefully making mental notes of every eccentricity and was fully intending to make a formal complaint, ripping into his investigation techniques and general incompetence.

With any luck, he’d be booted off the force for good. Preferably utterly destitute.

Oh yes, that was a lovely picture.

Jonah took the gun, with a small nod, and moved easily into position. Jon frowned at him, in a very Gertrude way. Almost too Gertrude, suddenly.

“I see. So, you’re finally getting your hands dirty? I must really have caught you off guard.”

The remembered words came out of him, almost as if compelled.

“I suppose we both got a little complacent. Fifty years is a long time. End of an era.”

“I’m not really in the mood for nostalgia, Elias. You might have noticed I’m rather busy so either shoot me or –“

Jonah raised his gun and aimed it at Gertr … Jon. He savoured Jon’s slight flinching and wide eyes, as Jonah unleashed a deliberately unsettling smile, and the way he raised his chin just like Gertrude had - so defiant, for all the good it did her at the last - before pulling the trigger. Bang.

Gertrude fell to the floor.

“Well … there it is. I thought it would hurt more.”

Jonah could help with that.

Bang.

Bang.

It felt really good for a moment; cathartic; almost like genuinely getting to kill Gertrude for a second time. So much so, that it took a moment to shake off the haze of the past and see Jon, lying in front of him, instead of Gertrude; looking rather disturbed by the last few minutes and like he wasn’t at all sure where - or who - he was.

It must be Beholding, Jonah assumed, playing games he wasn’t at all comfortable with. But that was, after all, rather the point of it.

Fortunately, the detective didn’t seem to have noticed anything … odd.

“Thank you, sir, that was perfect. Now, Mr Stoker?”

Jon, having shifted into another clean cardigan, assumed his Gertrude pose again, a little more warily, and slightly less convincingly, this time.

“Ah, Tim.” Jon eyed him witheringly. “I was rather hoping for Sasha, but I suppose that you’ll do.”

Tim struck a melodramatic pose.

“Sorry, Gertrude, can’t stop to do follow up. I’ve been possessed by the ghost that lives in this evil gun and so you must die.”

Jon’s new cardigan gained a yellow splodge, looking exactly similar to all the others, and it was slipped into another evidence bag, with just as much care as the rest.

“Well, Detective, are we quite done with this farce? I do have an Institute to run.”

“Oh, yes, sir, I think we’re almost done. Just one last question. How many times did you shoot Ms Robinson?”

“Three.” Jonah spoke without thinking, before his words caught up with him. “That, is, just now, of course. In this rather pointless game.”

The detective gaze at him steadily.

“Yes, sir, and I found that very interesting. See, Ms James shot only once. Mr Stoker shot only once. But you, you shot not once, not twice, but three times. And the real Gertrude Robinson, she was also shot three times. And in those exact same places that you just shot Mr Sims.

“No one except the murderer had any way of knowing that.”

He gestured to one of the quiet officers who had been lurking in the background, watching, who proceeded to brusquely handcuff Jonah and read him his rights in a bored, even tone.

Jonah felt a sudden wave of icy fury coming over him; the build-up of days of being badgered and harassed and, now, actually tricked, like some common fool - something he detested, to the marrow of his being - all spilling from his mouth in a venomous stream, his control and rationality lost entirely to anger.

“I see. It turns out you have brains after all, Detective. Such a shame that you won’t be able to use them for much longer. Gertrude underestimated me and paid the price for it. And, when I have this little matter all straightened out, as, I assure you, I will, believe me that you will find out exactly how bad a mistake you just made. You’ll wish for the mercy of being shot a mere three times.”

He turned to his Archivist.

“Jon, I shall expect you to begin the duties of Head Archivist in my, hopefully brief, absence. I’ll make sure that you’re fairly compensated.”

He walked out proudly between his escorting officers; only belatedly realising that he had just effectively confessed to murder over a paltry piece of ‘evidence’ which would be laughed out of any given court. Being overenthusiastic with a paint gun was not real proof of anything, even if the placement of the bullets was rather unfortunately precise.

Stating outright that Gertrude had ‘paid the price’, on the other hand, was a little harder to explain away.

Well, it was still all no more than an inconvenience. Getting out of the murder charge would be laughably simple, even without the use of his connections; the more serious issue was the lack of trust Jon would now have in him. He had hoped to have longer to keep and build that trust, before it shattered and stabbed Jon deeply with the shards.

Well, there would just have to be some slight adjustment to the plan. And he would have to keep a close eye on Jon, to ensure he didn’t resign, before his contract became binding. A headache he absolutely didn’t need.

Oh yes, that smug little detective was going to seriously regret this.

“Well, that was … intense.”

Jon sat at the desk, rubbing the spot on his chest which had been most impacted with paint. The protective layer had cushioned the blow, so that it didn’t actually hurt, as such; but he had still felt it.

He was more uncomfortable over the idea of being in Gertrude’s shoes; vicariously suffering her fate (he tried to suppress that feeling he’d had of being possessed for a moment; as if Gertrude herself had stepped inside him and taken over).

He wondered if that had been part of the point of the demonstration, that sense of identification (of warning?). Lt. Columbo was, Jon thought, rather more complicated than he appeared.

“No kidding.” Tim huffed out a breath and sat on the desk next to Jon, at a comfortably companionable distance. “That Columbo guy really likes to be dramatic, huh?”

“I think he knew it was Elias from the start and he was just pushing and pushing and pushing, to get him to crack. Did you see that look Elias gave him? Like he was planning to rip him slowly apart and then rip apart the separate molecules, for good measure.” Sasha shuddered. “I can’t help worrying that he’ll follow through.”

“Well, good luck doing that from a prison cell.” Tim swung his legs, happily. “Man just confessed to murder, and threatened a police officer, he’s not revenging himself on anyone, anytime soon. Unless, of course, he has his own team of trebuchet smugglers.”

“He did seem very convinced he’d be getting out soon,” Jon pointed out. And strangely insistent on Jon being the Head Archivist, which felt like a point that should very much be raising warning flags, all over the place. “I think I’d rather not be here when he gets back.”

“You’re not the only one.” Tim stared at the floor, his high spirits dropping suddenly. “I’ve begun to think that I’m not going to find what I was looking for here, after all. And maybe I just need to move on, anyway. Find a better way to honour … well, long story.”

Jon found something all too familiar in that look.

“I suspect we all have one of those.”

He and Tim shared a glance of recognition and understanding; a handshake of the eye.

“Well, then.” Sasha grinned at both of them. “Looks like we’re having a working lunch, sending out our C.V.s. There’s this place I know which I’ve been thinking about since I realised I wasn’t getting the promotion, that’s having a recruitment drive right now. Might be a good place to start.”

A new beginning. And perhaps a way to start working on a new Jon; or, not altogether new, just with some tweaks and changes of his own choice, rather than the harried, panicked creature he could almost feel himself becoming under the stress of the Head Archivist job and the weight of Mr Spider, which, he now realised, would never leave him as long as he stayed here; those legs always reaching and reaching for him.

And this place, the Institute itself, pressed down on him, even now, like grasping eyes - no, hands, obviously, eyes couldn’t grasp; Jon sternly side-eyed his inner simile-generator - and it was all too tempting to just give in to that pressure and let them take him.

But Sasha and Tim slung an arm each over his shoulder - like he belonged to them, had a place there - and he went willingly, if not painlessly; leaving a part of him behind, he thought.

But, perhaps, not one he’d miss.

Jonah found himself being deposited, not in a proper police car, but in some wretched disgrace of a vehicle, a beaten-up wreck of a Cabriolet which, anachronisms aside, Jonah wouldn’t have been entirely shocked to discover was as old as he was.

He sat in the back, alone and unguarded, with only the handcuffs between him and his many loving thoughts of violence; that, and the dopey presence of a Basset Hound, which flopped limply on the seat next to the detective, like a mournful ragdoll.

And, of course, his own strategising. He didn’t need to complicate his - currently remarkably easy - release from custody with another murder, however tempting. Jon, his instincts told him, was in grave danger of being lost, if he didn’t act very swiftly indeed.

“Well, detective, exactly how long do you think it will take for my case to be thrown out? I suggest you consider it very deeply. And then take that time to get your affairs in order.

“Not that there’ll be much left of your life when I’m done with it. Or, indeed, your wife’s.”

Jonah was expecting more of a response; trying to dig under the skin of the detective in the way he usually found so very easy. But the man just smiled at him in the mirror, soft and amiable as ever, and scratched his miserable excuse for a dog behind the ears.

The car made a sudden choking noise - unsurprisingly - and the detective pulled over, his face finally showing some concern.

“Huh. And I just had the thing serviced, too.”

He shook his head, sorrowfully, and patted the car as if anxious for its health. Well, Jonah did not usually make a habit of targeting vehicles, but if that was what it took to get through to the man, it would be a pleasure to destroy this one, as a first step to destroying Columbo.

Honestly, he barely needed to do more than heavily blow on the thing.

“Don’t worry, sir, it does this from time to time. Usually it just sulks for a bit and then starts up again in half an hour or so, right as rain. But, as we might be stuck here for a while, there were just a couple of things I wanted to say.”

Columbo shifted in his seat, so that he could look straight at Jonah, his eyes suddenly a little sharper, a little brighter. A little more unsettling.

His dog sat up a bit straighter too. A little too eager, suddenly.

“You know, Mr Bouchard, I’ve learned quite a bit about you and your Institute, over the course of the case, and I found it all very interesting. Very interesting indeed.”

He smiled; and Jonah felt there was a touch less amiability there and a touch more … something. Something which made his hackles rise abruptly and try desperately to escape his body.

“See, I think you’re absolutely right that you’d be able to get out of the murder charge, even if I’d taken a little more care to make it as watertight as possible. Even if I had the whole thing recorded, as well as your personal confession. Something tells me you know people and … well, I hate to think of it, but wheels can be greased.

“Which is why I intend to give you another option.”

He grinned a little wider; and this, somehow, did not seem like a good thing. Not at all.

“I … don’t understand.”

Jonah was, he thought, beginning to understand. He just really, really didn’t want to.

“Well, sir, think of it like this. Have you ever considered fear, as a concept? I suspect you have. The first fear, the very oldest, now that would have been the fear of predators, don’t you think? Of being chased … and being caught. Very simple and very effective. Other fears may have developed over the years, branched off from it, as it were, but that was the oldest, the most powerful.

“Funny to think how deep it goes, isn’t it? How all of our wrongdoings are resting inside us, like sharp little thorns, and there’s always a part of us which is terrified of getting found out. Of being hunted down, for each and every one of them. The fear of being hunted and the fear of judgment, of the truth being brought to light, they’re very connected, don’t you think? Overlapping and intertwined. And very, very compelling.”

Columbo’s dog seemed much larger now, as it leaned eagerly over the seat, its eyes bright, its teeth almost impossibly sharp.

“So, if you really wanted, you could walk out of the car right now, sir. Or you could get someone to drop the murder charge, instead of pleading guilty, letting yourself be tucked into a nice safe cell and staying there. We won’t stop you.

“But we will chase you. Inside and out.”

A flood of imagery burst into Jonah’s brain: his every moment of wrongdoing from childhood; from stolen cookies, to petty violence, to every person he had sacrificed to the Fears and his own curiosity. The bones in his office, the screams of his victims, as they realised their fate. Gertrude, bitter, resigned, and then still.

And Jon, even, though he had not started his plans: and yet the fate he had planned out - every single mark inflicted, and the world remade - spiked through him as deeply as if he had gone through with it; each suffering soul accusing; chasing.

And all the time he was running, running, running, unable to rest, with a hound on his tail and the Lieutenant around every corner, eyes bright, questions incessant, digging in, nagging and tearing at the truth inside of him; ripping it free, piece by piece.

He wasn’t sure how long he was lost in the chase - stumbling and desperate and tormented, for hours, months, years - before he came back to himself, in the back seat of a battered car, with the detective solicitously offering him a bottle of water and the dog resting back on the seat, ears softly floppy and drooping.

“I think the car’s working again, sir, if you’d like me to take you to prison now. It’s your call, sir.”

Jonah sipped the water with a pathetic gratitude; the lingering presence of utter terror, for once, not a delightful, delicious thing, but something unbearable.

It seemed he wasn’t so very keen on perpetual fear when it was his own. And immortality, after all, wasn’t worth it at quite any price.

He wasn’t sure which had been worse, the teeth that snapped viciously at his heels, or the questions that tore open his guilt, again and again.

Perhaps, he thought, with some attempt at composure, there would be cake in prison. And spreadsheets. As long as he had the essentials of life ...

“I believe the phrase is ‘I’ll go quietly, officer’.”

“A good choice, sir.” The detective smiled at him, warmly and sincerely. “A very good choice.”

The engine started, with a gentle purr, and Jonah closed his eyes; savoured the feeling of rest; and resignedly revised his future.

“Hey, you guys hear that the Institute finally closed down?” Tim slung his bag over his chair, as he offered this in lieu of a ‘good morning’. “I’m actually surprised it took this long, given the scandal. I guess there was some admin to sort out and someone trying to claim they’d been given rights to ownership, which all fell through, in the end.”

Sasha nodded. “We got out at just the right time. I only hope there weren’t too many people left to lose their jobs.”

Quite a few people, other than themselves, had jumped ship straight after the news. In fact, Jon was pretty sure he recognised a couple of the newest librarians here, from the Institute.

He wondered what would happen to the place. Whether someone else would take it over, or if that sense of something (eerie, oppressive, prying) a little odd, would put them off.

A part of him felt an odd sort of grief at the idea of it crumbling into disuse.

The rest of him was deeply, desperately glad, in a way that he chose not to examine.

“Oh, Jon, you’re still up for quiz night, right? I was thinking of getting that Martin guy to make up a four. He’s kind of shy, but a real wizard on arts and literature.”

“And a few other things, apparently.” Sasha leaned in to a fake whisper. “He’s quite sweet, but, my advice? Do not ask the man about Highland cows, unless you really, really want to know about Highland cows.”

“Oh. Actually, I am quite interested in Highland cows.”

Sasha and Tim glanced at each other and shared one of those private grins; which Jon didn’t feel so excluded from, nowadays, because they each had their own just for him, too.

“Then I’ve a feeling we’ll make a great team.”

Jon turned back to his work with a small smile and a heart which felt like it was getting lighter and lighter by the day.