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Chapter Text

DCI John Barnaby had most certainly not expected this evening to go the way it did. It was simply meant to have been his cousin Tom’s birthday celebration, a chance to meet a select few, the inner circle so to speak, of Causton CID in an informal setting as a visiting family member. A party with much food and booze along with some good-natured ribbing about creaky joints. No more than that. 

He had accepted the transfer to Midsomer acknowledging it to be a lateral move, yet one that gave him an opportunity to make a greater impact on local policing than the relative anonymity of Brighton allowed. And in doing so, he had anticipated a gradual transition over the course of several months, maybe even the end of the year, as Tom made his peace with the idea of retirement and the two of them together came up with a solid plan for DS Jones to progress in his career. 

Instead, the birthday champagne had sparked an impromptu retirement announcement from Tom, seemingly effective immediately. For the callout that broke up the party had been lobbed over to him to answer, accompanied by a shell-shocked Jones who was nonetheless unable to refuse a superior officer’s request. Perhaps one the man saw as a command… 

**********

An hour later, they were wrapping up in Badger’s Drift, the hanging vicar having turned out to have committed suicide and left a note safely tucked away on his desk in the vestry. A note the attending patrol had failed to find, resulting in the callout to CID. Something told him that he would remember this case as the exception that proved the Midsomer rule as explained by Tom - there is no such thing as an unsuspicious death amongst the chocolate box villages.

As they made their way out of the church, Dr. Bullard said as much, albeit wrapped up in relief that his evening would not end in a PM. They parted ways in the car park, with Dr. Bullard dropping  DC Gail Stephens at her flat on his way home, while Jones drove John back to the Barnaby house in Causton before continuing on to his cottage. 

Perhaps halfway from Badger’s Drift to Causton, the dark and winding country lanes gave way to a larger B-road with reasonably spaced streetlamps, allowing John a suddenly much clearer view of his sergeant. Or of DS Jones, he corrected himself mentally—the man wasn’t and never would be his sergeant, not in the same way he had been Tom’s for the past half decade. And John liked it that way. He didn’t see why Tom had to get so attached to his junior partners… he infinitely preferred the more distant, matter-of-fact partnerships that were the norm in Brighton. 

All those deliberations notwithstanding, he found himself unable to unsee the distress lurking just beneath the younger officer’s stoic facade. Jones had been entirely professional and collected at the church, managing the crime scene with skill born of long practice, handling the thoroughly shaken elderly verger—the poor soul who had found the hanging vicar—with a commendable blend of gentleness and bracing sympathy, and overall conducting himself with a degree of poise many DIs would have struggled to attain. But now, the set jaw, the tic beside the lips compressed into a thin line, and the white-knuckled hold on the steering wheel all told the same story.

Jones was upset, hurting. More, devastated would not be an overstatement. And John had no idea how to handle it. Yet, for this partnership to have any chance of surviving, he had to try.

“Jones. About Tom’s shock announcement. I…”

“You knew, Sir, even though the rest of us didn’t. Stands to reason that he told family first.”

“That’s… it’s not that simple. Yes, I accepted the transfer to Causton CID because I knew that he was planning to retire. But I thought, and I am certain he did too, that it would be months away. What caused him to precipitate matters this evening, I have no more idea than you or Bullard do.”

“If you say so, Sir.” 

“Look, I’m not expecting you to believe it on my say-so. How could you, when you scarcely know me? But we should be at Tom’s in five minutes, and I am certain he will still be up, waiting eagerly to hear all about it. And to see you. Talk to him, won’t you? Ask him all the questions you couldn’t earlier.”

Jones did not vouchsafe any reply, simply focusing his attention on the road as they made their way through residential terraces lined with parked cars. A few minutes later, he turned into the wider streets of Tom’s neighbourhood, tacking and turning in a way that had obviously become muscle memory until he parked immediately in front of the familiar house. 

The hallway light came on as the car’s headlamps swept the front door, an unmistakably Tom-shaped silhouette behind the frosted glass. Jones turned his head to look, his eyes revealing utter heartbreak for a moment before he remembered the alien presence beside him and the shields came down. 

John fumbled the door handle and stepped out to the pavement, turning back to encourage Jones one more time to come in and talk to Tom. But it was no use… just a slight shake of the head, a murmured “No, Sir, not now”, and the sound of the clutch being let in as he drove quietly away.

Standing at the end of the drive, John watched Jones’ car move away, feeling completely wrong-footed by the total failure of his attempt to… he wasn’t sure what. The crunch of footsteps on gravel pulled him out of his brown study as Tom came up to his side, also looking down the street at the fast-disappearing tail lamps. They watched until they couldn’t see the car any longer, then turned back towards the house with deep sighs. His own was probably mostly one of exasperation, but John was psychologist enough to suspect that Tom’s was more of regret. 

Entering the hall, he turned to watch his cousin lock up for the night. And sure enough, as the light shone on that craggy and now-lined face, leaving no room for hiding, he could see that Tom had obviously not planned the evening—some force beyond his control had spoken for him—and now deeply regretted the shock he had given his loyal sergeant. 

Unbidden, the picture of Jones stepping forward and almost awkwardly hugging Tom flashed across John’s eyes. Yes, they were both hurting… and would continue to do so until one of them put aside his stubbornness and opened up. But there was no more to be said or done just now.

With murmured goodnights, the cousins made their way upstairs, the one to ring his wife in Brighton before falling into an exhausted slumber, and the other to curl up beside his Joyce and try not to wake her with his tossing and turning through the first of many sleepless nights.

Chapter Text

Six weeks later, not much had changed, at least not on the Jones and Tom front, thought John. For himself, he had spent those weeks in Causton, working hard and wrapping up a multiple homicide case with unexpected ties to drug smuggling, in addition to several complicated burglaries. 

He had also spent those weeks not settling into the house he and Sarah had bought. The boxes mostly remained unpacked, the neighbours unthanked, and his sergeant………. 

Well, John wasn’t quite sure what he had failed to do where his sergeant was concerned. Probably everything, he mused. Jones was still hurting and inclined to view him as an interloper at best, a hopeless and soulless substitute for Tom at worst. And he himself seemed incapable of dialing down the sarcasm over what felt like country bumpkin ways after Brighton. Perhaps he missed Sarah’s civilising influence too much. 

It also didn’t help that the locals seemed to have run away with the idea that Jones, a hometown boy by their standards, should have taken over Causton CID. Even worse, the man himself seemed to have bought into what was being thrown around at him seemingly wherever they went. 

The icing on the cake was Bullard’s deduction that the rumour could be sheeted home to none other than DC Stephens, who had taken off for the Met in the interim. Now, why would she have done that? All these dramatics would do his head in, John thought—probably far more effectively than the villains of Midsomer, since he actually had Jones to watch his back when they attacked.

An off-duty Friday allowed him to drive down to Brighton for the sports day and prizegiving celebrations at the preparatory school where Sarah worked. The long hours in the sun, watching the sports teams show off their prowess and the rich parents show off their Range Rovers, and the reassuring calm of Sarah’s company gave him fresh hope. As did the knowledge that another 3 weeks would see her joining him in Causton. 

Driving back to Causton on Sunday evening, the surprisingly empty roads gave John plenty of time to mull over the events of the day, and even more so to return to his everpresent concern about Jones and the effect of Tom's uncharacteristic secrecy. Giving in to impulse, he turned towards his cousin’s house instead of his own, hoping Cully’s information over the phone that morning had been accurate.

To his relief, the hall light was on and an unmistakable shadow could be seen against the glass insets of the door when he pulled up in the familiar driveway. His knock brought not only Tom, but also Joyce to the door, both of them looking tanned and relaxed after their month-long cruise. The warmth of their welcome and the beaming joy of their reaction when he passed along his and Sarah’s congratulations decided it for him. 

“Tom, have you talked to Jones yet? Told him?”

His cousin’s face fell immediately, and even Joyce’s smile faltered. 

“I have tried several times since we got back Friday night. But he isn’t answering his phone. I wouldn’t have thought he of all people would block my number, but he must have.”

“Perhaps. Or perhaps he’s just ignoring the calls because he’s not sure he can speak to you without getting overly emotional. He really was shocked that night, you know.”

“I do. And I have regretted it bitterly ever since. Ben… sometimes, he can look just like a whipped puppy, and…”

“Don’t, Tom. I’m sure he will understand and come around once you explain everything to him.”

“Ah, you are right there, John. And he’s always had a soft spot for Cully. But all that is predicated on my being able to actually talk to him, isn’t it?”

“How about you treat him to a pub lunch tomorrow? Tell me where, and barring any bodies, I will figure out a way to send him there. Pick one of your loony villages so a pretend callout is believable.”

“Thank you, John. Midsomer Worthy should work.”

Chapter Text

“Jones?”

“Sir?”

“There’s just been a call from Midsomer Worthy. Odd sort of break-in at the local pub, whatever it may be called. Can you go down there and take a look?”

“You want me to answer the callout, Sir?”

“Well, I have this budget meeting. You go ahead and do the initial assessment. Local uniforms will stay at the site until you release them. Give me a ring if it turns out to need a full investigation.”

“Sir.”

John watched the sergeant leave the office, shoulders still slumped despite being sent to answer a callout on his own, and found himself hoping yet again that his plotting with Tom would bear fruit. Walking over to the window overlooking the station carpark, he peeked through the slats of the blinds until he spotted Jones getting into his car. Watching the car pull out and signal right at the exit, he picked up his phone again and called a familiar number.

“He’s on his way. It’s over to you now.”

**********

Jones pulled into the carpark of The Maid in Splendour and looked around for the local patrol car. But the carpark was entirely empty, as was the street in both directions. Had the local uniforms left already? They were going to get the rough edge of his tongue if that was so!

Shaking his head in disgust, Jones let himself into the pub and paused to let his eyes adjust to the dimness before making his way to where he could see the barkeep talking to a customer. But before he could do any more than clear his throat to get the man’s attention, there was an all-too-familiar clap on his shoulder.

Turning round in confusion and a species of disbelief, Jones found himself staring into his ex-boss’s bright blue eyes. Though right now, those eyes appeared shadowed with doubt… quite the departure from his memories of them brimming with confidence, or dancing in amusement, or steely with determination. 

Jones felt his own hazel orbs grow round in astonishment and his eyebrows climb towards his hairline as Tom essayed an uncertain smile in his direction.

“Sir? What are you doing here? I’m sorry I can’t stop—there appears to have been a break-in…”

“Nah. No such thing. That was just John helping me out.”

“I don’t understand.”

“What I mean is that the fastidious and oh-so-correct DCI John Barnaby has been subverted by yours truly into sending you here on a made-up callout.”

“I still don’t get it, Sir.”

“Tom, not Sir. I’m sorry, Ben. I owe you so much more than that bombshell at my birthday celebration, and I was so afraid you would continue to find ways to avoid me.”

As he was speaking, Tom had wrapped his arm around Jones’s shoulders and ushered him towards a table in the back window of the pub. Sitting down in a daze, Jones continued to stare disbelievingly even as his hand seemed to move of its own accord to clutch at Tom’s, as though the older man might disappear if he didn’t hold on tightly.

“I wasn’t avoiding you, Sir. I mean, Tom. Just… I couldn’t…”

“Did Cully give you a ring yesterday? She said she was going to.”

“No. She’d sent me a text asking when we could talk, but I haven’t responded yet.”

“Drat the girl! Complicating things again. Guess it’s over to me, then.”

Jones watched Tom’s features settle into an oddly embarrassed version of his usual bulldog expression, feeling more confused by the minute. Two glasses of orange juice were thumped down on their table at that moment along with the menus, and Tom immediately grabbed onto his like a lifeline.

After downing half of his drink in one long draught, his erstwhile boss lowered the glass and cleared his throat.

“As Cully would have told you had you spoken yesterday, I’m going to be a grandfather. In the new year.”

Jones let the words ricochet against his near-frozen brain where they hardly seemed to penetrate. But the half-embarrassed grin on Tom’s face seemed to speak to some part of him that operated independently of reasoned thought, bringing an immediate rush of warmth to his heart and causing his face to relax into a beam of delight.

“Congratulations, Sir! Another Barnaby on the way! You and Mrs. B must be overjoyed.”

“Yes. Yes, we are. But it also wreaked havoc with what I had thought was a properly considered plan back in June.”

“You’ll have to explain, Sir. Tom.”

“I’m trying, Ben. Please—bear with me if it feels like I’m going in circles. I’ve never been one for explanations, and… Anyway, when Joyce and I went to that spa place, it wasn’t just the whole thing with the medical that was bothering me. It's been a very long time since I lost my father, but he kept coming back to me. Or rather, thoughts and memories of him did, along with regrets and only half-understood feelings. You with me so far?”

“Yes, of course. Go on.”

“So there I was, confused as all heck, and sure of only one thing. That it was high time I started thinking about retirement seriously. I’d turned 65, and although Midsomer Constabulary doesn’t follow every rule to the letter, it was getting harder for Cotton to justify keeping me on. John had indicated his interest in moving here, so it was a little less difficult than the idea of a complete stranger taking over. I thought I would stay on until the end of the year, have something like a 6 months’ transition as he took over, and together, we would figure out a plan and a timeframe for you to make DI.”

Tom paused for another drink of orange juice, studying Jones over his glass to see how the sergeant was taking all this. Watching the initial wariness shift through a stab of pain before settling into something more considering, he set his glass down and searched for further words.

Across from him, Jones was moving his glass in circles, tracing patterns on the table with the condensation around its edges. But he looked up now, fixing those puppy-dog eyes on Tom’s.

“That certainly sounds a lot more like how you would have approached things, Sir. What happened to change it all? You even passed your medical despite all your worries!”

“Ah, that’s where Cully and her news come in. You see, she told us that weekend about the baby, but of course it was too early on to tell anyone else. Now that she’s past the 12-week mark, she told John and his wife yesterday, and has been trying to reach you. But all that aside, her news simply convinced me that the decision to retire was the right one. Then Joyce started making plans for how she wanted us to move to a smaller house, perhaps close to Oxford, and be settled there by Christmas so she can be with Cully for the birth.”

“Well, of course she wants to be with Cully when the time comes!”

“Yes. As do I - not in the room of course, but waiting with the cigars… or whatever is the done thing now.”

“Oxford? I mean, that’s not too far away, but…”

“Cully and Simon have been there for almost a year now. He drives back and forth to Stratford as he needs to. But you see, I had promised Joyce we would travel, have time for ourselves and for her. For her to be Joyce, and not just my wife or Cully’s mum, or the baby’s gran. And with the timing, the only way I could give her that was to retire sooner rather than later.”

“But to retire with no warning at all?”

“That was unfortunate, and I’m sorry for the way I hurt you, Ben. For I did, didn’t I? More than I ever meant to, and far, far more than you should be. What happened was that I was already shaken by everything that’d transpired to that point, and then Cully dissolved into tears over how she had been barely 5 years old when my father passed and how she wants better than that for her baby. Coupled with all the leave I had accumulated and Cotton’s latest cost-saving drive, it all ran away from me and turned into an immediate retirement for all practical purposes even though the paperwork took another month.”

“And I suppose the birthday champagne combined with the emotional upheaval to trigger that speech?”

“You aren’t wrong there.”

Tom kept his eyes on Jones’ downbent head, waiting patiently until those hazel eyes met his once again. To his relief, the wretched look was fast waning, a blend of acceptance and interest and even burgeoning mischief taking its place. After a minute or two, a grin dawned on Jones’ face, narrowing those eyes to slits. What now?

“Oh, I have to give Cully a ring and start planning, Sir. I mean, Tom.”

“Planning? For what?”

“Oh, nothing much. Photographic evidence of the world’s most doting grandpa. Perhaps an unfortunate encounter with a nappy. All the things the crowd at the nick couldn’t imagine you doing, least of all when you told them off to a standstill for sloppy work.”

“Why did I let Cully and you become friends? Must have been mad!”

“Not mad, Sir, just practical. As I understand it, Troy definitely flirted with her and Scott tried, much as he did with every woman under 50 in the county. So by the time I came along, friend and confidante was the only available role. And then Simon appeared on the scene.”

Tom shook his head and continued grumbling for form’s sake, but his heart wasn’t in it. Jones had never spoken of the way he had helped Cully through that last moment wobble before her wedding, but Cully herself had told them all about it some months later.  And despite occasional lapses in common sense over attractive witnesses, Ben’s fundamental decency was well known to him. 

Their food arrived at that moment, and Tom was encouraged to see his companion tuck in with a hearty appetite. Turning to his own meal, he started rambling on about the cruise to the Shetland Islands and Norway that Joyce and he had just returned from, responding to Jones’s obvious interest with further descriptions of the grand scenery. 

As they finished eating, Tom stole another glance at Jones, confirming that their reestablished bonhomie was still intact, before daring to pose a question about how Jones was getting on with John. Thankfully, although Jones’ face clouded momentarily, his expression turned reflective rather than the blank look he tended to get when he was upset but didn’t want to show it. A few minutes’ continued patience brought its own reward.

“Not too bad, all things considered. Though I’m not sure he will feel the same way. I was a real little shit during his first few weeks at the nick, I’m afraid. But he doesn’t make things easy either. I mean, he’s still living amidst towers of boxes and has turned down all offers of help. Not just that, he talks about cases to his dog! Not to me or anyone at the nick. Why, that last case, when I finally found him str…”

Jones seemed to suddenly recollect himself and clamped his lips shut. Tom valiantly suppressed his curiosity and let him—after all, he could get some more details out of John, and it was good to see Jones start to establish that all-important loyalty towards his DCI, someone he himself no longer was. A smile played across his face, half regretful perhaps, but wholly proud of his protege. 

“He has many strengths, Ben, even if social ease isn’t one of them. He will get better once his Sarah gets here, believe me. And there’s a lot he can teach you that I could not. Too set in my ways, and too ingrained at Causton… that’s me. But he brings a broader perspective and more modern approach to policing. Give him a chance to be a good boss, and at the same time, he will help you round out your preparation to become an Inspector.”

“Right, Sir. I can’t let down a DCI Barnaby after all, can I?”

Chapter Text

Joyce Barnaby stood in the doorway to their lounge and allowed herself to soak in the quiet joy and camaraderie of this impromptu gathering. At least, that’s how John and Sarah had termed it when they had offered to host. But somehow, it had felt wrong to move out of Causton without one final party at their home, particularly now that George Bullard had also announced his retirement. And so, here they all were, gathered under this roof one last time before the removal firm came around in two days time to move their things to the new place they’d just bought. 

Joyce accepted it would be a wrench to leave Causton and Midsomer, as much for her as for Tom. Although they would not be moving far, having settled on a small cottage in the riverside village of Sutton Courtenay just outside Abingdon and scarcely half an hour away from Cully and Simon’s home in Oxford, it would for all practical purposes be a different world. One of nappies and nap-times and toys, all the joys a grandchild would bring. 

Moving further into the room, she overheard MIllie Bullard lecturing Sarah on the best way to discipline the younger Barnabys’ spirited dog Sykes, and allowed herself to exchange a discreet eyeroll with that very capable lady. Really, as though someone capable of running Causton Comprehensive couldn’t manage a pet!

Nearer the double doors leading to the patio, Simon and Ben were standing on a chair apiece, trying their best to follow Cully’s exacting directions on how to hang the bunting they had rescued from an already packed box. The sight of her daughter, now blooming in every sense, brought a rush of emotion Joyce didn’t even try to subdue. Tom’s retirement might have been rushed as a result, but she knew it was the right thing to do, and miraculously, so did he. 

On the thought, a long familiar arm came around her shoulders and she found herself leaning into her husband’s embrace, revelling in the strength and solidity on offer. Straightening up, she met the dancing blue eyes which had snared her heart more than three decades ago, and gave fresh thanks for the kindly fate that had allowed him the long overdue talk with Jones. For that had been essential for banishing the shadows caused by his sudden retirement in the summer. 

A champagne flute appeared in her peripheral vision and Joyce roused herself to accept it as Sarah circled the room. Although filled with sparkling apple juice in honour of Cully’s pregnancy, the intent was unmistakable—to toast two fine men who had served Causton CID long and loyally, as John put it. But before he could truly embark on a speech and call for the toast, the doorbell rang. 

Who now? Ben was pushing his way through the throng to answer it though, so Joyce held her peace and pulled Tom back when he would have followed. A minute later, Ben returned, bearing an enormous cake and followed by two men more or less his own age and somewhat taller than himself. Watching her husband’s eyes widen in disbelief before his face creased into a delighted grin, Joyce exchanged a smile with Cully before joining George, who had taken pity on a completely flummoxed John to explain who the latest guests were.

“Are you sure Ben wasn’t sneaking away to make phone calls these past weeks? I mean, Gavin wouldn’t have been that difficult to track down, being established in Middlesbrough. But Daniel… none of us knew where he had gone off to.”

“No more than usual. But then, he was on leave for a few days after we wrapped up that case involving the Oblong Foundation. So perhaps he was, but not in a way that I would have noticed, Joyce.”

Tom walked over at that moment, flanked by an ex-sergeant on each side and with the third (still a sergeant, albeit his ex) bringing up the rear.

“Ah, John. See what happens when you don’t keep a close enough eye on your sergeant! Now, let me introduce DI Gavin Troy from Middlesbrough CID, and DS - no, DI as of last year - Dan Scott from the Met. Though where is it you are transferring to, Scott?”

“Newmarket, sir. Had enough of the Met and of undercover work, especially. Fraud and horseracing shenanigans sound like a walk in the park in comparison.”

Troy and Scott both bestowed chaste salutes on her cheek before moving on to greet Cully and Simon, and Joyce turned her attention back to her beaming husband. 

“So Daniel was doing undercover work. Is that why you wouldn’t say where he had gone off to? Called in sick, my foot!”

“Well, the boy was urgently pulled into a highly sensitive operation when the original officer’s cover was blown. So when he asked me to cover for him and buy them enough time to get him safely in position, or at least as safely as possible under the circumstances, I did what I could.”

“Hmmm. About time you pulled your finger out of these pies. And well past time he moved on to something safer.”

“As he is, Joyce. As he is.”

From the front of the room, Ben suddenly rapped loudly on the table, bringing the various conversations to a halt. Holding up his glass, he looked around the room.

“Now that we are all finally gathered here for a retirement party befitting two wonderful mentors, please raise your glasses to DCI Tom Barnaby and Dr George Bullard. Thank you for inspiring and educating us, and for striving every day to make our world a little better than you found it at the start. I know I speak for Gavin and Dan as much as for myself in saying that you have made us not just better detectives, but also better men. To Tom and George. And to new adventures and old friends!”

As glasses were lowered and the buzz of conversation resumed, Joyce felt Cully’s arm slip through her own. Watching her daughter cradle the swell of her abdomen brought a special pleasure, as did the sparkling smile on that beloved face.

Yes, this was indeed a fitting end to their sojourn in Causton. And the sense of closure this evening brought would, she knew, allow them to enjoy the next chapter of their lives without a backward glance.