Chapter Text
Advent Sunday
Christmas in the Barnaby household was a time of festive cheer, community spirit, and endless social gatherings. And by the final Advent Sunday, DCI Tom Barnaby was exhausted and ready to convert to Buddhism or book the month of January for a silent retreat. It didn’t help that family tensions too often boiled over into violence that required the intervention of the police, ruining what little peace and joy he’d managed to find. He’d lost track of the number of times he’d had his Christmas dinner spoiled by the Midsomer citizenry’s inharmonious ways. It was little wonder he anticipated the advent of Advent with a mixture of trepidation and resignation.
So it was with some concern and a great deal of disappointment that he saw a tiny Christmas tree appear on the desk of his junior partner, DC Ben Jones, on November 28. Up until this point, Barnaby had found Jones to be an eminently sensible young man, occasionally irreverent and not always able to school his reactions, but hardworking and eager to please. Christmas decorations before December did not please him.
It wasn’t that he objected to a bit of festive cheer. He was perfectly happy to wear paper hats and steal a sanctioned kiss under the mistletoe, but there was a time and place. And the time did not include November, no matter what the Advent calendar said.
But he held his tongue. The first murder or major assault on Christmas Day would strip away Jones’s enthusiasm about the holidays. He could put up with a mini faux fir for now. And really, there was no harm in building the momentum for the annual Causton Constabulary Christmas party a little earlier than usual, as long as he wasn’t expected to be involved in any way other than as a guest.
Over the next week, the decorations multiplied; a silver garland that Jones draped along the front of his desk; a string of twinkling fairy lights that Tom refused to admit were festive. And then the Christmas cards started to arrive.
“What are you doing?” Jones asked, as Tom read and binned the morning post.
“They cause too much clutter,” Tom replied, looking pointedly at the cluster of cards surrounding Jones’s tree.
“I can fix that,” Jones replied. He found a clear space at the bottom of the bulletin board, spaced out two push pins and tied a string between them. Then he retrieved the cards from Tom’s recycling bin and hung them on the line. “There we go. Out of the way.”
Tom searched for another objection that wouldn’t make him sound like a grumpy old man, then gave it up for a lost cause. “Don’t get your hopes up. More often than not we get called out over the holidays. Christmas seems to bring out the murderous spirit in Midsomer.”
“That’s all right,” Jones replied. “I was going to volunteer to be on call over Christmas anyway. Let the ones with families have the day.”
Tom frowned. He’d heard Jones mention grandparents and uncles, and he knew at least some of them lived locally. “I thought you had family in Midsomer.”
“I do, but it’s not the same as having kids at home. I can drop by my Gran’s any time on Christmas Day.” He grinned. “She just turned eighty and she still won’t let my aunt cook Christmas dinner.”
No parents mentioned, Tom noticed. In fact, he couldn’t remember Jones ever mentioning his mother or father. Back in Wales, he supposed. “We’ll make sure you get to your Gran’s,” he promised. “Christmas is a time for family.”
Jones smiled his thanks, but it was surprisingly muted. Tom was about to ask if anything was wrong, then hesitated. He made it a policy not to pry too deeply into his colleagues’ lives. What he didn’t know he wouldn’t be expected to care about, Christmas or not.
Second Sunday
The Monday after the second Advent Sunday brought a body. A retired barrister, found by his housekeeper collapsed on the hearth, tangled in Christmas lights. He and Jones were called in because the first officer on the scene noted a cut and bruise on his temple.
“Not much blood for a head wound,” Jones commented. “Could he have been killed somewhere else and moved here?”
“Unlikely,” George Bullard said, looking up from his examination of the body. “Wound is consistent with him hitting his head on the mantle.”
Jones frowned and stepped back. “Someone could have pushed him, he hit his head on the mantle, and pulled the lights down as he fell.”
“That’s a very dark outlook for one so festive,” Tom said, nodding at Jones’s tie, dark green with red flecks.
Jones glanced down. “Too much?” he asked, looking tentative enough that Tom almost felt bad for teasing him. “My Gran gave it to me.”
Tom definitely felt bad. “Very nice,” he said. And it was. If anything, it was a bit too nice. Tom preferred a more subtle look, understated authority.
“I can’t rule out foul play until I’ve done the post mortem,” Bullard interjected, “but I’d say this is a case of clogged arteries. The only bodily harm here is self-inflicted.”
“I’ll talk to the neighbours,” Jones volunteered. “See if they noticed anything suspicious.” He slipped away, notebook already in his hand.
“Oh, to be so young and enthusiastic,” Bullard sighed, his knees cracking as he stood up.
“It’s a welcome change from Scott, whose enthusiasm began and ended with attractive witnesses,” Tom said, “but all that unbridled energy can be exhausting. The other day I asked him to break down a door and he looked as happy as if I’d given him a puppy.”
Bullard smirked. “Enjoy it while you can. He’ll be annoyed by your unnecessary requests soon enough.”
“My requests are not unnecessary,” Tom protested, though he knew that many of the tasks he assigned to Jones were more often carried out by uniform. Jones, however, had a wealth of experience with those tasks, and didn’t need to be instructed or briefed on the situation. But he knew he would need to make sure Jones’s duties properly reflected his position, especially as he expected Jones to be featured in the next round of promotions. He wished the wheels of bureaucracy turned a bit faster - it would have been a perfect present for his Christmas-loving constable to become a sergeant.
“I’ll have the results of the PM to you by Wednesday,” Bullard said. “Hopefully we’ll be able to cross this one off our Christmas list.”
~~~
On Tuesday, Barnaby was left to his own devices when Jones was co-opted to join the Christmas party planning committee. Things had remained blessedly quiet, so Tom was happy to share Jones’s holiday enthusiasm for the benefit of all.
It had to be said that Jones possessed admirable organizational skills, which boded well for the party. Tom didn’t normally mix socially with the ranks, but the Christmas party was an exception. There was something comforting about celebrating the emergence from darkness into light with the men and women who saw so much darkness from day to day. His musings were interrupted when Bullard stopped by to drop off the post-mortem report on their body. Things really must be quiet for him to have finished it ahead of schedule.
“It’s a Christmas miracle,” Bullard proclaimed. “Died of natural causes. Massive heart attack. Dead before he hit the hearth, which is why there was so little blood from the head wound.”
“The heart attack couldn’t have been induced?” Tom asked hopefully. It wasn’t that he wanted Gregor MacCreary to have been murdered, but he’d hoped that a murder now would lessen the chances that he would be called out on Christmas Day.
“I know how suspicious you are, so I did a full tox screen,” Bullard replied. “Nothing unexpected.” He glanced around, smiling when he saw Jones’s desk. “Nice to see someone is in the Christmas spirit around here.
Tom sighed. “Easy for you to say. Did you know he was singing Christmas carols in the car this morning? Christmas carols. Before 8am.” Tom would never admit it, but he was singing along by the time they arrived at the station.
“I can think of worse ways to start the day,” George replied. “He’s a lovely lyric tenor.” He looked speculatively at Jones’s desk again. “You know, if you convinced him to come back to the choir for our Christmas concert that might channel his festive spirits elsewhere.”
“Or I’ll have to listen to him rehearsing,” Tom pointed out. He might have missed the Four Choirs competition, but between Jones and Joyce, he’d heard enough of the music to have “Fair Phyllis” running on a loop in his head for days.
On the other hand, Joyce would be overjoyed if Jones rejoined the choir and domestic tranquility in the days leading up to Christmas was a precious commodity. “Just leave me out of it. If he says no, Joyce will find some reason to blame me, so I need plausible deniability.”
Bullard just laughed, but he studied Jones’s display almost as carefully as a crime scene. The next morning, he dropped by again, ostensibly to update them on the pathology lab’s holiday schedule, but Tom knew he had an ulterior motive.
“I was admiring your holiday display yesterday,” Bullard said casually, though nobody was fooled in the slightest. He handed Jones a jaunty Santa figurine. “Kath says there’s no more space on the mantel, but I didn’t want this to go to the charity shop. I thought you might have a place for him.”
Jones’s smile was radiant. “Thank you, sir,” he said, posing the figurine next to his phone, all the better to take messages about who has been naughty and nice.
“Call me George,” Bullard said. “It’s Christmas, and we’ve stood over enough dead bodies together to dispense with formalities.”
It was chilly in Causton, even for the season, but Tom thought it would have to get a lot colder in a certain subterranean site before that would happen. It was one of the things he liked best about Jones; he was respectful without being obsequious.
Bullard’s intentions might not be diabolical, but they were far from pure. “The choir has a concert on the 21st,” he said casually. “We could really use another tenor for the Biebl.”
Surprisingly, Jones seemed to understand the reference, humming a few bars. “We sang that one at school,” he said, correctly interpreting Tom’s expression. “Ave Maria. The choirmaster was very keen on it.”
Tom tried to imagine Jones as a choirboy and failed miserably. He was barely able to imagine him as an adult choir member and he’d witnessed it firsthand.
Bullard, on the other hand, was clearly envisioning - or hearing - choral harmony. “You can have the third verse,” he said. “Stephen Latimer has been useless since Carolyn Armitage agreed to see him. You would think that love would improve his voice, but it’s just made him a mess.”
“Et Verbum caro factum est, Et habitavit in nobis,” Jones sang, and this time Bullard looked as surprised as Tom felt. Jones blushed and looked down at his desk. “It’s on my Christmas playlist.”
Of course he had a Christmas playlist. Tom made a note to avoid riding with Jones for the balance of the month. Though he did like the Biebl.
“Does this mean you’re in?” Bullard asked hopefully. “Rehearsals on Mondays and Wednesdays, with the concert on the 21st. Really, Ben, it would make such a difference to the choir. And the new conductor is wonderful. Much less critical than Laurence.”
Jones tried to look stern, but the effect was undermined by his inability to keep the corners of his mouth turned downwards. “Undue influence, bribing a police officer,” he said, nodding at the Santa. “If this weren’t Christmas, I’d have to charge you, Mr. Bullard.”
“George.”
“Not at work,” Jones replied.
“But at rehearsal?” Bullard pressed, breaking into a smile that could power the fairy lights for the duration when Jones nodded. “Excellent. I’ll email you the parts, and Tom will make sure you can get away.”
It wasn’t a request, but Tom also knew it wasn’t an option. “Then you’d best leave us to it, so Jones can clear his desk.” He waited until Bullard was gone before he grabbed his phone. Even if he couldn’t take credit, he could at least reap the benefit of being the first to tell Joyce.
Gaudete Sunday
The third week of Advent was when things really started to ramp up in Midsomer, as the villages all tried to outdo each other on the festive front. Christmas markets and choral concerts; baking competitions and holiday parades around the village square. It meant all hands on deck watching for wrongdoings and Barnaby forced to trek about the county as the face of CID.
Jones was in his element, sipping hot apple cider in Midsomer Herne, browsing the craft stalls while keeping an eye out for pickpockets in Binwell, and taking charge of the safety inspections on the parade floats in Little Crosby. It took very little to convince him to judge the Christmas wreath competition in Fletcher’s Cross, which did much to increase Tom’s enjoyment of the holiday season.
“If you sing like that in Midsomer Worthy,” he said, after listening to Jones join in with some carollers in Luxton Deeping, “Joyce and George will never let you leave the choir.”
Jones smiled at the implied compliment. “Oh, I don’t think that will be a problem,” he said. “There’s a critical incident management course that starts in January on Wednesday evenings. I sent the professional development request to HR.”
Tom admired his initiative and deviousness, and he particularly appreciated being left out of the loop. Jones clearly understood the concept of plausible deniability and how it related to his marriage. “In that case, sing your heart out. And you can head off when we’re done here. Wouldn’t want you to be late for rehearsal.”
Jones’s smile broadened. “Thank you, sir. What’s on the schedule for tomorrow?”
“Paperwork in the morning. The Chief Super wants a year-end review on Friday. Then we’re off to Midsomer Parva for the Christmas baking competition. I think I can handle the judging on this one,” he said, patting his stomach. “You keep an eye out for sore losers.” He’d known more than one Midsomer competition to end in bodily harm.
Jones pursed his lips to keep from smirking, but the corners of his eyes crinkled in amusement. “Understood, sir. Best I keep out of it. Conflict of interest and all.”
Tom cocked his head to the side, then understanding slotted into place. “Your grandmother lives in Midsomer Parva. A baker, is she?”
“One of the best,” Jones said. “You’re in for a treat.” But there was a wistful note in his voice that pinged Tom’s police radar.
“Everything all right?” he asked, forgoing discretion this time.
“Sure,” Jones said, looking surprised. “Why?”
“No reason. Christmas can be a difficult time of year in our profession.”
Jones glanced around the gaily decorated village hall and looked pointedly at the mug of mulled wine in Tom’s hand.
“Yes, well, we’ve been lucky so far this year. Last year I got called out on Christmas Day. Though it was a welcome break from the in-laws.” Not such a welcome break for Lydia Villiers, though.
“In-laws joining you again this year?” Jones asked, no sign of wistfulness now, just the quiet amusement that Tom had come to see as affection rather than insubordination. “I can keep an eye on the call sheet, if you like.”
“Cheeky bugger,” Tom chided, but he didn’t tell him not to.
~~~
Friday brought with it a visit from Chief Superintendent Roger Bannon, who descended from his office to spread fear and loathing through CID. Bannon was coasting his way to retirement, more interested in his golf handicap than day-to-day operations, but when the weather turned cold, he turned his attention back to the job, especially those areas of the job that had the potential to reflect well on him.
Hence the year-end reports, required well before year end, because Bannon was flying to Mauritius for the holidays. Tom had dutifully - albeit begrudgingly - submitted them first thing in the morning and assumed that would be the end of it. But just before noon, Bannon appeared in the flesh on his way to lunch.
“Tom,” he said, walking right past Jones without acknowledging him. “Good work on the closure rate this year. The Chief Constable will be very pleased.”
“I have a very good team,” he said, smiling at Jones, who ducked his head and moved to add some information on a series of burglaries they were monitoring to the whiteboard.
“About that,” Bannon said, lowering his voice. “I realize Scott went on leave with very little notice, which called for unusual measures, but it’s really not appropriate for a DCI to be partnered with a DC.”
“I agree,” Tom replied evenly, though he was seething inwardly. He hoped Jones was out of earshot, but doubted he was that lucky. “I expect that will be rectified in the new year promotions.”
Jones had passed both parts of the sergeant’s exam handily while he was still in patrol - he’d checked that before he arranged for the transfer - and Tom had written a glowing work performance assessment, but the final decision came from the promotions board. Though Tom was not without influence there, and Bannon knew it.
“Looking a bit like a panto around here,” he said spitefully, glancing dismissively at Jones’s desk. “Don’t forget that this is Serious Crimes.”
Tom frowned and looked over at Jones, who stood frozen by the whiteboard, pale even for an English winter. “I think you’ll find we take crime very seriously,” he said pointedly.
“Yes, yes, of course,” Bannon said, already moving on to other ways to ruin Tom’s day. “I’m sure that will be reflected in your presentation this afternoon.”
“What presentation?” Tom hissed, once Bannon had blown away on his ill wind.
Jones shook himself, still looking stricken. “The one he requested as a follow up to the reports. I put together a quick PowerPoint presentation on the key figures and sent it to you.”
“Oh, is that what that was?” Tom had seen the email, but as it hadn’t seemed to be about a current case, he’d filed it for future reading. “Thank you, Jones. An extra glass of eggnog for you today.”
But Jones couldn’t be jollied into a smile, and Tom wanted to smack CS Bannon, even more than usual. He would have to satisfy himself by confounding him with statistics and wasting both their afternoons.
When he came back after the meeting, the garland and lights were gone, the strings of cards packed away, and the tiny tree in the waste paper basket. Tom fished it out, tried to straighten the branches, but it was beyond repair. Bullard’s figurine had been spared the purge, but was tucked out of sight by the monitor.
“Where’s Jones?” he asked one of the other detectives, an inspector in Fraud.
“Took a call,” he said. “D&D at the White Hart. Rugby club Christmas party starting early.”
“That’s uniform’s problem,” Tom said, though he suspected Jones was on to the desk sergeant as soon as he went upstairs.
“Ah well, you know Jonesy,” the inspector replied, looking pointedly at Jones’s unadorned desk. “A good bust up will raise his spirits.”
That was true enough. Jones was always ready to jump into the middle of a brawl. Though if he got hit in the face and it affected his singing voice, there would be hell to pay.
He was more than done for the day, so he packed up and headed out, detouring to the Hart to check on the situation. But the patrons were back to drinking peacefully and there was no sign of Jones, just a patrolman taking statements.
“You just missed him,” PC West said, when Tom enquired about the whereabouts of his detective constable. “Said something about heading home before the next fight kicked off.”
Tom nodded and beat a hasty retreat. The last thing he needed on a Friday evening was to break up a brawl. He was looking forward to a quiet evening. Joyce, he knew, would have a full itinerary planned for the weekend. He wondered idly if he could order Jones to take his place on the inevitable craft crawl, but decided his authority and influence didn’t extend quite that far.
“How was your day?” Joyce asked when he went straight for the sofa after greeting her with a kiss. She handed him a tumbler of whiskey.
Tom grimaced. “The Chief Super blew through today, wrecking his usual havoc,” he said. “I had to spend half the afternoon explaining the year-end forecasts to him, and that was after he made a snarky comment about young Jones’s Christmas decorations. It was completely uncalled for, but Jones took it to heart and took everything down.”
“I thought you found his decorations excessive,” Joyce said
“Yes, but I have to look at them day in and day out. What business is it of Bannon’s?”
Joyce just smiled knowingly at him. “Have you invited him yet?” Joyce asked.
“Invited him to what?” Tom asked.
“To Christmas dinner, of course,” she replied, as if he were completely oblivious, which in this case he was.
“Why would I invite him to Christmas dinner?” he asked. It wasn’t that he objected. Jones was good company and would provide gender and age balance to the table, but he was fairly certain they hadn’t discussed this before.
“Why wouldn’t you?” Joyce countered. “You invited Daniel. And Gavin before him.”
“We knew Troy for years. And Scott never missed the chance for a free meal. But Jones says his grandmother does Christmas dinner.”
Joyce frowned. “Isn’t his grandmother Eliza Tompkins?”
Tom hadn’t the faintest idea, though he did remember that name from a very fine plate of shortbread at the Midsomer Parva baking competition. And Joyce was rarely wrong about the tangled relationships in Midsomer. Though it irritated him that she knew something about Jones that he didn’t.
“She’s going to Mallorca with her son’s family for the holidays. It’s a shame Ben couldn’t get the time off to join them.” The look she gave him suggested that it was somehow his fault.
“Before you cast me in the role of Scrooge,” Tom protested, “he never asked.” But he had made it clear that they would likely be working over the holidays, so Jones may just have assumed it wouldn’t be possible.
“Well, he’s hardly going to ask to come to ours then, is he?”
That was clearly the final word in her mind, not that Tom was inclined to object further. “I’ll invite him on Monday,” he capitulated. Unless, of course, the citizens of Midsomer had plans to ruin their weekend.