Free Old Bones by J.J. Campbell

Charles Kingsman de Lacy tipped an exact measure of muscovado sugar into his coffee, stirred for a moment, added cream, and sat back to watch the spirals of pale and dark as they blended together. The coffee was beyond reproach, as was the morning, with beams of sunlight striking down through the window of his study to illuminate the sage green leather and deep brown mahogany of his desk, the various books he’d been consulting and the half- finished sketch he’d been attempting the previous evening.
    He waited a moment before taking his first sip of coffee, always a blissful moment, then put the cup down and turned his attention to the volume of Beardsley drawings he’d been studying in order to improve his technique. The simple, elegant lines looked easy to imitate, but were not, and his fine patrician face had quickly set into a frown, which deepened at the chime of the doorbell. De Lacy glanced at the clock, irritated. Morning, he felt, should be a quiet, meditative period, and either solitary or spent in the company of those who understood the value of silence. It was barely nine o’clock, too early for the post, while he was still in the dressing gown of plum coloured silk and old black leather slippers he favoured in the mornings.
    Moving to the window, he looked down six stories into Golden Square and the steps of his apartment building. His visitor was a woman, petite, blonde, and casually dressed in pale blue jeans and a cream coloured, roll neck sweater. Surprised, and puzzled, de Lacy moved to the long mirror in his hall, made a few carefully judged adjustments to his appearance, pressed the buzzer, and eased open the catch on his door. Returning to his study, he seated himself once more, the Beardsley open in one hand and his coffee cup in the other, positioned so that the sun caught the rising vapour, which he felt a nice touch to the overall impression of languid elegance he sought to achieve. Presently a knock sounded from the outer door.
    â€˜Do come in, Sergeant McIntyre. I trust that you’re not here on official business?’
    She had entered the room as he finished speaking and he raised one quizzical eyebrow, ready to adapt his response according to her reason for visiting him. The police sergeant was out of uniform and a hundred miles from where she was stationed in Solsbury, but their previous encounter had left several loose ends and at least the potential for ill will. To his surprise her voice was warm as she answered him.
    â€˜Of course not, and you can call me Susan.’
    â€˜Charles then,’ he replied, relaxing a trifle, ‘but what brings you up to London?’
    â€˜I wanted to see you, to ask your advice.’
    â€˜Ask away. Coffee? It’s a Jamaican Blue Mountain, pea berry.’
    De Lacy went to the kitchen to fetch another coffee cup, now rather pleased with himself. While the case in which both he and Sgt McIntyre had been involved had ended badly for the police, in that they’d failed to make an arrest, his own reasoning had been impeccable, which she clearly appreciated.
    He returned to the room to find her seated on a straight backed chair, her hands folded in her lap, a choice of seat and position that suggested she was nervous, and perhaps conscious of her age. De Lacy made no comment, but settled himself back into his usual chair, facing her across the desk as if he were a headmaster and she a pupil.
    â€˜I hope we can start afresh?’ she asked, glancing sideways as she took a sip of coffee.
    â€˜Of course,’ he assured her, ‘so long as you’re not planning to accuse me of poisoning anybody?’
    â€˜No, of course not.’
    â€˜And did you catch up with the killer of Marco Styles?’
    â€˜No,’ she admitted, ‘but you were right. I got my transfer to CID on the strength of the case, thanks to you.’
    â€˜Congratulations, so you are now a detective sergeant?’
    â€˜Yes.’
    De Lacy