Chapter Text
The Reverend Charles Fell was not what was typically expected of a country vicar. The fact that fate and family had landed him with a rural parish niggled at him daily. He hated everything about Tadfield. Its chocolate box houses. The village green with its duck pond. What he hated most was the infernal noisy neighbours.
His late wife had engaged with the community, joined the WI, hosted garden parties, and baked for both the church fete and the school one. Even as the cancer had eaten away at her physically, she still sought to reach out, to comfort.
He took a sip of his Earl Grey tea, despite it having long since gone cold. He blamed her, of course. If she hadn't spoiled Aziraphale, then the child would never have run away.
Michael, for all her flaws, ran a tight ship. His two other boys were models of the type of young men this country needed, strong and controlled. Aziraphale had always been the odd one out, soft and emotional.
He cursed him silently, both for drawing attention to himself and then for the attention drawn to the family. Of course, he had contacted the relevant authorities when it became clear that the fool hadn't simply been sulking, hidden somewhere in the house.
The police had asked all manner of impertinent questions. Was there trouble at home? Was Aziraphale happy? While they asked these idiotic questions, they weren't out searching and returning Aziraphale home, to face his well-deserved punishment.
Hours had drifted into days, then days into weeks, and finally months. The first anniversary of the boy’s disappearance brought with it fresh press speculation. As had the second. Even now, with five years' distance, some hack would rehash the story. Bringing that dreaded spotlight back into his yard during a slow news day.
The compassion from his parish had slowly turned into gossip and nudges, whispers in the graveyard. The journalists who had come sniffing around soon found ready sources to feed the rumour mill and their readership. When the story that ‘village tramp’ had spun made its way onto the tabloids, his phone had rung nonstop. The old drunk slept rough in the woods somewhere. No one seemed to know exactly where, not that anyone cared much. When the Reverend had complained to the police. Telling of the very colourful story the homeless idiot had spun - no doubt bribed by alcohol or cash - the police had been unable to locate him. Not that they tried too hard, in his opinion.
Charles seethed. He hated this village and everything in it, but he was stuck. The Bishop had refused to relocate him just after Aziraphale's disappearance. It was far too soon. No other parish needed Charles's particular skill set at the moment. So it seemed. When he’d asked later, the Bishop stated it would reflect poorly on the Church. Implying it would be seen as a cut-and-run.
They had deemed it best for Charles to sit tight and express his heartfelt hope that his child would be returned safely. Each subsequent enquiry simply echoed the previous one. Five years had passed, and Charles resolved not to ask again. He still had his pride after all.
Of course, he had refused to make a public show of himself. The family liaison officer had pressed him to be more open in the days immediately following the disappearance. Appearing tearful on national television apparently yielded good results. Kidnappers, she had told him, often released the child after seeing the family's distress.
Charles shot that nonsense down swiftly. Aziraphale had not been stolen. He had simply run away in a childish display of poor judgment. Her suggestion of a therapist had been the final straw. There was no need for a psychiatric input. Madness never occurred in his family. He had thrown her out. Barring her return, until such time as they found and returned his wayward son.
The Bishop’s office had been flooded by letters, both anonymous and signed. The theme of his failing to minister his congregation running through them all. Some of these had outright demanded that he be replaced. Fury flared in his ice blue eyes as his gaze fell to the latest letter on his dark-oak desk.
The Bishop had decided that was enough and help was required. New blood to raise the spirit. Charles Fell had been tried in absentia. Found wanting, guilty of failing in his post, and sentenced to a second minister arriving to help him. Of course, they would deny it, but the implication of his failure could not be allowed to reflect on the wider Church.
Not entirely unused to technology, he had searched the internet for information on the soon-to-be-a-thorn-in-his-side. The Reverend Adam Young was his worst nightmare. He was young, barely in his mid-twenties. The type of vicar who played guitar, wore jeans, and most likely enjoyed happy-clappy services.
The man was married to a person called Doctor Pepper Moonchild. In Charles's opinion, the wife sounded as problematic as the husband. She, he read, was a university lecturer. Her field of study focused on anthropology. Her latest published work deals with sexism and the persecution of women in the witchcraft trials.
What sort of woman, he mused, failed to take her husband's name? Some sort of progressive creature, no doubt. The type who announced their chosen pronouns, and would have no idea how to bake, or even organise a simple fete.
He supposed he should be grateful for small mercies. His home would remain his. The vicarage was set back from the village, behind tall iron gates kept firmly locked, and down a tree-lined driveway.
The Reverend Young had insisted on renting a small house in the centre of Tadfield. The Bishop had stated that Adam wished to be easily accessible to his new flock. To build close links with the community.
Charles snorted in derision, ‘Good luck with that,’ he thought. The community in this picturesque prison consisted of halfwits and inbred morons in his opinion. No good would come from encouraging contact with the masses.
Shaking himself from the futile overthinking of this current situation, Charles dropped the letter into the waste paper basket, having carefully torn it up. He had the great misfortune to find so-called journalists combing through the contents of his bins. Precisely what they hoped to find was lost on him. Did they seriously expect him to confess that he had harmed Aziraphale? Disposed of his body, perhaps? Most likely, with a rough, convenient map. X marking the spot.
A sly smile spread across his face. At least Sandalphon had proved himself useful for a change. The foolish boy’s stomach bug offered brief entertainment. Filling the bin with bags, filled literally with vomit and faeces, had been darkly amusing. The bin divers reduced in frequency, but sadly did not stop entirely.
Settling back into his desk chair, Charles reached for his favourite fountain pen. The pen stand on the desk contained an array of stationery, except for his favourite. He hissed with frustration when he could not locate it. Yesterday, one of his gold Masonic cufflinks had vanished from his dressing table. Two days before that, the book he had been keen to finish, gone.
He would have been tempted to blame the staff for having light fingers. But upon her arrival, Michael had either fired them or antagonised them into quitting. It was better this way, he supposed. Fewer people to snoop around his home. However, the missing items were becoming vexing.
Michael ducked her head around the study door. “I’m visiting the supermarket in Oxford today. Do you need anything?”
Charles looked across at his sister. Her dark grey trouser suit fitted her well, he thought. His late wife had favoured floral prints. Pale colours and chunky ethnic jewellery.
Smiling, he shook his head. “Nothing I can think of. Are you taking the boys with you to help?"
Michael smiled. “I had planned to. They are very helpful in carrying things. Plus, it gets them out of Tadfield for a few hours. The village shops may be convenient, but they carry such a limited range. I’m thinking of coq au vin for tonight's dinner. You really can not compromise on the quality of the chicken. Of course, the best chickens are the poulet de Bresse, but they are almost impossible to get here. When I lived in France, you expected to have a ready supply of them.”
She sighed sadly at the memory. “But your need, dear brother, was of paramount importance. Who knows, we may yet be free of this place. Once the boys start boarding school, instead of that joke you call the local school, we could travel. I could show you France.”
Charles rubbed his temples as a headache started to niggle. “We’ve spoken about this, Michael. The Bishop feels that keeping the boys near us presents a better image. I seriously doubt he will have changed his mind, but, for your sake, I will ask again. Personally, I agree with you. The boys need to be set boundaries. They need to be mixing with peers who are suitable. Not the local rabble. I was about to write to the Bishop on other matters, in any case. If I could just find my pen.”
Michael looked at the desk. “Surely it's on your pen stand as normal.”
She walked across the room and looked at the pens, tilting her head. She spoke. "That's very odd, Charles. I swear it was there last night. I passed the study on the way to bed and noticed you'd left the desk lamp on. I came in here to turn it off, you know how I feel about wasting money?"
Charles looked puzzled. "I didn't use the lamp yesterday, Michael. The weather was so pleasant that I took my after-dinner brandy in the garden. We really must get the lawns mowed. It's starting to look unkempt."
She looked past him and through the French windows that led to the garden beyond. "I suppose you're right. We can get some quotes for garden maintenance. I draw the line at getting any of the locals involved." She scowled, her whole demeanour becoming stiff. "The last lot were more than I could bear. Snooping around, drinking tea, and, I'm sure, they were spying for the press. No, I won't countenance it. We'll get someone professional in. Leave it with me, Charles. I'll sort matters when I get back later."
Charles smiled at her. "I shall leave it in your more than capable hands, Michael. You have been a blessing." He hesitated before adding, "When you're out, could you please pick up another book of stamps? I used the last one yesterday. First class, of course, it wouldn't do to send the Bishop correspondence with second-class stamps attached. Oh, and before I forget, the Bishop has decided to send another clergy man to the parish. I've no doubt they will be paying us a visit."
Michael looked at her brother, her expression sour. "What is he playing at, Charles? This place is not large enough to warrant two clergymen." A panic flashed into her eyes, "Where are they to live?"
Charles smiled sadly. "Worry not, Michael, they are finding rented accommodation in the village. Our home is safe, thankfully. I'm sure once this Adam Young finds out how much of a blasted backwater this place is, he'll be champing at the bit to leave."
Michael nodded, somewhat reassured. "I'll leave the reverend to you then, Charles. You leave the household management to me."
“””””””””””””””
The sun was shining brightly as two vehicles pulled up outside Eden Cottage. Adam Young opened the driver's side door of his orange VW campervan and clambered out. Pepper opened the door of their classic racing green Mini and stepped out.
" What time are the movers getting here, Adam?"
Adam dipped his head and checked his watch, "We've got a couple of hours, Pep. I'll treat us to lunch in the pub. I looked it up, and the reviews look pretty good. It's all fresh-made, so no micro jobs."
Pepper chuckled, "I seem to remember you survived on micro ready meals and delivered pizzas when I met you."
Adam loped towards her and gathered her into a hug, "What can I say, Pep, you opened my eyes and my stomach to a whole new world."
Pepper leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to Adam's lips. "And I still won't be doing all the cooking or washing up. Equality in all things, Adam. Well, except for driving skills, because I leave you cold in that, lover."
Adam grinned. "Pub then?"
Pepper grinned at their husband, "Yes, Pub. I want a Pint, and a decent one, not some chemical crap."
Adam laughed, "Seem to remember you drinking supermarket-own brand lager from a can, Pep."
Pepper turned and pulled their bag from the car and looped the strap over her shoulder, "We both know that was due to being flat busted, broke, Adam. Lock the van and let's get going."
They locked the vehicles and wandered across the village green, stopping to check out the menu outside the pub. Seated at a wooden table, just outside the doors, was a shabbily dressed man.
" You the new Reverend then?"
Adam nodded, "That's me. Adam Young. Pleased to meet you."
He held out a hand, and the man took it and shook it. "You wants to be careful handing out your name to just anyone, Reverend. You never know what they can do with it."
Adams's smile never faltered, "I'll bear it in mind. Although I'm a pretty open book. So no danger of skeletons from a cupboard. What can I call you then, friend?"
The man considered then in a gruff tone, "Shadwell. Friends call me that, and if you is a friend. So can you."
Adam smiled warmly, "Can I get you a pint, or something to eat? We were just about to have some ourselves. It won't be any trouble."
Shadwell took a good long look at the couple and finally spoke, "Since you offered free and easy, with no debt owing, I'll have a pint and some of their chips. The landlord knows what I drink, just say it's for me."
"I'll have the same, Adam, and a chicken pie." Pepper said, "Mister Shadwell, would you mind if we sit with you? It's such a lovely day, it seems a pity to sit inside."
Shadwell nodded and scooted sideways on the bench. "Since you asked so nicely, course you can."
Pepper sat next to him on the bench and set her bag next to her. "It's lovely here, Mister Shadwell, like a child's drawing of a perfect English village. Have you lived here long?"
Before he could answer, Adam reappeared carrying a tray of drinks. He set it down on the table and folded himself onto the bench opposite them.
Shadwell took a contented sip of his pint, "Been here off and on for five years, I think. Times a slippery bugger." He looked Adam in the eye, "You ain't like the other one, a right miserable bastard he is."
Adam sipped at his own pint, "I've not met Reverend Fell yet. Seen him at a conference once, but wasn't introduced. I'm sure the loss of his son affected him deeply. Perhaps that's what's caused how he is to you, Mister Shadwell."
Shadwell shook his head, "Nope. Take it from me, he's a wrong un. Take care of yourself around him, Adam. There's a darkness in him. Drove that poor son of his to run away. I'm thinking he must be way better off where he ran to."
Pepper put her glass down, "The police didn't find a trace of him, did they? I can't imagine how heart breaking that must be for a parent."
Shadwell smiled at her, "You both are bright lights, seeing good in people, but that Reverend is a bad lot. And to answer you, miss. No, the bobbies never found him. Not so much as a sugar lump."
The afternoon passed in pleasant conversation. Shadwell accepted a second pint and did not make a fuss when his chips arrived with a chicken pie as well. Adam had smiled and said he must have ordered by mistake, and that it would be a shame to see it go to waste.