The case was solved, nobody else had died, the culprit was even now being led away by the local police, and Jury just felt tired. The only lingering mystery was how, exactly, Melrose Plant had found his way to Coventry.

"There's no way you could have seen my car from the main road if you were just passing through," he observed.

Plant looked at him thoughtfully for a moment. "Your sergeant called me," he said at last.

Jury stared at him. "Wiggins sent for you."

"Oh, yes," said Plant, obviously warming to his story. "He said you were, and I quote, 'being a morose old sod again' and suggested if I came I might distract you before he caught it."

It was a ridiculous story – but not as ridiculous as Plant was generally inclined to come up with. Given his penchant for lying instead of admitting ignorance one would think he'd be better at it.

Worse still was the realisation that his thoughts actually had been less gloomy since Plant's impromptu arrival.

The worst was that Wiggins had been insufferably smug for the past day.

"And you know I'm always up for a spot of murder investigation, so I extracted myself from the clutches of Aunt Agatha and her team of aspiring interior designers and trundled over here."

He wondered why the thought of Wiggins knowing him so well made him uncomfortable. The constant, niggling doubt that by his mere existence – that by showing affection for a person – he was putting them in harm's way.

Plant had lasted this long. Why this sudden fear that the act of observation had doomed him? (Schrödinger, he thought. Schrödinger and the cat that was neither alive nor dead until it was observed. He squashed the thought almost as soon as it arose.)

This feeling – this sudden clarity of vision – was brought suddenly and inexorably to life by the act of observation, and refused to be buried again.

The snow lay thickly around the inn, turning what was probably in summer a depressing, grey stone courtyard into something magical. Jury stared at it thoughtfully.

"Are you ever just going to admit that you want it?" The words dropped into the damp silence of the snow, shattering it.

"What?"

Plant seemed to live his life in a perpetual cloud of irritation, but now he looked almost amused. "The snow! You always act like they're going to take away your big serious policeman card if you admit that you want to mess it up."

Jury was startled into laughter. He stalked over to the courtyard and left a single, perfect imprint of his boot in it. He took a step back to admire his handiwork, which brought him back into line with Plant. Together, they stared at the snow in mute contemplation. He hoped it wasn't a metaphor for anything.

"Come back to Northants with me," said Plant suddenly. "It's going to snow again any minute now, and you won't want to be driving in that."

Northamptonshire was east of Coventry, not at all on the way back to London. But it was a lot closer and more importantly, not London. "All right," said Jury.

"I'll meet you at the Jack and Hammer," said Plant, gesturing vaguely in the direction of his Bentley.

"Not Ardry End?"

"You look like you need a drink."

There was an inn with a perfectly serviceable pub right behind them. How many of these pubs had he stood in front of, he wondered? How many different bars had he drunk at? "All right," Jury said again.

--

The door to the Jack and Hammer blew open and closed again, depositing in its wake a disheveled blonde with a desperate expression, snow peppering her shoulders like a lace shawl.

The woman's eyes tracked around the room until they landed on Richard Jury. "I wonder if any of you could help me," she said, addressing the words directly to Jury. "I need to get back to London and my car won't start... It's snowing out there," she finished helplessly.

Jury followed her out obediently, disclaiming any skill with vehicular reconstruction but willing to help nonetheless.

Those that remained exchanged long-suffering glances.

"He just has this... effect on women," said Diane Demorney, shaking her head in wonder.

"Well, you know why, of course," said Joanna Lewes without looking up from her notebook. She was planning the latest escapades of her hapless heroine, this time in the exotic location of Majorca.

"Do I?" said Melrose archly.

"Women notice Richard Jury because we all notice him," she said. "They sense how we feel about him, and it makes them interested in him and not us."

"How we feel about him?" repeated Diane.

"Oh, come on," said Joanna, looking up. "Raise your hand if you're not a little bit in love with Richard."

While everyone was still sitting in baffled silence, she continued, "See?"

Melrose was spared coming up with an answer. Jury returned alone, hair damp with snow and brushing the rest off his coat.

"She didn't have a corpse in the boot, did she?" asked Melrose. "I'm starting to think I should stop inviting you back here."

"Really, Melrose," said Diane.

"No corpses, and the car started fine with a little patience," said Jury. He looked at his empty beer glass and declined to retake his seat. "I think I'm done for the day."

It was a fair call. If he lingered any longer somebody might tell Agatha he was in town. "I'll be right behind you," Melrose promised, looking down at his half-empty glass. "Ruthven will let you in if I'm not."

Jury left, and Melrose finished his beer as quickly as he could stand to do it.

Trueblood caught him by the sleeve as he stood to leave. "Mads has a point. You're never going to open yourself to anyone else while you're still pining over Richard."

Melrose raised his eyebrows and deliberately chose not to answer. Whatever his feelings for Richard Jury may be, they would not be reduced to the level of "pining".

"Don't be so closed-minded," Trueblood advised him.

"Yes, yes, we're none of us completely heterosexual, et cetera," said Melrose. "Let me handle my own love affairs."

Not that it would be an affair. Hell, they could even get married now, if they wanted. What a thought. He wondered what Agatha would make of that.

"Good night, Trueblood," said Melrose.

The snow was falling steadily now, threatening to bury everything in its path. He scraped it from his windscreen and started the Bentley. Across the way he saw Jury waiting patiently for his own car to decide to start.

Just as he was wondering if he should offer to drive them both back, Jury's car rumbled into action. Melrose arrived at Ardry End only a minute behind Jury.

His desire to get Jury alone for a moment was thwarted when, as he should have predicted, Ardry End proved itself already occupied by one Lady Ardry.

Agatha descended upon Richard like an avenging angel, overflowing with the fires of determination.

She flounced, she fluttered, she offered him Melrose's drinks and Melrose's food, and informed them both that she wished Jury had called her instead of Melrose.

"I do wish you had contacted me," she sighed. "I have so little chance to exercise my mental faculties in this dreary little town."

Was that what was wrong? Melrose would be happy to provide the opportunity for her to exercise her mental faculties far, far away from Ardry End.

Agatha ate a macaron, the latest fashionable sweet to come out of the kitchen, and smiled dreamily. "Of course, if Melrose had remembered..."

"Remembered what, aunt?" said Melrose, losing his grip on his temper again.

And, they were off into a discussion about Agatha's literary ambitions and crime-solving expertise again.

At last, Agatha had been turned out into the snow and they were alone - unless one counted Ruthven, who was generously pouring them tea and stoking the fire.

"I've figured it out," said Melrose. "What we're doing next."

Jury raised his eyebrows and gestured for him to continue.

"The Man with a Load of Mischief. I'll buy it, we can restore it. All of us, Vivian, Diane, Trueblood, the lot. It'll be a disaster," he continued, with relish.

"Am I included in this we?" asked Jury.

"You know, in some languages you wouldn't even need to ask," said Melrose. He wasn't sure where he'd learned that fact, and had an unsettling feeling it had been from Diane. He continued hurriedly. "As it is in this one. Of course you're included, I need you to keep everyone in line."

"Is that what you need me for?"

"You're the only sane person I know," he continued. "And you don't make me feel like the smartest person in the room." He wondered if that sounded too arrogant – but he'd admitted on their first meeting to likely being both a snob and lazy, and Jury had stuck around anyway.

"Wiggins was right, you know," said Jury, breaking the uncomfortable silence.

The statement hung in the air a moment without context or elaboration. Were they talking about the case again? Melrose had come in halfway through and barely had the chance to understand the players before they were making the arrests. Had he even heard Wiggins offer any insight? He'd barely spoken to the man since he called and said— Oh.

"You're saying I make you happy," said Melrose, hoping he didn't sound as dubious as he thought he did.

"Evidence suggests," said Jury, smiling again.

"That's... good," he tried. Wild elation warred with the sensation of jumping out of a plane without a parachute, or swimming in deep water with no life-jacket, neither of which were things Melrose had ever experienced or desired to experience.

Jury looked back down at his cup of tea, the faintest of blushes alighting on his cheeks.

Later, Melrose thought, they would probably gravitate to exploring the more usual things associated with romantic relationships, like kissing and whatnot.

For now, vague declarations would have to do.

Jury was a detective. He'd figure it out.