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“Lethruel! Wake up!”
“Mngpf?”
Lethruel blinked, peering over the bedclothes, wondering blearily who was shaking them. A concerned face swam into focus, bright intelligent eyes above a well-kept pair of tusks.
“Blackbird? What time is it?”
“I’m really sorry to wake you,” said the oni, “but I’m worried about Purple. He’s not back yet and I can’t get him on his commlink.”
“Oh, Purple.” Lethruel turned to look at their alarm clock, which read just before six. “I shouldn’t worry too much, Blackbird. He’ll be sleeping off his excesses somewhere… oh… wait, what am I talking about? I thought he was just planning to pop out to the corner shop. He’s in no fit state yet to go any further than that. I mean, obviously he has to be somewhere...”
“Yes, but where? I can’t feel him anywhere...”
That did make Lethruel sit up. If Blackbird couldn’t feel where one of her friends was, then there were indeed grounds for concern. “Accidenti,” the detective groaned. “What’s he got himself into this time, I wonder?”
Blackbird frowned slightly. “You think he’s had an accident?”
“Nope. That’s Italian for… dammit, more or less. Sounds a bit more elegant than saying it in English.” Lethruel swung their legs out of bed, revealing a set of dark green pyjamas. “Honestly. Sometimes I think I ought to keep a Fly-Spy following that clot. I just don’t think I could stand looking at most of the video report.”
Blackbird grinned wryly. “Anonymise it a bit, and that sort of stuff’s worth nuyen.”
“I’m not a porn dealer. Besides… anonymise Purple?”
“Good point. Shall I get you some breakfast? Least I can do for waking you up like that.”
“Oh, thank you. That would be kind. There are some mushrooms in the fridge – should be enough for two, and I can get some more while I’m out. Garlic them up to your heart’s content, and we’ll share them, eh?”
By the time Lethruel was dressed and heading into the kitchen, the air was fragrant with frying mushrooms and garlic. The detective inhaled the aroma happily, then went over to the fridge, found a litre of fresh orange juice, and poured two glasses.
Blackbird raised an eyebrow. “That stuff is delicious, but it costs the earth.”
“It costs me a little bit of tedium picking through drone recordings on suspects in divorce cases, that’s what it costs,” Lethruel replied cheerfully. “And that’s hugely better than following them myself. Those little drones are worth their weight in gold. For a start, they let me take on more cases. They’ll pay for themselves sooner rather than later.”
The oni grinned. “Rich people seem to divorce each other a lot.”
“I’m afraid so. Still, rich people divorcing each other pays for a lot of help for people who couldn’t otherwise afford it. For every one of these divorce cases I can afford to take on at least one pro bono case, and have enough left over to treat my friends to decent food and drink.” They raised their glass. “Cheers!”
Blackbird plonked two heaped plates of garlic mushrooms on the table. “There you go, omae. You know you said you were doing some shopping later?”
Lethruel nodded. “Thanks… yes, I am. Wouldn’t want the others to go without mushrooms, for a start.”
“Good. If you’re going to Mrs Patel’s, could you please see if she has any star anise?”
“Certainly I could… oooh. These are amazing.”
Blackbird grinned. “There is just a hint of lemongrass in these with the parsley. I think it makes all the difference.”
“You’re right. It does.”
They ate in silence for a few minutes, and then Blackbird observed, “Purple is an idiot.”
“Can’t argue, I’m afraid. He can’t possibly have been fit to go out for a night on the tiles yet.”
“He isn’t. If I’d seen him leaving I’d have asked him where he thought he was going, but he must have sneaked out some time after supper last night. You might want to take your medical drones, or at least the flying one… what was it you called her?”
“Clover. Rover and Clover. Rover’s the mechanical St Bernard dog who digs people out of rubble, and Clover’s the drone that airlifts them out. And you’ve got a good point. He may well not be in any shape to walk anywhere.”
“Yeah. Not going to die in his bed, that one.”
“Worried he might have died in someone else’s?”
“It has occurred to me,” replied Blackbird grimly. “Want a soycaf?”
“No, thanks. Not after that orange juice.” Lethruel paused. “Ugh. I’m going to have to go on a tour of dens of iniquity. One thing about Purple, at least he’s easily recognisable. People tend to know if they’ve seen him.”
“Nearest one’s probably Beetle Betty’s,” said Blackbird.
“That rings a bell. I’m pretty sure he’s mentioned it. Where is it, exactly? Of all the seedy places in this seedy city, that is one I’ve never yet had occasion to track anyone into.”
“Heh. I have. Purely for my own curiosity. Here, let me show you. Pull up a map of the local area.”
Lethruel took out their commlink and did so. Blackbird pointed out the route and explained where the place was hiding. Lethruel’s eyebrow remained slightly raised.
“Won’t go into details. I was just curious where someone was getting his supply of Novacoke, that’s all. I didn’t go inside, so I don’t know what else it is apart from a drug den, if anything. But it does seem to attract a fair few people. It’s not just one person operating out of a little shop; it’s a night venue with bouncers.”
Lethruel grinned. “Well, thanks, Blackbird. Purple seems to have some kind of sixth sense for dive detection, so I expect he’s at least known there. It’s as good a place as any to start.”
Beetle Betty’s was not the sort of place that might be found by a casual passer-by, or, for that matter, law enforcement. To get there, you ducked down a narrow alley between two apparently derelict buildings, which came out in a completely enclosed asphalted yard with remnants of clothes line and long-forgotten wheeled bins. You then went up a fire escape (unless you were in a wheelchair; the wheelchair winch had seized up a long time ago, meaning that Betty’s was illegal before you even got inside it), and through a battered-looking door at the top.
Well. That was the idea, anyway. At the moment, however, a large troll was stationed at the top of the fire escape. He got to do his guarding in relative comfort; clear plastic sheeting had been hung round the sides of the platform from its roof to act as windbreaks, and he had a substantial stool and a small table. On the table sat his commlink, propped on a stand, and he had one of those folding wireless keyboards used by the sort of people who type a lot into their commlinks. Which meant… writers?
“Good morning,” said Lethruel politely.
The troll looked up. “Morning, chummer. Glad you showed up. I suppose you couldn’t tell me how to spell ‘thaumaturgical’, could you?”
Lethruel obliged. “Thanks. Quicker than looking it up,” said the troll. “Though if you’re here to see Betty, ’fraid you’re going to be disappointed, on account of she’s asleep right now.”
“Oh, no, I don’t need to bother Betty,” Lethruel assured him. “I’m trying to find a friend of mine. He went out last night when he really wasn’t well enough, and I’m concerned about him. Goes by Purple. Do you know him?” He showed the troll a recent photograph.
The troll chuckled. “Oh yeah. He buys all my books. Nearly as addicted to them as he is to some of the stuff Betty sells.”
“Well, congratulations, but… have you seen him recently?”
“Nope, sorry. Not for a while now. Heard he had some kind of accident.”
“He did. He very nearly got himself killed. Thankfully he’s been recovering well, but he still shouldn’t have gone out last night.”
The troll pursed his lips. “Bad business. Tell him Honeypot O’Hara sends her love and...” He hesitated. “Yeah, kisses. Go on. Might as well. He buys all the books, after all.”
Lethruel blinked. “You are Honeypot O’Hara? The erotic writer Purple keeps going on about?”
The troll grinned conspiratorially. “You’re his good chummer, right? You wouldn’t disappoint him by telling him, now, would you? You’ll let him go on thinking I’m a smoking hot elf lady with a libido the size of Lofwyr?”
Lethruel chuckled. “Of course I’ll keep your little secret. Have you any idea where he might have got himself to last night?”
“Mmm. Not really. I know he goes to Sleazy Luigi’s. You could try there? Hope you find him, anyway.”
Lethruel had been doing some discreet assensing during the conversation. The troll was not a magic user, had a limited amount of cyberware (mostly to improve his reflexes and reaction times), and was definitely telling the truth, or at any rate what he believed to be the truth. The area had a rather uncomfortably high background count, but then that was only to be expected; lots of people getting totally off their heads on drugs and BTLs tended to generate a lot of emotions. Even so, Lethruel was fairly sure they could have detected traces of Purple’s highly distinctive aura if he’d been here recently, and there were none.
Lethruel thanked the troll and headed off to Luigi’s, which was some distance away. Despite that, it was a good lead. Lethruel already knew Purple was a regular there, and, even if he hadn’t been there last night, there was at least some chance there’d be someone who knew where he had gone. Luigi’s was within easy walking distance of a number of other clubs, so the place got a good proportion of club-crawlers most evenings.
Luigi was quite well off, and so, rather than a literary troll, his daytime security consisted of an Ares anthrodrone who answered to Renzo. Renzo was, of course, also part of the night security, since he didn’t need to sleep. As a friend of the proprietor’s, Lethruel was on the very short and exclusive list of people to be let in by Renzo without question.
Luigi da Canal was up and about, not because he’d got himself a nice early night for once, but because he hadn’t been to bed yet. He looked as though he’d been making a habit of that, too; he had never looked particularly healthy as long as Lethruel had known him, but this morning he could only be described as haggard. He brightened up when he saw Lethruel, however.
“Oh, hallo!” he exclaimed. “Haven’t seen you for a while, Lethruel. What brings you here at this strange time of day?”
“Before I answer that one, Luigi, I’m going to assense you and tell you if you need to go and see a doctor,” Lethruel replied. “Sorry to say this, chummer, but you don’t look well.”
“Ah. Well. Bit run down. Name of the game, you know? Lot of late nights.”
There was a pause. Then Lethruel asked, “Been especially thirsty recently?”
“Actually, yes.”
“Going to the loo a lot?”
“Now you mention it...”
“Thought so. Go to the doctor, Luigi. Today, for preference. But do yourself a favour and get some sleep first.”
Luigi’s small eyes darted fearfully around the room. “What do you think’s wrong?”
“Diabetes. I’m not a hundred per cent certain, because for some reason your aura’s a bit fogged this morning; but it’s certainly the first thing you should ask to be tested for. Don’t look so scared; it’s something they can pretty much fix these days.”
“Frag,” Luigi moaned.
“Without even sticking a knife into you. Come on. It could have been a lot worse. It’s not cancer or anything like that.”
“Yeah, but still frag. I haven’t time to be ill.”
“Who has? Illnesses are no respecters of persons. Besides, you can afford to get yourself a bit of extra help if you need it.”
“Suppose. Anyway. I assume you didn’t come here to diagnose me?”
“Nope. I came to ask if you’d seen or heard anything of Purple. He’s not by any means recovered, but he still got out last night, no doubt because he was getting bored without his numerous vices.”
Luigi rolled his eyes, but also chuckled. “Gotta hand it to that fragger. He’d get off his death bed if he saw a sweet young working girl. Or boy.”
“Was he here last night?”
Luigi shook his head. “Nope. But I’ll ask around for you. Is it true he nearly died?”
“Pfft,” said Lethruel. “That’s an understatement. It wasn’t even ‘nearly died’; it was ‘how the blue blazes isn’t he dead?’. Needless to say, we’re all most relieved and delighted that he isn’t dead, and we’d very much like him to stay not dead. Which means he needs to make a complete recovery before he goes out on the town.”
Luigi nodded. “I’ll go and make a few calls. Want a drink or anything in the meantime?”
“Mmm… actually, I’d love some of your cherry cordial. Thanks.”
“You’re allowed alcohol,” said Luigi.
“Not when I’m working,” Lethruel replied. “Anyway, I really like that cherry cordial.”
Cherry cordial was duly produced, and Lethruel sat down at one of the tables with it. Two cleaning drones were busying themselves around the place, one of them wiping and drying the table tops, the other vacuuming the carpet. Without the usual garish lighting, the place had a shabby and faded look about it despite the efforts of the drones.
While they were waiting, Lethruel decided to go through the feeds from their own drones, or at least the three currently in use for trailing suspects. Franklin turned out to have an embarrassing amount on her suspect, Mr Rafferty; Lethruel didn’t watch most of it. Suffice it to say that Mrs Rafferty now had an open and shut case. Curie had been following one of the Mr Scott-Grays on behalf of the other Mr Scott-Gray; the evidence there was inconclusive. And Lovelace…
Lethruel emitted a noise best transcribed as “!”.
Lovelace was currently shadowing one Mrs Sylvia Huxtable, wife of Mr Richard Huxtable, both higher management at Renraku. Mrs Huxtable had been to Dante’s last night.
And she’d gone home with Purple.
The little detective sighed. Given Purple’s predilections, this had to happen sooner or later. They’d even joked together about it in the past. Still, it was a shock when it actually did happen, and even more so when it turned out to involve Sylvia Huxtable, a woman who had struck Lethruel as very much lacking in confidence outside the context of work. Lethruel was pretty sure this was not going to end well.
They weren’t interested, at this point, in what had or had not happened between the two. They switched the drone feed to real time. From the angle, it looked as if Lovelace had taken up position on top of the wardrobe.
“...and I’m saying you have to get up and get out!” Mrs Huxtable sounded far more scared than angry. “I told you, Richard will be back about half past ten.”
There was just enough of Purple showing beneath the bedclothes to be identifiable to someone who knew him. “You’re panicking, honey bun. I can hide in the wardrobe.”
“And what happens when Richard hangs up his suit?”
“Under the bed, then. But I’m not feeling too good. Can’t leave yet.”
I’ll bet you’re not, thought Lethruel grimly. Mrs Huxtable stood staring helplessly at the bundle of flop in front of her.
“I suppose I could put you in the spare room for now,” she said. “He’s got no reason to go in there. But I don’t know when he’s next going out, and it’s not as if you can get out of the window if you need to, and I’ll have to get food and drink to you somehow, and… aaaargh.”
“You worry too much,” said Purple. “Take each day as it comes, sweet angel...”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake,” Lethruel muttered. They collected Lovelace’s co-ordinates and matched them to an address. As they were doing so, Luigi returned with a long face.
“Can’t get hold of any of them,” he announced. “Must all be asleep.”
“Doesn’t matter, but thank you for trying. I’ve just got an unexpected lead… from one of my drones.”
“Oh, that’s priceless. Not too surprising, though, the way he keeps overclocking his sex drive.”
Lethruel downed the last of the cherry cordial. “Thanks for your help, Luigi. I’m going to see what I can do about the current bedroom farce.” They paused. “Now, sleep. Then doctor.”
“Oh, all right.”
The Huxtables lived in Ogilvie Villas, a gated executive housing complex owned by Renraku. Only residents’ cars were allowed inside the complex itself, so Lethruel parked the Little Green Thing in the guest car park across the road and walked up to the porters’ lodge.
There were three porters on duty, all of them orks, uniformed and heavily armed. On asking for Mrs Huxtable, Lethruel immediately acquired one of these formidable characters to act as guide, and presumably also to make sure they went straight to the right house and didn’t mess about. She was, however, quite polite, introducing herself as Regina and answering casual questions about the complex. She’d worked there since it was first opened in 2052, and took a kind of proprietorial pride in the place.
“Of course, I’m not allowed to tell you about all the security,” she said, a little smugly, “but I can tell you it’s designed to be mostly unobtrusive for the residents. The vehicle barrier at the gate goes up automatically if it detects a vehicle registered to someone who lives here – no need to show a pass or anything. The door locks are all retinal, and exterior doors are designed to relock automatically after closing, so you can’t forget; after all, it’s not as if you could lose your key. What’s more, you can set child timers on any door in the house, so your toddler can’t get into the cleaning cupboard, or your teenager can’t go sneaking out at night.”
Heh, thought Lethruel. We should get a system like that. Purple’s a permanent teenager.
“Sounds very well thought out,” they replied, aloud. “And what about you? Do you live on the premises?”
“Oh, yes. All the porters have rooms here. They’ve all got ensuites with a shower, and there’s a very nice shared kitchen.” There wasn’t a trace of irony in Regina’s voice. “But I’ll have to retire in a few years, so I’m trying to save up to rent somewhere that’s nearly as decent.”
...because it’s not as if Renraku will give you any help, regardless of the fact that you’ve spent the best years of your life loyally guarding their pampered executives and being content to live in one small room in your workplace…
“Best of luck,” said Lethruel, aloud.
“Thanks. I hear I’ll need it. It’s not easy to get good cheap lodgings.” The ork brightened. “Still. It’s not for a few years yet.”
Lethruel sighed inwardly. There was corporate-owned housing available to rent privately; of course there was. The big corps had their fingers in everything. But it was too much to hope someone like Regina would be allowed to rent a Renraku flat at a discount. That wasn’t how any of the corps worked. They didn’t do anything to thank loyal workers for their long years of service. They considered that the pay was enough. Generally speaking, the pay wasn’t enough; but even if it had been…
Lethruel shook their head. Big corps. It never gets any better.
“Here we are!” said Regina. She pressed the door buzzer, and a stressed-sounding female voice answered, “Hallo?”
“Hallo, Mrs Huxtable. It’s Regina. Got a Mx Agnelli to see you.”
“Agnelli?”
Lethruel indicated the speaker. “May I?” Regina nodded.
“Val Agnelli. I’m a private investigator. I need to see you urgently. May I come in?”
“A… private…?”
“Yeah, they’re licensed,” Regina confirmed.
“Oh. Well… I… I’m not sure what this is about, but I suppose you’d better.” The door opened. “Come through. I’m in the living room.”
Lethruel nodded. “Thanks, Regina. Hope you get a good retirement place.”
The front door opened into an airy hall with a flight of stairs on the left and a half-wall on the right. Beyond the half-wall, the living room was clearly visible. Lethruel entered, fascinated. They quite often had to visit expensive homes, but this one was quite unusual; someone here was an AR-tist, or else they bought a lot of AR sculptures. If they did, though, it was likely to be from just one person, because the style was distinctive. Pretty and delicate, the sculptures were composed of threadlike lines of light, intertwined like three-dimensional sketches. Someone had a light but sure touch.
Sylvia Huxtable was standing in the middle of it all, wringing her hands absently. “You must be Mx Agnelli?” she asked.
Lethruel nodded. They had, of course, seen her image plenty of times on the drone feeds, but she looked somehow smaller in real life. She was said to be very good at her job… but this wasn’t her job.
“Correct. Val Agnelli at your service, madam. The sculptures are wonderful. Yours?”
Mrs Huxtable shook her head. “No… my husband makes them. How can I help?”
“I understand you need someone removing from the premises,” Lethruel replied.
Mrs Huxtable’s hand flew to her mouth. “How did you know?”
“I have my ways. Is he conscious?”
“I… think he’s asleep. He’s not well. But he insisted on finding me anyway. He… he loves me… you’re not going to hurt him, are you?”
“I’m not going to hurt him, no.” But I will have some very strong words with him later for telling you he loved you. He had no business doing that. “I’ve got a medical extraction drone outside. Get it cleared with our friend Regina, and I should be able to bring it into the complex and remove your hapless lover without anyone noticing.”
“What’s he done?” asked Mrs Huxtable.
“Risked his health. And your marriage. Apart from that? Well, nothing criminal, at least not that I know about.”
Mrs Huxtable looked close to tears. “I don’t think Richard loves me any more.”
A vision of Richard Huxtable came at once into Lethruel’s mind. The man had looked wretched, even more so than his wife was looking at the moment. “Mx Agnelli,” he’d said, “the fact of the matter is, I don’t want to divorce her. You may think I’m a sentimental nut case, but I love her even more than I did when we were married. It’s just that… she’s not happy with me these days, I’m sure of it, and if she’s got someone else, then… it hurts like hell, but I’d rather see her happy, whatever the cost. Let her have a divorce and then go off with her paramour. I mean, obviously I don’t have to do that. I’m not under any obligation. But if I didn’t, I reckon it’d be selfish of me. Holding on to her even though she really wants to be with someone else… I’d be making two people unhappy, and in the end myself along with them, because I don’t want to see Sylvia miserable.”
Some very rapid and pertinent moral considerations emerged from Lethruel in the form of a noise rather like “pmpf”. Lethruel was not a trained marriage guidance counsellor, but in this case they might well be able to help. How to do so without compromising professional ethics, though, was another matter. In the meantime, there was the immediate priority: removing Purple from the scene.
“We… might… just… talk about that later,” said Lethruel carefully. “But now, would you mind calling Regina or one of the other porters and getting clearance for this drone, please? Unless you can arrange it yourself without reference to them.”
“Oh… yes, of course.” Mrs Huxtable called the porters’ lodge and arranged clearance for the drone. Lethruel waited politely until she had finished, then said, “All right, thanks. I’ll bring it in. If we can get it to the bedroom window, I can levitate him out into it that way.”
Mrs Huxtable stared. “You’re a mage?”
“Mystic adept. Sometimes referred to as a Swiss-army mage.” Lethruel grinned. “Which is just as well. I mean, do I look as if I could lift Purple without magic?”
That broke the tension. “Well… no,” said Mrs Huxtable, actually smiling a little at the thought.
“Indeed. Let’s go and look at him, then.”
Purple was indeed asleep, snoring gently, his clothes scattered broadcast around the room. Lethruel spotted the little drone Lovelace lurking inconspicuously on top of the wardrobe; but then, they’d known where to look. With the piles of shoe boxes up there, it was very easy for an insect-like drone to hide almost invisibly.
I might be sending you back to the office shortly, little drone. This is not a Lovelace marriage.
Lethruel walked up and shook Purple gently. “Time to leave. It’s me. Val Agnelli.”
Purple blinked. “Eh? Le… let me sleep,” he slurred.
“Nope. I’m having you out of here in a medical drone, so you needn’t get up; but you might just want to put your clothes on, unless you want to turn up totally starkers at the clinic where I’m going to have you looked at.”
“I’m gorgeous,” said Purple, sleepily. “They can admire me.”
“Dammit. Mrs Huxtable, would you mind helping me get him dressed?”
Mrs Huxtable had already been gathering up various items of clothing, in every shade of purple from antique violet to that shade that is first cousin to magenta. This last was Purple’s socks. He must have bought them on his way out, because Lethruel was quite sure he hadn’t had them in the clinic at any point; he’d had the ones with the kissy lips on when he was shot, and these were not they. In fact… ah. Lethruel had just made the mistake of examining them more closely, and now fervently wished they hadn’t. What on earth sort of place sold pornographic socks?
Mrs Huxtable noticed the expression on Lethruel’s face, and then the socks. “Oh,” she said. “I… didn’t notice those.”
“I wish I hadn’t. Oh, well. Best to get them on his feet and cover them with his shoes. I’d love to know where he got them, so I can make sure to avoid it.” They paused. “Tempted as I am to burn them. The doctor who runs the clinic where I’m sending him isn’t going to like them at all.”
“I might have an old pair of Richard’s we can put on over them. Doctors should be treated kindly.”
“As long as he’s never going to want to wear them again, that sounds like a splendid idea.”
“I’ll look,” she promised.
Lethruel, by means of a little judicious levitation, got Purple into his drawers, shirt, and trousers. Purple apparently slept through the entire procedure. Mrs Huxtable rummaged in the chest of drawers on the other side of the room, and after a few minutes triumphantly produced a pair of plain grey socks with small holes in the heels.
“I knew I still had them!” she said. “No good for wearing on their own, but they’ll hide those tasteless things from the gentle eyes of your doctor.”
“Excellent! Thank you. One each foot, then.”
Between them, they got the grey socks on over Purple’s offensive hosiery, and then Lethruel set about tying his tie while Mrs Huxtable put his shoes on.
“Well, Mx Agnelli,” said Mrs Huxtable. “I’m still not entirely clear what you want with him, but I have to say I’m extremely grateful. He wouldn’t leave on his own. Said he wasn’t feeling well enough.”
“I’m not in the least surprised. He should never have been out. Still, we’ll...”
A voice interrupted. “What the hell is going on here?”
The brief silence was broken by Purple opening one eye and drawling, “Hey, baaaaaaby.”
Richard Huxtable walked slowly into the room, taking in the scene. There was his wife looking as though she was about to have a breakdown; there was Val Agnelli, whose presence Mr Huxtable completely failed to understand; and there was this big purple man floating on his back a little way above the bed, ogling him.
“How do you feel about a threesome, big boy?” Purple enquired… and then went straight back to sleep.
“Idiot,” said Lethruel. “Sorry, Mr Huxtable – him, not you. I’m just removing him.”
“Why is he here in the first place to need removing?” Mr Huxtable demanded. “Why is he indecently propositioning me? Why is he floating in the air? And why is he purple?”
“Well… one of those questions has a straightforward answer,” Lethruel replied. “He’s floating in the air because… ah, right on cue.” And, indeed, Clover appeared, hovering directly outside the window. “Someone please open the window and I’ll get him out of here.”
“Not so fast,” said Mr Huxtable. “Do I need to beat him up first?”
“Sorry. Not allowed for medical reasons. He is not a well man, and that threesome he offered you was undoubtedly pure fantasy. Er… well, impure fantasy, but you know what I mean.”
“He doesn’t love me either,” Mrs Huxtable sniffed. “I was an idiot to think he did.”
“Either? What the hell do you mean ‘either’, Sylvia? Who else doesn’t love you? Ghost above, how many affairs have you been having?”
Mrs Huxtable burst into tears. “Please, Mr Huxtable,” said Lethruel. “Open the window. I will get Purple out of here, and then we will all talk.”
Mr Huxtable grimaced, but he opened the window. “I suppose I’ve got you to thank for the message asking me to come home early?” he said to Lethruel.
Lethruel blinked. “Me? No. If it had been me, I’d have put my name on it, same as always.”
“Wait,” said Mrs Huxtable. “You two know each other? What’s going on here?”
“One thing at a time, please!” Lethruel’s voice rang out with an unaccustomed authority. “I’m not a hundred per cent sure what’s going on myself, but I can be pretty sure it’ll be easier to talk without Mr Preposterous Testosterone opening one eye and saying something outrageous every so often, and in any case he needs a doctor to look him over. I will get him out, and then we shall talk.”
The couple duly went quiet, except for a few subdued sniffles from Mrs Huxtable, as Lethruel levitated Purple out through the window and into the drone’s patient compartment. “OK, Clover. You know where to take him.”
As the drone flew off, Mr Huxtable closed the window. “Who was that jerk?” he demanded.
“Unsurprisingly, he calls himself Purple,” Lethruel explained. “He’s a friend of mine, though I have to admit I do sometimes wonder why. He nearly got himself killed a few weeks ago. Last night he sneaked out of the clinic, despite being nowhere near properly recovered, and once I found out I went looking for him. I was pretty sure he’d turn up in someone’s bed; the only question was whose.”
“You mean he’s totally promiscuous?” Mrs Huxtable asked, clearly shocked.
“I’m afraid he’s the poster boy for total promiscuity,” Lethruel replied. “Sorry.”
“But… then...”
“Oh, he’s clean at the moment. They checked him over in the clinic and treated any, shall we say, unsociable complaints.”
“You spent the night with that, Sylvia?” Mr Huxtable snarled.
“He said he loved me...”
Lethruel raised both hands. “All right. Calm down, both of you. If you do, you might just save your marriage.”
“Oh, you think?” said Mr Huxtable. “Looks pretty broken to me. She’s been having an affair by her own admission, and I’m very surprised to find you of all people helping her to dispose of the evidence. I realise that lowlife is your friend, but still, I was recommended you because of your professional ethics, which I have to say are looking pretty questionable at the moment.”
“Wait just one minute,” said Mrs Huxtable. “You hired this detective to spy on me?”
“Will you both please shut up and listen?” Lethruel snapped.
They did, more startled than anything.
“Right. Let’s get a few things straight. First of all, I was not, as you put it, disposing of the evidence. The evidence is all on my drone. I was simply getting a sick man back to the clinic where he could be treated as soon as possible, and if you want witnesses for that I can produce them. Secondly, Mr Huxtable, that evidence shows that your wife has had only the affair you already know about. And thirdly, now you’ve essentially admitted that you hired me, I’d like to ask you to repeat to your wife here and now what you said to me when you did.”
Mr Huxtable was a senior manager. He was used to people saying “Yes, sir!” when he snarled at them like that, and running off to ensure that he was placated. He was not used to small and normally very quiet elves who suddenly shut him up and talked sense into him. He blinked.
“What I said?” he echoed.
“What you said, yes. I imagine it’s all still true? You haven’t changed your mind in any way?”
“Why should I listen to you? You’re just a paid spy!” Mrs Huxtable screeched.
“Because I am trying to do the best I possibly can for both of you,” Lethruel replied firmly. “And neither of you is currently making that easy. Now. Mr Huxtable. When you originally hired me, what did you say about the conditions under which you would divorce your wife?”
“Well, if she was having an affair...”
“And?”
“...and she loved the other guy and wanted to be with him and not me.”
“Because?” Lethruel continued, relentlessly.
“...I want her to be happy.”
“Because?”
“...I love her.”
“Finally. That was like pulling teeth, but you said it.”
Mrs Huxtable stared at her husband. “You love me?”
“Hasn’t that always been obvious?” he asked, tiredly.
“No?”
“H’mm,” said Lethruel. “Let’s give your husband a well-earned rest. Your turn. So, Mrs Huxtable, you admit you had an affair with Purple. Why was that?”
“Because I thought he loved me.”
“Can I ask if he actually told you in so many words that he did? Because, if so, I may have to kick him when he’s properly recovered.”
“Well… yes, he did… but don’t kick him too hard. It was one of those emotional moments.”
Lethruel sighed. “I understand. He does tend to let his heart rule his head. A lot. And, from what you’ve just said, I get the feeling you doubted that your husband loved you. Is that a fair analysis?”
“More than that. I was sure he didn’t. I mean, he never said so… he hasn’t said so for years. I’ve been feeling I’m not attractive any more. Just a nuisance.”
“Not attractive?! Sylvia, don’t you ever look in the mirror?” Mr Huxtable demanded.
“Right. So you were scared you weren’t attractive or lovable, and when Purple came along being his usual excessively flirtatious self, you latched on to him out of…?”
“H’mm… I think ‘desperation’ would be too strong a word,” said Mrs Huxtable, “but… he was offering reassurance. And love, or so I thought.”
“Ghost, Sylvia, did you not realise I just about worship the ground you walk on?” Mr Huxtable exploded. “I’d give up anything to make you happy. Even you, if it came to it.”
“You… do?”
“I’d still recommend you two see a marriage guidance counsellor, just to make sure nothing like this ever happens again,” said Lethruel, “but I think we’ve finally established that you do, in fact, love each other, and all your problems have been because neither of you has communicated that fact very well lately. Tonight, though… may I suggest date night?” They twinkled at the couple.
“Date night,” repeated Mr Huxtable. “That sounds like a damn good idea to me. Sylvia? Would you do me the immense pleasure of accompanying me to dinner at the restaurant of your choice this evening?”
“Oh, Richard. That would be lovely. And I don’t deserve this...”
“Neither do I. I nearly lost you because I made too many assumptions about what you knew and didn’t know. I need to make it up to you, too. In the meantime, let it be very clear: I love you, Sylvia. I adore you. If I’d had to divorce you, I’d have been a broken man for the rest of my life. I’d never have married again. Might even have ended up… no, best not go there… but anyway, I’ll do my level best not to make the same mistakes again.”
Lethruel beamed. “You know what? I’ve never been so happy to have to forfeit a fee.”
“Damned if you’re forfeiting it, Agnelli. You’ve just saved both of us potentially years of utter misery. You can destroy your evidence, but don’t think you’re going to lose your pay.”
“You’re very kind, Mr Huxtable,” Lethruel replied.
“Not that kind. I still want to slap your friend heartily around the face. Call me grateful, if you want to compliment me.”
“Purple causes many emotions in those around him, and they’re rarely neutral,” Lethruel observed wryly. “But rest assured I will be having words with him about this.”
On taking leave of the couple, Lethruel went and did the shopping, remembering to ask about the star anise for Blackbird (and thus discovering that Mrs Patel did, in fact, have some). By the time they got home, Purple was back in the clinic being fussed over by Ducky (still with both pairs of socks on, as Lethruel immediately noticed), and Blackbird was cooking something very aromatic for lunch. There was definitely ginger in it.
Ducky looked up as Lethruel entered. “Oh, Lethruel! Well done. Where did you find our lost sheep? He’s being evasive about it.”
“In someone’s bed, as you’d expect,” Lethruel replied. “How is he?”
The doctor snorted. “Set himself back at least a week if you ask me, the idiot. I wouldn’t normally allow such a thing in the clinic, but if it stops him going walkabout, do you think we might perhaps get him a… er…?”
“What, a marital aid?” asked Lethruel.
“That. Yes.”
“Maybe. Perhaps we can talk to him about it when he’s a bit better. Although, honestly, you’d think he was old enough not to need concessions like that.”
Purple opened one eye. “Asexual. What do you know about it?”
“Oh, you’re with us,” said Lethruel. “What the hell did you think you were doing back there?”
“Poor little Sylvia. I took a shine to her. So I thought I’d rescue her marriage.”
Lethruel stared at him. “You what? Rescue her marriage? You nearly broke it altogether!”
“Leth-ru-el. Honey. Who do you think sent her husband that anonymous message to get home early?”
“You sent it? Why? What’s your game here, Purple?”
“He was supposed to find us together. At that point I was going to behave like a jerk so she knew I didn’t really love her. Cue big reconciliation scene, and I knew he wouldn’t beat me up because I was too ill. But then you showed up, so I just had to change my plans a bit. I was pretty sure you’d reconcile them better than I could. You did, right?”
Lethruel nodded slowly. “I did. It’s date night chez the Huxtables tonight. Is that why you made the lewd suggestion to Mr Huxtable, despite being very nearly asleep at the time?”
“Course it was. See, Lethruel, I know these two from way back before I was SURGEd. Neither of them recognised me, and that was how I wanted it. And a few weeks ago I ran into Sylvia in Dante’s being all upset because she thought her husband didn’t love her any more. Well, what’s a guy to do? I hatched a plan to get them back together.”
“And sleep with Mrs Huxtable.”
“That was my payment.”
Lethruel sighed. “And what makes you think your plan would have worked?”
“Honey, my plans always work even when they’re a bit off the wall. I’ve just got that kind of luck.”
“Except when you nearly get killed,” said Ducky tartly.
“But I didn’t,” Purple pointed out. “And, anyway, my plan did work. Lethruel the diplomat showed up. OK, it didn’t work the way I expected it to, but it worked, didn’t it?”
Lethruel looked at Ducky. Ducky looked at Lethruel. Both of them looked at Purple.
“Idiot,” they said, in unison.
Purple didn’t mind in the least. They both meant it affectionately. Well… time for some proper sleep, at last.