Work Text:
Flambeau stepped down from the train into the frozen hell of an English winter. Drifts of snow lay heaped against the station walls, hinting at an earlier winter wonderland, but now, all that remained on the platforms was wet slush underfoot. There was a bite to the air that made his face tingle, and he half-regretted not exchanging his silk scarf for something warmer.
He shivered, glancing up with distaste at the thick blanket of grey cloud that threatened more snow to come. Only one thing could have drawn him away from more temperate climes to this freezing rural backwater. Or rather, only one man. With a sigh, he picked up his small suitcase once more and exited the station, hailing a taxi outside. At the very least, he was going to travel the final stretch in comfort, rather than plodding the icy streets like some miserable wretch of an Englishman.
The village of Kembleford lay nestled amid snow-covered hills, looking almost impossibly quaint and Christmassy. Each fence and hedgerow they passed along the way was capped with white, and more snow bowed the leafless branches of the trees. The Cotswold stone cottages and shops were as picturesque as ever, even if the sky’s gloom had dimmed their usual glow.
Flambeau watched it all through the window of the taxi, conscious of a growing feeling of warmth in his chest that had nothing to do with the weather – a feeling that swelled with a rush when they rounded a corner and St Mary’s Church came into view. Moments later, he found himself standing before the old wooden door of the presbytery, the warm glow of light from the windows promising the priest was at home.
Home. Flambeau’s lips curved into a wry smile at himself. He was a restless spirit, a vagabond, with safe houses and apartments in a dozen different countries. So why did this feel like coming home?
He put down his suitcase, anticipation whispering through his veins as he raised his hand to knock. As he did so, the first soft flakes of snow drifted down to settle on his coat and hat. It seemed he had arrived just in time.
A minute later, the door opened to reveal the familiar figure of Father Brown, his face lighting up with delight when he saw Flambeau standing there.
“Hercule!” he exclaimed, then tilted his head, his eyes narrowing to scan Flambeau’s face shrewdly. “Is something the matter? I don’t imagine this is just a passing visit to wish me a happy Christmas.”
“You wound me, Father!” Flambeau grinned, pressing a hand to his chest. “Believe it or not, that’s precisely why I’m here. Although I was rather hoping it could be more than a passing visit. I thought I might stay for Christmas, if you’ve no objections?”
“Of course.” The Father frowned. “You’re always welcome here. If you’re sure there’s nothing wrong?”
“I swear it.” Flambeau held up his hand. “Of course, I could try the Red Lion, if you prefer. I daresay there’d be room at the inn, but the company here is much better. And besides, I wouldn’t want to have to drink this all on my own.” He bent and unfastened his suitcase, pulling out a bottle of excellent Bordeaux. “Happy Christmas, Father.”
The priest grinned, his eyes sparkling as he took the bottle and scanned the label approvingly. “And a very happy Christmas to you too, Hercule”, he said. “Come in, and I’ll find us some glasses. We can sample this while we catch up, and you can tell me what made you decide to spend Christmas in Kembleford this year.”
“It certainly wasn’t the weather”, Flambeau said dryly, turning to look back as he stepped through the doorway into the welcoming heat within. The snow was falling in flurries now, the world beyond the presbytery disappearing behind a thickening curtain of white. He shivered, closing the door and banishing it outside.
A pristine blanket of fresh snow covered the streets and rooftops of the village, glowing brightly beneath a moonlit sky finally free of clouds. Flambeau ignored it all. He was safe and warm within the sturdy limestone walls of the presbytery, beside the sitting room hearth with its merrily burning fire. Frowning down at the chessboard before him, he considered carefully. Then, at last, he moved his knight, shielding his king from what would have been certain doom. Leaning back in his comfortable chair, he took a sip of Bordeaux and waited to see how Father Brown would respond.
Only a few hours had passed since he’d arrived, but in that time, they had swapped news and stories of daring escapades and murder cases, Christmas markets in Europe and village fetes in Gloucestershire. Flambeau had talked of his plans to spend the New Year in Paris with his daughter, Marianne, and Father Brown had enthused about the local pantomime. They had shared a hot cottage pie in the kitchen, with carols on the radio and homemade paper streamers strung around the walls. In previous years, Flambeau had spent Christmases in the capitals of Europe, in the finest hotels, castles, and stately homes. A quiet, domestic Christmas was a new experience for him, but he found himself wishing he had tried it before, and secretly glad he’d given himself the opportunity this time.
Finally, when the meal was over and the carols on the radio began to repeat, they had retired to the sitting room, and Father Brown had dug out the chessboard. Flambeau had drawn the curtains, shutting out the cold night, and they had settled down for a game or three.
Gradually, through it all, the feeling of being home had settled into Flambeau’s bones, spreading through him along with the warmth of the fire and the full-bodied taste of the wine. And with it came an awareness of something he now realised had been true all along. Home wasn’t the presbytery, the cosy haven of its kitchen, or even the warm comfort of its sitting room. Home was the man sitting opposite him, his eyes gleaming in the firelight and a gleeful smile tugging at his lips as he moved his bishop and uttered a single word:
“Checkmate.”