"Mafia in a place like this" Bodie said for the third time since the silver Capri had rolled into Selby Ends, but Doyle did not tell him that he was repeating himself. It was almost impossible to credit that it was true. Eight miles from the nearest motorway, the village was like something out of the Eighteenth Century, and it was like stepping back through a time warp to be here. So English, so old, so peaceful. There were oaks along the stream that would have been alive when Robin Hood was fighting, and the stone bridge went back to William The Conqueror. The houses were mostly Tudor and Elizabethan, and since the motorway had been opened some years before, there was barely any through traffic at all.

Yet Franco Sciaparelli was in England, and so was the American, Henry Menacini, and both of them were known Mafia big-wheels. Doyle shrugged as he reached in through the Capri's open window, bringing out his British Airways overnight bag, in which was a change of clothes, electric razor and tooth brush. "Well, one place is as good as another." He smiled at the village. "Nice place, this. Nice place to retire to."

Bodie gave him a glance of scorn. "You? You'd be stir crazy inside of a year, mate. Fighting the squirrels for the acorns, mark my words. London's your scene -- art galleries, theatres, traffic jams, am I wrong?"

"Dunno," Doyle said, the smile widening. "I could get used to peace and quiet." He chuckled. "Or maybe I'm just getting old." He stirred. "There's the pub -- nice little place, by the looks of it. Fancy a beer before we have to get to work?"

It was three in the afternoon and the September heat made it almost like a holiday, but this was a surveillance job, not a few days off. The Ploughman was booked by tourists as usual at this time of year, but even so, since it accomodated no more than four couples or families at one time, Selby Ends was largely undisturbed. They strolled in the dapple of shade beneath the ancient oaks, and Bodie led the way into the pub, taking a glance about the bar, which was done out in dark wood and brown leather upholstery... Everything about the place said 'antiquity,' and he approved.

He glanced at Doyle as they waited at the bar for the staff to appear. Ray seemed to fit perfectly into this environment; his other-worldly looks belonged to any century but the Twentieth and he looked less out of place against this Eighteenth Century backdrop than on the streets of the city. Bodie smiled at him, pleased that he had let his hair grow a little long; he was relaxed, suntanned and happy, and Bodie approved of that too. Certainly, he was a hell of a lot easier to live with and work with when he was happy.

Before either of them could speak they heard the bang of a door in the rear of the building, and a woman appeared, tall, slim, handsome, with her silver hair coiled up in a twist about her head; sixty, Doyle guessed as he turned toward her, but fit and strong and enjoying life. She smiled as she saw them. "Mr. Doyle, Mr. Bodie?"

"That's us," Bodie nodded. "A room for two days, booked from London yesterday."

"All sorted out, sir." She handed him the key that had been waiting for them behind the bar. "I'm Mrs. Fortune, the landlady. Any problems, just shout for me -- my name's Susan, by the way. Your room is up on the left, bathroom is on the landing. Dinner is at seven, the bar closes at ten. Is there anything you need just now?"

"Not that I can think of," Doyle said. "Thanks, Mrs. Fortune." He followed Bodie up the stairs, and gave the room a nod of appreciation. "Nice," he decided, going to the open window and looking out over the view. "You can see the steeple of the church in the next village. This is the kind of duty we ought to pull more often."

"You're telling me," Bodie agreed, dumping his bag on the foot of the bed and coming to the window. He took in the view with one sweeping glance before putting his arms about Doyle from behind and pulling him into a hug. Ray leaned back against him, bowing his head so that Bodie could kiss the nape of his neck, and then turned about to meet Bodie's waiting mouth.

"How long is it?" He asked, inhaling Bodie's unique scent as the kiss broke and the embrace lingered.

"How long's what?"

'How long since the day we first did that?"

"Kiss, you mean?" Bodie smiled ruefully. "You haven't forgotten, have you? Three years. God, it doesn't seem that long -- doesn't time fly? It was 1978, autumn --"

"October," Doyle chuckled. "And you're right, it seems more like three weeks."

Bodie twisted the loose, red-brown curls about his fingers. "Oh, I dunno. We've got a lot to look back on -- thousands of shared memories --"

"Shared beds," Ray said with an impish grin.

"Not thousands of beds," Bodie laughed. "Yours, mine, then yours that became ours, my sofa, your sofa, a few hotels. Hardly counts as thousands."

Doyle shared the humour, looking at the bed in this room. "Wonder if it creaks?"

"Find out," Bodie suggested. "We've got an hour or so before we have to worry about the job. Sciaparelli's out boating with his kid, and Menacini should be sleeping off last night. Loves his rotgut does that one. Bootleg up to the eyeballs."

"I suppose we've got time," Ray said, looking at his watch.

"Course we have." Bodie took off his jacket and the shoulder harness beneath it, and opened his arms, waiting for Doyle to step into them.

It was mellow these days, sweet and familiar, a rite performed a thousand times before, or more, like a dance in slow motion, studied and elegant and sure. Doyle moved as if in a dream, discovering Bodie's curves and planes. so different from his own body, yet so similar. He took the white cotton shirt from the smooth, pale shoulders and stooped to kiss his chest, tasting and teasing, knowing how Bodie loved every caress. The nipples hardened in his mouth and as he stepped back to take off his own shirt Bodie caught him up, half tumbling, half lifting him onto the bronze coloured quilt. He smiled into the laughing blue eyes and was still as his belt was unbuckled and the tight blue denim slid 'off his hips.

The hands on his chest did not have to coax the loving from him; he had only to see the suggestion of mischief or lust on Bodie's face to feel the pangs of wanting, and knowing how it was between them made the hunger all the more powerful. Bodie bent his head and Ray held his breath, waiting to feel the heat of his mouth about his aching hardness, and Bodie collected his lover's whimpers of pleasure like accolades until Ray began to wriggle, getting close.

Standing up, he quickly undressed, glad to be free of the confinement of clothes, and feasted his eyes on the reed-slim wanton who sprawled on the bed, gloriously alive and aroused, like a wicked angel come to earth for the fun of inflicting himself on ordinary mortals too helpless under his spell to put up a struggle. The mere notion of resisting the demands Doyle inspired in him made Bodie want to laugh, and he pounced like a fox on a hare, making Ray gasp for breath and dissolve into gales of laughter.

"You clot," Doyle muttered fondly when he could. "How would you like to break a rib for me? Explain that to the Cow! 'Er, sorry sir, I got so carried away when I saw him lyin' there in the raw that I "

Bodie silenced him with his mouth."Save your breath for something better, sweetheart."

Something better, Doyle thought as they kissed and caressed and laughed at each tickle until the urgency was on them and the game became furious. The bed did creak, but neither of them noticed it; Bodie inside of him blew Ray's mind clean away, and Bodie abandoned his wits to the hunt for completion, barely hearing Doyle's feral cries as they strained against each other, taking and giving pleasure at one time.

The room grew quiet as they came, and there was only the pounding of his heart in Bodie's ears as he lifted his head and sought Ray's mouth with a kiss. "You're a love, Ray. What would I do without you?"

"I've asked myself the same bloody question," Doyle chuckled, rolling up onto Bodie's still heaving chest and putting his head down. "Don't know how the birds used to put up with you. You can jump into bed at the drop of a hat--"

"With you," Bodie grinned. "It's your fault, anyway. If I didn't fancy you --"

"How can your fancying me be my fault?" Ray demanded.

And Bodie sighed. "Tell me you love me, or I'll kiss you breathless."

"I love you, and do it anyway," Doyle muffled against the other's throat, and then yelped as he was rolled over and held down, and Bodie did as the had threatened, punctuating the consuming kisses with the muttered endearments of uncomplicated, old fashioned love.

An hour later, Mrs. Susan Fortune drew beer for them, draught Bass in two half pint glasses, and they checked the time, wondering if their contact was going to arrive. He was late, panting and red faced when he did appear, and he leaned a ten speed pushbike up at the door of the pub. Doyle gave Bodie a grin of amusement as they watched him take the bicycle clips from his trousers. His name was Bruce Randell, and at forty-five he was spreading about the middle -- hence, the pushbike, Bodie thought, mirroring Ray's expression. He was from the Yard, working in collaboration with the local Police.

They bought him a beer, which he drank in one long gulp, and patted at his face with his handkerchief. "You're way out of shape, mate," Ray observed quietly.

"S'what my boss tells me," Randell agreed gloomily as they sat at one of the empty tables. The bar was deserted as yet. "Shouldn't have drunk the beer, should I? But, what the hell ... The house is Lark Rise. That's where they're going to get it all together --"

"How do you know?" Bodie murmured, dropping his voice as Mrs. Fortune greeted a young woman who could only be her daughter. The girl was beautiful, with the same auburn hair colour as Ray, and eyes as blue as his own, and he smiled at her.

"We had a chin-wag with the serving staff," Randell said. "They're regearing up for some heavy partying tonight. Opening up the bedrooms, getting the nosh going, turning the wine cellar inside out."

"You've got it wired?" Doyle asked.

Randell gave him a look of mock reproof. "We wired all the three possible venues a week ago. It's just a surveillance job now, and that's your game, fellows. I wish you joy."

That sounded ominous, and Bodie's brow lowered. "Meaning what, precisely?"

"Your stakeout house is Greengables, and it isn't exactly the Hilton," Randell chuckled. "Hasn't been lived in since the Eighteen hundreds, so they tell me. This is where you guys earn your bread, right?"

"Great," Ray sighed. "You've shifted the gear in?"

"Yep. Sleeping bags, cooler box of grub, recorders, field glasses. Have fun, won't you?" Randell pushed to his feet and put on his bicycle clips. "I'll see you later, won't I? Sweet dreams, eh?"

With that he was gone, and they drank they beer in silence. Bodie took the empty glasses back to the bar where Mrs. Fortune and her daughter were sorting bottles in preparation for the pub's busy hours, after dinner. Ray got to his feet, stretching comfortably, his body still alive after the loving, and followed his partner. "Looks like we'll be out on business this evening," he was saying to Mrs. Fortune. "If we don't get back tonight, don't concern yourself, we'll be back tomorrow... C'mon Ray, got to go."

The two women watched their guests depart, and it was the daughter who gave a wicked chuckle. "Coo, he's nice looking."

Mrs. Fortune laughed. "Which one?"

"Which --? The James Bond one, with the dark hair. Very nice, that one! Might even buy him a drink when he gets back, later. Or tomorrow."

"Looks like the James Bond type," Mrs. Fortune agreed. "Cassanova with a radio in his shoe... The other one's nice, though, the one with the curly hair. Time you were married, Carol, you're not getting any younger."

"Mum, I'm only twenty-six," Carol said, exasperated. "All the same... He is just what Id be looking for, if I was out after a husband. Is he Bodie or Doyle?"

Her mother shrugged. "They didn't say and I didn't ask."

"I might find out," Carol grinned, "when they get back. Did you catch where they were going, mum?"

"Well..." Mrs. Fortune hid a smile. "I'm not nosey, but I do have ears. I heard the name of Greengables "

"But it's a ruin!"

"No, it's very run down, but I've always thought that it would fix up nicely if someone with a lot of money bought it. They could be land agents, couldn't they?"

Carol snorted. "If they are, their client's in for a hell of a shock. And I'm not talking about the rising damp and the white ants and the nonexistent roof!"

"You're talking about Eileen," Mrs. Fortune sighed.

"Eileen," Carol echoed. "I must have heard that legend a thousand times ... Like UFO stories, I expect. Just a story."

Mrs. Fortune's eyes had misted, but she heard her daughter's words and she shook her head. "No, no, not just a legend. I heard her voice. I heard her song... Thirty-five years ago, but I'll never forget it. Not ever. The song... 'Where Lagan streams sing lullaby there blows a lily fair, the twilight gleam is in her eyes, the night is on her hair--"

The lifting, keening sound of her mother's voice made Carol shiver. "Mum "

With a jolt, Mrs. Fortune came back to the present. "Well, maybe, if Mr. Doyle and Mr. Bodie are land agents, poor Eileen will be all right at last. The legend has an end, you know."

"It has an ending," Carol agreed, rubbing her arms to warm them, "but I wouldn't like to be Eileen Fey, waiting for that to happen. It never will, Mum, it never will."

Susan Fortune sighed heavily. "Then Eileen will be there forever, won't she?"

And the idea was so inestimably sad that both women felt the prickle of tears.

---

Greengables was a ruin, but Doyle's eyes were on its good points, noting what could be done with it. It was late Elizabethan, with leaded windows and a roof that should have been shingled but had been partially thatched at some point. It stood in what must once have been a glorious park, but most of the land had been sold off and all that remained was a garden that was like a jungle. A stream wound through it, beneath willows and beech trees, and a squadron of swans cruised by as they ambled through the overgrown herb garden, long since gone back to the wilds.

"Oh, lovely," Bodie grumbled. "Wonderful. Wonder if it'll rain tonight? That roof looks like a sieve."

"Nah, weather looks good, love," Ray said, stooping to pick a dandelion. He gave Bodie's profile a smile. "Dust in there's going to get into your sinuses. Got your hayfever pills?"

"I ran our this morning," Bodie said gloomily. "Why couldn't it have been the Gelbart place on the river, for Christ's sake? A nice place?"

"Oh, well nothing's ever easy, is it?" Doyle said philosophically. "We'd better go in and check the arrangements."

They climbed in through an open window, searching the west side of the still, dusty, lifeless old house, until they found Randell's set up. Two sleeping bags, a freezer chest, a tape deck, spare tapes, Dolphin lanterns, binoculars, as promised. Bodie sighed. "I'd better check the equipment before the show starts."

"And I'll check the grounds," Doyle said, taking the Browning automatic from the holster beneath his light summer jacket. "See you shortly."

The grounds were like a semi-civilized wilderness. There was still a suggestion of the old world grace that must once have existed here, but the rushes had thickened on the banks of the stream and the shrubs had gone completely wild. Yet, for all that, it was beautiful in a primal sort of way, so peaceful and quiet that Doyle lingered by the willows watching the swans ply back and forth, fishing ... ducks are a dabbling, up tails all. He smiled, his mind going back to the favourite book of his childhood. He sat down beside the remains of a sun dial, enjoying the smell of the garden, and looking out at the stateley shape of Lark Rise, half a mice away on the other side of the stream.

That was a very posh establishment, far out of his price bracket, but for all the ramshackle nature of Greengables he liked the ruin more. Perhaps because he and Bodie could just have afforded to buy it? He shook his head at the notion. He wasn't ready for the pipe and slippers routine just yet! The warmth of the afternoon and the lingering glow of Bodie's loving made him drowsy and he sat back, closing his eyes.

How long he drowsed there he did not know, but at last it was a voice that roused him. It was a girl's voice, high and sweet with a fast vibrato and an accent that was Gaelic. And it was singing, an old, odd melody in quarter tones that were unchartable and fascinating.

He turned toward the voice, picking out the words with ease; it came from the east side of the house, and, narrowing his eyes he caught sight of the singer, red haired and white skinned, with rosy cheeks. She stood at an open window on the ground floor, gazing out, and though he came to his feet she did not seem to see him. It was only as he glazed more closely at her that he saw the truth. She was blind. And so beautiful that the artist in him could not look away.

The voice was pure as cut crystal, drawing him toward it ... 'And like a lovesick lenanshee., she hath my heart in thrall; nor life I owe, nor liberty, for love is lord of all ...'

He stood silently, loath to break the spell, absorbing every note, every word, somehow knowing that he would never forget them, ever. She sang the whole melody through and then fell silent, and as it ended he felt his senses grow dim; his eyelids dropped for just a second, but when he looked back again the window was empty. The singer was gone.

A sense of loss galvanised his limbs and in a moment he was lifting himself in through the window, about to call to the girl, ask her to return, when he noticed an odd fact that froze his voice in his throat. The dust of ages lay on the floor. And the only footprints in it were his own. Doyle shook his head, his green eyes roaming around, going back to the view. Where could she have gone? There was only one way out -- the window -- but the stream would block her exit on the south side, and to the north there was just the choked knot garden and the path to the road. He stood frowning at the sun dial by the willows for a time, then shook himself hard. "Too much imagination, Ray," he told himself. "Blind singers don't just vanish into thin air, do they?" But ... where the hell did I learn that song? Because, whether he liked it or not, he knew it, word and note, Irish quarter tones and all.

He made his way back to Bodie as the sun was setting, and ate the prepacked oddments that would have to serve as food. Bodie kissed him thoroughly but he was too preoccupied with the vision to respond much, and he wandered away to sit on the window ledge as the recorders began to work, taping the long ranger intercept. The moon was a silver crescent, the stars were very bright, and the night wind stirred the trees and water, lulling him into a near-trance. He did not realise that he had sung at all until Bodie stepped un behind with a quizzical expression, disturbing his thoughts.

"What's that, love?" Bodie wondered. "Odd kind of song, never heard you sing it before. Weird words, you know."

Doyle took a breath, repeating some of them. "And often when the beetle's horn hath lulled the eve to sleep, I steal into her shielding lorn, and thro' the dooring peep."

Something about the words, or the tone in which Doyle spoke them, made Bodie shiver, and he put his arms about his lover, drawing him closer. "What is that?"

"Don't know," Ray said softly, against his throat. "I must 'ave learned it when I was a kid -- lot of old Irish folk in our neighbourhood. My granny, maybe. West of Ireland -- old, strange." Then he too shivered and his grip tightened on Bodie. "Hold me, will you?"

"I'll do better than that," Bodie whispered, and lifted Doyle's chin, kissing him deeply, feeling the wanting stir again as the feeling of love, so long an alien emotion and learned from this curly haired, other worldly, pagan of a man, rose up to consume him as it always did when they were close and alone.

It was late, so long had Doyle sat entranced, looking blindly out into the night, and the equipment would look after itself. He turned the lamps off, leaving the room awash with moonlight, and watched Ray take off his clothes, lithe as a dancer, thoughtlessly sensual, like a sprite or something out of the distant past. He lay down on one of the sleeping bags, stretching his back like a cat, too guileless to be called wanton, and Bodie's fiery desire softened into a breathless loving that slowed his own movements and circumfused him with a lulled, dreamy sense of belonging as he undressed and lay down beside him.

The loving was slow and languid; breath failed him as Ray's tongue was in his mouth, then at his nipples, then licking across his belly to welcome the hardness that throbbed below, and Bodie sobbed in delight as he was engulfed by the heat of a kiss, lifting his hips and tangling his fingers into Doyle's unruly hair. Somehow knowing when he was too close to hold back much longer, Ray lifted his head, and Bodie wrapped his legs about him as he moved up onto his chest, searching deftly for the entrance to his lover's hot, quivering body.

The cry drawn from Bodie's lips as he was impaled so gently was high and wild before Doyle's mouth was on his, and they began to work together, rocking silently in the silver moonlight until the coiling tension and wonderful heat inside them grew to its crescendo and burst outward in the moment of perfect completion, too brief, too transitory to be entirely remembered, too powerful to ever be forgotten.

As they came, Ray's muscles gave out and he went down on Bodie's heaving chest, spent yet exultant. Bodie soothed him, light caresses the length of his spine, murmuring into his hair. "Ah, sweetheart, ah, love... 'Just when you think you're past love, that's when you find your last love...' The love that makes your whole life seem worth the bother." He lifted Ray's face to kiss him gently, and wished that what they had could go on forever. No death, no growing into middle age, no fading of love, no time. Just youth, and health, and them, forever.

It was just a dream, and knowing that made his heart ache.

---

The meeting between Menacini and Sciaparelli broke up at dawn, and with the field glasses they watched the Mafia bosses leave Lark Rise. Bodie turned back from the window to watch Doyle, clad only in his jeans, packing their things ready to depart. Ray looked up, catching his eye, and they smiled, remembering last night. This morning, everything seemed beautiful, even the tangle of shrubs in the garden about Greengables.

They were back at The Ploughman by seven, and Mrs. Fortune met them in the publican's yard, frowning at them for a moment. "Good lord, where have you been -- there's dust all over you. If I didn't know better... You didn't stay in Greengables overnight, did you?"

"I -- we, er, had business to attend to," Bodie said hurriedly.

"In Greengables?" Mrs. Fortune repeated.

"What makes you say Greengables?" Doyle asked shrewdly.

"I'm sorry." The lady coloured. "I'm not eavesdropping, Mr. Bodie --"

"I'm Doyle.

"Sorry again. I'm not listening in on your conversation, Mr. Doyle, but I'm not deaf. I heard you speaking about the house with the gentleman you met in the pub yesterday. You're land agents, aren't you?"

Doyle and Bodie grinned widely. "Yeah," Bodie said, accepting the ready made escape route. "We were working there till very late, decided to camp there. Sorry."

She shrugged. "No need to apologise -- it's your back, Mr. Bodie. Sleeping on the floor, I mean. If you want to go upstairs and bathe, I'll make your breakfast... Bacon and eggs?"

"Great," Bodie said gleefully, rubbing his hands together, and Mrs. Fortune left in the direction of the kitchen. As she began to move he turned his grin on Ray. "Bacon and eggs -- very nearly as edible as you. Come on, sweetheart, let's go and share the bath, eh?"

"Hush up, Bodie," Ray hissed, "if she hears "

"Who cares if she does?" Bodie shrugged. "I love you. If she doesn't like it, she can lump it, can't she?"

Mrs. Fortune had not heard, but as it turned out, she did not need to. She had bacon, eggs and tomatoes sizzling on the gas when Carol jogged up to the back door, flushed and breathless, clad in tracksuit and running shoes. "Mm, that smells good, Mum -- any going spare?"

"I'll crack another egg on the pan. This is for Mr. Bodie and Mr. Doyle - -- they got back ten minutes ago."

"Oh, wonderful," Carol grinned. "I'll shower and do my hair, and then I'll give that James Bond type a go, I think!"

The landlady and her daughter lived in the flat at the back of the pub; Mrs. Fortune could hear Carol in her room, fetching her clothes, as she stirred the tomatoes. She heard the shower start up with a banging of old piping, and heard the younger woman's voice as she began to sing in the bathroom. But as she heard the song she almost forgot about the food, and her heart skipped a beat.

Carol had a lovely voice and a quick ear for a tune, so she managed the west of Ireland quarter tones well. Mrs. Fortune rocked to the melody's odd rhythm, knowing the strange, old worlds too well . . . "There on the cricket's singing stone she spares the bog wood fire, and hums in sad, sweet undertone the song of heart's desire."

She was waiting for her daughter as she appeared minutes later, still damp and wrapped in a towel. "Where on earth did learn that song, Carol? And when?"

"Just now," Carol said, smiling wistfully. "On the road I saw the most beautiful girl I've ever seen. A blind girl with red hair. Hippie, I think dressed in a peasant dress and shawl. She was sitting by the bridge and singing it. I just heard the last verse, but I wish I knew the rest, it's such a strange, beautiful song. You don't know it, do you?"

"Yes... Yes, I do." Mrs. Fortune had to sit down quickly, only just remembering to turn off the gas. Her voice was low and husky, but she knew the quarter tones by heart, memory, reaching across the gulf of thirty-five years. "Where Lagan streams sing lullaby there blows a lily fair, the twilight gleam is in her eyes, the night is on her hair. And, like a love sick lenanshee, she hath my heart in thrall; nor life I owe, nor liberty, for love is lord of all. And often when the beetle's horn hath lulled the eve to sleep, I steal into her shieling lorn, and thro' the dooring peep. There on the cricket's singing stone she spares the bog wood fire, and sings in sad, sweet undertone the song of heart's desire."

The younger woman shivered. "Mum, what is that?"

Mrs. Fortune looked up at her daughter, eyes brimming with tears. "Don't you know it, don't you recognise any of it? You've heard snatches of it all your life. No one around here knows it except the people who've heard it... And the blind Irish girl."

"The blind " Carol stopped and blinked. "Eileen? Eileen Fey? But it's just a legend, Mum! Isn't it?" She paused, frowning deeply. "I stood on the bridge to listen, I thought I was dreaming as I heard her, and when I woke up she was gone. I never saw her go." She hugged her arms, about herself. "Eileen? Eileen -- and she s out of that house at last?"

The tears spilled from Mrs. Fortune's eyes and she blotted at them with her cuff. "At last. Two hundred years it's taken."

But Carol was still bewildered. "But, Mum, you know the legend as well as I do. She was killed for a witch by the squire at that house, on her wedding day, and cursed to remain there until -- until two lovers spent a night there and made love out of love, not out of lust. No one's been there at Greengables to do that!"

"Oh, but they have," Mrs. Fortune said, for a moment aghast and then wry. "Indeed they have... Carol, you leave Mr. Doyle and Mr. Bodie in peace. I don't think you'll make much headway with either of them, and I'd honestly prefer that you didn't try to come between them."

"What in the world are you talking about, Mum?"

Her mother smiled ruefully. "Haven't you noticed the way the dark haired, handsome one looks at the curly haired, beautiful one? They stayed at Greengables last night, Carol. For the first time in two hundred years love was made in that house by two people in love, not in lust."

Carol spluttered. "Two men? Them?" Then she sobered and sighed. "Just my luck, isn't it? The first time a really smashing bloke shows up 'round here "

"He's already in love with the person with the green eyes and the auburn curls," Mrs. Fortune laughed. "And poor Eileen Fey is free. The squire who killed her for a witch was killed himself by the lad who had wed her when she came here from Sligo, a fey blind young beauty, and nobody could live there because the house was called cursed, or haunted, from that day ... to this." She stirred, still smiling. "I'll go and see to breakfast, but don't you bother Mr. Doyle and Bodie, you hear?"

The two men were fresh, shaved, hair still soft from washing as they appeared in the dining room, and neither of them could understand the wistful, gentle smile with which Mrs. Fortune served them. Doyle frowned as he saw the expression and shook his head... No, she couldn't have guessed. He and Bodie made a point of never touching at all in public, to maintain their anonymity. Yet the landlady stood back and heaved a sigh, soft and sentimental, before she left them, and he looked up at Bodie, only then realising, when he met the other's blue eyes, that the lovelight was there plainly sometimes, if anyone bothered to look.

"Bodie..." He began quietly. "Last night, at the house..."

"Was beautiful," Bodie smiled. "And this morning the world looks so soft and fine it feels like I've fallen in love all over again."

"Like..." Doyle searched for words that would do. "Like a dove set free."

"You're a dove, mate," Bodie grinned. "Turtle dove, at that. Me, I'm a hawk."

Doyle shrugged. "I can live with that. Too bad we have to go back to London so soon. That's a nice bed upstairs."

"Well, we used it once," Bodie said, eyes darkening as he looked into Doyle's green gaze. "And the bed at home is just as nice. Nicer, maybe, 'cause it's ours. Eat your breakfast, sweetheart. The Mafia's gone now and duty calls."

London, Doyle thought with a sigh. Hustle, noise and dirt... There was a lot to be said for Selby Ends, and peace and quiet. This would be a nice place to call home, one day, when he and Bodie were old and grey, rich in memories if not much else, a nice place to settle down and doze away the long, soft twilight of life while other, younger spirits took their turn to dance and run and play in the sunshine.

For some reason, to him entirely unaccountable, there was freedom in the air, nearly tangible, and it was as if, for a short span, time had stood still.

-- THE END --

January 1986