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Betrayal. Fire and brimstone. Rage. Heresy. Threats and damnation.
Fury.
The final sermon of Monsignor Wilks was filled with all of that, and more, as he yelled and carried on about damnation and how the power would come to him and he would stand victorious, while the rest would be damned to their wicked ways.
Benoit Blanc had to pause in the middle of it. He could hear the words that were being said – well, yelled – from the tablet, from the video that Cy Draven had uploaded to Youtube, but he couldn’t focus on them. It was like his brain was stuck in first gear and couldn’t kick up to second because the gear shift was stuck.
He was supposed to be looking at this video to get some kind of hint of what happened on the day of the Monsignor’s death, to get an inkling into his state of mind, but all Blanc was getting was...strange feelings and a brain that wasn’t able to grasp the minutae. His brain felt broken. Father Jud’s heavy snoring from his strange sitting position on the bed was not helping matters either, heavy punctuations to the internal thoughts racing through his head.
Blanc stood up, adjusting his tie and lowering the tablet to the seat he had perched on, and he swept his hair back behind his ear from where some strands had fallen in front of his face. Focus, Blanc! The unsolvable case was just a trope; nothing was unsolvable! He was just...missing pieces. That was all. He had to think. Why couldn’t he think?
Fire and damnation. You’re wicked! And you’re wicked!
He shuddered at the words, the shiver sliding up his spine and freezing his brain. Fuck.
The famed detective scowled at himself and shook his head, trying to jar his brain loose from its strange predicament. The Reverend Father gave a snort and shifted, sliding lower in the bed, and Benoit looked over at him, making sure he was still asleep and not awake to see the detective in this state. Thankfully, the Father settled back into proper sleep, and Benoit sighed.
His hand was in his inner breast pocket, reaching for his phone without a singular thought; it was pure instinct that drove his thumb to unlock it and tap on the icons until the buzzing sound coming from the speaker meant that he had initiated a call. He brought the phone up to his hear to hear the ringing tone more clearly, his other arm crossed around his middle. He needed to have a quick respite, that was all. Get his brain back on track, booted up. Talk to a sounding board, one not involved in the case that would start doubting his abilities.
A rough, hoarse voice stopped the ringing. “’Lo?”
Blasted fool! Blanc grimaced; he was so distracted that he forgot about the time difference. He glanced out the stained glass window at the rain outside; it was late evening, for the darkness not absolute in its totality, and the glimmer of lights coming from the town in the far distance were not yet a complete blaze. That meant it was the absolute middle of the night overseas.
“Ben?”
Benoit cleared his throat, a sound to acknowledge he was there, even if he was too sheepish to say anything for the brief moment. Through the phone, he could hear ruffling, and then a click. His eyes drifted down to the sleeping Father Jud, and the small nightstand beside him, littered with objects including a lamp. Aha! That most certainly would be the noise he heard on the phone, the lamp being turned on.
Phillip had woken up.
“Earth to Ben.” The rough voice was clearing up as the sleep exited it, leaving the rich timber Benoit knew and loved.
“Ah, yes, yes, I’m here,” he said quietly, deciding to back out of the room to leave the sleeping priest be; the man needed the sleep after his terrible ordeal, and Blanc didn’t want to be the one to disturb him. He shut the modest door behind him as quietly as he could muster. Out in the hall, he could raise his voice at least a little bit, though he didn’t dare speak at normal volume. “I’m sorry,” he drawled, “I’m a bullheaded fool, I forgot --”
“—The time difference,” Phillip supplied for him, a hint of fond exasperation in his voice. There was some more ruffling, and a quiet breath that Benoit could hear, his mental pallet supplying the image of his husband sitting up in bed, and probably rubbing his tired eyes with his wrist. “What’s going on? Are you alright?”
“Me? Oh, oh I’m fine,” Benoit supplied a little too quickly; the silence on the other end was more than a little disbelieving. “How is your work at Royal Holloway goin’, darlin’?”
“Nonono. No. Nope.” A slight creak; Benoit’s mind eye saw Phillip standing up, placing most of his weight on his left leg as he did – he laid on his right side, and was now at the age where his hip protested that very much, leaving an ache in it that lasted until he got moving, no matter how much he denied it. “I know you, Blanc. You didn’t call me in the middle of the blasted night to ask me how my sabbatical is going, and I’m not letting you get away with changing the subject.”
Benoit Blanc didn’t need to be a world famous, prized detective and one of the keenest minds in the world to know that Phillip was worried. His last name cinched it.
Benoit let out an awkward, tired chuckle of his own, his adoration no secret. “Can’t keep anythin’ from you, though I do want t’hear about all your...computer numbers.”
“Nice try,” Phillip said dryly, now walking unevenly towards his kitchen (one step sounded heavier by about thirty two percent, no...make that thirty eight), most likely to put on the kettle. “I’ll be happy to talk all about my research later. Now,” his voice softened, “tell me what’s going on. How is the upper New York countryside?”
“Dreary,” Blanc admitted, turning on his heel to walk in the other direction in the hall. Wait, when the hell did he start pacing? He brushed a strand of too-long hair out of his eyes and sighed. “Things are...complex, and complicated. A riddle, wrapped in a mystery, inside an enigma.”
“You usually love those.”
The prodding was gentle; Phillip had learned long ago that coaxing Benoit took a specific touch. Blanc might be able to figure out the world at large, solve murders and mysteries big enough to get on The View, and small enough to make someone’s night, but Phillip was very good at figuring out the mystery of Benoit Blanc. Benoit knew it. Ultimately, that was why he had found himself dialing the number of his husband, without considering the time difference, without considering anything except for figuring out this blasted distraction that was turning his mind into an unfocused haze; a headlight diffused into the fog instead of a piercing beam.
“Yes. Well. I believe this has...affected me on a rather...deeper level, and I have to admit, it’s distractin’ me, somethin’ fierce. This whole...church malarkey.”
There was silence from the other side of the phone, a silent invitation to continue, the only noise a whisper of steam from the kettle as it started to rise to temperature.
“The Monsignor who was murdered...” Benoit stopped his pacing and frowned, staring at an old, worn and beautifully composed painting on the wall depicting the apostles, bowed in prayer. Even ignoring the meaning of it, Benoit could still appreciate the artistic style, and the talent that went in to creating it. “He was the epitome of everythin’ wrong with the church. I find myself here, looking for justice for him with the same tenacity as every other case I take on...yet I... oh, I don’know.”
The heavy sigh that escaped him surprised him. The kettle was whistling a little more intently.
“You’re wondering if you should,” Phillip supplied quietly, voice changing in volume as he tucked his phone against his shoulder so he could prepare his tea, or so Benoit hypothesized. “You’re finding you don’t really care about the Monsignor’s death all too much.”
Benoit blinked, blue eyes widening just a little bit, brow rising into the sweeping bangs on his forehead. No. No way. No? Could it really be that simple?
Phillip continued. “You said he was exactly the problem with the church, Ben, I know how you feel about that topic, and how it’s hurt you before. There’s somewhere inside, far away from the rational part of that big noggin of yours, that wants you to leave this in shambles. It’s satisfying to see a bad man who can no longer harm others, especially one that has the long arm of the church to weaponize.” There was a pause, liquid pouring with a quiet hum from Phillip as he paid attention to the action for a brief moment. “And that’s at war with your desire for justice, and doing good, and solving puzzles. You want to say fuck it and go home, but you know you can’t.”
Benoit sighed. “These people here, the Monsignor’s ‘flock’. They’re all miserable bastards. Angry, paranoid, threatening,” he murmured. “I haven’t seen such a sorry bunch since the Thrombey murder.”
“Not even on the island?”
“Oh god no, they were all idiots, but most of them weren’t malicious. Opportunistic, materialistic, nary two solitary brain cells between all of their heads, oh yes, but these folks here...they are hardliners. Taking all the tenets presented to them and twistin’ ‘em into misery and isolation and rage, fuelled by the Monsignor like a singular engine.”
Benoit tore his eyes from the painting; the apostles had blended together with his thoughts to turn into a mismash of the very people he found deplorable; Vera, Sy, Lee, Doc Nat, bowing and scraping at the feet of the hate spewing Father. Martha, idolizing the ground he walked on.The detective bit the corner of his lip to try and focus himself, though the quiet and simple sounds on the phone – the occasional clink as the tea was being stirred, the sound of the cup settling on a saucer, shaking slightly as Phillip had to be moving to a table to sit.
“And there’s this woman,” he admitted after another moment, glancing at his feet and deciding to start pacing once again to give him something to do. “She reminds me of my mama. Or, well, of what she became.”
“Oh, Ben.” Phillip’s voice was sympathetic and soft.
“Every time she looks at me, with all that disapproval, quoting the Bible like a...personal mantra,” he nearly spat, “I see her and it...throws me off.”
Benoit’s family wasn’t an ‘off limits’ topic for them, but it was something that didn’t often get brought up, for good reason, given what had happened. Raised Southern Baptist, to be kind and caring, with a love of community and fairness, Benoit’s first troubles came when he started to question the stories and tales, because all logic and rules seemingly went out the window when talking about one man collecting thousands of animals on his own, or rising from the dead. Despite the browbeating and insistence that the modern mind was poisoned against being able to understand the truth of these stories, he survived the attempted squashing of his curiosity and intellectualism, finding that it only grew the more he was told to ignore it. Family was family, after all, and he loved his family despite all of that tension, only to have the final unceremonious betrayal at the three simple syllables of ‘I like boys’. Kicked out of his house at sixteen, with barely a change of clothes and nary a place to go, by a mother who glared at him, saying that he was no son of hers, was the first understandable lesson in how the church was an exercise in blind obedience and hatred.
That was the day that Blanc had become a proud heathen, championing intelligence, and reason, and personal pride, even if it was the death of his family. He had later found his own, going to university in New York and finding friends, and a harried, but curious student in the newly emerging computing field and falling head over heels for him.
And now here he was, thirty something years after that moment standing on a porch staring at a closed door and wondering why his life was over, now embroiled deep in a new church scandal that just continued to prove that the only thing here was anger, and resentment, contrary to the lessons they were supposed to be teaching. He was an accomplished detective, but every time Martha glared at him, he felt like he was a teenager again, without a place to go.
“—home?”
Benoit blinked, pausing his paces once more, realizing he had been so deeply lost in thought that he had missed something.
“Sorry, dear, what was that?”
“I asked if you wanted me to fly home,” Phillip repeated without hesitation or annoyance, “I could be there tomorro---er, today. Or is it tomorrow by the time--? Never you mind, I—”
“No, no,” Benoit interrupted, “no, don’t do a silly thing like that. Honestly, even talkin’ like this has helped. It’s at least pointed me in the direction of why I can’t just...fuckin’ focus.”
Benoit could see the frown on Phillip’s face like he was standing right next to him. It was audible in its severity, even across the sea. And yet, it made him smile; the knowledge that Phillip was more upset to stay far away than he was to be waken up unkindly at the witching hour, because it was the kind of man he was.
“Okay, so let’s talk about this. The Monsignor was an asshole,” Phillip stated simply, “and filled his convent – er, no, wait, that’s not the word – congregation, that’s it – with every incorrect lesson that can be drawn from their teachings. Is there any reason, any reason at all, that you can think of to find some good in solving this? Outside of the mystery, outside of the favour you were called in on, is there anyone that could truly be helped by you seeing this out to the end?”
Benoit stopped pacing and looked towards the simple, humble, closed door in the hallway that he could still hear the snores emanating from, if he strained his ears. Father Jud, the kind soul Benoit had once believed the church to be full of as a child, a man who was in more turmoil than he, a man who was worth struggling with faith for because he was the kind of man that would help anyone who was struggling with theirs.
Jud reminded him of Phillip in a lot of ways. Strong, caring, not afraid to fight if it came down to it, a little naive from time to time, and a good soul. A strong soul.
“Your silence tells me there is,” Phillip continued, a smile in his voice. “So...just try to forget the mystery, forget your mother, forget the church and the Monsignor, for a little while. Just help.”
“You always know just what t’say, darlin’,” Benoit murmured, letting out a deep breath, and feeling some of the tension that had subconsciously accumulated in his shoulders release.
“You might solve the puzzles of the world, Benoit Blanc, catching murderers and finding long lost treasures, but I do like to think that I can at least solve the puzzles of Benoit Blanc.”
“You do much more than that.”
There was a brief hum, which had to come with some tea being slowly sipped. Benoit could just see him, sitting in the low light, brown hair mussed from bed, in a simple t-shirt and pair of sleep pants, the arm holding the phone with the elbow on the table, freeing up his other hand for a nice cuppa, a tired smile on his face, his dark eyes still showing worry and concern. He’d only been gone on his research trip for a few months and Benoit never missed him more than right at this moment.
“You going to be alright?” Phillip asked.
“Oh, I think I’ll be able t’muddle through it now,” Benoit mused, still looking at the closed door.
“Yeah, and your muddling is the same as most people on their best bloody day. Don’t rub it in.” A rich laugh came from the phone and Benoit smiled, a little sheepishly.
“God, I love you.”
“And I, you.”
While his tablet was still in the room with the sleeping Father, Benoit didn’t think of going back in to get it, simply turning towards the stairs and heading down them as quietly as he could. They still creaked, like his and Phillip’s joints did some days, but he minimized it as best as possible until he reached the main floor of the rectory. He undid his blazer with one hand and shturgged it off his shoulder, transferring his phone to the opposite hand so he could do the same with the other, and laid it gently on the back of the small, worn couch that laid in the den. The sofa groaned, even as he sat on it gingerly. Toeing his shoes off, Benoit moved to lay on his back with a light groan.
“You said you’d tell me about how your work is goin’,” he insisted.
“Oh, I see, now you’re looking to be lulled into a nap,” Phillip deadpanned, earning a quiet chuckle from Blanc. “If you’re sure. Have you gone for a haircut yet?”
“Don’t change the subject.”
“Blanc.”
The silence from the other end of the line stretched, hanging after that single syllable of warning. Benoit listened to it, hearing another sip of tea, but nothing else.
“...No,” he admitted, sullenly. “Now tell me all about the new encryption codes you’re workin’ up. It’ll give my brain a reboot.”
A deep and heavy sigh that Benoit was intimately familiar with came into his ear. He wished it was in person. When he solved this case, he decided he’d take a trip to London and steal his husband away from the research he did for a weekend’s respite.
He’d even turn his brain off, at least as much as he could. And if that wasn’t a sign of love, what was?
But first, he had to solve the unsolvable murder. One step at a time.