I'm working on putting together a timeline of fictional British detectives and when they were active. This is what I have so far:
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Brother Cadfael - 1130's-1140's
Matthew Shardlake - 1530's-1540's
Sherlock Holmes (original ACD stories) - 1880's-1920's
Amelia Peabody - 1880's-1920's (active in both Britain and Egypt)
Father Brown (book & 1970's show version) - 1910's-1930's
Phryne Fisher - 1920's (active in Australia, but with strong connections to Britain)
Hercule Poirot - most active 1920's-1940's, but continues into the 1970's
Lord Peter Wimsey - 1920's-1930's
Miss Marple - 1930's-1970's
Christopher Foyle - 1940's
Father Brown (modern TV version) - 1950's
Grantchester TV series, multiple "detectives" - 1950's-1960's
Sister Boniface - 1960's
Inspector Morse - 1960's-1970's; 1980's-2000
Tom Barnaby - 1990's-2000's
Jane Tennison - 1990's
DI Jack Frost - 1990's
Rosemary Boxer & Laura Thyme - 2000's
Robbie Lewis - 2000's-2010's
Sherlock Holmes (modern BBC series) - 2010's
John Barnaby - 2010's-present
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I'm sure there are zillions of others, from book series, TV shows and movies. These are just the ones I could think of and could remember roughly when they were active without needing to look it up, supplemented with ones recommended to me by other folks.
I'd love to get suggestions to add to the list. Reasonably well known detectives that I forgot about and better dates for the ones I remembered are all welcome. I'd especially like to fill in the large gaps before Sherlock Holmes.
I'm thinking of this as something that might be useful for folks writing fic in any of these universes, and especially for folks doing crossovers, but mostly I'm doing it because it's fun. 😁
Tags: jack barak x (assassin!) female reader, cat-and-mouse, first meeting, slow burn
Trigger warnings: murder (mentions)
Summary: Jack Barak joins Matthew Shardlake on a new investigation, a cold yet elegant murder of an influential trader Jonathan Highwick. You, a skilled assassin, return to the crime scene to finish up your business.
The trail through the grey sand had grown colder since you last walked it. The Highwick manor stood lonesome right above a cliff, as if ready to slip off. It became a home of death, you thought. Death by your hands.
It was not your first mission. Not the second one and not even the third one.
It was concerning how you almost felt no guilt this time. Something in the way that man smirked at you before dying, it told you he deserved it. Or you could not tell the difference anymore.
You clenched the dagger tightly in the pocket of your coat. A maid, they said. She saw what she was not supposed to. Investigators are coming now, of course they are, shoving their noses in other's business. You had to finish the job.
And you better make it quick.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Jack Barak was severely hungover. The neighing of the horses certainly did not help.
"We're here", Shardlake patted Barak on his knee which made him groan again.
The investigator stepped out the carriage and Jack followed him, somehow maintaining a not-so-wobbly walk. He felt like the ground beneath him suddenly went soft. Am I this drunk? He thought when he looked down and, to his sudden comfort, found out it was, in fact, just sand.
"Why would anyone kill him?" Barak frowned. He remembered the city tales of the old sir Highwick who left London to live in solitude after his dear wife died of some illness. "The man's practically a hermit."
"I wouldn't say that," Shardlake shook the sand off his boot. "It is rumored he had recently started building a new trading house up north. Leather and silk."
"Dangerous industry." Barak nodded, not because he knew it, but to agree. It sounded right. His head was killing him.
The investigators reached the gates of the manor. It seemed old, brooding. Here, in the middle of nowhere, the manor almost seemed like an anomaly. A chill went up Jack Barak's spine.
At the gate, they were met by the guard, a young man, pale and thin, and the housekeeper, an elderly woman with her face covered in black laced veil.
"Finally," the housekeeper exhaled as if she held the breath in for hours, "Come with me."
The men followed her inside the manor. It was awfully quiet inside. No signs of any other servants.
"Any maids in the house?" Jack asked the housekeeper on the way up the stairs and noticed an annoyed strike in his partner's gaze. "I mean, is the witness in the manor now?"
"We need to speak with her," Shardlake chimed in.
The housekeeper wrapped her hand around a doorknob. She stood still, bracing herself. This must be sir Highwicks's bedroom, Jack thought. "Yes. Leah will be in the dining room later. Hope you like mushroom stew. Although I doubt you will have any appetite left after what you'll witness, dear investigators."
Jonathan Highwick was sat in an armchair by the tall window of stained glass. The colors, made alive by the rare autumn sun, painted the room in purple, red and green. The owner of the manor looked as if he casually laid back in the chair after a day of work. Although, as Barak and his parter got closer to the body, they could see not only that he was dead, but also the way he was murdered.
It stuck right out of the man's left eye.
The sight sobered Barak up immediately. He had to swallow. At first, Barak was confused. "The hell is this?"
"A hair pin, Barak" Shardlake turned the armshair to take a better look at the body.
The housekeeper prayed quietly in the corner. The guard stood by the door awkwardly.
"Were there not any women entering that night?" Matthew asked the guard while continuing to examine the body.
Barak watched the young man's reaction. His brows furrowed.
"I-" The floor creaked slightly underneath him. "I can not say, sir. I was... asleep".
Barak could not help but chuckle at that.
"Great." Shardlake concluded, his gaze still focused on the hair pin.
Barak knew what was going on through his partner's head. It was a woman. Something new.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
You knew a thing or two about the life of a servant from the years you spent making your earnings as a maid. Just the memory of your previous masters made you sick. You could tell, here, it was not a big difference. All manors were the same. Maybe you did them a favor, you think.
The kitchen was right around the corner, it smelled of mushrooms and potatoes. You glance inside a tiny round window, the girl's chamber. You see her getting ready, putting a black veil on. A stupid formality. You sneaked your way towards the backdoor. It was so small you had to bend to get in.
Once you were inside the girl's room, you did not wait. The worst thing you could do is cause any noise. Quick and efficient. You had your dagger by her neck now, she was on the floor, your hand over her mouth. She bit you. You held in a scream.
"It's you," the girl muttered, a look in her eyes that was almost thankful, "you killed him".
"I had to," you whispered back.
"Thank you, f- for killing him," the girl managed to utter. You felt your chest tighten. Annoyance, pity, you refused to name it. Yet, in that moment, you understood her perfectly. You knew what he did to her. Your hand jerked, you did not dare to do it.
Strange.
"Why his eye?" The maid whispered. As if she herself had thought of ending her master's life.
"I did not like the way he looked at me".
The maid nodded at that.
A sudden knock on the door behind you. A woman's voice:
"Leah, the investigators are here, they want to speak to you about last night."
You cursed under your breath. You glanced at the window, maybe you could fit through it. Breaking it would cause too much noise, though. The doorknob started turning. Act. Now.
"Uh, I am changing, Mistress," The maid called out, her tone simple, unshaken by the way you have the dagger against her heart now.
"Hurry up then. They will be in the dining room".
The footsteps faded inside the hallway. You could breathe again.
"Give me your clothes," you urged her.
You got up from the floor, holding onto the veil you took off the maid's head. A new plan.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
The dining room. The housekeeper was right. No one even touched the stew. Jack stares at one of the portraits, young sir Highwick with a smug confidence on his face. He surely did not look like a hermit back then.
"Were there any regular visitors in this manor?" Shardlake questioned the guard.
"Women?" Barak specified.
The guard inhaled. He hesitated. "S-sometimes. Never the same."
"Huh," Barak smirked, knowingly. "So the rumors about him grieving his late wife were false."
"People grieve in different ways," the housekeeper commented as she entered the room.
Barak turned. The girl was here. Poor thing, he thought. She is shaking.
"Leah?" He stretched out his hand to shake hers. He squeezed it gently, as if it could scare her. "My name is Jack Barak. This is Matthew Shardlake. We are investigating the murder of your master."
"Terrible," she muttered.
He froze. Is it blood on her hand? She took it away quickly. She was the one who found the body, he remembered.
"Yes. It is, we are very sorry." Shardlake interrupted.
"Did you enjoy your supper, sir?" The maid asked, her tone polite, yet something in her voice felt off. Is it an accent?
"What did you see, Leah?" Barak tried to gaze into her eyes through the veil. They reminded him of the fog he saw over the lake. Secretive. A mystery even to herself.
He saw her gaze linger down his face, down to his neck.
"A banshee."
The girl answered in low murmur. As if the word excited her. The housekeeper gasped.
Their gazes met again. Barak nodded, briefly. Only for her to see. He heard the stories when he was a kid, the girl must be so scared that she thought the stranger in the night was a real monster. But he saw no fear in her eyes now. He noticed the curve of her lips. Was she smiling now?
No, she can not be.
"A banshee? Do you believe in fairy tales, child? How old are you?" Shardlake approached her, Barak stopped him from getting too close.
"She brought death. I saw her in the hallway." The girl continued. "This house is full of death now."
"What did she look like?" Barak tilted his head, his brows furrowed at that.
Her eyes kept searching him. Every twitch of his muscles. Every blink. It felt like, suddenly, she knew everything about him.
"You need to fix your collar, sir." She said softly. "Let me."
Barak's heart froze as her hands straightened one of the ends of his collar. Her fingertips brushed against his throat. They were cold. Deliberate. Yet somehow caring.
"What did you see, Leah?" Shardlake asked her now, banging his palm against the table.
The girl shook her head rapidly.
"Excuse me, sir."
The maid stormed into the hallway.
Shardlake followed her but Barak held his arm, keeping him from leaving.
"Give her some time".
The housekeeper went to check on the maid. As men sat down at the table, Barak's fingers lingered on his collar, slowly tracing it. He shifted in his seat. Shardlake glanced at him, confused.
They waited.
The housekeeper came in, her veil skewed.
"She's gone".
Outside, the wind howled against the manor walls. Somewhere beyond the open gate, the ghost fled.
