by Emma Jameson
“I’ve made up my mind.” Lady Juliet spoke coolly, her face still unreadable. “Dinah will remain. You will go. I imagine you’d prefer to leave without delay, so please know I’ll be happy to pack up your things and send them on. Along with a week’s wages to help you on your way.”
“What?” The word came softly enough to be almost inaudible. Mrs. Locke looked so stricken, Ben almost pitied her. “But… you can’t mean it. You can’t actually choose that wretched little trollop over me.”
“Of course I can. I’m the lady of the manor, I can do anything I like.” Lady Juliet sounded brisk and cheerful again, as she had with Mr. Foss at the Sheared Sheep. “And it’s no good ducking around me to tug on Mother’s skirts. We Linton women always stick together, everyone knows that.”
“But I’ve been here ten years. Nearly eleven. Besides—” Mrs. Locke trembled so violently, the perfect gray victory roll above each temple started to quiver. “I’m fifty-one years old. How on earth can I possibly start over?”
“From what I’ve observed, you’ve a moderately strong back. Become a Land Girl. Now then, Dr. Bones,” Lady Juliet said, stepping behind his wheelchair and gripping the handles. “Dinah needs to go to St. Barnabas. Shall we make the arrangements?”
* * *
“Thank you,” Ben told Lady Juliet, as white-haired, stoop-shouldered Robbie, Belsham Manor’s only remaining male employee, headed for the hospital in the manor’s bottle-green Bedford truck, Dinah on the seat beside him. Lady Juliet had promised the nervous girl she would meet her at St. Barnabas as soon as she conveyed Ben back to the Sheared Sheep.
“For what? Driving you back myself instead of leaving you to poor old Robbie? He’s past seventy, with rheumatism in his arms and shoulders,” Lady Juliet said. “He’d never be able to lift you out of that chair.”
“I mean, thank you for not discharging Dinah. I promised I wouldn’t get her turned out if she told me the truth. It seemed reasonable at the time, but I seem to have underestimated Mrs. Locke’s… resolve.”
“Her cruel delight in the misfortunes of others, you mean.” Lady Juliet gave Ben a sidelong smile. “I really don’t know what I’m going to do, what with Dinah staying on and my housekeeper leaving. I suppose Dinah will be better now that she won’t be corseted within an inch of her life, not to mention bearing a terrible secret all alone. As maids go, she could hardly be worse. And Mrs. Locke, for all her unpleasantness, was really very efficient. Still, she shouldn’t have said that. Not to me.”
Ben tried to recall the housekeeper’s more inflammatory statements, but couldn’t remember any that seemed aimed at her employer. “What do you mean?”
Lady Juliet appeared not to hear. “As a woman who bore several children, Mrs. Locke may know why a D&C is necessary, but I do not. Can I assume because Dinah delivered the baby herself, some part of the process was incomplete?”
“Possibly. If the placenta wasn’t fully delivered, it could explain her hemorrhaging and fever. If infection had taken hold inside the uterus and gone untreated, the result might have been fatal.”
“So. By getting her to confess, you saved her life?”
“I wouldn’t put it so dramatically.”
“Perhaps not. But whether you saved her from death or something less dire, you did her a great service, Dr. Bones,” Lady Juliet said. “One that could not have been rendered from inside the Sheared Sheep.”
She was kind enough to say no more on that score, but Ben took her point. When he’d briefly stood to look out the window, his mended bones had troubled him less than his quadriceps and hamstrings, now unused to such exertion. Pain during recovery was inevitable; as a physician, he knew that. Yet he’d tried to avoid it by staying put in his chair, just as he’d tried to evade a different sort of pain by staying put in his room. It hurt to know Penny had died violently, skull crushed beneath the lorry’s wheels. It hurt worse to know he was relieved to be free of her, instantly, easily, without scandal. How could he go on thinking of himself as a good man when his grief was overshadowed by such powerful relief?
“Well, rumor has it I’ll be leaving the Sheared Sheep tomorrow,” he said, mustering some false heartiness to fill the silence. “Call upon me the next time you’ve an illness at the manor.”
“Or a mystery, it seems.” Whatever Mrs. Locke had said to guarantee her dismissal, Lady Juliet seemed to have put it out of her mind. “Very well, Dr. Bones. Let’s get you back to Mr. Foss for what’s sure to be a tear-soaked farewell.”
* * *
Foss gladly received the news of Ben’s departure. He was so happy, he sent a celebratory pint of bitter up to Ben’s room along with his supper. The beer tasted watered down, which was typical, but Ben drank it nonetheless, savoring it as the sun went down. Only after he put the glass aside and got his blackout shade in place did he notice a sealed envelope atop his pillow.
Love note from Foss? An itemized bill, more likely, Ben thought, opening it. Inside, a piece of stationary rested, marred by smudged fingerprints. Unfolding it, he found a single sentence, unpunctuated, created by mismatched words and letters clipped from newspaper advertisements.
FORGIVE ME IT WAS NEVER MEANT TO BE YOU JUST HER
The New Office
11 October, 1939
“Now then, Dr. Bones. No sense getting in a hurry. Getting in a hurry never helped anyone,” Mr. Clarence Gaston, Birdswing’s air raid precautions warden and acting constable, announced in a pedantic tone Ben had already begun to hate. Slim and spare, with thick spectacles, white hair, a white mustache, and meticulously pressed tan trousers, Gaston occupied the hotel room’s sole guest chair. His white helmet with the black letter W hung by its chin strap from a canvas bag containing his gas mask; a silver badge with the crowned letters ARP was pinned to his lapel.
Licking the lead of his pencil, he positioned it above a blank notebook page. “Where was the communication discovered?”
“Just there. On my pillow.” Ben had said so twice already. Still, Gaston cocked an eye toward the bed. He studied it for a good ten seconds before making a careful notation in his book.
“Very good. What did the note say?”
“It’s, er, on the bedside table right beside you, Mr. Gaston. Beneath the lamp.”
“Yes, yes.” Gaston’s face was bent toward his notebook, pencil re-licked and poised once again. “Read it out to me.”
Ben suppressed a sigh. True, the country was at war, but was Mr. Gaston really the best the Council could appoint in terms of an acting constable? Suppose this message wasn’t some crackpot’s idea of a lark? Suppose it meant just what it implied—that Penny’s death had been no accident?
Rolling as close as he could in the small room, particularly given Gaston’s outstretched legs, Ben found himself still too far from the note to grasp it. Gritting his teeth, he put his feet on the floor, pushed hard on the wheelchair’s armrests, and—one hand still on the chair—stood unassisted for the third time that day. The pain was less distressing than the weakness, the trembling muscles, the realization his legs might give out at any moment.
“Oh, lad, that will never do,” Gaston scolded. “Sit down before you rupture something. Here’s the letter,” he added, passing it over as Ben sat down heavily. “See how easy that was? Now you can read it out to me.”
Ben studied the sixtyish air warden’s face, wondering if all this absurdity wasn’t some form of village amusement: the sort of put-on eccentricity to which country folk occasionally subjected Londoners. Gaston’s expression—half grave suspicion, half excessive self-regard—gave no clue. Either he was a sincere imbecile, head inflated by the responsibilities of his wartime appointment, or a brilliant prankster.
“Very well.” Several times during his nearly sleepless night, Ben had switched on the lamp, unfolded the note, and examined the letters pasted across the page. Though he’d memorized the words, he nevertheless kept reading it anew, as if he might suddenly discern some hidden quality.
�
��Forgive me,” Ben read. Was that irony? A taunt? A genuine plea for absolution? “It was never meant to be you. Just her.”
Gaston took an absurd amount of time to transcribe the message. His notebook was plain, the sort sold alongside stationary and envelopes, but its brown cover bore OFFICIAL AIR WARDEN BUSINESS in huge block print.
“Very well, Dr. Bones.” Gaston looked up at last. “Now. Who is responsible for placing this curious note in your room?”
“If I knew that,” Ben said a shade louder than he intended, “I don’t suppose I’d have called you here.” Taking a deep breath, he added more calmly, “According to Mr. Foss, the pub was uncommonly full. Someone could have crept up to my room while he was back in the taproom, and he would have been none the wiser.”
Gaston, who’d stiffened when Ben raised his voice, frowned. “There’s no call for speculation. Speculation,” he said severely, enunciating each syllable, “never helped anyone. Though it may be impossible to determine how the note was delivered to your room, I can still compile a list of your enemies and question each in turn.”
“Impossible? Enemies?” Staring at Gaston’s compressed lips and mournful jowls, Ben decided this impenetrable ignorance was no joke. Birdswing’s ARP warden and acting constable was in over his head. The man’s apparent obliviousness to his own inadequacy reminded Ben of a very senior doctor from medical school: a late Victorian relic who believed smoking opium was healthy, aseptic technique was unnecessary, and all unmarried females suffered in some degree from hysteria. Medical students who wished to progress without poor marks had no choice but to agree with the ridiculous old doctor while ignoring his directions and undoing his handiwork. Dealing with Gaston might require a similar approach.
“I’m not sure how I might have acquired enemies in Birdswing,” Ben said. “I’ve mixed with the public very little since my injury. But since I have no experience in these matters, I’ll defer to yours, Mr. Gaston. I suppose it would be impossible tracking down who left this note. Asking Mr. Foss for the names of the patrons he served last night, questioning them all in case one noticed a person slipping upstairs, dusting the envelope for fingerprints after ruling mine out, of course—you’re right. All quite impossible.”
“Deference to authority is very wise,” Gaston said. His eyes had widened slightly as Ben recited the obvious steps any investigator would take; now the wheels creaked behind those eyes, where in a moment or two, the light would dawn.
“Shall I attempt to compile that list of enemies?” Ben asked with a straight face.
“No, no. A fine idea, as amateur notions go, but not helpful.” Rising, Gaston tucked his notebook into his breast pocket and smoothed his shirt, adjusting his cuffs minutely. “How could you have acquired such foes from your sickbed? We’re friendly folk in Birdswing. Whoever left this note is probably disturbed, lacking full possession of his faculties, and in need of a stern talking to, you’ll see. Best course is for me to have a word with Mr. Foss. See if he can recall the patrons served while you were away. As for that….” Gaston plucked the folded note from Ben’s hand. “I’ll preserve it till I unearth the constabulary’s fingerprint kit. Purchased special from London years ago and never unboxed. No time like the present! Thank you for your assistance with these inquiries, Dr. Bones. I’ll be in touch.”
As Gaston thudded down the stairs, Ben’s amusement at the acting constable faded. The note was probably the work of a sick individual. But if it was truly an admission of guilt—an admission of murder—Ben’s only hope for answers, for justice, rested on Gaston’s narrow shoulders.
There has to be someone else. Someone capable of heading up a true investigation, Ben thought. I’ll ask Lady Juliet.
* * *
“Well, you seem in good spirits despite all the excitement,” Lady Juliet told Ben by way of greeting. Once more, he’d been forced to rely on Foss to carry him and his wheelchair downstairs, as well as assistance from the maid, Edith. A pretty girl with jet black hair and Clara Bow lips, she’d lugged his suitcase down to the curb with a look of sullen bemusement, as if never asked to perform such a duty in her life. Then, instead of returning to her typical chores—assuming they existed—she’d taken a break. Currently she leaned against the fence between the Sheared Sheep and a large shop called Daley’s, puffing a Pall Mall in Ben’s general direction.
“Excitement? You mean over Dinah? How is she, by the way?”
“Quite well. The procedure was carried out this morning, and she came through like a trouper.” Lady Juliet, again driving herself in the Crossley 20/30, was attired today in marginally more ladylike fashion: white cotton blouse, jodhpurs, riding boots, and overlarge tweed jacket. As before, she wore no lipstick, rouge, or jewelry, her lusterless brown hair contained in the same severe bun. “But the excitement to which I referred was that shocking note on your pillow, asking your forgiveness and claiming Penny alone was the target.”
Ben let out an inarticulate sound of disbelief. “How the devil do you know about that?”
“Come, Dr. Bones.” She appeared to suppress a grin, but her eyes sparkled. “You’re in lonely country now, where a juicy piece of news is as nourishing as red meat. London may permit anonymity, may even encourage it, but ‘the birds sing in Birdswing,’ as Father Cotterill likes to say. I heard all about it over luncheon. The note’s contents are rumored to be, ‘Forgive me. It was never meant to be you, only her.’”
“Nearly word perfect. Who told you?”
“Mother. Who had it from our cook. Who had it from the greengrocer, who wouldn’t say where she heard it, except the news had already been disseminated up and down the high street.” She emitted that incongruously melodic laugh. “I suppose you’ve been visited by ARP Warden Gaston.”
“I have. He appears to be the sole villager who didn’t know what the message said. Took a great deal of time copying it down.”
“Into his notebook labeled ‘official business?’” Lady Juliet smiled. “Vexatious man, he’s been filling up notebooks since taking the ARP post. Nothing delights him more than to catch one of us in an infraction that might endanger the village or somehow give aid and comfort to the enemy.”
Ben wanted to ask who else handled police work in Birdswing, but having been made aware of how freely news traveled in the village, he could practically feel Edith behind him, straining to catch every word from her supposedly casual position against the fence. “Well, I’m keen to put the note out of my mind and see this place you’ve secured for me. Fenton House, you call it?”
As before, Ben was obliged to let Lady Juliet assist him into her vehicle, but this time he managed to stand while she loaded his wheelchair, clutching the Crossley’s door for support as he tried to bring his left leg up. But no matter how he gritted his teeth, such a feat was still beyond him.
“Can you give me a boost?” he asked Lady Juliet, forcing a smile.
“Well, I… I’m, I’m happy to try.” It was the first time she’d stumbled over her words in his presence. “Only, to get you from, well, standing on the ground to sitting down on the passenger seat, I’m not sure how to take hold of you.” Her eyes raked him up and down. “Where to, er, place my hands, as it were.”
“I see.” He looked up and down the rutted tracks that passed for a street, leading into the village proper. Edith, now on her second Pall Mall, wasn’t the only native watching this operation with undisguised fascination. Foss lurked in the Sheared Sheep’s doorway; across the fence at Daley’s, a woman with toffee brown skin and shoulder-length waves had stationed herself on the porch, arms folded across her chest and face blank. A second face, just a small blob, watched from between parted lace curtains in the shop’s upper window. Ben sighed.
“Perhaps you should fetch back my chair, let me sit down, and lift me with both arms.”
Lady Juliet seemed to think about it, then firmed her mouth. “That won’t do. No, if Birdswing is to have any confidence in you, they first need to observe you’re growing st
ronger. Perhaps all that’s needed is a friendly—” As she spoke, she attempted what was probably meant to look like casual assistance, one arm about his shoulders. But as Ben tried to work with her, to flex that now-throbbing left knee, his right leg gave out, forcing her to clutch his belt to prevent a fall. At the same time, her other hand, flailing for purchase, grabbed his rear, squeezing hard as she narrowly managed to land him on the passenger seat.
“Oh! That was good, wasn’t it?” Ben blurted. Why in the name of God did I say that?
Panting with exertion, Lady Juliet glared at him. Wisps of hair escaped her bun, dangling before one eye as color spread across her cheeks.
“I only mean… I didn’t .” He stopped. The only other thing he could think to say—“I hardly felt a thing”—seemed more perilous than awkward silence.
Lady Juliet tucked the wisps behind an ear. Taking a deep breath, she adjusted her overlarge jacket, which hung askew. Then she slammed the passenger door shut and marched to the driver’s side. Climbing inside, she shut her door with still greater vigor. Her color had progressed from rosy pink to blotchy red, beginning mid-throat and rising straight to her hairline.
“Er. Lady Juliet,” Ben began. “I feel… that is, I think….”
“Dr. Bones. You and I shall never speak of what just transpired. Is that clear?”
“Crystal.”
Fortunately, the journey from the pub to Fenton House was brief and gave Ben his first look at Birdswing’s high street. It was unexpectedly beautiful. The dirt track, marred with the occasional muddy pothole, smoothed out, then became paved by wooden blocks set in tar. It broadened as meaner establishments on the outskirts, like the Sheared Sheep and Daley’s, gave way to cottages or bungalows with neatly-kept front gardens. Each patch of green was delineated by low stone walls with wooden gates; every porch was decorated with a window box, potted plant, or scrap of furniture. Penny had regaled her London friends with tales of Birdswing’s distressing sameness, with the dreary conformity of village life, but when Ben thought of dreariness, he thought of London. Not the city itself, brimming with layers to discover, but the people, particularly the other young doctors at his former hospital, grim and harried and not-so-secretly terrified of failure. A village where neighbors kept their lawns trimmed and their front steps swept by common consent? Charming.
