by Emma Jameson
Unless someone behind one of those red or black-lacquered doors sent me that note. Either as a cruel joke or a genuine admission of murder.
“That’s Mr. Jeffers’s butcher shop with the ridiculous sign—no words, just a great pink porker. His grandfather had it carved last century, when literacy was rare, and though times have changed, mercifully, he refuses to change with them,” Lady Juliet said. She sounded wholly recovered from her earlier mortification, so Ben dared a glance. No, not wholly—those cheeks were still red.
“Beside the butcher shop, there’s Laviolette’s Fine Dining. Despite the name and the extravagant claim which follows, he is not French, nor has he ever set foot out of Cornwall. Not even for rudimentary cookery classes,” Lady Juliet continued, slowing the Crossley as she indicated a tea room with lanterns out front.
“City folk are accustomed to deceptive names and claims. How’s the food?”
“I never speak ill of my fellow villager to an outsider. And you, Dr. Bones, are still an outsider, however well-regarded and welcome.”
“I only asked for an opinion on the food.”
“Yes, and I gave you an answer. Go round!” Lady Juliet called, putting her arm out the window to wave the muddy Citroën past as its driver honked again. As it did so, the lady at the wheel waved back to prevent hard feelings. Lady Juliet’s answer was a stiff nod.
“Mrs. Abigail Sutton. Short-sighted and always in a hurry. Since she insists on gadding about, I prefer her in front of me,” she told Ben. “And that’s not speaking ill of a fellow villager. It’s relating a sad truth to a man who’s already suffered one grievous injury on our roadways.”
“I’ve resolved not to cross any more thoroughfares while the blackout is on. As for this business of never speaking ill of your fellow villagers: it’s admirable, but I’m a physician, used to hearing all sorts of truths.” Ben waited a moment to let this statement penetrate. “And when it comes to my late wife, I must admit some curiosity. Not just because of the note. Yesterday, when we met, you seemed—”
“Here we are!” Lady Juliet called cheerfully and a shade too loudly. “Fenton House.”
As she fetched his wheelchair from the back of the Crossley, Ben studied the cottage. Gray stone with light blue shutters and a white door, it struck him at once as too feminine. But that was absurd, as like most houses awaiting an owner, it lacked the softening touches a wife would bring: no welcome mat, empty window boxes, and an unswept walk.
Appropriate, as I have no wife, Ben reminded himself. And yet….
The rest of that thought, which seemed to come from somewhere else, made the hackles rise on the back of his neck. There’s a woman here already.
“Wasn’t there some nonsense about the place being haunted?” Ben asked as Lady Juliet lowered him from passenger seat to the wheelchair. He was careful to keep his tone light.
“Oh. Yes. And you must forgive us in advance for what’s sure to be a round of superstitious questioning. It’s not that Birdswing has more than its fair share of imbeciles and gothic novel devotees. It’s just that Lucy’s death was such a terrible shock. And by gas. As if we all haven’t meditated all too much on that fate. In fact….”
Reopening the Crossley’s passenger door, Lady Juliet felt around the floorboards until she came up with a medium-sized cardboard box on a long string. Putting it on cross-body, as a Girl Guide might wear a canteen, she patted the government-issue gas mask now resting on her ample hip. “There. Should the Nazis appear overhead to blanket the countryside with mustard gas, or whatever they’re threatening us with these days, I’ll be ready.”
“Lucy?” Ben asked as Lady Juliet propelled him toward the door.
“Lucy McGregor. Lovely thing, just twenty-three. I suppose it was a peaceful death, going to sleep and never waking up. But the neighbor who found her had a nervous collapse. Left the house wide open, so half Birdswing trooped in and out, gawping at poor Lucy stiff in her bed, working themselves into a frenzy over what could have done it. When they heard it was gas, everyone who’d ever scoffed at carrying a gas mask ran right home to get it.”
‘‘Hitler will send no warning, so always carry your gas mask,’” Ben quoted from memory. In the newspapers and on the wireless, there were dozens of such public service slogans, all offering earnest messages of volunteerism or self-reliance. While they were easy to mock, such propaganda did its job, since it sprang to mind so easily.
“I notice you aren’t carrying yours.”
“Yes, well, I’ll remedy that as soon as I unpack.” In truth, Ben had little hope an unfitted, mass-produced mask could save him from the sort of attacks that had killed thousands of tommies in the Great War. Still, he was this community’s physician, and there was such a thing as setting an example.
“Here we are.” Lady Juliet pushed him through the doorway into a poky hall, opening to the right into a little parlor. Down and to the left was the dining room, and beyond that, the smallest kitchen Ben had ever seen. As Lady Victoria had warned him, there wasn’t a refrigerator, just the bare necessities: cool larder, sink, draining board, coke-burning boiler, and gas stove. As promised, the latter was new, which Ben found simultaneously reassuring and sad.
After viewing the kitchen, they doubled back to the parlor, its plaster walls painted the same blue as the shutters outside. Ben hadn’t expected furniture, but the room was crammed with it: love seat, armchairs, bookshelf, coffee table, lamp, and embroidered fireplace screen. Though well-used and clearly from various eras, the pieces harmonized surprisingly well.
“I’m sure you’d prefer your own things, but until you have them sent down from London, the Council voted to provide everything you need.”
“Thank you.” The swell of emotion took Ben by surprise. It was only odds and ends; if Penny had seen the furniture, she would have blanched, then found a way to take the villagers’ kindness as an insult. The last time she’d received a letter from someone in southwest England—two months ago, Ben estimated, though he wasn’t certain—she’d seemed on edge for days. When he’d asked, Penny had insisted it was nothing but an invitation to a church fête and jumble.
“So I can get to know Birdswing again? No sooner than I must,” she’d huffed. “And mention of the jumble was salt in my wound. Bad enough to live there. But to be reminded that practically the only entertainment will be church socials is just too cruel.”
“This,” Lady Juliet said, opening the door, “used to be Lucy McGregor’s sewing room. No doubt you’ll someday wish to use it as a study, as it’s too small for anything else, but for now, you have a place to sleep without risking your neck on the stairs.”
There was an iron-framed single bed, table, lamp, and alarm clock, all of it squeezed against the wall. There wasn’t room enough for a wardrobe, or even for Ben to fully maneuver his wheelchair inside, but having a temporary bedroom downstairs was worth the inconvenience. Besides, it would motivate him to work all the harder, walking with crutches. For the second time, Ben was astonished and pleased by how far the Council had gone to make him comfortable. At this point he had only one burning question, but kept it to himself, certain the answer was about to be revealed to him.
“Now old Dr. Egon—he of the bad eyes, bad hearing, and overtaxed liver—lived next to the butcher shop in a squalid little hole that should have been condemned. When he died, Mr. Jeffers bought the space, knocked down the wall, and expanded. Then war was declared, rumors of government meat rationing started, and—well, you’ll never find anyone who hates Nazis more than Mr. Jeffers. He insists the Fuhrer timed matters to bankrupt him personally.” Chuckling, Lady Juliet turned Ben’s chair around, pushing him toward another closed door on the parlor’s opposite end. “Since taking over the previous doctor’s office was impossible, the Council decided to convert the library into your consulting room. We’d no notion of what to purchase, so we simply brought over Dr. Egon’s things for you to sort out.” With that, Lady Juliet opened the door with a flourish; apparent
ly, this was the moment she’d been waiting for.
Ben was rendered speechless—thankfully. After all the village’s many kindnesses, it would have been monstrous to spoil the great revelation with an honest response.
If Dr. Egon was in his seventies, he was born around 1865, Ben thought, fixing what he hoped was a smile on his face. He must have inherited all this after he qualified—probably bought it lock, stock, and barrel from some Victorian quack—and practiced all his life without changing a thing.
A polished black desk dominated the room, equipped with an articulated human skull, three milky apothecary jars filled with unknown granules, and an ancient leather-bound copy of Gray’s Anatomy. Against the wall, a tall glass cabinet held dozens of bottles, red and blue and green, most with peeling labels and corks instead of screw tops. Its bottom shelf held a stained, ominous-looking travel case that Ben suspected was a field amputation kit. Beside it, an open, velvet-lined box contained four brass syringes. Outside of his medical training, when his wilder classmates had occasionally nicked antique equipment from a professor and threatened one another with it—every last item looked like an instrument of torture—Ben had never seen syringes that weren’t made of glass and steel.
Sniffing, Ben asked, “What’s that smell?”
“I’m sure I don’t know. We cleaned the room very thoroughly. Perhaps a bit of camphor?” Lady Juliet asked. “Mrs. Cobblepot was in charge of airing out the rooms, and camphor is her secret weapon.”
“No, not chemical.” Ben sniffed again, concentrated, and suddenly thought of the library at university. Specifically, his own favorite study corner, not far from illustrated volumes dating back to the Crimean War. “Like very old books.”
Lady Juliet breathed deep, nostrils flaring. “No. I can’t claim to smell it. But this was poor Lucy’s library. Perhaps the books left a bit of themselves behind.” Pointing at a turn-of-the-century electrotherapy machine, she confessed, “I have no idea what that is,” as if any modern person could be expected to recognize a Tesla coil on sight. “What does it do?”
“Relieves the gullible of their money, I’m afraid.” Ben kept his false smile in place. “I’ve no doubt Dr. Egon did his best, and I’m deeply grateful to inherit his, er, arsenal of healing weapons. But times have changed, so please don’t be put out if I make one or two small changes.”
In a cabinet with deep cubbies and a dozen drawers, Ben found a mishmash of items. Some, like the porcelain enema basin, glass eye wash cup, and collection of scalpels, were usable. Most, like the pill-making press, monaural stethoscope—little more than an ear trumpet to press against the chest—and phrenology bust, were useless. Fortunately, he’d traveled to Birdswing with the basics: stethoscope, sphygmomanometer for measuring blood pressure, thermometer, reflex hammer, otoscope for ears, ophthalmoscope for eyes, and his minor surgery tools, including hemostats and forceps. This “office” lacked an examining table, a screen for the patient to undress behind, a scale, an eye chart, and even a diagram of the human body, but it did boast an imposing black desk. Ben resolved to keep it, even if he would have preferred something less intimidating. Perhaps doing so would save the villagers’ feelings when he discarded almost everything else.
“That door,” Ben said, pointing. “Does it open onto the garden?”
“It does. And you’ll find we’ve cleared away the grass and put down some stones, making a secondary path from the front gate to your office door. It shan’t take long to train patients to call at the side for medical consultations.” Brimming with obvious pride, Lady Juliet added, “We even wired up a buzzer with a flat tone quite unlike the front door chime. That way, you’ll know from anywhere in the house what sort of caller awaits.” Her happiness in what had clearly been her idea transformed her face. Smiling that way, her wide, beautifully formed mouth balanced those broad cheeks, making her almost pretty.
“I find myself parroting the same words over and over. Thank you.” Ben took her hand. It was as large as his but still feminine, fine-boned despite its proven strength. “Thank you so very much, Juliet.”
Her smile faded. She started to pull her hand out of his grasp, stopped for a moment, then gently slid away. Clearing her throat, she blinked twice, folded her arms across her chest, and put on a smile as patently false as the one he’d employed minutes before.
“My mother is head of the Council, and I sit on it as well. We have a vested interest in making you comfortable, Dr. Bones. And we Lintons know our duty.”
Mystified by her sudden stiffness, Ben could only nod. Who would have thought impulsively omitting “Lady” from her name would produce such an unseasonable chill? As he struggled to think of something to say, noticing and trying not to notice the redness creeping up her throat, that flat buzzer sounded.
“Your first patient,” Lady Juliet declared, looking as relieved as Ben felt. “Rather than linger on and be in the way, I’ll be off. But I’ll pop in again later, never fear.”
Ben hoped so. Not only did he want to smooth over whatever offense he’d managed to give, but—he was ashamed to admit—he would need a great deal more help just to get through the night in his new home. Naturally, there was a toilet downstairs, but no tub. Even if the kitchen was fully equipped with groceries, which didn’t seem to be the case, he was hopeless at cookery. And to so much as get down his front steps, he’d need crutches or a cane, which at this stage meant courting a broken neck. In truth, he wasn’t terribly chuffed about seeing his first official patient in this strange new office, a mostly useless place that smelled of moth balls and missing books, but his medical training had armed him with a doctor’s secret weapon: faking the confidence he didn’t feel.
“Until you return, Lady Juliet. And thank you again,” he said, but she was already walking away.
Mrs. Cobblepot
11 October, 1939
Never again, Lady Juliet Linton Bolivar thought, and meant it. Absolutely.
Well. Almost entirely.
And if not entirely, as near as made no difference.
I made a bloody fool of myself over one man. Mother would die of mortification if I did it again.
She often framed her worries that way, heaping anxieties at Lady Victoria’s door instead of her own. Her mother’s chronic poor health, which had begun after the death of Juliet’s father, was both a genuine concern and a convenient excuse. Juliet herself cared not a fig for what anyone thought of her, so the internal monologue went, but Mother’s tender feelings had to be spared.
And usually Juliet was on guard against such perils, but this one had slipped up on her. There were few females in her life she’d disliked—no, it would be fairer to say, hated—as fiercely as Penny Eubanks, or Mrs. Penelope Bones. It followed, therefore, that a woman with so many vile qualities would marry a suitably loathsome man, the sort of person Juliet could endure for only brief intervals. Of course, the man would possess a few requisite charms; Juliet had expected Penny’s husband to be wealthy, sophisticated, and handsome. Dr. Bones had confounded those expectations in every way.
Wealthy? Not at all. As a professional man, he stood to earn a fine living, perhaps even grow rich later in life if he invested wisely. But the Bones family had no connections to real money or power, as Juliet, patroness of the Birdswing lending library, had stooped to confirm one day when overcome by curiosity. So Penny hadn’t married him for money or even the expectation of an inheritance.
As for sophistication—well, in the eyes of some villagers, he would tick that box. Many of Birdswing’s residents had left school at fourteen, either to apprentice in a trade or work full time on the family farm. Perhaps a quarter of the villagers were functionally illiterate, and at least half had never traveled farther than Plymouth. So for them, a university-trained physician from London would seem the height of metropolitan glamor. But Juliet had known real sophistication, in the original Greek sense of the term—known it, married it, and come to despise it. She’d assumed Penny’s husband would be cut
from the same cloth: witty, extravagant with his compliments, glittering like fool’s gold. Instead, Ben struck her as intelligent, sincere, and even decent, based on his kindness toward Dinah.
Finally, there was the little matter of looks. Juliet had put off meeting Ben, avoiding the Sheared Sheep for weeks (no great sacrifice) because she didn’t care to see the man Penny would have paraded around Birdswing like the ultimate matrimonial trophy: dashing, debonair, black-haired and broad-shouldered, the perfect mix of Cary Grant and Clark Gable. If Juliet wanted her senses overloaded with granite jaws and dimpled chins, she’d go to the cinema and get a happy ending in the bargain, thank you very much. But Ben wasn’t what Juliet would call handsome. He was, in a purely masculine sense, beautiful. Reddish-brown hair, wide blue eyes, red lips, and those faintly ginger sideburns. Looking at him too long without legitimate purpose produced distressing physical sensations Juliet had no patience with, at least in theory. Leading her inevitably back to the declaration, never again.
Thank heavens I’m not the sort of silly cow who flusters easily, she thought. Mrs. Parry is probably spying from across the street, planning to report all to anyone who’ll listen. Exuding calm dignity is a must.
Eyes on Mrs. Parry’s lace curtains, Juliet misjudged the second step, turned her ankle, and nearly took a header into the garden. Trousers saved her from flashing her knickers, but catching herself on the stone path dirtied her hands. Brushing them off, she limped to the Crossley, climbed in, slammed the door for vengeance, and roared away. Before falling, it had been in her mind to pay a visit to Mrs. Agatha Cobblepot, whose heretofore unsolvable personal problems might at last have found an answer. Post-fall, Juliet drove away blindly, thoughts reverting to Ben.
