by Emma Jameson
Leaving aside the fact she was still technically married to Ethan Bolivar, at least until that slippery devil was forced to sign the papers, and leaving aside the fact Ben was newly widowed and probably wouldn’t look at a woman for a year or more, ignoring all other objections, there was one incontrovertible barrier: Juliet stood six foot one in her stocking feet. And Ben, according to her well-honed powers of vertical estimation, was no more than five foot eight.
She disliked being a person for whom so many things boiled down to one simple consideration, height, but there it was. A woman who approached six three in modest heels committed a social faux pas simply by appearing in public, and when such a woman forgot her transgression, ridicule followed. Heartbreak, too. At school, Juliet had discovered most men in the five six to five ten zone not only yearned to be six foot specimens, they pretended they were until confronted by facts. Since they lied to their mates, their dates, and themselves, nothing infuriated them more than the necessity of looking up at a woman when she spoke. In fact, some men refused to do it; Juliet had suffered through many an otherwise pleasant conversation where the man kept his gaze resolutely fixed on her shoulders, as if force of will could accomplish what gravity would not. It was one of the silly things she liked best about men: as a species, they were optimists. And the very short ones, below five foot five, often possessed a damn-their-eyes sort of élan she very much admired. Like her, they’d been forced to accept a physical appearance the world found vexing. But men in Ben’s height range were best forgotten. Even when Juliet had dared punch far above her weight in loving Ethan Bolivar, she took comfort in the fact he stood six foot four. If she’d towered over Ethan the way she towered over Ben, so much misery could have been averted.
The high street’s stop light loomed. As Juliet downshifted and applied the brake, something made her notice her jodhpurs, really see them for the first time in months. They were paint-splatted on one leg, frayed around the hems, and unflattering, particularly when she shoved the Crossley’s keys into her front pocket. Had she even looked into a mirror before she went out that morning? How ludicrous, a woman dressed like a scarecrow fretting she was too tall for—
“Keys,” Juliet muttered, realizing there was no familiar lump in that pocket. Absurdly she patted her thigh, as if the Crossley’s keys might have melted into it, but the pocket was empty. “Oh, good heavens, I must have left them at the cottage,” she announced to the air, frantically running her hands along the dash, the seat, and her pocketless blouse. “I will throw myself off a cliff before I go back there. I will—”
Someone honked. The light had changed, and in Juliet’s rearview mirror, Mr. Piedmont offered a timid wave. Given his famous reluctance to disturb anyone, he’d probably been waiting some time.
“Oh, very well!” Juliet bellowed, gunning the engine, and sped along for another five minutes in agony, wondering how she dared return to Ben’s cottage so soon. Then it struck her: she was driving. The ignition key resided innocently where it belonged, the other keys dangling just below the steering wheel.
That’s it. I’ve gone mad. Ten years sooner than anyone predicted.
Her distracted driving had taken her far from Mrs. Cobblepot and more than halfway to St. Barnabas’s hospital. Sighing, Juliet allowed herself a moment of deep aggravation at her own folly, then pushed it away. The petrol, that first public commodity to be rationed, had already been used, so she might as well go the rest of the way and look in on Dinah. No one else was likely to visit the girl. Perhaps her unconscious mind had directed her toward St. Barnabas for that very reason? As a passionate admirer of Carl Jung, and quite possibly the only person in Birdswing who had read all his published works, Juliet decided that was precisely what happened.
“Until you make the unconscious conscious, it will direct your life and you will call it fate,” she quoted aloud, tapping the Crossley’s dashboard as if it understood. Madwomen could have conversations with thin air; it was expected, perhaps even compulsory. And with her attention shifted to the psychoanalytic theories of Dr. Jung instead of the personal charms of Dr. Bones, she took the road to St. Barnabas’s.
* * *
Juliet left the hospital around eleven thirty, just as the sisters began serving lunch. Dinah was in good spirits, all things considered, but obviously fretting over the baby she’d abandoned. Twice Juliet skirted the topic, opening the conversational door wide, but Dinah only sighed and bit her lip. She didn’t seem mentally or emotionally equipped for motherhood, Juliet thought, but who could dare stand in judgment if Dinah decided to try? But if she wanted to regain custody of her child, if she was willing to start over in some new village where she could call herself a widow and find work to support them both, she’d have to make the first move. Dinah’s physician had guessed the connection between his young patient in need of a D&C and the foundling baby under St. Mark’s care, but he was a sympathetic sort who would not contact the authorities. That was fortunate, since for now “the authorities” amounted to Clarence Gaston and his delusions of competence. It was also fortunate that lawmen in England didn’t carry firearms like their American counterparts, or Acting Constable Gaston would no doubt shoot himself in the foot.
Perhaps even pistol-whip a litterer, Juliet thought as she parked by the curb outside the Gaston bungalow. No wonder Mrs. Cobblepot is beside herself. Living with a brother like that would push anyone over the edge.
“Hallo,” she called, rapping smartly at the front door. ARP Warden Gaston’s bell had been on the fritz for weeks. Apparently repairing things around his own house took a distant second to involving himself in his neighbors’ lives.
She waited. No answer came, nor were there any sounds within. Juliet tried the doorknob, which turned freely, and gently pushed it open. The front parlor was empty, yet hints of feminine madness were everywhere for those wise enough to read the signs. The hearth rug had been boiled till it faded and put through the mangle so severely, it looked like a dog had chewed it. The curtains had been starched until they hung like planks, motionless in the breeze. If so much as a mote of dust had survived the morning’s clean sweep, Juliet couldn’t see it. She could, however, see threadbare fabric on the sofa, where overzealous spot-cleaning had nearly disintegrated the chintz. The same fate which had made Clarence Gaston a widower with an empty house had left his sister, a recent widow, penniless. She had no one else to turn to, and he had driven off every housekeeper in southwest England. If she wasn’t rescued soon, Juliet feared one of Gaston’s neckties would be put through the mangle as violently as that rug—while still snugly knotted around his throat. And then poor Mrs. Cobblepot would hang for what most of Birdswing would consider a justifiable homicide.
Juliet decided to check the back garden. Just as she started toward the fence, a whistle shrilled. Next came a door banging, then an indistinct cry between a gasp and a moan, that Juliet recognized as Mrs. Cobblepot in distress.
“What’s all this?” Juliet demanded, marching up to the gate and pushing it open. In Birdswing gates were rarely locked, though neighbors were usually polite enough to behave as if they were. “Good heavens! Mr. Gaston, what on earth are you doing back here? Mrs. Cobblepot, stay where you are, let me help you!”
The garden, once a pleasant venue to read a book or enjoy a spot of tea, looked as if a bomb had gone off. Two shrubs and a little tree had been dug up and cast in a heap, along with unearthed stones and patches of turf. The culprit stood red-faced with a shovel in one hand and a whistle in the other. Stripped down to his undershirt, which was damp with sweat, he wore a pair of hideous plaid shorts, black socks, his usual brogues, and a curiously triumphant expression. By contrast, Mrs. Cobblepot was on her knees in the dirt, having run out the back door and onto freshly broken ground. For a heavyset, sixtyish widow, rising after hitting both kneecaps could be no easy task, so Juliet hurried to assist her, scowling at Gaston all the while.
“That wasn’t a rhetorical question, Clarence,” Juliet said, getting a
n arm around Mrs. Cobblepot. The poor woman clung to Juliet like a life preserver. Her stockings were ripped, her spectacles askew, and she was shaking all over. “Why are you blowing that whistle? And why have you torn your garden to pieces?”
“This will be the site of our Anderson shelter,” Gaston announced, indicating the crude six foot by six foot rectangle he stood inside. “The place that will keep us safe and snug in the event of bombing by the enemy.”
Whenever Juliet heard Gaston say “enemy,” she visualized the word with a capital E and had to bite back a laugh. It wasn’t that she lacked a healthy fear of the Germans or the devastation air raids would surely bring. It was just difficult to keep such concerns at the top of her mind when confronted with blue-green plaid and knobby knees.
“There will be unannounced shelter drills day and night. Agatha here just botched her first,” Gaston said severely. “Now she’s dead, blown to bits, because she didn’t heed the sign—three short whistle blasts—and failed to get inside the shelter before the Hun rained fire on Cornwall.”
“Oh, Clarence, please don’t say such things.” Giving Juliet a grateful nod, Mrs. Cobblepot released her, wiping her hands on her apron. “Sorry if I got a bit of egg on you, dear. I was making a pudding when the whistle sounded. Came running as fast as I could, but I had to cover the bowl so the flies wouldn’t get it. Clarence gets cross if he doesn’t get pudding after supper.” Straightening her glasses and smoothing her gray pin curls, she added, “Besides, I did well in the morning pantry inspection, brother. You said so yourself.”
“That compliment is rescinded. While I was digging, I came across this scattered beneath the hedge.” Reaching into a pocket, he drew out a handful of crumbs. “What’s this, then?”
“Oh.” Mrs. Cobblepot’s mouth twisted. “Just a bit of stale bread I put out for the sparrows. Surely that won’t count against my pantry inspection?”
“Wasting food is an offense. Not only immoral but deserving of a citation. Stale bread crumbs are a meat extender. There may come a day when you hunger for meatloaf and remember my words.” He tucked the crumbs back into his pocket, patting it.
“I’m sorry, Clarence,” Mrs. Cobblepot said meekly. Juliet could stomach no more.
“I have come,” she announced loud enough to frighten an illicitly-fattened bird out of a tree, “to inform ARP Warden Gaston our community is endangered. I’m at my wit’s end and afraid for us all.”
“God save us,” Mrs. Cobblepot gasped.
“Go on.” Gaston’s eyes shone.
“I’ve just come from Dr. Bones at Fenton House. He’s in deep distress. I fear he cannot go on, and the Army will soon ship him off to a sanatorium for treatment. Indefinite treatment.” Juliet sighed deeply.
“Distress? He was well enough yesterday.” Gaston frowned. “Asking silly questions and making foolish suggestions.”
“Mr. Gaston.” She gave him her saddest smile. “Do you imagine a man who’s lost his wife—who’s lost his love, his very reason for living—would unburden himself to an air warden? I got the truth out of him when I showed him his new home. I was pushing his wheelchair into the kitchen. He looked quite helpless, what with two shattered legs, and confessed he’d never boiled an egg.” Inspiration struck. “He took one look at the cooker and burst into tears.”
“Oh, that poor boy.” Mrs. Cobblepot wrung her hands even as Gaston made a disgusted noise. “It’s not good for a man to be without a woman taking care of him. Widowers are far worse off than widows.”
“Yes, indeed,” Juliet said, heartily wishing Ethan Bolivar dead. “Widows are made to endure. Men are so delicate. A man without a wife is like—like a pot without a flower.”
“You’re both daft,” Gaston said. “I’m widowed ten years and still strong as an ox!”
Mrs. Cobblepot ignored that. “Lady Juliet, I can’t bear to think of losing Dr. Bones. Bad enough he was hurt and his wife killed. But to lose him altogether, when we need a doctor…. It’s been terrible since Dr. Egon died. Traveling all the way to Plymouth for the least little thing, and what if a farmer cuts off a leg or pokes out an eye?”
“What, indeed?” Juliet pressed her lips together. For someone so plain in appearance, Mrs. Cobblepot clearly had a flair for the dramatic. “But lose him we must, I think. He has no wife now, no mother….”
“He has that nurse,” Gaston said. “What’s-her-name, the sour one who must have been weaned on a lemon. And if the kitchen frightens him so badly, he can take his meals at Laviolette’s. Or kip at Morton’s café like old doc Egon.”
“As long as Dr. Egon had a tot of scotch in his morning coffee, he was perfectly happy. But Dr. Bones is poised on the cusp of a nervous breakdown. I must turn to you to break the sad news to our village.” Though Juliet addressed her words to Gaston, she stared hard at his sister. When the bolt finally hit home, the plump little woman steadied her horn-rimmed specs with both hands, as if prepared to make an announcement daring enough to knock them off.
“I can take charge of him! I can cook for him, keep his house, mend his clothes. He needn’t pay me more than a few shillings. I’d be ever so pleased to help him adjust.”
“Splendid. I’ll tell him you—”
“Hang on.” Gaston sounded appalled. “You’re going to leave me—your own brother—for some townie quack you’ve never met?” Casting down the shovel, he left his imaginary bomb shelter, closing the distance between himself and Mrs. Cobblepot. “Agatha, be reasonable. I have grave responsibilities. I’m acting constable as well as ARP warden, charged with keeping us safe from the enemy. If spies parachute in, I can’t be off darning my socks or doing my own fry-ups!”
Juliet swallowed the temptation to recommend Laviolette’s or Morton’s. Overplaying her hand now could make the whole scheme collapse.
“Oh, Clarence, love, I’ve reinforced all the heels and toes. You could march to Berlin and kick Hitler in the face without tearing those socks.” Mrs. Cobblepot gazed at her brother sympathetically but unbending iron was in her voice. “Can’t you see I’m needed for the war effort? The Army seconded a physician to us to care for our community. Now I’m being seconded to care for him. Billeted in Fenton House like one of the troops. How can you forbid it when it’s part of the war effort?”
“I can’t march to Berlin. There’s a bloody ocean in between,” Gaston muttered.
“You wouldn’t let that stop you.” Mrs. Cobblepot touched his cheek lightly, smiling as their eyes met. “And you’ll accomplish so much more without me here to slow you down. Why, you’ll have the shelter walls up in no time.” She nodded toward a stack of corrugated steel panels. “And once official rationing starts, your portion will stretch so much farther without me to waste it.”
He looked at the ground. “Don’t care for Morton’s pies. Or Laviolette’s puddings.”
Mrs. Cobblepot, who’d been awarded many cups for baking over the years, shot Juliet a worried glance. Sacrifice, Juliet mouthed back her.
“I know, Clarence. It will be a sacrifice for you.”
Gaston’s head came up. In seconds, the man fully reinflated, chest rising as his shoulders lifted. “We must all make sacrifices. I said it in 1915, and I say it again now. None of us are immune, not till this war is won.”
“That’s the spirit!” Mrs. Cobblepot sounded as giddy as a schoolgirl. “Give me just a moment to gather an overnight bag, Lady Juliet, and I’ll be ready to go.”
“Go? Now? But what about my supper?” Gaston asked.
“That poor man needs me! Two broken legs and no wife. You can bring the rest of my things to Fenton House tomorrow, Clarence,” Mrs. Cobblepot called over her shoulder, ducking into the house for her bag with the sprightliness of a much younger woman as she claimed, “It’s a sacrifice for me, too, brother!” But for all her competencies, Mrs. Cobblepot was no liar, even when her happiness and freedom was on the line. Only the very thick or terminally self-absorbed could fail to hear to the relief in her voice.
/> Juliet hazarded a glance at Gaston. Sure enough, he’d picked up his shovel again, satisfied by his sister’s declaration of duty.
Penny, if you’re looking down on us—or more likely, up at us—I do hope you don’t expect justice. Not if Clarence Gaston is responsible for working out who killed you, and why. Once upon a time, such an unkind thought would have given Juliet a rush of satisfaction, a tiny taste of being the “bad” girl: the role young Penny had known so well and earnest, bookish types like Juliet could only aspire to. And even now, years later, to pretend she felt even a sliver of sympathy for the dead would be the height of hypocrisy. But there was Ben to consider. For his sake, Juliet wanted Gaston to succeed, to astonish them all in ways he knew too little of police work to even dream of.
Not that I’m much better. Miss Marple and Lord Peter Wimsey have been my tutors, and I probably learned more of wit from them than detective work.
Still, she had her brains, her curiosity, and once the snow fell and the gardens went dormant, time on her hands to boot. She wouldn’t need to solve the case, if there was indeed a case at all, just fill in the obvious gaps and drop the results in Gaston’s lap. Of course, some people, including her own dear mother, might leap to the conclusion that Juliet had undertaken amateur sleuthing as a way to get close to Ben.
But that’s ridiculous. I’ve made up my mind. Never again, she told herself. And she clung tight to that thought even as the excited Mrs. Cobblepot reappeared with bag in hand, even as it was time to drive back to Fenton House and see him again.
