by Emma Jameson
There was fresh bread from Abbott’s bakery. Éclairs from Laviolette’s. Sausage from Morton’s. And gathered from donations up and down the high street, from the pantries of his neighbors: beans, stewed tomatoes, ham, black pudding, blackcurrant jam, and two sorts of fish, poached and fried.
“You’ll never guess who donated the fish,” Mrs. Cobblepot said, beaming. “He’s so pale, you wouldn’t think he spent time in the sun at all, much less hours on the riverbank.”
Sinking into a chair, Ben propped his crutches against the wall. “I have no idea.”
“Mr. Dwerryhouse. I can’t say he had much confidence in you at first sight. Now he’s telling all his customers to stop round and let the London-trained doctor have a crack at what ails them.” She set a plate in front of him, heaped with a little of everything, with one notable exception. “I don’t recommend those éclairs. You know where they came from. There’s a dog that makes the rounds once in a while, sniffing at kitchen doors. I may feed them to her, so long as my brother doesn’t see.”
“Why not give them to him? He helped, after all. Lent us his car,” Ben said with only the tiniest twinge of guilt. The pastries appeared edible. Slightly flatter and drier than customary, but edible.
Mrs. Cobblepot laughed. “Clarence is foolish, but not quite a fool. Even he avoids Laviolette’s.”
For a time, Ben gave himself up to simply eating, savoring each individual taste. After yesterday’s wild ride and so much time on his feet—even with the support of crutches—he’d expected extra soreness this morning, perhaps even a lazy Sunday with the wireless and a novel. But after a good night’s sleep and breakfast fit for a king, he felt surprisingly restless. Not to mention, curious.
“I take it back. Let’s pack some meat, bread, and jam into a basket and pay a call on your brother,” Ben told Mrs. Cobblepot. “I want to know what he’s learned about Penny’s de—murder.”
* * *
They took Ben’s car. Like many villagers who’d come to driving later in life, Mrs. Cobblepot was slow, careful, and faintly suspicious of the automobile, keeping an iron grip on the steering wheel at all times.
“I grew up driving a horse and buggy, which suited me fine,” she told Ben during the short ride to ARP Warden Gaston’s house. “I suppose if the war goes on too long, horses will outnumber cars on the street, what with the petrol rationing.”
“Let’s hope we get a ceasefire well before it comes to that.” Ben’s fingers drummed the dashboard, itching for a cigarette. Despite his desire to give up tobacco for good and all, in his mind, traveling by car was indelibly associated with smoking. Had he left a pack in the glove box? Hoping he hadn’t but unable to resist checking, Ben opened it for the first time since leaving London. A slender green volume dropped into his lap.
“What’s that?” Mrs. Cobblepot’s eyes flicked away from the road for only a millisecond, although Sunday traffic in Birdswing consisted mostly of restless chickens or rogue geese.
“Shakespeare’s sonnets.” Ben studied the worn book. Should he send it to Mr. Eubanks or George as a remembrance? “Penny had taken to carrying it with her everywhere.”
“A great fan of the Bard?”
“An affectation, I thought. A way to look cleverer than her friends. More literary.” He sighed. “I used to go out of my way to think the worst of her.”
Mrs. Cobblepot waited a long time before venturing, “Perhaps she deserved it.”
“Probably.” He placed the book beside him on the car seat, suddenly unwilling to open it, see her familiar handwriting on the flyleaf—those huge, sloping letters—and risk feeling whatever lurked inside him, safely thrust down, down, as far as he could push it. “But whatever she did, whatever she was, I’m the man who married her.”
“You didn’t know.”
“No. But still. I married her, and there was no gun to my head. What does that say about me?”
This time Mrs. Cobblepot did risk taking her gaze off the road long enough to meet his eyes. She knows, Ben realized.
“Yes. Penny was with child. But I’d—that is to say, we’d already—the ring was on her finger, the hall engaged. I assumed… of course I assumed the baby was mine. She told me during our honeymoon, and I was overjoyed.” Forcing what he hoped sounded like a laugh, he looked out the window as the high street slid past, all those raked front gardens and scrubbed front steps. “But soon after, I realized she was too far gone—much too far gone. First I confronted her. Then I tried to respond like a doctor. Calmly. Just asking her to help me understand. Both times she laughed in my face.”
They had reached Gaston’s bungalow. Letting the engine idle, Mrs. Cobblepot turned to Ben, her expression as matter-of-fact as if they were discussing kitchen rations or a laundry problem. Why had he imagined any of this would shock her? Pregnancy was the inescapable center of almost every woman’s life.
“Did she tell you who the father was?”
“No. Refused to discuss it. Said—” He stopped. Said just because I’d been a sad little virgin didn’t mean she was. Said I should have wondered what she saw in me, what I could possibly offer, and been grateful. Said even if I knew his name, it would prove nothing, because he was a man to be reckoned with, not a milquetoast. “Said a lot of rubbish.”
“Did she… lose the baby?” Mrs. Cobblepot asked, with that faint emphasis on “lose” that signaled her willingness to hear the whole truth, even if it led into territory where most physicians feared to tread.
“It was fetal demise. I—I behaved rather badly during the last trimester,” Ben said, picking up the sonnets and running his fingers along the gold-lettered spine. “I walked away when she tried to tell me about swollen ankles, or cravings, or the baby kicking. Left her alone as much as I could, put her under the care of a Harley Street man her father chose. When the doctor tried to contact me, about two weeks before the baby was due, I ignored it. Thought perhaps she’d gone into labor early, in which case I intended to ‘accidentally’ miss the whole thing. But finally he got me. It was a condolence call—the baby no longer had a heartbeat.”
“All four of mine were stillborn,” Mrs. Cobblepot said. “The last time, the midwife broke the news at seven months. Those were the longest eight weeks of my life, hiding inside my own home, terrified some acquaintance would congratulate me, and I’d fall to pieces. It was the worst labor, too. Not the hardest by any means, but the worst. Delivering a child I knew was already lost.”
“After that, I tried to be a better husband. To put it behind us.” Ben opened the book, saw that bold, unapologetic hand, and closed it again. “I think Penny tried, too, as much as she was able. But it was too little too late, from both of us. And I’m sorry,” he added, touching his housekeeper’s arm. “For your losses, I mean.”
“Oh, love, it was so long ago.” A determined brightness settled over Mrs. Cobblepot’s features, and the matter was closed. “Since Clarence hasn’t come out to check our identity cards and ask our business, I’ll bet he’s around back. Let’s see.”
ARP Warden and Acting Constable Gaston was indeed in his back garden. It smelled of freshly turned soil, sheep manure, and something else, soon revealed to be pig slop. Or possibly the pig itself, a hairy pink and black thing, half-mature and already larger than an Alsatian. It had rolled in its slop, as well as the manure-enriched soil, which confused the matter.
“You’re right on time!” Gaston cried, looking delighted to see them. “The pig pen’s up, the crops are going strong, and I’ve just put a floor in the crown jewel. What’d’ya think?”
“Well, it’s… it’s….” Mrs. Cobblepot groped audibly while Ben, uncertain what he was looking at, kept his mouth shut. Was it a sod-camouflaged tool shed? An outhouse with a patch of veg on top? Whatever it was, a brown rabbit sat on the peaked roof, chewing a leek.
“I’ve never heard of mixing gardening with bomb shelters,” Mrs. Cobblepot said at last.
Ben advanced on the corrugated metal structure, coated
on the sides and top with packed earth. So much of Gaston’s former lawn had been given over to cultivation, he had to place his crutches carefully, lest he trod on rows of parsnip and onion. “Is the soil meant as a bulwark?”
“Indeed it is! An Anderson shelter,” Gaston said proudly. “So simple any man can build it, and so sturdy, the Germans can’t hope to bomb us out.”
Ben studied the construct. The door was open, the interior shadowy, but he thought he made out long shelves attached to the walls. Bunks? Given that the shelter was only two meters long and perhaps a meter and a half wide, even one man might feel cramped inside. Were entire families meant to squat in these dirt-floored hovels while falling bombs whistled overhead?
“Is that cabbage you’ve put down?” Mrs. Cobblepot adjusted her glasses. “I don’t fancy winter crops. I’ve never had a bit of luck. And Mr. Morton predicts a hard, cold winter. You know he’s hit it on the nose nine years running.”
“Maybe winter will be hard on the rest of the country, but this is Cornwall. Autumn comes a month late, spring comes a month early. It’ll grow,” Gaston declared. Pointing at the shelter’s sprouting roof, he added, “My leeks have already earned the stamp of approval.”
“I wouldn’t have pegged you for the sort to keep a bunny for a pet,” Ben said.
The ARP warden gave him a pitying look. “Oh, you soft city boys will be the first to die if the enemy descends upon these shores. That’s no pet, Dr. Bones. That’s next month’s Sunday dinner. And I’m one-fourth owner of Sally the pig. Me and the lads dreamed up the scheme at the Sheared Sheep, a sort of pork co-op. Plus I get the hogshead on account of being the one who keeps her. Sally’ll do nicely for Christmas lunch, you’ll see.”
From the village square, bells pealed signifying the end of the service at St. Mark’s. Mrs. Cobblepot took that as her cue to present her brother with the covered basket. As he poked through it making happy noises, Ben said, “I know you’re very busy, Mr. Gaston. But I wonder if you’ve made any progress with those inquiries into my wife’s death?”
His head came up, eyes wide and mouth open. That confirmed Ben’s suspicions in one stroke.
“Or perhaps you’ve had no time,” he said, doing his best to hide his irritation. “So I have a few suggestions. Perhaps someone might question Bobby Archer? He seems to have carried a torch for Penny. I understand he drives a lorry, too. Then there’s the death of Ursula Hibbet. I realize it was years ago, but might there be someone in Birdswing who held a grudge?”
Gaston’s face settled back into its usual mix of disdain and suspicion. “Now don’t go all Miss Marple, Dr. Bones. No good ever came of folks going Miss Marple, no matter how clever they are about wee girls and spider bites. I am proceeding with the investigation along the proper channels.”
“Oh, good.” Mrs. Cobblepot clasped her hands and beamed. “Tell us everything you’ve learned.”
“It’s classified. Could have national security implications. I’ll not be discussing it with civilians, much less in the middle of the street.”
“National security implications? Nonsense.” Taking off her glasses, his sister polished them with the slow censure of a disappointed educator. She might have retired from teaching some years ago, but clearly she remembered all the tricks. “And we aren’t in the street, Clarence love, we’re in your garden. Surely Dr. Bones has a right to hear your findings.”
“Not until they’re all found! I must say, Agatha, there’s been a change in you since you went to work at Fenton House. And not for the good, I fear. Not for the good.” Transparently desperate, Gaston dug into the basket, coming up with a bit of fried fish and waving it under her nose. “Vine’s hasn’t stocked whitefish for a week. No one will buy it at those prices. How did you get this? Is this black market fish? Is there a black market operating in Birdswing?”
“Yes!” Mrs. Cobblepot cried. Snatching the basket, she tossed it into the pig pen, eliciting a grunt of approval. “And I’m the kingpin! Corned beef is 6p an ounce, and bananas are a guinea each!”
“I’ll take one!” a female voice called over the fence. “Silly me, listening to a sermon while you three are having a fine old time.”
Relieved at the interruption, Ben turned to see the primary school teacher, Miss Jenkins. She looked lovely in a navy dress, black heels, and fitted jacket. Her red hair was up, a pillbox hat pinned atop it at the perfect angle. He found himself smiling. “Just admiring the air warden’s new bomb shelter. Come have a look.”
Ben took it upon himself to give Miss Jenkins the tour, from Anderson shelter to cabbage patch to pig pen. That gave the siblings time to locate their dignity, shake it out, and drape it about their shoulders once more.
“You’re moving well on those crutches,” Miss Jenkins told Ben.
“These?” Leaning on one, he lifted the other casually, as if he might pitch it away. “They’re just for show. I’m practically fit again.”
“I think you’re a liar.” Quite petite despite high heels, she had to lift her face to speak to him. Unused to that, Ben found it made her even prettier.
“Shall I prove it? Walk you home?”
“Can you?”
He pressed a hand to his heart as if struck. “Now I’ll have to carry you. Mrs. Cobblepot! Can I rely on you to drive the car home while I prove myself?”
“Of course.” The housekeeper regarded Ben and Miss Jenkins with sparkling eyes, then turned to her brother, mouth quirking as if suppressing a smile. “Come into the kitchen, Clarence, and I’ll make us some tea.”
“I don’t live very far,” Miss Jenkins said. “Just up Mallow Street beyond that line of oaks. I’m sure you’ve seen them. The biggest is over a hundred years old.” She matched her pace to his. “And you really are getting along splendidly on those crutches. Quite an improvement from being carried about by Lady Juliet.”
In his bachelor days, such a comment would have made Ben blush scarlet, anxious to assert his masculinity and utterly stymied as to how. It had taken marriage to beautiful Penny for him to relax, forget his flaws both real and imagined, and start talking to women like human beings, not potential mates. Penny’s careless, often cruel wit had beaten the boyish self-consciousness out of him, a gift for which he’d forever be grateful. “Yes, well, I suppose most country doctors spend years trying to ingratiate themselves with the local gentry. I made my debut delicately cradled in the arms of a bona fide lady. How many men can say the same?”
Miss Jenkins laughed, giving him a flash of those green eyes and curling black lashes. “You’re terribly lucky Lady Juliet approves of you. She despises me, though I’ve no idea why. Although after yesterday, I suppose I deserve her derision. No matter how many syllables she uses to express it.”
“Yesterday?” Captivated by the pleasure of walking with Miss Jenkins, Ben could hardly think back to breakfast, much less the previous twenty-four hours. “What do you mean?”
“Poor Jane. I was useless. Saying all the wrong things at the worst moments.” Her cheeks grew pink. “You looked ready to give me a slap, and I don’t blame you one bit.”
In truth, her contribution had been unhelpful at best. But that wasn’t the right thing to say. “You’re too hard on yourself. You’re Jane’s teacher. It’s natural you felt frantic.”
“Oh, yes, feeling frantic is one thing. Displaying that emotion before Jane and the other children—” Miss Jenkins waved a hand as if to sweep the memory away. “It’s the first time a student in my care has been seriously injured. And I fear it won’t be the last. Next time, it might be a bomb. Or a gas attack.”
“Or a bloody nose. Or a broken ankle.” Stopping to lean on one crutch, Ben touched her lightly on the shoulder. “Next time, you’ll do better.”
She dropped her gaze and ducked her head, even lovelier with that bloom in her cheeks. “It’s wonderful having you in Birdswing. For the children, I mean. Though I’m sure you miss London.”
“Less and less.” Ben started forward on his c
rutches, even slower this time, intent on prolonging what remained of their walk. “Did you say an oak near your house is past a hundred? I’d like to see that.”
A whistle sounded shrilly from somewhere in the vicinity of Gaston’s bungalow. Miss Jenkins drew closer to Ben. “What’s that?”
“I rather suspect it’s an air raid drill.”
“But the last time the village gathered in the town hall, the man from the army said the signal would be hand bells. Wait. Maybe those are for the all clear? I don’t know, but I’m quite sure he mentioned rattlers, like at football games.” She mimed the action of the red and white striped devices. When whipped in a circle, the inner mechanism created a sharp repeating pop loud enough to cheer a goal, dispute a bad call, or wake a sleeping neighborhood.
“Yes, well, this is a special drill, aimed at punishing Birdswing’s black market kingpin.”
She peered at him suspiciously, like he might be taking the mickey. “You’ve spent too much time with Lady Juliet. Soon no one will be able to understand you.”
