by Emma Jameson
“Not really. How do you know Mrs. Freeman?”
“We grew up in Birdswing. But we didn’t really get on until we met again at the Plymouth Gardener’s Association, when she started mentoring me. To be honest, I hoped the party would be more intimate, and the three of us could speak privately. Margaret’s quite clever. She could assist us with our sleuthing.”
Ben groaned. “Accusing Bobby Archer is one thing. Tell me you haven’t involved a woman I barely know.”
“You have absolutely no faith in my judgment, do you? I’ve said nothing yet. And I wasn’t planning to launch directly into the story, just open the door for you to do so. Perhaps give you a little push.” Lady Juliet smiled. “But alas, this party seems neither the time nor place. And if we stay much longer, we’ll be stuck overnight in Plymouth. If we leave now, we should reach Birdswing before dark.”
“That sounds wonderful.” Ben assumed it might take a few minutes to locate one of the Freemans and thank them for their hospitality, but they found Gerald in the hallway speaking to a rotund white-haired man with a bulbous red nose.
“I had it from Lady Diana,” the man with the red nose was saying. “The ship’s called Chain Home, old boy. Chain Home.”
“That’s very—” Gerald broke off when he saw Ben and Lady Juliet approaching. “By Jove, you two have wandered far afield. We were speaking of those blasted U-boats. Devilish hard to meet shipping deadlines in a war. Dr. Bones, I’d like you to meet my good friend, the baronet. He’s troubled by a quite peculiar sneeze….”
Forcing a smile, and hoping to get in his goodbyes before much longer, Ben listened politely and prepared to dispense more free medical advice.
Freddy
31 October, 1939
It was after lunch the next day when Ben decided to tell Mrs. Cobblepot about Lucy. He wanted to try the stairs, and didn’t care to be alone in case the attempt went awry. Besides, if he was very honest with himself, just falling asleep in Fenton House was difficult now. A joint expedition to the master bedroom seemed wiser than going up alone.
“I don’t know, Dr. Bones.” Mrs. Cobblepot insisted on following directly behind him in case he lost his footing. The fact that they might consequently tumble down together didn’t seem to concern her. “Is this really the right time?”
“Past time. I was sleepwalking again, night before last. Or sleep-crawling, since I woke up in the master bedroom.” Gaining the landing at last, Ben paused, resting his left leg as it trembled. He was young enough to fall a few times without seriously hurting himself; why was he so afraid of overtaxing it until it buckled?
Forcing himself to release his death grip on the bannister, he leaned heavily on the cane. Mrs. Cobblepot waited serenely, breath still even despite her age and extra pounds. A lifetime of woman’s work—backbreaking, time-consuming, never-ending—had kept her fit.
The master bedroom was gloomy, cardboard taped to each pane of glass, and thick curtains besides. Most of the details he’d dreamt about were wrong, except for the wallpaper. It was just the same, a pattern of ribbons and violets. The spot where the blue lamp had been in the dream looked painfully empty, like a toothless socket.
“I dreamt it was summer,” he explained to Mrs. Cobblepot. “A woman sat on the bed wearing a dressing gown or sort of robe. She was reading something, a bit of paper or a book….”
“Robe? What sort of robe?” The only thing odder than the look on Mrs. Cobblepot’s face was the fact she’d interrupted. As a rule, she never cut across anyone, even when brimming with news.
“I don’t know. Definitely blue. Silver thread on the sleeves. I woke up here, on my hands and knees.” He tapped a spot with his cane. “I felt a presence. Then something fell from the ceiling, or thin air, and clattered down in front of me. I think perhaps it belonged to the man who killed Penny.” Reaching into his jacket pocket, he held up the Ronson lighter with the magpie design.
“My goodness! That’s Freddy’s,” Mrs. Cobblepot said. “What on earth was it doing in this house?”
“I don’t know. But something, or someone, wanted me to have it. Who’s Freddy?”
“Just Freddy Sparks down by Little Creek. He’s a sad sack if ever I saw one. Always asking Clarence if he wants help with his ARP duties.”
“Someone requested to work for your brother?” Ben asked gracelessly. Clearing his throat, he started to rephrase, but Mrs. Cobblepot only laughed.
“Beggars belief, doesn’t it? But Clarence told Freddy no.”
“Does he steal, or drink too much?”
“No. He’s just… lost.” She sighed. “He’s only twenty-two. I’ve known him since he was a baby, taught him in primary school. One of those children who never seemed to have his lunch or a pencil or a coat when it’s thirty degrees out. Bruised a lot, too. When he was twelve, most of his teeth were knocked out. He said he fell out of a tree. Doc Egon said, more like he got hit in the face with a tree branch. The Council met about it, quietly, and sent Father Cotterill and some other men to talk to Freddy’s dad. Again. And things got better for a time.
“Then, when he was seventeen, Freddy was sent to hospital with two ruptured eardrums. His life raced downhill after that. The girl he was courting married someone else. His father died, the family farm was lost, and even the Army refused to take him, what with his missing teeth and bad ears. Anyone could have predicted that, but not Freddy. So now he drifts. Fishes Little Creek, walks Old Crow Road, and sits in the Sheared Sheep most nights. Hangs about the lads, trying to be one of them.” She shook her head. “Even Clarence belongs to that crowd, and you know how vexing he can be. But he doesn’t have poor Freddy’s wounded, hopeful air. Clarence thinks he’s the best man in Birdswing. The finest shot, the stoutest drinker, the sharpest mind. He’s wrong on all counts, of course”—she laughed again—“but down the pub, vanity is virtue. Freddy Sparks hates himself and thinks if he finds friends, it’ll turn around. But he has the whole thing back to front.”
“What else can you tell me about him?” Ben frowned. “Surely he’s a bit young for Penny to have broken his heart.”
“You’d think. And I find it difficult to believe Freddy would kill anyone. Deliberately, that is. But running away from the scene of an accident? Yes..”
“The note asked forgiveness,” Ben reminded her. “For hurting me, not Penny. Penny was the target.”
Mrs. Cobblepot sighed. “Oh, I hope he didn’t do it. But I suppose it’s possible. This year will go down as an annus horribilis for me. My husband died after New Year’s. I spent months living with Clarence. Lucy died far too young. And war broke out.” Despite the gleam of tears in her eyes, she straightened her glasses and smiled. “But I also met you and came to work at Fenton House. So all’s well that ends well.”
Mention of Lucy returned Ben’s attention to the spot where the blue lamp had shone in his dream. “Mrs. Cobblepot, I haven’t the foggiest notion how to ask you this, but here goes. Was Lucy a… well….”
“Witch?”
“I was going to say mystic.” His left leg quivered from ankle to thigh, forcing him to sit on the bed. “Those robes I told you about. The way you looked when I described silver thread on the sleeves. I seem to remember her saying she wasn’t the only woman in Cornwall to wear them.” He watched Mrs. Cobblepot’s face closely, encouraged by her faintly enigmatic smile. “And you mentioned the old religion.”
“Which simply affirms the power of the natural world.” Smoothing her apron over her skirts, she sat down beside him. “I’ve told you, my mother brought me up in the Church. I was baptized at St. Mark’s, and married there, and someday I’ll lie in that churchyard just like Lucy. But Mother also taught me about herb potions and charms, and methods of divination. I’m one of many in these parts who remember the heathen folklore. Once, ‘heathen’ only meant ‘from the country.’” She paused, transparently deciding how to continue. “Lucy was the youngest of us, and the most gifted. I’ve never made contact with spirits or had a tal
ent for turning the cards. If I have any magic, it’s in the kitchen making good food—healing food.” She gave his leg a motherly touch. “But Lucy had a sixth sense. A way of communing with animals. She was a bit of a weather witch, too—when she was angry, it stormed, believe it or not. I don’t know why she didn’t know that gas line was leaking.” Mrs. Cobblepot’s voice rose suddenly. “I don’t know why she had to die when she was still half a girl!”
Ben would have put his arm around her, but couldn’t decide if the action would be intrusive or welcome. And Mrs. Cobblepot, for all the suffering 1939 had visited on her, didn’t actually burst into tears. Instead she sniffed a few more times, drying her eyes with a corner of her apron and sitting quietly, lips compressed in a determined line.
Just as he resolved to embrace her, awkward though it might be, she said in a perfectly normal voice, “Let’s go downstairs. I want to show you something.”
She went first, heading to her bedroom after making certain Ben made it down all right. Shaky from the exertion, not to mention the idea someone named Freddy Sparks had killed Penny, Ben dropped into the nearest armchair. Intent on clearing his head, he closed his eyes and didn’t open them again until the housekeeper stood before him, a leather-bound scrapbook in hand. She held it out to him without speaking.
The first ten pages or so contained snaps of Mrs. Cobblepot and her husband, genial-looking and bald as an egg. They’d been captured together at picnics, parties, and Christmas lunches. Next came a photo of her and her brother, ARP Warden Gaston, outside his bungalow, him grinning broadly, her eyeing the camera as if staring down the barrel of a gun. Two blank pages followed, then some very different photos, which was perhaps the reason for their segregation. They were amateur nature snaps, not always artful but pleasing: a riverbank, a mighty oak, a grove of yew trees, dozens more. All four seasons were represented: crocuses in melting snow, summer fields, piles of fallen leaves, a frozen stream. Then came a snap of Mrs. Cobblepot among a group of laughing women.
The venue was impossible to recognize. Some of the women were younger than his housekeeper, some the same age or older, but they all wore dark robes with piping along the sleeves, hair falling loose about their shoulders. Absurdly, Ben searched for Lady Juliet, but didn’t find her. He did, however, see Rose Jenkins, looking even prettier with her hair down. Beside her was a smiling woman he knew at once. She looked just as she had in his dream, cross-legged on the bed beside that glowing blue lamp.
“Lucy. That’s Lucy.”
“So it is.” Mrs. Cobblepot studied the photo, sighing fondly. Then she closed the scrapbook and stuck it beneath an arm. “Thank you, doctor.”
“For what?”
“For giving me peace of mind. I couldn’t bear to think of Lucy dead so young. Now I know a part of her survives. The best part, if she’s trying to help you.”
Ben wasn’t sure such an existence, seemingly caught between this world and the next, was anything to celebrate. And assuming Lucy really had indicated Freddy Sparks—that all of this wasn’t simply a mutual delusion shared by him and Mrs. Cobblepot, the phenomenon French physicians called folie à deux—there was still the question of why spirits meddled in the affairs of the living, except to create suffering. If Mrs. Cobblepot was truly a student of English folklore, she knew it was crammed with vengeful ghosts. Did Lucy’s accusation make objective sense? Why would a twenty-two year old ne’er-do-well want Penny dead?
“Freddy spends most nights at the Sheared Sheep, you say?” Ben asked.
Mrs. Cobblepot nodded.
“Then I suppose it’s time I went down to the pub.”
* * *
The Sheared Sheep wasn’t as cheerless as Ben remembered. The horse brasses gleamed, the brass ale taps were spotless, and the long mahogany bar had been polished to a warm, deep glow. All the stools showed signs of heavy arse traffic, yet were in good repair and comfortable enough. As Ben settled into one, he saw the walls were crowded with hunting and fishing trophies, photos of local men winning ribbons or awards, framed stories from the Gazette, two deeply-pitted dart boards, and dozens of advertisements:
ARE YOU TIRED? TRY A GUINNESS
and
REACH FOR A LUCKY
and
PRINCE ALBERT DOES NOT BITE THE TONGUE
Near the top shelf whiskey, a plaque read: If You Want Praise, Die. If You Want Blame, Marry. Down by the well, another said, This Establishment Does Not Serve Women, Bring Your Own while a third said, If You Drink To Forget, Pay In Advance. Altogether, the Sheared Sheep was clean and pleasant. Why had he taken pains to avoid it after moving into Fenton House?
“That’s Blind Bill Hancock’s seat you’re warming,” Angus Foss announced without preamble, entering from the stockroom with a bottle of scotch in each hand. “Pick another.”
Right. Mystery solved. Ben made a show of inspecting the length of mahogany before him, as if confirming no names were carved upon it.
“Show your face now and again, and you’ll ken where the regulars sit well enough,” Foss said. “Keep your arse on that stool, and you and Blind Bill will get off on the wrong foot. Bad break for a man who only just found his footing again.”
“For which I’m grateful. Being carried around by you was the low point of my life.” Ben shifted down the row of stools. “Is this better? Though I probably shouldn’t let the wrath of a blind man intimidate me.”
“We don’t call him Blind Bill because he’s blind.” Foss, who seemed to have only two settings, injured or contemptuous, had his dial turned to the latter. “We call him Blind Bill because he married the ugliest woman in Birdswing. Another fact you’d be aware of if you stopped by regular, like old Doc Egan. Liked to hobnob with his patients in their natural state, he did.”
And observe the habits that will put some of them in an early grave. “Why, Foss. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you missed me.”
The publican snorted. “I miss Doc Egan. Worst day of my life when he passed. Don’t suppose you fancy Old Crow?”
“The road?”
“The scotch.”
“Good God, no. Pint of bitter.”
“Suit yourself.” Foss selected a glass, gave it a cursory polish, and placed it under the tap. “I bought three crates of the stuff for the old doc, and he croaked.”
“Perhaps some other villagers will take a shine to it.”
“Look around ye.” Foss glared at the otherwise empty room. “Only skint young blokes and bleeding drunks bother with rotgut. The skint young blokes have gone off to war, and the bleeding drunk to his eternal rest. Time was I had half a room at four o’clock. Now I’m empty till the lads file in, and even then, only a quarter full.” He pushed the pint, medium brown with a skim of white foam, at Ben. “Think I could entice the ladies to pop round if I stocked up on crème de menthe?”
“I doubt it,” Ben said, gazing on the row of postcards tacked up behind the wine glasses. The most tasteful showed half-dressed females beckoning, waving, and winking beneath slogans like “Hello, Sailor!” The others were even less likely to make women feel welcome. Sipping his beer, Ben wondered if he should ask about Freddy Sparks. The inquiry might not seem too unusual; surely the village’s new physician could ask after a man who’d suffered so many injuries? Then again, Foss was both suspicious and talkative, a bad combination. Ben resolved to drink slowly and hope “the lads,” as Foss called them, arrived soon.
He got his wish. The aforementioned Blind Bill came first, plopping onto the stool Ben had vacated and ordering a pint of stout. Red-faced and brawny, dressed like a farmer just in from the fields, the fiftyish man spoke not a word, nor even looked in Ben’s direction.
“Cheers,” Ben ventured.
Blind Bill took out a briar pipe. Filling the bowl with Prince Albert, he struck a match on his boot heel and lit the tobacco. Then he stared straight ahead, smoking his pipe as Foss consulted his racing form. The pub filled up with the scent of burley, sweet and faintly unpleasant.
Mr. Dwerryhouse, the stooped, hook-nosed chemist, was the next to enter. At least he nodded companionably in Ben’s direction, but that was the limit of his warmth. Ordering a glass of red wine, he carried it to a small round table beneath a wall sconce, took out a book, and started to read.
If this is the night life in Birdswing, I’d rather spend my evenings with Mrs. Cobblepot. At least at home there’s the chance of a truly riveting game of Patience or dominoes.
“Hey ho, hey ho, time to call the banns!” a familiar voice boomed as the door opened. “Sergeant Hancock?”
“Present,” Blind Bill said without turning around.
“Sergeant Williams?”
“Present, sir,” the little man with the spectacles squeaked.
“Captain Dwerryhouse?”
“Here.” Lifting his wine glass, the chemist took a dainty sip.
“And who’s this? An interloper in our midst? Possibly a spy?”
Ben had never imagined feeling grateful to see ADP Warden Gaston, much less hear his typical nonsense, but today was full of surprises. Better he talk to anyone, anyone at all, than endure this silence one more second. “What’s this about calling the banns? Is someone getting married?”
“Birdswing Anti-Nazi Society. B-A-N-S,” Gaston said proudly. “‘Calling the banns’ is just my little joke.”
