by Emma Jameson
It would have been churlish to agree that as jokes went, it was indeed quite small. Particularly since Blind Bill, Mr. Williams, and Mr. Dwerryhouse had all noted Gaston’s recognition of Ben as a human being and seemed influenced by it. Blind Bill went so far as to make eye contact, and Mr. Williams offered a thin smile. It was a start.
“What brings you into our midst at last, Dr. Bones?” Gaston asked. “Come to lecture us on the evils of drink after shunning us for so long?”
Is that the problem?
Lifting his pint glass, Ben downed what remained in a single gulp. “Another!” he called to Foss.
“I’m right here, and not deaf,” the publican muttered. Folding his racing form, he tucked it away, took Ben’s glass, and refilled it. At the same time, Gaston pulled out the nearest stool. Dropping onto it with a satisfied grunt, he loosened his tie and undid his collar, lessening the pressure on his thick neck, which bore deep grooves after long confinement. The silver ARP badge remained pinned to his coat, however. Did Gaston wear it to bed, on his pajamas?
“Birdswing Anti-Nazi Society,” Ben said, licking away a bit of creamy foam from his second bitter. “An informal club, I take it, for those who want to do their bit?”
“Yes indeed, yes indeed.” Gaston didn’t have to ask; Foss automatically handed him a Guinness. “The young bucks are going to France, and the womenfolk are doing their best, too, learning about rations and prudent cookery and what not. Keeping pretty with the rouge and the victory rolls so we don’t lose heart.” He gave a low-throated chuckle. “But it will fall to seasoned men to defend this nation if the invader comes. Eyes on the skies, ears to the ground. Patrols on the coast, along the rivers, and the main thoroughfares, too. It won’t just be Fritz storming the beaches or Jerry spraying mustard gas. The enemy within can’t be underestimated. They may spread propaganda and lies, or scout our countryside for Berlin.”
“The enemy within,” Ben murmured. It sounded like paranoia, but there was such a thing as the British United Fascists, or BUF, as well as other, less ideologically transparent organizations. They doggedly called themselves patriots while singing the Third Reich’s praises. Virtually all such groups were unified by anti-Semitism, though some concealed it better than others. They claimed lofty objectives, like lasting peace and social harmony, but proposed achieving it by shunning or destroying supposedly inferior cultures. Some of these homegrown admirers of Herr Hitler were scientists and physicians enamored with eugenics, a philosophy of strengthening the human race by eliminating those “unfit for life.” Ben doubted Nazi sympathizers had their eyes on Birdswing, but in London he’d witnessed such men attempt to sway public opinion, sometimes with disturbing results. And the eugenicists he’d met in medical school frightened him in certain ways more than mustard gas ever could.
“Aye, lad, and just because you’re young doesn’t mean you can’t aspire to join us. If we decide you can be of use,” Gaston said, slapping Ben on the back.
Surreptitiously Ben glanced around the pub, which had gained a few more patrons since the air warden’s arrival. He’d neglected to ask Mrs. Cobblepot what Freddy Sparks looked like, but everyone in sight had most of their teeth, and Ben was the only man under forty-five.
“Do you take anyone who volunteers? I heard Freddy Sparks was eager to do his bit.”
“Sparks?” With all the subtlety of a bull elephant, Gaston craned his head to check out half the pub. Turning completely around on his stool, he scanned the rest, looking high and low.
Brilliant. A born investigator.
Satisfied that Sparks wasn’t hiding under a table, Gaston leaned so close to Ben’s face, the individual hairs in his mustache were visible.
“I won’t let Sparks join,” Gaston whispered, “but I’d rather not make that obvious.”
“Because he’s hard of hearing?”
“No. It’s his carryings-on with Edith. Not acceptable for a man in uniform.”
“Uniform?”
Gaston took a pull on his Guinness. “We don’t wear them yet, but it’s only a matter of time. The government will formally call upon us to serve before much longer, just you wait. Until then, the BANS is an independent group, but that don’t make us lax. I won’t tolerate men who, er. Fraternize.”
“Somebody say my name?” It was Edith, she of the short blue-black hair and sharply defined Clara Bow lips. Though still in her maid’s uniform, she’d removed her starched white cap and apron. The unlit cigarette between her fingers floated in Ben’s vicinity.
Gaston cleared his throat. “Sorry if you misheard. No one called you. Just men here, speaking of men’s concerns.”
“Right. Like the sight of men ever scared me off.” Edith smiled at Ben, her unlit cigarette still bobbing between them. “You’re looking better these days.”
“Kind of you to mention.” Feeling inside his coat, Ben found his lighter. Opening the metal lid with a clink, he thumbed the flint wheel, holding the flame level as Edith lit up. The scent of naphtha and a long tendril of smoke, curling toward him as she took a drag, tempted him to beg a cigarette, but he resisted. When the rationing noose tightened, the one and two-pack-a-day smokers would suffer, while his cravings would be only a memory.
“Thanks, love. I don’t suppose either of you boys have seen Freddy around?”
“Not since yesterday.” Gaston’s manner had cooled since Edith’s arrival, but if she noticed, she gave no sign.
“He’ll turn up. He always does. Angus!” Edith called across the bar. “Pull me a pint!”
When he placed it in front of her, she picked it up without dropping any coins in return. Apparently publican and maid had an agreement when it came to drinks.
“I’m going up,” she told him, pointing to the ceiling. “Have to play my records, now that the wireless is all rubbish, all the time.” Like many who’d relied on the BBC’s erstwhile regional programming for radio drama and popular music, she appeared to consider its wartime replacement, the Home Programme, distressingly news-centric.
“Did you know it’s high treason to listen to the BBC in Germany?” Gaston asked Ben. “A crime punishable by death. The truth frightens the Hun.”
“Bugger the Hun. I’d rather hear Shep Fields and His Rippling Rhythm Orchestra.” Edith winked at Ben. “Come up if you can manage those stairs, and I’ll play it for you.” Humming “South of the Border,” she strolled off, cigarette in one hand, pint in the other, hips swaying in between.
“Indecent,” the ARP warden muttered. “Your poor wife’s scarcely cold, yet here she is, making suggestions. No shame, that one.”
“Do a lot of men go up to, er, listen to Edith’s records?”
Gaston harrumphed. “I do my best not to notice.”
“Someone left that note on my bed,” Ben reminded him. “And just now, when Edith took the stairs, no one paid any attention. It could have easily been her. Or a man known for visiting her up there, like Freddy Sparks.”
Gaston’s heavy brows lifted. “Never thought of that.”
I’ll bet. You’ve been too busy with your garden and your Anderson shelter to question a soul, haven’t you? Despite his irritation, Ben refrained from saying as much. He’d long realized he alone was responsible for discovering who killed Penny; no sense manufacturing fresh resentment now. Still, the urge to needle Gaston a little was overwhelming.
“Did you ever dig up that fingerprinting kit?”
“Aye. Ferret out some new evidence that wants dusting, and I’m your man,” Gaston said proudly. “I’ve put the ordnance depot in good order, too.”
“Ordnance?” Ben almost choked on a swallow of bitter. “What sort of ordnance are you in possession of?”
“Oh, just the usual for a country village. Rope and sandbags in event of flooding. Hooks and nets to drag Little Creek in event of a disappearance. Shotguns and birdshot in event of the crows becoming a nuisance. A half-dozen Winchester long guns. And a matched pair of Webley revolvers.”
�
��In event of…?”
“Martial law, should the invader arrive on our shore.” Judging by Gaston’s tone, that grim scenario was one of his fondest hopes. “And ammunition, of course: cartridges and shotgun shells. It’s all stored safe in the back of the constabulary,” he said, referring to the office located on the high street. “I keep it under lock and key with the nitro.”
“Nitro? You don’t mean… dynamite?”
“What else? That tin mine out by Belsham Manor may be closed, but there’s still a few shafts here and there, mouths overgrown with brush, presenting a public hazard. Children, tramps, anyone could stumble upon one and fall inside. The village needs nitro in case of collapse, for the rescue.”
“And you don’t think keeping dynamite separate from live ammunition might be prudent?”
“What, create two hazardous storehouses instead of one?” Gaston chuckled. “Don’t go overthinking things, Dr. Bones. Overthinking things never did anyone any good.”
“No danger of that on my watch,” someone said, loud and hopeful. “Reporting for duty, brigadier!”
“At ease.” Gaston didn’t turn to look behind him at the young man with limp blond hair, round shoulders, and a half-empty smile.
“Brigadier?” This time Ben couldn’t keep a straight face. “It’s a courtesy title, Gaston. Why not go right to ‘general?’”
“Because modesty is still valued in these parts, I think you’ll find.” Rising, Gaston buttoned his collar and tightened his tie, reinflating a face already puffed by the heat, tobacco smoke, and stout. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I must make my blackout rounds.”
“You’re Dr. Bones.” The young man slid onto the stool the air warden vacated. “I’m Freddy Sparks. Sorry I talk so loud,” he practically shouted. “Fell down the stairs and burst my eardrums. Always been unlucky. My mother saw a magpie the day I was born. Just the one. Don’t know why she couldn’t stay out and wait for a few more.”
“Speaking of magpies….” Ben withdrew the chrome Ronson and placed it between them. Freddy’s face lit up.
“I lost this months ago! Fell out of my pocket when—” He stopped, goggling at Ben, then took a deep breath and recited carefully, “One for sorrow. Two for joy. Three for a girl, four for a boy. Five for silver, six for gold. Seven for a secret never to be told.”
Tipsy already, Ben thought, waiting for Freddy to ask the obvious question, where he’d found it. But the other man said nothing. Was that because he’d lost it at the scene of the accident and didn’t dare? Ben signaled Foss, thinking a bit more alcohol would do the trick.
“What are you drinking?” he asked Freddy.
“Scotch. Just a little warm-me-up for the walk here.” He patted his jacket pocket where something small and hard, like a hip flask, resided. “It’s cold out. A bad winter’s coming. Besides, I’m celebrating.”
“Scotch for him. One final bitter for me,” Ben told Foss. To Freddy, he said, “Celebrating?”
“Right. Came into some money. I mean, it sounds awful, celebrating because an uncle died.” Freddy squirmed and flashed his gums. Despite the smile, he looked miserably ill at ease, like a small child in need of the loo. Worse, he stared unblinking into Ben’s eyes, broadcasting a desire for connection so intense, it was repellent.
“But I never knew him,” Freddy went on. “And he was old. Very old. Past ninety, old. And it’s not like the Army would have me. I’m not even good enough to die for my country. So I’ll take my money however it comes and be grateful for it.” Scooping up the scotch Foss placed before him, Freddy lifted it toward Ben. “Cheers, mate!”
I’m not your mate. This overgrown boy didn’t seem capable of squashing a bug, much less cold-bloodedly running down two human beings. Yet there was something off about him, a defect far deeper than poor hearing or missing teeth.
“But I shouldn’t have brought up a death in the family,” Freddy went on. “You lost your wife. To Mrs. Bones! God rest her soul.” He downed half his whiskey.
Ben cringed inside, but no one else in the pub seemed to be paying Freddy any mind. “My wife grew up in Birdswing. Most of the villagers knew her. Did you?”
“Oh! No. I mean, I’d seen her here and there, of course. Pretty as a picture. But she never talked to me. I’d remember that.” Down went the rest of the scotch. Cupping his hands around the empty glass, Freddy lapsed into silence, staring straight ahead. Occasionally he smiled to himself, as if replaying an old conversation in his head.
Or rehearsing lies. Ben glanced around the bar again. Edith had not returned. Foss was engrossed in his racing form again. Mr. Dwerryhouse had made noticeable progress in his book but rather less on his drink, which sat forgotten on the table. Blind Bill was refilling his briar pipe as the tall man beside him, dressed in brogues, overalls, and a red tartan mac, expounded on something called Japanese knotweed.
“But how do you explain how it guesses my movements?” the tall man asked. “How it sidles out of one patch and creeps into another, like it’s playing hide-and-seek? I’m telling you, this is more than coincidence. It’s cunning.”
Blind Bill shook his head. The tall man pounded the bar, agitated.
“If birds can have brains, and mice can have brains, and wee insignificant fleas can have brains, why can’t plants have brains?”
“Because.” Blind Bill held a match to the bowl. “They’re plants. That’s why.”
“That’s no logic at all!” Stalking to the nearest dartboard, the tall man yanked a handful of darts out of the wall. “Best two out of three?”
“Aye. Rather play you than talk to you any day,” Blind Bill said, joining him.
“I have a notion about women,” Freddy announced suddenly. Ben had almost forgotten his existence.
“What’s that?”
“They die, leave us, or get sick,” he slurred, sounding well and truly drunk. “It’s been that way with every woman who’s been good to me. My mum died. My best girl left me on account of my ears. And m—m—my word. There’s Edith.” Grinning, he stumbled off his barstool, eyes on the stairs.
Edith had changed out of her maid’s uniform. Now she wore a snowy white frock patterned with red cherries and a pair of black patent heels. Aware of all eyes upon her, she descended slowly, placing each foot with exquisite care and smiling as much at Ben as the rounded-shouldered young man beside him.
“One for sorrow,” Freddy began, much too loud. “Edith for joy. Three for a girl, Edith for a boy….”
“Edith for silver, Edith for gold,” she finished, poking Freddy in the chest. “Where you been? I’m bored silly.”
“Let me have one more, and I’ll be right up.”
“See that you are.”
As Freddy called for another scotch, Ben watched Edith make a slow circuit through the pub, talking with one man, laughing with another, bumming a light off a third. It didn’t surprise Ben to see the world’s oldest profession plied in Birdswing, but it was worth noting that Edith hadn’t quit her day job. Maybe these fathers and grandfathers too old for conscription were mostly content to remain downstairs, satisfied by flirtatious banter. Did that make Freddy Sparks the only patron to regularly follow her upstairs? If so….
“Are you worried about Edith?” Ben asked Freddy as he finished his drink.
“What? Why?”
“Your notion. Every good woman dies, leaves you, or gets sick.”
“Oh. No worries. Edith isn’t good.” Placing a hand on Ben’s shoulder, Freddy rose with exaggerated care.
“She was good enough to deliver your note to me. Or act as lookout while you placed it on my bed.”
Freddy jerked his hand away as if scalded. “I never—she never—”
“‘Forgive me, it was never meant to be you, just her.’” Ben watched Freddy’s face. “What made you run us down? Why did you want Penny dead?”
“I didn’t! I never knew her! We never spoke!” Freddy cried. Throughout the Sheared Sheep, all conversation stopped. Men turned
on their stools or pushed back their chairs for a better look. Foss, in the midst of drawing another pint, released the lever. A dart thumped against the board, hitting the red bull’s-eye, but no one cheered. Even in the far corner, two elderly chess players lifted their heads, peering through thick spectacle lenses at Ben and Freddy.
Ben didn’t know what more to say, particularly with half the village listening. He had no evidence, not even circumstantial evidence. Just a gut dislike of Freddy and his clumsy attempts at ingratiation. It wasn’t as if Ben could make a citizen’s arrest based on the testimony of the Fenton House ghost.
Though if any acting constable on earth would accept such a ludicrous claim, it would be Gaston.
Pale and trembling, Freddy edged backward. His gaze fell on Ben’s cane, which was propped beside his stool, and lingered there a bit too long. “I’m sorry about your legs,” he said, and hurried away.
“Never mind poor Freddy.” Mr. Dwerryhouse had his coat buttoned up and his book tucked beneath one arm. “He’s a lost soul. Pity the military couldn’t devise some use for him. A man without work is a man without purpose. Will you be driving home?”
“Walking,” Ben said, lifting his cane and smiling.
“Brave fellow. Right back up on the horse, eh? And it’s no more dangerous than driving without headlamps. If you like, I’ll accompany you,” Mr. Dwerryhouse said. “I discovered a very interesting paper about novel applications of adrenaline chloride you might like to discuss. And never fear, I’m capable of walking safely back to Birdswing blindfolded. I’ll keep you out of the street and away from the ditch.”
Ben accepted the stooped little man’s offer. As they exited the pub, he pulled the door tight behind him, negating the possibility of light spilling out. As his eyes readjusted, he was grateful for the full moon and those few stars twinkling between the clouds. Hard to believe that just over nine weeks ago, he’d nearly died here, in this crisp darkness smelling of wood smoke, late-blooming sweet pea vines, and, faintly, sheep dung. And moments ago, he’d bought a drink for the man who’d almost certainly sent him an apology for murdering his wife.
