by Emma Jameson
Ben, who’d assumed he must wear his Sunday suit, was impressed by Lady Juliet’s thoughtfulness. Penny would have insisted he wear it anyway, the better to emphasize the social distinction between a London-trained physician and the villagers, many of whom had left school barely proficient in reading, writing, and basic maths. “I still don’t know what I’m supposed to do if someone makes an incriminating statement.”
“What would you do if you heard another doctor made an incriminating statement? Some terrible admission about a patient’s death?”
“I’d take it to the hospital administrator.”
“Precisely. Mr. Gaston isn’t the only authority figure in England. There are plenty of detective constables in Plymouth. All we need do is uncover something compelling enough to secure their interest, and we can step back and let justice take its course.”
* * *
The next morning dawned gray and chilly. Dark clouds brooded overhead, casting a spatter of raindrops here and there. Birds cried in the treetops, toads croaked, and as Ben stepped onto the porch for the day’s milk delivery, a grass snake shot across the lawn. He soon glimpsed what had sent it gliding from beneath the hedgerow. A striped orange cat was hunched under the tangled branches, its yellow eyes peering from between ragged brown leaves.
“Not sure that’ll keep your fur dry,” Ben told the cat. “You’d be better off around Morton’s. Or Laviolette’s—probably lots of spoilt food in the rubbish bins there.”
The cat, almost certainly the tomcat who’d tripped him—the tomcat Gaston had assured him did not exist—pointedly turned his face to the wall. The message was unmistakable: I do not hear you, human. Taking the hint, Ben went back inside.
Soon after, lightning flashed, there was a terrific crack of thunder, and the rain came down, strong and steady. When Ben and Mrs. Cobblepot set out for Belsham Manor around noon, it had stopped, but the sky remained an unpromising gray.
“I do hope it clears up,” she said as Ben helped her onto the passenger seat. Over her new frock of russet brown grosgrain, she wore a red shawl with a velvet collar. It looked acutely vulnerable to rain, and Ben said as much, but the housekeeper refused to insult the ensemble by covering it with a shapeless mac. She did, however, tie an oilcloth kerchief over her freshly blue-rinsed hair. For his part, Ben took along a large black umbrella.
Old Crow Road’s ruts and potholes were full of water, and in low spots the flooding was bad enough Ben was forced to go around. There was also a great deal of traffic for Birdswing: two to three vehicles at least three car lengths apart at all times.
“How tedious, constantly staring up a tailpipe,” Mrs. Cobblepot said. “I imagine this is what London is like.”
“Slightly less vexing.” Ben honked as a wooly ewe wandered between his Austin Ten-Four and the rusty sedan ahead. Looking miffed, the ewe moved on, and they soon trundled within sight of Belsham Manor.
Despite the mid-morning downpour, Lady Victoria had done a remarkable job of transforming the front lawn. Orange, red, and yellow pennons flapped, wet but still cheerful, over a huge white tent. A painted sign above the entrance read CIDER FORTUNES TOFFEE APPLES. Trestle tables were covered with red cloth and brightened by yellow and brown chrysanthemums. White-haired, deaf old Robbie was directing automobiles into the grassy sward near the orchard. A flag clutched in each fist, he herded guests into rows with a concentration and solemnity usually reserved for landing aircraft.
Lady Juliet’s estimate of three hundred guests seemed a tad low; villagers were everywhere, sitting on folding chairs, milling about, queuing up for a look inside the big white tent. Beyond the tent, Ben saw the red hair and lithe figure of Rose Jenkins. She was surrounded by at least twenty children, shouting, laughing, and running in circles. On the lawn’s opposite end, within the waning garden, he saw the imposing figure of Lady Juliet, topped by a feathered, beribboned hat. Great plumes whipped in the stiff November wind as she walked along a hedgerow, talking over her shoulder as guests trailed behind.
“Oh, dear,” Mrs. Cobblepot murmured. “Some women simply aren’t meant for hats.”
The same could not be said of Lady Victoria, whose hat was pinned at the perfect angle. Greeting Ben and Mrs. Cobblepot beneath a wrought iron arch, she could have been a photo from Woman’s Own. Instead of a frock, Lady Victoria wore a navy silk jacket that was widely-padded over her shoulders and belted over a matching silk skirt. The effect—a man’s suit perfectly adapted to a woman’s curves—was one Ben had glimpsed a few times in London. However, the new fashion seemed unfamiliar to the villagers, many of whom gaped in admiration.
“Lady Victoria, you’ve outdone yourself,” Mrs. Cobblepot burbled. “What sort of shoes are those?”
“Dress oxfords with a Cuban heel.” Lady Victoria said. “I wasn’t quite convinced until I put them on. I thought they might be a little too military, you know. But now I believe they’ll be all the rage.”
“Oh, I do adore your forehead curls. So feathery.” Removing her oilcloth kerchief, Mrs. Cobblepot shook out her bluish-white waves, preening as she was complimented in turn.
“Dr. Bones! Mrs. Cobblepot! Welcome,” Lady Juliet called. Her cheeks and forehead were flushed, as if she’d been running. She wore a fluttery-sleeved dress, emerald green and belted across the middle to give the appearance of a waist. Though the dress was lovely, too many gaudy accessories spoiled the effect. Her emerald necklace was ostentatious enough for a coronation; her opera-length white gloves had gold rings and bracelets on top. Her shoes, velvet Mary Janes, were muddy from the rain-soaked lawn, and that hat…. Ben, no fashion critic, didn’t know how to describe it. Once while visiting the London Zoo, he’d glimpsed a large bird of prey, dead in its nest. That sight—wings poking up, straw spilling out, the sense of witnessing something best buried and expunged from memory—was what the hat put him in mind of. It, too, was emerald green.
Fortunately, it was also above eye level. “Lady Juliet, we were just telling your mother how lovely she looks,” Ben said. “Now that you’ve arrived, we’re at a loss. I mean—who should we compliment first?”
Mrs. Cobblepot nodded vigorously. “Quite right! With you here, the effect is… well. Overwhelming!”
Such verbal gymnastics wouldn’t have worked with Penny, who would have instantly demanded explication. If she didn’t hear herself called beautiful, slim, stylish, or enviable, preferably a combination of all four, it was back to the wardrobe for another go. But Lady Juliet, perhaps unused to praise—even praise of a plausibly deniable nature—looked overjoyed. “Not even Mother knew about my top secret ensemble until I appeared. I was determined to astonish everyone.”
Lady Victoria gazed on her daughter with warm brown eyes. “Well, my dear, you’ve succeeded. You look beautiful.” As far as Ben was concerned, that was the best sort of lie, borne of kindness and unswerving loyalty.
“Mrs. Cobblepot, would you allow me to steal Dr. Bones?” Lady Juliet asked. “There’s tea and sherry, and some of the ladies are already playing whist, if you’d like to join them. We shan’t light the bonfire and burn Guy Fawkes in effigy till three o’clock.”
“Oh, I could never pass up a hand of whist,” Mrs. Cobblepot said. On her way toward a table full of ladies, many with hair the exact same shade of blue, she veered for a maid bearing glasses of sherry.
Lady Juliet hooked an arm through Ben’s, steering him toward the garden. “I shall begin with a confession. Thus far, events aren’t shaping up precisely as envisioned.”
Ben hazarded a glance at the sky. A trio of black thunderheads was stacked in the west. “I know. Terrible weather for a bonfire.”
“Nonsense. It won’t rain, it wouldn’t dare. Mother’s gone to too much trouble. The gloom merely makes it feel like an authentic Bonfire Night. I referred”—Lady Juliet lowered her voice—“to my vision of our suspects locked in the drawing room, metaphorically speaking, with revelations coming fast and thick. Freddy Sparks isn’t here. And I simply cann
ot credit that, as alcohol is being served, and no one will stop him from filling his pockets with custard tarts. For heaven’s sake, Edith is here, and that alone should guarantee his presence.”
“Could he be avoiding me?”
“I suppose he must. Bobby Archer’s missing, too. Another one who can ordinarily be counted upon to turn up the moment a bottle’s uncorked. Perhaps he feared a confrontation with the missus. But she’s not here, either. The twins are still getting over that vicious head cold, so she stayed home to nurse them. That’s our three main suspects, assuming you still count Mrs. Archer as a suspect, missing in action. But in the plus column, Mrs. Edna Hibbet turned up. You remember her, don’t you?”
“Mother of Ursula,” Ben said. “The girl who died along with John Leighton. The one Penny may have changed places with.”
“Yes. I rang up everyone in my book, issuing the invitation through cousins and in-laws, never expecting Mrs. Hibbet to even receive it, much less drive down from Barnstaple. But here she is if you’d care to introduce yourself. Perhaps I can lurk nearby and eavesdrop.”
“Which one is she?”
Lady Juliet indicated a white-haired, round-faced woman in a wool dress, smiling amidst several other ladies. They were sipping cups of punch and chuckling. “How do you like her for our murderer?”
“Not at all. In fact, I hope she isn’t the killer, or I’ll be afraid to walk the street in broad daylight. Did you mention Penny?”
“Of course. She professed to be shocked at the news. Vowed to say a prayer for Penny’s soul, Sunday next, and told me a long story about the Archbishop of Canterbury and how much she admires him. I think it’s all terribly sincere. Either she’s a sweet, smiling, spiritual little maniac, or a complete dead end. Now.” Lady Juliet glanced about in what she probably thought was a surreptitious manner, but the feathered, beribboned hat made her as conspicuous as a Nazi in the Houses of Parliament. “You might as well know I’m hatching a scheme about Dinah’s baby. The prospective mum is a friend of mine. Her husband may prove recalcitrant, so I’ve a bottle of twelve-year-old Glenfiddich up my sleeve. Not literally, of course. But when the time is right, it shall materialize, and he’ll be accorded the lion’s share. I intend on placing that little boy in Eunice’s arms, and his, too, if the whiskey does its work. With any luck, Baby Mark will be legally adopted by the time these roses bloom again.”
“And Dinah gives this scheme her blessing?” Ben had already glimpsed the girl ladling cups of punch near the vast white tent. Some would say she’d forfeited all right to the child she’d abandoned, but Ben remembered the maid’s stricken face when he’d questioned her, and the delight Mrs. Locke and her twin victory rolls took in threatening her with farm labor. Besides, during his obstetric training, a stout old midwife had advised, “Never judge a laboring woman or new mum. You don’t know. You can’t know. And the moment you think you do, you stop being a healer and become just another man.”
“Not sure how Dinah feels about it,” Lady Juliet admitted. “She says she wants the boy adopted but only when pressed. The rest of the time, she looks wretched, trudging back and forth like a captive. If she truly wants to claim the child, I’ll lend a hand, of course. But she knows it will be a grim life for them both.”
They’d completed their walk to the summerhouse, a deserted stone shell amidst brown branches and fallen leaves. Thunder rumbled and the wind kicked up, but Lady Juliet appeared not to notice, even as her feathers whipped wildly about. “Well. Much as I’d like to remain in good company, my hostess duties await,” she said. “Perhaps Freddy Sparks and Bobby Archer will turn up later. Or Mrs. Hibbet will produce a knife from her handbag and go for someone’s throat.”
Ben nodded. He had the sensation Lady Juliet was watching him more closely than usual, anticipating some specific reaction, but he couldn’t think what. And he was in a hurry to get over to Rose and at least say hello before the skies opened up.
“Well, I suppose I should socialize,” he said.
“Yes.” The word held a residue of expectation.
“So. Perhaps we’ll learn something,” Ben said, starting toward Rose. When he glanced over his shoulder, Lady Juliet looked disappointed, prompting him to add, “We can compare notes around the bonfire.”
“Of course.” Putting on a not-quite-believable smile, she went her own way.
* * *
Storm clouds or no, the villagers of Birdswing, along with a smattering of guests from Barking and Plymouth, were enjoying themselves. Young ladies emerged from the white tent giggling over their fortunes; apparently, the war would be short and bloodless, at least on the British side, allowing each girl to wed the decorated hero of her dreams. Old men ate tarts, drank cider, and prognosticated about the coming winter, the Fuhrer’s stratagems, and future episodes of It’s That Man Again. Ladies swapped recipes, disciplined children, and discussed their husbands, brothers, and sons in uniform. They sounded so patriotic, and looked so resolved and fearless, Ben almost believed it. Only their eyes gave them away.
Mrs. Cobblepot sat at a card table sipping sherry and playing cards beside Mrs. Hibbet. Was that mere coincidence, Ben wondered, or had his housekeeper taken up amateur sleuthing as well?
ARP Warden Gaston roamed far and wide, sticking his nose into every conversation and threatening to issue citations. He even inspected the bonfire pit, going so far as to restack the cordwood while Old Robbie looked on in dismay. Blind Bill Hancock groaned and shook his head as his tall friend from the Sheared Sheep complained about his croft’s cracked foundation.
“I’m telling you, it’s the knotweed,” the man moaned.
“I said enough with the herbicide. Use fire,” Blind Bill told him.
“It knows!” The tall man sounded as agitated as when he’d pounded on the bar. “It hides underground when I come for it and creeps out when the coast is clear!”
On a small bandstand, a brass band with horns, trumpets, and cornets played “Pomp and Circumstance.” Screaming and squealing, children darted around the straw effigy of Guy Fawkes, immersed in some savage version of tag.
Rose Jenkins sat watching her charges play. As Ben made for her, hardly needing his cane and eager for her to notice, a heavily accented woman’s voice said, “Dr. Bones.”
As he turned, Jane Daley darted to him. Hugging him around the waist, she hung there for a moment, then retreated to her mother, attaching herself in similar fashion. Mrs. Daley was dark-skinned, with thick black hair pulled into a bun, making quite a contrast to her little girl’s café au lait skin and cloud of light brown hair.
“Don’t be shy,” Mrs. Daley told her daughter, whose expression was both wary and hopeful. “Tell the doctor.”
“Thank you,” Jane whispered, dark eyes wide. She was one of those children who seemed to absorb the whole world with her gaze, drinking it in, good and bad, wondrous and terrible. “For saving my life.”
“My pleasure. How do you feel today?”
She fiddled with the hem of her skirt. Those eyes came up again, fixing on his cane. “Are you crippled?”
“Jane. We don’t ask personal questions,” Mrs. Daley reproved.
“Only a little,” Ben told her and winked.
“Go and play,” Mrs. Daley said.
Ben expected Jane to join the youngsters cavorting around Guy Fawkes, but instead she wandered toward the unlit bonfire pit, where a few old men had already claimed the best seats.
“I, too, must thank you,” Mrs. Daley said. Tall and shapely, with wide hips and a narrow waist, her face was solemn, eyes heavy-lidded, the corners of her mouth turned down. Amongst all the wool and flannel, her pink summer frock looked out of place, and threadbare, too. She wore no coat. “Mr. Dwerryhouse told me what you did. If not for you, my daughter would have died.”
“We don’t know that.”
“We do. Until my husband returns, Jane is all I have, and I love her more than anything.” Despite Mrs. Daley’s thick accent, her command of Engli
sh was smooth and flawless. “I hoped you would come into the co-op so I could tell you. But perhaps that would be too much to ask, so I dared come here to tell you myself.”
“Dared?” He glanced at Jane, skipping along the fire pit’s edge. Two boys yelled taunts at her, but she ignored them. “I happen to know you were invited. The entire village was.”
“Yes, of course,” Mrs. Daley said. “That does not mean I was meant to come. It was bad enough before my husband was called to service. Now….” She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. I’ve wronged you, Dr. Bones. I saw her, but I said nothing. I thought, what do these English care? If I say what I saw, they’ll say I’m accusing a white person, a native person, and then it will be worse. Much, much worse. So I said nothing, and you saved Jane, and now I am ashamed.”
“Saw who? My wife Penny?”
Mrs. Daley shook her head.
“Do you mean the lorry? Did you see it run us down?”
“No. It was half an hour before sundown. I’d locked up the co-op’s doors and was putting out rubbish. I saw her. The woman on the roof of the Sheared Sheep. She wore a hat and coat, and she was watching me, I thought. I assumed she had something to do with the ARP warden; he’s always looking for new ways to fine me. I started to call to out, to tell her I wasn’t wasting food, not even spoiled food. But of course, I didn’t. I was too afraid. I emptied the rubbish pails and went back inside. Not long after dark, I heard footsteps on the porch.”
“That was me.”
“Yes, I know that now. At the time, I wasn’t sure. When I first came to Birdswing, people used to drive over from Barking just to get a look at me. The men called me exotic and seemed to think—you know. Now that I’m home alone, sometimes I fear….” Mrs. Daley shook her head again. “I went to the attic to have a look, to try and make sure you’d really gone. That’s when I saw something glint in the alley beside the Sheared Sheep. And before I knew it, you and your wife were run down.”
