by Emma Jameson
“I don’t understand.”
“The lorry must have been parked in that alley,” Mrs. Daley said patiently. “I think the woman on top of the pub wasn’t watching me. She was watching Stafford Road, waiting for you. She must have taken the fire exit down to the lorry with the intention of killing you.”
With an effort, Ben unclenched his hands, which had balled into fists at his sides. “But why didn’t you tell me? Or Gaston? Or someone?”
She flinched. “I told myself you were nothing to me. And think how it might have gone. Suppose I was obliged to pit my word against hers, this woman in the hat? A colored foreigner against an Englishwoman? Jane is already almost friendless. What would happen to her if no one believed me? She’d be a pariah. Speaking of that, we’ve stayed long enough. Jane! Come along!”
Groaning, the girl tore herself away from the fire pit and whatever solitary inner game she’d been playing.
“But—you don’t have to go.” Ben’s anger faded as swiftly as it had come. “We haven’t even burnt the Guy yet. With that mustache, he looks a lot like Hitler.”
Smiling, Mrs. Daley took Jane’s hand and turned away, leading her through the villagers in their shifting, commingling clusters. The wives chatting over sherry were momentarily silenced. The older women at the tables, including Mrs. Cobblepot and Mrs. Hibbet, paused in their whist game, following the Daleys’ progress with their eyes. Lady Victoria glanced away from ARP Warden Gaston, who was lecturing her about something; even Old Robbie stared as Mrs. Daley and her daughter approached their rusted Aeroford. But it was a pretty little girl with long blonde hair who shrieked “Good riddance!” as the rattletrap car drove away.
* * *
By the time Ben reached Rose Jenkins, she had that blonde little girl by the arm, whispering something in the child’s ear. Stamping her foot, the girl broke away, fleeing toward the knot of sherry-sipping mums. Rose started to follow, then saw Ben approaching. The flush across her cheeks and fire in her eyes made her lovelier than ever as she cast a furious glance toward the women.
“It’s that mum who should be ashamed, not me.” Rose told Ben. “So why do I feel like I’m going to cry?”
“Because you’re human. Are you under contract to watch over the children even when school’s out?”
“No. Just a habit. All along I hoped someone would come and rescue me.”
“Good, because if I stay here another moment, I’m going to give this entire village a piece of my mind.” Ben nodded toward the long glass structure attached to Belsham Manor’s west wing. “Shall we tour the greenhouse?”
“I’d love to.”
After the stiff November wind, the heat felt wonderful, flooding over Ben as he opened the door. Long rectangular panes of glass framed in verdigris-crusted copper formed the walls and ceiling, bathing potted trees and plants in sunlight, at least when the sun deigned to put in an appearance. In addition, a coal-burning furnace squatted beside the tool bench, radiating supplemental warmth.
“Feels sub-tropical in here.” Ben eyed a row of dwarf trees. “Is that citrus?”
“Yes. Lady Victoria told me this was originally meant as an orangery. The first Linton had extravagant tastes; citrus at yuletide wasn’t enough for him. But Lady Juliet prefers flower gardening. I’ve tried to ask her about it, to break the ice, but….” Rose shrugged. “She seems determined to dislike my company. Almost as much as she seems determined to monopolize yours.”
“I owe her for that,” Ben said. “She forced me to leave the Sheared Sheep and begin seeing patients again when I was sunk in gloom, feeling sorry for myself.” Smiling, he added, “So much threatening and cajoling creates a bond.”
“I’ll say. Today was a first. I’ve never seen her dress so—so extravagantly. Those gloves… that hat….”
It felt disloyal to Ben to criticize a friend behind her back, particularly at her own party, in her own garden. So he said lightly, “I didn’t escort you here to talk about Lady Juliet. I confess I scarcely know a violet from a daisy. What is that, do you reckon?” He pointed to a showy bloom with orange petals.
“No idea!” Giggling as if he’d made a joke, Rose slipped an arm through his. Curling a bit of red hair around one finger, she cast down her eyes, showing off the length of those sooty lashes. “I’m sure when it comes to botany, you’re far more knowledgeable than me.”
From so close, he enjoyed her scent—sandalwood—and could have stroked that hair if he dared. Yes, he was a widower; yes, it was too soon for this, unseemly, certain to make the birds sing in Birdswing. By the same token, those birds seemed well aware that his marriage to Penny had been unhappy. When he tried to remember his arguments against scandalizing his family and colleagues—all those thoughts he’d tortured himself with while traveling to Birdswing—none seemed to apply. Divorce maimed a man’s character; this was courtship, and merely bad form. If Rose saw no harm in it, why should he?
She’s so lovely I can hardly take my eyes off her….
Arm in arm, they toured rows of cascading ferns and pots of thriving herbs. Ben cast as many glances at Rose as he could without seeming like a pervert or, worse, a man unused to the company of beautiful women. Except for giggles, nods, and murmurs of assent, she seemed content to let him talk. And never had he labored so mightily to string together ten words. It wasn’t that she left him tongue-tied. It was simply that nothing came to him. He could think of no concern he wanted Rose’s opinion on, no topic they might dissect together. The flowers were fragrant, the clouds massing above were black, the hothouse was hot, and that was all. Thank heavens she was so pretty to look at.
When the thunder crashed, echoing off the glass walls around them, the rain came down in sheets, as it seems only to do at garden parties and long-awaited events.
“That’s it, then,” Ben groaned. “No bonfire. Think the guests will regroup inside the manor?”
“Only to dry off and say goodbye,” Rose said. “The villagers took what happened to you and Penny to heart. No one wants to be driving during the blackout, and it’s dark out there already. Looks like Lady Juliet’s fête is a fait accompli.”
Ben wasn’t quite sure that last remark made sense, at least in the triumphantly negative sense Rose seemed to mean it, but the pretty woman was smiling up at him as if she’d said the wittiest thing in the world. Had she been saving that up all day, waiting for her chance?
Thunder crashed again, a triple rolling boom that rattled the panes overhead, and Rose threw herself in Ben’s arms with a squeal, holding him tight. They fit together perfectly. The crown of her head brushed his chin, and his arms automatically slid around her, pulse quickening as he breathed in sandalwood.
Lightning flared behind the clouds, first turning them yellow-gray, then splitting the sky in two. The greenhouse’s electric lights flickered out. As Rose lifted her face in the semi-darkness, lightning flashed again. A different sort of electricity coursed through Ben, shooting into dangerous territory down below. He kissed her, not gently, but open-mouthed, hungrily. She pulled him closer, and the kiss deepened as hands travelled and time stopped. Ben had no idea how long they were locked together. He was insensible of anything but Rose until not far away, a generator whined, the electric lights sputtered back to life overhead, and the greenhouse door banged open.
“Bugger me blind!” a familiar voice cried, slamming the door hard enough to rattle overhead panes all over again. “Filthy… stupid… brainless… WOMAN!”
Ben broke away from Rose as if under enemy fire. More than six feet of fury stood dripping beside a somewhat ironic row of Wellies and macs. For an awful moment Ben thought the torrent of abuse was aimed at Rose, but Lady Juliet saw nothing; her eyes were screwed up tight. As Ben stood frozen, holding Rose a little apart from his body, like a man caught in the act of shoving someone away, Lady Juliet flung her rings and bracelets to the greenhouse floor. Next came the opera gloves, yanked off and cast down. Then, as she began to cry in earnest, the now-sodde
n hat was pitched. It landed next to his feet, most of the feathers broken, though one was still jaunty if beaded with rain.
“Lady Juliet….”
It was as if he’d slapped her. One moment she was launching into big, ugly wails, the sort of weeping Ben would have signed over his bank account to escape, and the next she was gaping at him and Rose.
“Bugger me blind,” Lady Juliet said tonelessly. “I thought I was alone.”
“Very nearly. Just we two!” Rose replied brightly. Instead of releasing Ben and stepping away, she seized him in a fresh embrace, arms curling possessively around him.
Lady Juliet stared. “Good God. I’ve… interrupted something.” She looked as horrified as if she’d surprised them in bed together.
“N-nonsense,” Ben stammered like an imbecile.
“Not at all,” Rose chirruped happily. “Ben squired me inside the greenhouse to admire your plants. When the storm began, the thunder frightened me. Lucky I had this big lug at hand to keep me safe. But oh, Lady Juliet, of course you’re upset. The storm is so unlucky. So much hard work ruined.”
For a moment Lady Juliet only continued to stare. Then she swiped at her eyes, gave a mighty sniff, and drew herself up to her full height. It was a tall order, exuding aristocratic haughtiness in a sodden cocktail dress and muddy Mary Janes, but she pulled it off. Ben felt the chill from across the room.
“Nonsense, Miss Jenkins. I was momentarily overtaken with concern for my mother, that’s all. When the rain began, she went to herd the children inside and was soaked in the process. I was… frustrated that she might catch cold, being in such delicate health after endangering herself in a pursuit best left to younger, stronger women.”
“My class!” Rose released Ben, her playful, delicately seductive manner evaporating. “Bloody hell—every last one will have that chest cold after this. Poor Lady Victoria. It’s my fault. I should have been with them. Charlie’s scared silly of lightning, and Young Frank is probably shivering under a hedgerow, too daft to get himself indoors.” She hurried to a door near the potting shed. “Lady Juliet, does this connect to the manor? I need a head count right away.”
Lady Juliet nodded.
“It was lovely.” Rose gave Ben a peck on the cheek. “I’ll be back when I have the class sorted.” As Ben watched her exit, he realized she not only meant to count how many children had taken shelter, but to venture after the stragglers herself—into the very storm that had given her spasms of counterfeit terror.
“I don’t understand women,” he blurted.
“Of course not. You’re an idiot.” Turning over a large metal pail, Lady Juliet sat on it, shoulders slumped.
“They’re so artificial.” He was thinking of Penny, of how she’d snared him with a false persona.
“They?” Lady Juliet repeated.
He bit back a sigh. “You. I’m sorry. Though if you’re a typical woman, you’ll find a way to construe my simple remark as an insult.”
“A typical woman?” Her apathy vanished, along with any lingering trace of tears. “Typical?” She surged to her feet, advancing on him and the ruined hat. “If I were a typical woman, I wouldn’t have to construe simple remarks as insults, because they wouldn’t be insults. If I were a typical woman, I’d be Miss”—she stomped on the hat—“Rose”—another stomp on the hat—“Jenkins!” Panting with rage and exertion, she glared at him as if expecting contradiction. Then she kicked the flattened hat across the floor, where it struck a watering can with a dull squish. “Lou Bottley told everyone that in women’s clothes I look like a draft horse in a tiara. I heard the old goat say it. Before long they were all laughing, hiding smiles, looking away. You know a cruel joke is the truth when someone like Mrs. Cobblepot puts a hand over her mouth and turns away. I overheard her tell someone, ‘The poor thing does her best.’ That’s the cruelest thing one woman can say about another.”
“Mrs. Cobblepot thinks the world of you,” Ben said truthfully. “And Lou Bottley has glaucoma. Blind in one eye and can’t see out of the other. You know that.”
“What did you think of my ensemble?” Lady Juliet held his gaze, unflinching.
For a moment he didn’t answer. Then, caneless, he limped to the hat, picked it up with two fingers as if it were a dead rat, and dropped it in the rubbish bin. “My wife Penny’s greatest virtue was style. She always knew which hat, which scarf, which bit of jewelry. Because she read Women’s Weekly the way I read The Lancet. It wasn’t instinct; it was passion and study.”
“Ah. So I did look like a draft horse in a tiara. And next time I should let someone who’s studied fashion, like Mother, dress me,” Lady Juliet said bitterly. “If only I knew when and how to pretend. The trick of cooing one minute and reverting to rational human being the next.”
Ben didn’t have to ask who that dig was aimed at. “Well, I happen to prefer the rational human being.”
“Of course. That’s why you kissed her in the dark. Because you found Miss Jenkins’s rationality irresistible.”
Ben’s face grew hot. He remembered Rose’s laughter, sweet as the tinkling of bells, saw her smiling up at him, hanging on his inconsequential words as if they were pure gold. She’d assured him he knew more about botany than her, squealed over a thunderclap, even called him a “big lug,” as if he were a strapping American cinema star like John Wayne. Ben had recognized the absurdity of Lady Juliet’s hat and bejeweled opera gloves at once, yet been oblivious to such simple tricks. Would he have made a pass at Rose if she hadn’t primed his ego first?
I was attracted to her on sight. Almost any man would be. But still….
“I had no right to say that.” Lady Juliet’s defiance was gone. She returned to her makeshift seat on the overturned pail, beaten. “I’m a beastly jealous thing and a freak of nature besides. Please forgive me.”
“I won’t. There’s nothing to forgive.” Crossing the distance between them, Ben offered her a hand up. “I know you did all this for me.”
Her eyes widened, fingers closing over his. “You do?”
“Of course. All the murder suspects locked in the drawing room until someone confesses.” He smiled as she rose. “It’s not your fault they didn’t come. Or that the bonfire was rained out.”
“Oh.” Disappointment again, radiating in that single word. “Yes, well… Ben. I’m not sure either of us is a very good detective.”
“We’ll improve. And perhaps I was wrong to pin all my suspicions on Freddy Sparks. I spoke to Mrs. Daley, and she told me—”
The door connecting the greenhouse to the manor banged open. Ben whirled, expecting Rose with some emergency, perhaps a missing child, but it was ARP Warden Gaston. He looked grimly self-important, as usual, but also unhappy, which was less usual.
“Dr. Bones. There’s need of you in the village. A man hanged himself.”
“Good heavens. Who?” Lady Juliet demanded.
“Who d’ya think? That poor toothless bastard, Freddy Sparks.”
Bonfire Night
5 November, 1939
Juliet tried to take it in, but for a moment she felt nothing but a wave of dreamlike disbelief. Like any village, Birdswing had its share of things the community as a whole pretended not to know about: husbands who drank too much, mothers who beat their children bloody, pensioners lonely enough to stick their heads in the oven and turn on the gas. The petty scandals and occasional tragedies were dealt with individually, each like a shocking aberration. And when the village came together for Christmas or Easter or Bonfire Night, everyone behaved as if Birdswing was the finest village in the world, the cleanest and kindest and best, simply the best. People still clucked over poor Lucy McGregor, dead in her bed, because that had been an accident. They could enjoy the frisson of gossip without being tainted by association. By comparison, the rumor that Penny Bones had been murdered was dicier; it implied a killer in their midst, and as a whole, Birdswing was far more comfortable scanning the horizon for German bombers.
And
now this? A suicide? And not by a sickly old person hastening the end of life, but a young man few had tolerated and only a part-time whore had liked. What did this second violent death say about Birdswing?
“Mr. Gaston, are you quite sure?” she heard herself ask.
Usually he was the one who stood smiling benignly while other people lost their patience. This time he scowled. “I’ve not seen his body yet, Lady Juliet, surely you know that. But his cousin, Luke Hewett, drove here in the blinding rain to say he called at the boarding house and found Freddy with a belt around his neck. You can ask him if he’s sure—”
“That’s enough,” Ben cut across him. “She’s shocked, and I’m sure you are, too. But you’re Acting Constable, meant to set an example. And I’m prepared to assist you in every way I can. Awaiting orders.”
Deftly done, Juliet thought, watching Gaston’s agitation dissolve as he was reminded of the responsibilities that meant almost as much to him as air warden. Ben had taken control, and she had no doubt he would maintain that control until every detail of Freddy’s demise was settled, but he’d done so without shaming the older man.
“We’ll need to go right away, rain or no rain. Otherwise we’ll have no choice but to overnight at the manor and start out at dawn. And I wouldn’t feel right about leaving the boy dead in Martha Kenner’s boarding house,” Gaston said. “She’ll be beside herself until we get the body moved.”
Ben nodded. “And for the sake of the inquest, the sooner I examine the remains, the better.”
“Inquest? Did I not just say it? The lad hanged himself.”
“Any death by violence merits an inquest. I’ll not sign the death certificate until I examine Freddy Sparks myself,” Ben said firmly. “Just let me find Mrs. Cobblepot and tell her I’ll be leaving without her.”
