The Dr Benjamin Bones Omnibus

by Emma Jameson

  Ben sighed. “When was his body discovered?”

  “First thing this morning. A maid came upon him, bloodless, white as milk. Her screams alerted the household.”

  “Ah.” Lady Juliet turned to Ben. “Didn’t you mention a rude awakening this morning?”

  “Two of them.”

  “Lucy was quite active after Penny died. Now that poor Bobby’s committed suicide, she’s active again. Perhaps death is what impels her to reach out.”

  “I don’t know. When Mr. Laviolette died at St. Barnabas, we heard nothing from Lucy,” Ben said. “When pneumonia took Mrs. Kerrin, she was silent then, too. Maybe it isn’t death that bridges the gap. Maybe it’s murder.”

  Bloody Barking

  That morning, Juliet Linton had awakened with a longer-than-usual list of goals. Some of them were perpetual, like “organize the potting shed” or “write a book of kind but firm advice for ladies who find themselves married to worthless men.” Unless the winter of 1939-1940 dumped fifteen feet of snow on Cornwall (which hadn’t happened since the blizzard of 1891), and she found herself trapped inside Belsham Manor for days on end, those perpetual items would never be crossed off the list.

  Certain other goals, like “discuss events in the Western Evening Herald with Mother” or “monitor cleanliness and morale among the staff,” were checked off on a daily basis. But one goal, deceptive in its simplicity and confounding in its depth, sat on her list untouched. Untouched, and mocking her. It was simple: “Give up on Ben.”

  Aloud, she never called him that. “Dr. Bones” sounded better; it was cool, distant, safe. Feeling safe was imperative, because the truth was all too clear: he had no idea how she felt about him, and should he ever learn, he’d be mortified.

  He probably thinks of me as one of the blokes, she’d told herself over breakfast that morning, nodding and smiling absently as her mother ruminated aloud on hemlines. I made a wretched first impression in those jodhpurs.

  She knew the problem ran deeper than an unflattering pair of trousers, but it was nice to have something simple to blame. When she’d gone to meet Ben on that fateful day, she’d given no thought to her tattered garden clothes because she hadn’t expected to like him. In fact, she’d expected to hate him, because Penny had married him, and Penny was vile.

  By the same token, while Juliet had expected Ben to be handsome (Penny was far too shallow to accept a less-than-handsome husband), she’d been unprepared for his masculine beauty. Piercing blue eyes, reddish-brown hair, strong chin, infectious smile—all those things attracted her to him, but there was something more. A high-minded literary type, like Dr. Carl Jung, whom she very much admired, might cite Ben’s quiet strength; his steadiness; his willingness to do the right thing, no matter what. A low-minded literary type might employ the term “animal magnetism,” especially if she was feeling shameless.

  She’d heard about such physical chemistry but never experienced it, not even during her honeymoon with Ethan Bolivar. She’d loved that man, loved him with all the pink candy-floss foolishness of someone placing her heart under the hammer. Certainly she’d loved the idea of Ethan. Good-looking, well spoken, and taller than her, which in itself was a dream come true. But looking back now, even at their happiest moments, she saw that what she’d called love was mostly fantasy. Certainly Ethan had never inspired the sort of intense feelings that Ben did. Perhaps the chief difference lay with her? Maybe the candy-floss had to melt, and one or two deep truths had to be recognized, before a woman could respond to a man that way.

  “Juliet, darling, are you listening?” Lady Victoria had asked, breaking into her musings. “I wanted to start a conversation, not deliver a monologue.”

  “Of course. Sorry,” Juliet had said, trying to focus on what her mother was saying. Clothes rationing, that was it. Like food rationing, it was sure to be part of the war effort, and many dreaded it. Lady Victoria, still remarkably lovely at forty-nine, could weather any sartorial storm, but rationing’s potential effect on the poor troubled her. The less fortunate, and particularly the children of the less fortunate, relied heavily on secondhand shops, where outdated or damaged clothes could be bought on the cheap and made over. But when ordinary folks began feeling the pinch, they might decide to make over their old clothes or wear them till they fell apart. If the racks in secondhand shops emptied, how would the poor get on?

  “I suppose rag and bone men still exist,” Juliet had replied, hoping she was more or less on point. “Though I haven’t seen one in Birdswing for a dog’s age.”

  “Good. Only think of it! Picking through pushcarts for a girl’s pinafore or a boy’s jumper.”

  “Perhaps sewing one’s own clothes will come back in vogue.”

  “Yes, but where will women find the material, darling? Will mothers be forced to steal what they cannot buy?”

  Before Juliet had formulated a response, her mother had added, “And whatever shall we do about you?”

  “Me? I’ve a wardrobe stuffed with togs, thank you very much.”

  “Of course you do. And very well made they are. A treasure trove of top-drawer material,” Lady Victoria said stoutly. “But who knows how long the war will last? If you decide you’d like a change next year, or the year after, it may be too late.”

  “I never give a thought to what I wear,” Juliet had replied, and while her mother said nothing, a cruel voice inside her head said, Which is why Ben will marry someone who does, like Rose Jenkins.

  The idea of Ben standing up with Rose always gave her a physical pang. Not so much in the heart as the stomach—the place where all her troubles resided. According to certain romantic novels, heartbreak cut like a dagger between the ribs. It stole a woman’s vitality, destroying her strength as well as her hopes.

  But Juliet was as hale and hearty as ever. Her main symptom of heartbreak was a stomachache. That, and a desire to kick someone in the shins.

  Before he came to Birdswing, I was content, she’d thought, glaring around the solarium where she and Lady Victoria ate breakfast each morning. All the little sights and sounds Juliet knew so well, like china cups clinking against saucers or the mantel clock ticking loudly, assaulted her, infuriating her with their familiarity.

  This is what comes of wanting what one cannot have. Contempt for one’s blessings, great and small.

  That realization had crystallized Juliet’s desire to make a start, at least, on her goal to give up on Ben. Step one: plan her day so as to avoid Fenton House altogether. First, she’d call on the vicarage to discuss Christmas. Next, she’d visit the Birdswing lending library and borrow every weighty Russian novel she could find, to occupy her on the long winter nights to come. Finally, she’d saddle her favorite mare, Epona, and head to the moor for a long, bracing ride.

  This scheme would have worked brilliantly had the rest of the world stuck to the bloody script. The confrontation with Lady Maggart had left Juliet too upset to drive to the library or even home. She’d been accused of many things in her life, but never out-and-out service to the Fiend. If Lady Victoria asked what was wrong, Juliet feared a crying jag would follow. Instead, she’d motored around Birdswing four or five times, belatedly coming up with all the things she should have said and practicing them aloud. Heaven knew what the villagers thought of her careening around, shaking her fist and speaking sternly to her windshield.

  This exercise could have gone on for hours if she’d lived in a large city like Plymouth, but there was only so many times Birdswing could be circumnavigated. When she’d passed the chemist shop for the umpteenth time and its proprietor, Mr. Dwerryhouse, offered a timid wave, her joyless joyride was done. The sight of him watching nervously made her want to laugh, and nothing defused her wrath like laughter.

  She parked, closed her eyes, and sat in the Crossley for a time, shoring up her composure.

  I can do this. I can face Mother without bursting into tears. As Dr. Jung said, ‘Real liberation comes not from glossing over or repressing painful st
ates of feeling but only from experiencing them to the full.’

  Refreshed, she’d taken a deep breath. Stepping out of the car with chin held high, she’d found herself facing Fenton House instead of Belsham Manor. It seemed that in publishing his psychological papers, Dr. Jung had once again written advice specifically meant for her. That left her little choice but to go inside.

  “Murder? I suppose it’s possible.” Gaston’s ponderous tone snapped Juliet back to the present. “Twas a strange death, to be sure.”

  “What was the method? You mentioned exsanguination,” Juliet said.

  “Come now. No need to go so far.” Gaston cleared his throat. “Bobby wasn’t a member of the C of E in good standing, I reckon, but Father Cotterill never—”

  “Not excommunication. Exsanguination. You said he was bloodless. White as milk.”

  Gaston chose to respond by not responding. “Can we get on, Dr. Bones?”

  “Yes, of course. Just let me get my bag,” Ben said.

  “You’ll need the stretcher, too. I’ll fetch it.” As Juliet hurried to Ben’s medical storage room, a delicious possibility occurred to her, one that might permit her to get a little of her own back, should the opportunity arise. To that end, she diverted to the kitchen before sweeping back into the front room carrying the dissembled stretcher, which consisted of two long wooden poles and a length of canvas. It might be difficult, managing all this in addition to her oversized handbag, but she felt sure she could do it, if she wore the bag cross-body like a bicycle messenger.

  “Him with his bag and you with your stretcher,” Gaston said, throwing his hands up. “When will you cotton on? Bobby Archer’s as dead as a doornail, your ladyship.”

  “Indeed,” she replied coolly. “When will you cotton on? Baronesses don’t play hostess to corpses, your air wardenship.”

  As Gaston manufactured a cough to hide his irritation, Ben entered, black doctor’s bag in hand. Ever since what Juliet called the Jane Daley Affair, he carried it everywhere, whether he anticipated a patient in need or not.

  “All right. Lady Juliet, we’re off,” he told her. “Don’t lock up. Mrs. Cobblepot will be back soon.”

  “Not so fast. Did Dante negotiate the horrors of the Inferno alone? No. He had Virgil as his guide. You deserve no less, Dr. Bones. Therefore, I shall accompany you to Fitchley Park.”

  She expected gratitude. Instead, she got wariness. “I don’t know. You don’t plan on attacking Lady Maggart with a stretcher pole, do you?”

  Juliet shifted her grip so she held the poles in a less threatening manner. “Violence is unnecessary. To upset her, I need only turn up on her doorstep. If only I could manage something more terrifying. Appear in a puff of smoke, perhaps, or fly in on a broom.”

  Gaston muttered something under his breath.

  “How dare you!” Juliet bellowed, with no idea what he’d said.

  “I only mentioned my car is a two-seater,” he said mildly. “There’s room for naught but me and the doctor.”

  “Then I’ll drive myself.”

  “Aha! Waste!” Gaston said eagerly. “Employing two vehicles for one purpose. The kind of excess a country at war must avoid.”

  “I manage my petrol ration quite prudently, I assure you,” Juliet lied, knowing he would soon hear of her rage-induced circuit around Birdswing. “What’s more, my car will accommodate all three of us. Thus, as a patriot,” she said, smiling, “I invite you, Special Constable, to ride with us. Unless you’d sooner waste petrol than accept my offer?”

  She had him. He twisted in the wind for a moment, and then Ben came to his rescue.

  “As lovely as that sounds, let’s not forget about Bobby. His body will probably be in full rigor, so we’ll need two vehicles. I’ll ride with Lady Juliet; Special Constable, you can follow. Let’s be off.”

  * * *

  The half-hour drive to Barking was pleasant enough. Even in winter, Juliet considered the beauty of Cornwall second to none. When she rode Epona to Bodmin, she frequently galloped along this route, taking in the frost-limned fields and towering hedges.

  “I can barely see Gaston,” Ben said, looking over his shoulder. “He drives slower than he speaks. Sheep pass him at a trot.”

  “Good. That’s how I prefer him. In my rearview mirror and receding,” Juliet said. “He read in a government pamphlet that fast driving wastes petrol.”

  “He brought me a stack of those pamphlets.” Ben sighed. “They’re on my desk, along with everything else. The Ministry of Labor and National Service sent a letter that wants a reply. I’m to provide statistics on the number of patients I’ve seen so far. If I don’t hit the magic number, which wasn’t revealed, I’ll be seconded to a Plymouth hospital two days a week.”

  “Well, now you’ll be able to say you’ve expanded your services to Barking. Just don’t mention that the livestock outnumbers the villagers.”

  “I was told a thousand people lived there.”

  “Hah! Five hundred at most, but each and every inhabitant has an inflated sense of importance, so perhaps it will feel like a thousand.” As she spoke, Juliet topped a rise, giving Ben his first look at Barking’s chief landmark. He gave a low whistle.

  “What a magnificent church. All those spires. Must be Gothic.”

  “Naturally. It’s called St. Gwinnodock’s. Fear not, Dr. Bones. I shan’t take offense if you rhapsodize over its stained-glass windows or enthuse over its flying buttresses. I do happen to prefer our own St. Mark’s, which has good plumbing and reliable heat. Yes, it’s a touch utilitarian, like all contemporary structures, but that’s a modest price to pay for moving with the times.”

  “Slow down,” Ben said, “I feel as if I’ve traveled back in time. It’s so….”

  “Picturesque,” she supplied, reducing speed so he could admire a knot of pretty cottages. “That’s the term everyone uses. Picturesque.”

  “Precisely. Look at those thatched roofs. You’ll find nothing like that in London.”

  “Yes, well, after the Great Fire of 1666, I should hope not. Our roofs in Birdswing represent the current thinking about human dwellings, in that they are less likely to roast the inhabitants alive.”

  She thought that was rather clever, but Ben ignored it. “Look. The only car parked on the street is a dogcart—twelve horsepower at best.”

  “You’ll find few motorists in Barking. The horse and wagon were never really displaced.” Juliet enjoyed acting as guide. It played to two of her strengths: telling others what they were seeing, and telling others what to think about what they were seeing.

  “Peaceful, isn’t it?”

  “Apart from the murder.”

  “Are there shops? Or a petrol station?”

  “The few who need petrol purchase it in Birdswing. As for shops, we passed a general store, but as it possessed no charm or appeal, you can be forgiven for missing it,” Juliet said. “Discerning folk soon realize Barking is bereft of common comforts. Whereas Birdswing is resplendently modern. Founded in 1840. Think of all the conveniences we enjoy as a result. Various shops. The Palais. The cinema. Two perfectly lovely restaurants and one ghastly one….”

  Ben looked backward at Barking’s receding high street. “Was there even a post office?”

  “Yes. Young Mrs. Trentham operates it out of her front room.”

  “What about a pub? Can’t have a village without a pub.”

  “That’s operated by Old Mrs. Trentham, out of the very same front room, on days the post office is shut.” Juliet took the roundabout’s first exit, which sent them down a narrow dirt lane.

  “Don’t get me wrong. I prefer Birdswing,” Ben said. “But there’s something alluring about an escape from twentieth-century distractions. Amateur artists and photographers must flock here.”

  “They do. It’s a sore point with me. Birdswing attracts no sightseers,” Juliet admitted. “Day-trippers keep our three restaurants in business, but that’s as far as it goes. Whereas Barking is invaded by w
ould-be artistes each weekend. Often there’s a line of easels just there,” she said, pointing to a ridge. “And behind them, a line of time-wasters, committing atrocities in watercolor.”

  Ben laughed. “Come now. Surely at least one day-tripper has painted Belsham Manor.”

  “No, but a man who claimed to be a novelist was caught peeking in our window. He said he was writing a book about a madwoman trapped in a derelict house. I sent him packing but said he could try back in ten years.” Juliet pointed west. “Squint and you might see Fitchley Park from afar. We’ll be there before you know it.”

  “Good. I’m still trying to puzzle out the news about Bobby. He was born in Birdswing and spent the last few years in Plymouth. Why was he at Fitchley Park?”

  “Don’t tell our intrepid air warden, but I’m inclined to agree with his tomcat hypothesis.”

  “Gaston called it suicide. If it was, why did Bobby end his life in Barking?”

  “Because it’s bloody Barking.” She chuckled. “Sorry. I shouldn’t make light of such things. But a Londoner like you can scarcely conceive of the unutterable boredom. There’s nothing to do but the three S’s: snobbery, sheep, and single-malt scotch.”

  “Throw in another S, and you’re back at the tomcat theory.”

  “Dr. Bones! How saucy of you,” Juliet said. “However, that unmentionable S was already covered. I said sheep.”

  His wicked laugh pleased her no end. Usually he was teasing, and she was arch. This was altogether new.

  “I owe that to Ethan. He came up with the three S’s,” she admitted. “The wretched man can be witty, when he isn’t pretending to be sincere.”

  “Oh, yes. Ethan,” Ben said with the studied blandness of someone trying to sound offhanded. “I’ve told you a good deal about Penny, but you’ve scarcely said a thing about your husband.”

  “Ex-husband.”

  “Right. The divorce is final, then?”