The Dr Benjamin Bones Omnibus

by Emma Jameson

  “Oh my.” Schoolgirlish tittering followed. “Aren’t you the thorough one?”

  Backing away, Ben saw a portly man dressed entirely in black, apart from the dog collar round his throat. Perhaps five feet tall, he appeared even shorter with Lady Juliet looming beside him. “Father Rummage?”

  “Yes, indeed. What an unusual way to test that region.” Beaming as if the corpse was a basket of daisies, he tittered again.

  “Dr. Bones is a cunning investigator. He leaves no stone unturned,” Lady Juliet said loyally, though she, too, looked mystified. “Odor may provide a clue.”

  “Precisely,” Ben said, clearing his throat. “Thank you for coming, Rector.”

  “Such a blessing to be of use,” the little man agreed. Pink-cheeked, with a fringe of white hair, he was perhaps fifty, with circular specs and a sunny grin. His camera, which resembled the sort used by reporters, hung around his neck.

  “I’ve brought rolls of film, my tripod, and all my flashbulbs. Seventeen,” he said proudly, placing a heavy-looking leather bag on the floor. “I do hope that will be sufficient. I order them special by catalog, you see. They take two weeks to arrive.” He laughed again, for no reason Ben could divine. “Lovely to meet you. Dreadful shame about this poor soul. Dreadful, dreadful. But lovely to meet you. Hah!”

  Ben didn’t know if the rector was still amused at having caught him doing something apparently unwholesome or if his laughter was a nervous tic. Either way, he was relieved when Father Rummage stopped chortling and started taking pictures.

  “Dr. Bones,” Lady Juliet whispered in his ear. “May I presume something smelled amiss?”

  “What do you think?” he snapped and instantly regretted it. “Sorry. I’m on edge. Do you smell anything?”

  Pleased to be consulted, Lady Juliet wandered about the room, sniffing theatrically.

  “Nothing but a corpse and a mattress that ought to be burned.”

  He wasn’t surprised. The odor of Sous le Vent was gone, if it had ever existed.

  When the rector finished taking pictures, Ben checked his watch and saw there was time to tour at least part of the house, but since Gaston still hadn’t arrived, someone would need to remain with Bobby’s corpse to forestall tampering.

  “Me?” Lady Juliet asked. “Why? I didn’t even manage to save the blood stain. Shouldn’t I accompany you and take dictation? Surely the rector would be kind enough to stay.”

  “The rector is also a photographer,” Ben said. “If I find anything, documentation will be invaluable.”

  “The rector is the best choice of companion, if I may be so bold,” said Mr. Collins, joining them once more. He’d regained his composure during the short break. “Father Rummage’s presence in the family rooms is both familiar and welcome, should Lord Maggart notice us going about.

  “And I do hope, Dr. Bones,” he continued stiffly, like a man reading a statement prepared by his captors, “you’ll forgive my earlier rudeness. Lady Maggart asked me to express my sincere apologies. I extend them wholeheartedly. These strange and disturbing events have taken their toll.”

  Ben nodded. There was no polite alternative, even though he didn’t want to accept the false apology any more than the butler had wanted to issue it.

  “Where, pray tell, are my sincere apologies?” Lady Juliet asked. Father Rummage giggled.

  “I’m sorry, but we haven’t time for this,” Ben told her, turning to Mr. Collins. “Let’s begin with the rest of the servants’ area.”

  “I demand an apology,” Lady Juliet shouted as the three of them departed. “I was manhandled in an egregious fashion!”

  Neither Ben nor the others looked back.

  Under Arrest

  Mr. Collins began by showing Ben what he clearly considered the epicenter of the below-stairs world, his personal sitting room and adjoining bedroom. It didn’t make for compelling viewing. Ben saw no spilled blood or signs of a struggle, just evidence of an abstemious life. Mr. Collins’s bed was as bare as a prisoner’s. His bookshelf contained only the Bible and the Book of Common Prayer, and his hearth was cold. A hip bath and a chamber pot sat in the corner.

  No running water in here, Ben thought. Even if Bobby’s throat had been cut from behind, which was almost certain, the killer would surely have ended up with bloody hands and bloodstained clothes. A private spot to wash up would have been essential.

  “Where is the servants’ W.C.?”

  “We haven’t one,” Mr. Collins said. “There’s plenty of hot water in the kitchen and a privy outside.”

  “Don’t look so surprised, Dr. Bones,” said Father Rummage. “Luxuries are rare in Barking. I, for one, think our community’s the better for it.” He punctuated this last with another meaningless laugh.

  Nervous tic, Ben decided.

  The rest of the basement was cold, drab, and virtually deserted. The staff dining room was deserted; even the assigned bedrooms were empty. Nowhere did he see anything worth troubling Father Rummage to expend another flashbulb, much less a murder weapon or a bucket of spilled blood.

  “Where is everyone?”

  “Most of the women are upstairs, consoling one another,” Mr. Collins said. “The boot boy—have I mentioned him?”

  “You called him an innocent.”

  “Yes. In other words, an imbecile. At any rate, the boot boy took this very hard and has gone out-of-doors. In times of stress, he burrows into a haystack and remains there till his belly forces him in for a meal.”

  Ben winced. “You don’t mean to say he’ll be out all night?”

  The butler shrugged.

  “But it may snow.”

  “If it does, I imagine he’ll come back inside,” Mr. Collins said. “He’s fortunate that we provide employment, as he’s fit for very little. Coddling him would render him fit for nothing. Wouldn’t you agree, Rector?”

  Father Rummage looked unhappy. “You know my feelings perfectly well,” he muttered, fiddling with his camera.

  The true below-stairs nexus, the kitchen, contained only two workers: a skinny girl basting a joint, and a middle-aged woman at the butcher block, reading a book. She was plain, apart from her extravagant brown hair, which was shot through with white.

  “Jasper,” she said, looking up and scowling. “What’s this? I see you brought the God-botherer and his camera.”

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Tippett,” Father Rummage said, nodding and beaming.

  The woman ignored that. Gimlet gaze on Mr. Collins, she said, “I asked you a question, Jasper.”

  “And I’ve asked you to remember that whilst on duty, you’ll address me as Mr. Collins. And treat the rector with all due respect.”

  “That little, eh? Fine. Please forgive me, your great and powerful butlership. I mistook you for my little brother,” Mrs. Tippett said.

  Ben saw a faint resemblance between the cook and the butler, mostly in their hair. Hers, less lovingly coiffed, was gathered in a single thick braid, piled atop her head. Her features were coarser than her brother’s, her teeth yellowed by tobacco, her hands red and cracked. By contrast, Mr. Collins’s hands were beautifully manicured.

  “Who’s this bright young thing?” Mrs. Tippett asked, grinning at Ben.

  “Dr. Bones of Birdswing,” Mr. Collins replied. “He is assisting Special Constable Gaston with his inquiries regarding the, er….”

  “Dead bloke? Lovely. The sooner sorted and forgotten, the better.” Her eyes roamed over Ben, up and down and up again, lingering on him like he was a choice bit of beef. He was accustomed to a certain amount of female attention, and generally enjoyed it, but her sort of outright leering made him uncomfortable.

  “Not that you aren’t welcome,” Mrs. Tippett said, “but why are you looking in here? If a man had been butchered like a hog in my kitchen, I think I would have noticed.”

  “Lady Maggart has given me leave to search every room,” Ben said.

  The girl basting the joint dropped her brush. It clattered to the floor
, splattering grease everywhere.

  “Oh! Sorry,” she cried. Ben received only a flash of wide eyes, high cheekbones, and blonde strands sticking out from under a white mobcap. Then she was on her hands and knees, cleaning up the mess.

  “That’s Betsy,” Mrs. Tippett told Ben. “Sixteen years old and daft as a donkey in a drainpipe. Maybe she killed the poor sod while I was rolling out this morning’s scones.”

  “Betsy?” Ben repeated, noting that she scrubbed with her right hand. “You’re the maid who got up late and found the door unlocked?”

  “Hey?” The girl shot him an uncomprehending look.

  Ben turned to Mr. Collins. “Is there more than one Betsy?”

  “No. But if you think back carefully, you’ll find I said it was Kitty who made the discovery,” the butler said.

  “No,” Ben said, wondering if the real conspiracy in Fitchley Park was to make him think he was losing his wits. “You said Betsy.”

  “I said no such thing. However….” Mr. Collins seemed to recall Lady Maggart’s directive. “I beg your pardon if I misspoke or was somehow unclear. I meant Kitty.”

  Ben decided to accept that, at least until he could check Lady Juliet’s notes. He turned to Mrs. Tippett. “Did you know Bobby Archer?”

  “Aye.”

  “I’ve been given to understand he had no connection to this household.”

  “He didn’t,” Mrs. Tippett agreed, with a teasing lilt in her tone. “Doesn’t mean I didn’t know him. Fine looking specimen. Particularly when he was your age.”

  “This sort of talk is unacceptable in front of Betsy,” Mr. Collins said. “And while Lady Maggart gave you leave to inspect the house, Dr. Bones, I’d advise you not to waste too much time questioning the staff. It’s clear the poor man wandered into Fitchley Park for reasons we can never understand and took his life for reasons we can never know. Mysteries abound in life.”

  “Oh, aye, ‘mysteries abound,’” the cook mimicked, winking at Ben. “Taught himself to talk that way as a footman and was soon made valet. Now he’s butler, and all he does is talk. That’s where a clever tongue gets you. Hard work and knowing your place gets you here.” She waved a raw red hand, indicating the kitchen.

  “As for who did it,” Mrs. Tippett continued, “there’s a crime-solving ghost in Birdswing, is there not? I told her ladyship about it just this morning. She got her back up, yes she did. Her ladyship on a mission is a fearsome thing.” The cook laughed, as if she knew exactly the degree of strife her shared gossip had created. “If your Birdswing ghost can solve crimes, I reckon our Barking ghost can commit them.”

  Chuckling, she returned her attention to her book, Mrs. Beeton’s Household Management. “Carry on, Doctor. Search my kingdom. Let the God-botherer pray over it a second time. Or would it be a third?”

  “Third,” Father Rummage said. He appeared so intimidated by Mrs. Tippett, all he could manage was a heh-heh under his breath.

  “Whichever. I have no secrets. Neither does Betsy, even if she thinks she has.”

  The brush clattered to the floor.

  “Sorry, ma’am,” Betsy whispered.

  “Donkey in a drainpipe,” Mrs. Tippett said, turning the page with her left hand.

  Ben was surprised, given Fitchley Park’s splendor, by the antediluvian conditions Mrs. Tippett and her underlings endured. Instead of an evenly-cooking gas stove, there was an open range—a massive coal fire surrounded by hanging cookpots and an iron oven. The wall racks held plain white dishes, some with chipped edges. The shelves overflowed with pots, pans, molds, and platters, all of them tin. Ben’s mum had a kitchen the size of a postage stamp, but it possessed the twentieth-century basics: copper cookware, a pop-up toaster, and an electric tea kettle. Mrs. Tippett’s culinary arsenal dated back to the days when turnspit dogs were mod cons.

  The kitchen knives were stored in a stained old woodblock. All of the slots were filled but one, large enough for an eight-inch blade.

  “Has a knife gone missing?” he asked.

  “Last week,” Mrs. Tippett replied, eyes still on her book. “I asked you about it, Jasper. Don’t you remember?”

  “Rubbish. First I’ve heard of it.”

  She tutted. “Memory, Jasper. It’s the first thing to go. I reported it to you Monday last. You told me you’d look into it. I suppose I should have taken the matter to Mrs. Grundy. Perhaps she’s the one who took it in the first place.”

  “Mrs. Grundy might have taken a large kitchen knife without your leave, then forgotten to return it?” Ben asked.

  “Maybe, if she wanted to kill an especially large rat,” Mrs. Tippett said, that teasing lilt returning. “Great houses attract vermin of all sorts. And all sizes.”

  After Father Rummage took a photograph of the knife rack, Mr. Collins continued the below-stairs tour, leading them through the storehouse, larder, and game room. The first two were unremarkable; the third had worn floorboards stained brown-black with decades of bloodletting. But no carcasses hung from the ceiling’s iron hooks, and Ben found no evidence that anything had been butchered there lately, not even a pheasant or hare.

  “Lady Maggart dislikes the taste of game?” he asked.

  Mr. Collins made a noncommittal sound.

  “It’s Lord Maggart,” Father Rummage volunteered. “He no longer shoots. Can’t abide hunting dogs. The sound of a bark or a gun sets him off.” He chuckled. “A blessing, really. A man so quick to anger shouldn’t mix with guns.”

  “Father Rummage,” Mr. Collins said sternly.

  “Oh. My. I spoke out of turn, didn’t I?” The rector looked abashed for half a beat before dissolving into giggles.

  “Lord Maggart is not quick to anger. Merely irritable,” Mr. Collins told Ben. “Daylight is a more germane concern. Shall we continue above stairs?”

  They did, skirting the great room where Lord Maggart still sat before the fire. The rest of the ground floor was large enough to serve as a casualty ward, and for the most part was equally charmless.

  This heap could use a splash of paint, Ben thought, taking in the bare walls and dustless, ornament-free shelves. Is this austerity deliberate? Or an indication of financial troubles?

  The first floor was more of the same: gloomy, with over half the rooms closed, the furniture shrouded in snowy sheets.

  “Well! No bloodstains thus far, least of all here,” Father Rummage announced cheerfully as Mr. Collins led them into a small ballroom filled with white shapes. “Lady Maggart and I prayed together here not a fortnight ago. Lovely. But I still half-expect a sheet to bestir itself.”

  “Do you?” Mr. Collins asked dryly. “Small wonder your prayers failed to ease the baroness’s fears.”

  “That’s unkind, and unfair besides,” the rector said. “A bit of levity doesn’t negate the power of my spiritual guidance. ‘For God hath not given us the spirit of fear; but of power, and of love, and of a sound—oh!” Shrieking, he fell into Ben, who reflexively shoved him away.

  “R-rustling. Just there,” Father Rummage quavered, pointing at a cluster of white blobs in the far corner. “I saw it move!”

  It fell to Ben and Mr. Collins to investigate as the rector, now embracing the spirit of fear, withdrew to the hall, where he could wait in comparative safety. As they drew closer to the wall, Ben heard the rustling and saw small black pellets on the carpet.

  “Rats,” Mr. Collins said. “I’ll bait the traps tonight. Mrs. Tippett is right about one thing: this house draws vermin.”

  “There’s nothing here but rats,” Ben called to Father Rummage and then he smelled it, faint but unmistakable: Sous le Vent.

  “Ah! There you are, Dr. Bones,” said Special Constable Gaston, red-cheeked and bright-eyed, from the hall. He’d donned his white helmet with its black W. His truncheon was clutched in both hands. “Why are you poking about in a ballroom?”

  Father Rummage emitted his heartiest laugh yet. “Searching for clues and finding rat droppings.”

  “Fo
r shame.” Gaston tutted. “When I got no answer at the front door, I went round back and shouted for the cook to let me in. Then I went and sorted Bobby. He’s wrapped decently in a blanket and loaded in Lady Juliet’s car.”

  “Rat droppings aside, I’ve found plenty of indications of foul play,” Ben said. “Did Lady Juliet put you in the picture?”

  “Her?” Gaston bristled. “The day that woman can tell me something I don’t know is the day I take up knitting.”

  “Yes, well, we’d nearly given you up for dead. Is that where you’ve been? Knitting?”

  “Far from it.” He smacked the truncheon against his palm. “While you were swanning about, playing detective, I was placing the murderer under arrest.”

  A Voice From Beyond

  “Preposterous,” Juliet heard herself say for the fourth time. “Simply preposterous.” Repeating this to Ben was preaching to the choir, but she couldn’t seem to stop.

  After spending a quarter hour unsuccessfully trying to convince Gaston that his actions were premature at best and grossly unwarranted at worst, they’d had no choice but to set out for Birdswing. As they passed St. Gwinnodock’s, the sun dissolved into red-orange streaks across the horizon; as they exited Barking, the woods went dark, the pastures sinking into gloom. Now they were in near-total blackness, apart from two narrow beams from her car’s shielded headlamps. If she meant to reach Fenton House without sideswiping a hedgerow or rendering some poor animal airborne, her focus had to be equally narrow, yet her thoughts stubbornly returned to the person Gaston had arrested for the murder of Bobby Archer: his estranged wife, Helen.

  It wasn’t because they were friends. Just as Bobby’s twin sons, Caleb and Micah, were arguably the most dangerous children in Cornwall, Helen was arguably the least pleasant person in Birdswing. “Arguably” was, in fact, the perfect word to attach to Helen. She balked at authority, ignored most of the rules of polite society, and collected feuds the way entomologists collect bugs. But that didn’t make her a murderer.