The Dr Benjamin Bones Omnibus

by Emma Jameson

  Besides, Juliet suspected if Helen did kill someone, she would stand up and admit it, boldly and without shame. But Helen had not confessed, nor had she exhibited her trademark belligerence. Silent and pale with shock, she’d allowed Gaston to put her in Barking’s tiny lockup.

  “Consigned to the Cow Hole. Such an indignity!” Juliet squeezed the steering wheel the way she wanted to squeeze Gaston’s thick neck. It had to be thick, to hold up his impenetrable skull.

  Ben, seemingly miles away, perked up at the mention of the local jail. “I wondered what Gaston was talking about. Why is it called the Cow Hole?”

  “It’s actually the kowel,” Juliet said, pronouncing it “cowl,” which she hoped was correct. Precious few native speakers remained, so she’d only seen the Cornish word in print. “The majority of Barking began life as a feudal lord’s courtyard, you know. St. Gwinnodock’s was the priory. Some houses along the high street were the soldiers’ barracks. The stocks and gibbet were located on the village green, and the Cow Hole stood nearby. A stone roundhouse where the condemned awaited judgment.”

  “I saw one on the drive from London, when we stopped for lunch. A local man said it was still in use as a lockup for drunks and poachers.”

  “Yes. Mostly drunks. Cornish poachers are famously hard to catch.” No matter how dire the situation, Juliet never missed a chance to brag about her county. “Ethan spent the night there once, when he tried to drink as much as he gambled. No less than he deserved. But poor Helen, cast into an oubliette!”

  Ben made a surprised noise. “The Cow Hole is a coffin-sized dungeon?”

  “What? No, of course not. It was redone ages ago. That’s hardly the point,” she said, waving away his tendency to let specifics bog him down. “What matters is Helen has been falsely imprisoned. Heaven knows she’s a difficult woman, and I never thought I’d take her part, but I must, because it’s preposterous—listen to me, I’m so discombobulated, the only word I can come up with is preposterous—to think she murdered Bobby.”

  Juliet waited for Ben to agree with her. He did not.

  “Dr. Bones. When you spoke to that nincompoop Gaston, you argued for Helen quite passionately. Don’t tell me you’re having second thoughts.”

  “Second ones. Third and fourth ones, too.” She could hear the smile in his voice, even if she couldn’t see it. “Gaston arrested her on the strength of two facts. She hated Bobby, she’s never denied that, and Gaston saw her walking along Barking’s high street in the middle of the day. I may not be a student of Private Dick Academy,” he said lightly, “but that seems like insufficient grounds to toss the mother of two young children into the clink. That’s what I was arguing—that Gaston should let Mrs. Archer go home to her sons and take up the matter in the morning. Still....” He trailed off.

  As they passed it on the left, Juliet recognized the shape of Birdswing’s easterly landmark, the Barrow Stone. That meant Fenton House was mere minutes away. “Still what?” she prompted.

  “Why was Mrs. Archer window-shopping in Barking, of all places, at one o’clock in the afternoon? Isn’t that her restaurant’s busiest stretch? Doesn’t the noonday crowd make up the bulk of her business?”

  “It does.”

  “Then closing up between noon and two o’clock only makes sense if there’s an emergency,” Ben said. “Gaston asked why she did it. She said she felt like a change. But closing up and cycling all the way to Barking to wander along the high street is—”

  “A lie,” Juliet interrupted. “Yes, of course. She’s never closed her restaurant during peak hours for anything I know of. Obviously, she came to Barking to pray.”

  “Obviously?”

  “Helen has been feuding with Father Cotterill for years. Consequently, she boycotts St. Mark’s. Which you would have noticed,” she couldn’t resist adding, “if you weren’t apparently boycotting St. Mark’s yourself.”

  Ben let out one of his harassed noises.

  “But we shall address your churchgoing delinquency another day,” she said, slowing as they entered Birdswing proper, where running down a pedestrian or a pet was a real danger. “At any rate, Helen prefers Father Rummage at St. Gwinnodock’s. She cycles to Barking a few times a year.”

  “Even on a cold day in December?”

  “If she was desperate enough for spiritual solace, I suppose she might.”

  “Gaston’s lived in Birdswing all his life. Why didn’t he know that?”

  “Because he has the intellectual capacity of a mollusk. A mollusk that has fallen behind in its studies and is looked down upon by other mollusks.”

  “Fair point. But why didn’t Mrs. Archer tell him?”

  “Because she’s a shrew. Well, perhaps that’s harsh.” Juliet felt guilty for speaking unkindly about the newly widowed. “But her instinct is always to lash out, even when she’s the only person who suffers. Metaphorically speaking, she cut off her nose and shot off both her feet ages ago.”

  “I know how prickly she is, but an innocent person would explain themselves,” Ben said. “It doesn’t matter if she dislikes Gaston, or even if she hates him. Why allow herself to be jailed on suspicion of murder when she could simply tell the truth?”

  “I don’t know,” Juliet admitted. The waning moon had yet to appear, but the stars were bright, revealing Fenton House’s welcome shape. “All I can say for certain is she looked gutted. Like it took all her strength not to weep.”

  “Over Bobby? He let her down in every possible way,” Ben said. “When I interviewed her about Penny’s death, I came away with the firm impression she loathed him.”

  “Of course she did. But a woman can’t hate a man with such intensity without loving him. At least in some respect,” Juliet said wisely. She wondered if Dr. Carl Jung would be impressed with her insight. Ben was, judging by his contemplative silence.

  Juliet parked in what had become her familiar spot by the curb. Poor Mrs. Parry, Ben’s inquisitive across-the-way neighbor, was missing a great deal, thanks to the blackout. With her cardboard and curtains blocking the windows, she couldn’t spy on their late return, which in itself would raise eyebrows, much less marvel at the six foot, man-shaped parcel they would soon carry inside. At least it was man-shaped now. Bobby’s atypical rigor had eased as afternoon became evening, relaxing his position.

  As Juliet opened the Crossley’s back door, a gust of wind swept through the bare trees. “Manfred Pate predicts the coldest winter on record. That would be festive, wouldn’t it? A bit of snow for the traditional Christmas afternoon walk?”

  Ben nodded absently.

  “Dr. Bones, I have the distinct impression you’re not listening. Are you working out some alternate theory of the case?”

  “Hm? No,” he said. “Working out how to get Bobby into my office. I suppose I’ll use the stretcher as a litter. Why don’t you go inside and let Mrs. Cobblepot get you a cuppa? Then you can ring Belsham Manor and let Lady Victoria know you’ll be taking my guest room for the night.”

  Juliet nodded. Of course he’d offer; that was only common decency. And of course she’d accept; that was only common sense. To read anything special into the invitation would be to behave like a ninny.

  “The cuppa can wait. What is this nonsense about a litter? If you take the head and I take the feet, we’ll have him inside straightaway,” Juliet said. “We’ll ring the special bell till Mrs. Cobblepot opens the door.”

  The expression “dead man’s weight” had been coined with good reason. Carrying a stiff, twelve-stone body was difficult, even for a short distance. Ben rang the office bell with his elbow three times, but his housekeeper didn’t respond. Leaning against the door handle, he managed to push it open and walk backward to his examination table in the dark. Together, they hefted their burden into place.

  “You left the door unlocked?” Juliet asked, trying not to pant.

  “I’m losing my London ways,” Ben said, closing the door and switching on the light. “They’re being replaced
with a zealous observation of blackout rules, as you just saw. But it seems Mrs. Cobblepot made other arrangements for the night. No matter, I’ll put the kettle on. Thank you for helping.”

  “But of course. Why do men resist my help? I’m as fit as anyone.”

  “Fitter,” Ben said with a smile. “From now on, I promise to think of you as one of the lads.”

  Juliet did her best not to grimace. It was the second time she’d fallen into a trap entirely of her own making, and the evening had barely begun.

  * * *

  A note from Mrs. Cobblepot awaited them atop the kitchen table. Juliet picked it up and read it aloud.

  Dr. B,

  Sorry to abandon my post. My brother rang with the news about Bobby and Helen. I must go to the Archer house and take charge of the twins. You’ll find conger pie in the baker and half a sultana loaf in the blue tin.

  AC

  “That’s good of her,” Ben said. “I hope the boys bear up under the news.”

  “Father murdered and Mother arrested?” Juliet shook her head. “I wouldn’t. And this is Caleb and Micah we’re talking about. More bad news may be yet to come.”

  “At least there’s dinner. I feared we’d dine on bread and butter,” Ben said. “Let’s wash up and tuck in.”

  They ate in silence, apart from Humphrey the orange tabby. Usually he was out all night, but the cat had a sixth sense for fish in all its incarnations, including leftover conger pie. After he’d finished noisily eating, he sat in a kitchen corner, grooming his whiskers. There was a certain elegance to a cat’s every action, even the most mundane. Juliet tried to distract herself from thoughts of Helen and her sons by watching Humphrey, but the twins posed a new issue.

  Suppose Helen was sent to prison for twenty years? Caleb and Micah would be effectively orphaned. Suppose she was hanged? Women got the noose far less than men, but it still happened, especially for capital crimes. The boys were exasperating, and probably budding anarchists, but they were her fellow villagers, and in Birdswing, that counted for something.

  She shifted her attention to Ben. He’d finished his slice of lukewarm pie and was staring into space, brow furrowed, lower lip compressed. Probably it was too soon for him to feel the sort of responsibility to Helen and the twins she did, but he was clearly ensnared by the puzzle.

  “You know, Dr. Bones,” she said, striving for a coolly disinterested tone. “My recent unpleasantness with our acting constable aside, I fear he is unsuited to discover the truth about who killed Bobby. Whereas you….” She paused, hoping he would take up the dangling thread.

  He kept right on staring into space.

  “Dr. Bones!”

  “Sorry,” he said, sitting up straight. “I was thinking about Mrs. Archer and the boys. I know Gaston does his best, but what if he’s in over his head? I had a bit of luck before—with your help, and Lucy’s, obviously. Maybe tomorrow I should go back to Barking? See what I can dig up?”

  “I think that’s a wonderful idea. Now. Pudding?”

  “Please.”

  They both had a sweet tooth, but Ben in particular never seemed to miss a dessert. If not for her presence, Juliet suspected he would have skipped the conger pie, polished off the sultana loaf, and called it a night. It seemed like fair game for a joke—certainly he brought her foibles up often enough—but she’d never mastered the art of teasing, especially when it came to men she fancied. True, others frequently found her observations humorous. But that usually happened when she was dead serious.

  “Here you are,” she said, placing a generous slice of sultana loaf before him. “Shall I tell you my theory about Bobby?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “One of Odette’s maids is the killer. Probably that pretty bit of stuff who blotted out the stain.”

  “Was she left-handed?”

  “I don’t know,” Juliet said. “Why? Could you deduce the killer was left-handed from something about the wound?”

  “I can surmise it. Nothing definitive,” Ben warned. “But it strikes me as more likely than not, and I’d testify under oath to that. But if Bobby was romancing a maid, how did she keep everyone else in the dark?”

  “She didn’t,” Juliet said triumphantly. “Everyone knows. Among the staff, I mean. Not Lord Maggart; he’s far too ill to be part of a conspiracy. Not Odette either. Much as I dislike the woman, I just don’t think she has it in her. Mind you, I’ve said something like that before,” she added, remembering. “And I’ll be called to give evidence about that misjudgment myself, in a week or so.”

  “Everyone on staff,” Ben repeated, as if turning the idea over in his mind. Or perhaps he only wanted to keep her chattering while he polished off his pudding.

  “You noticed how the housekeeper was off having the vapors, and the girls were consoling themselves out of sight. Mr. Collins kept underfoot, disputing your conclusions and destroying evidence. Otherwise, you might have shot off a cannon without hitting a servant.”

  “There were two in the kitchen,” Ben said. “Mrs. Tippett is Mr. Collins’s sister. There doesn’t seem to be much love lost between them. And a girl named Betsy. She did seem rattled.”

  “Is this the Betsy who noticed the unlocked door?”

  “Mr. Collins told me I misheard him or he misspoke,” Ben replied. “That it was actually Kitty, the girl with the Borax. And she is left-handed, I think.”

  “That’s wonderful,” Juliet exclaimed. “I mean, it’s terrible about the murder, and terrible for the girl who let Bobby’s predilections drive her to such depths, but if I’m correct, I shall write to Detective Diamond. How pleased he’ll be to discover a prodigy among his international students.”

  “I don’t know,” Ben said. “Mr. Collins wasn’t just obstructive. He was downright brutish to you. A uniformed servant taking hold of an earl’s granddaughter?”

  “Oh!” Something about the phrase thrilled her. “Dr. Bones. I think you may be a bit of a traditionalist at heart. I had no idea you felt so strongly about those who get above their station.”

  “I don’t. I feel strongly about men who handle women like furniture.”

  “Tried to handle a woman like furniture, at least in this case,” Juliet corrected. “You’ll notice he didn’t succeed. Don’t misunderstand me. The only combat I enjoy is verbal. But Mr. Collins didn’t intend serious harm. He’s just one of those men.”

  “Which men?”

  “The ones who haven’t a clue how to respond when a female disagrees, or talks back, or laughs at him, God forbid.”

  “Do you think he killed Bobby?”

  “I don’t know. The sort of man I mean might kill a woman behind closed doors,” Juliet said thoughtfully. “And afterwards feel very powerful indeed. But he’d crumble under arrest, weep in the dock, and beg on the scaffold.” She finished her smaller portion of the sultana loaf. “Killing another man takes courage. Probably more courage than one of those men could ever muster. Then again, the idea that the butler did it is too good to be true. Imagine! We’d dine out on that story for the rest of our lives.”

  “True. As for my returning to Fitchley Park tomorrow… I suppose I can say I want to finish what I began, as far as interviewing the staff,” Ben said. “They may not object if they believe I’m gathering information that will go against Mrs. Archer. It will give me another chance to look for the place Bobby died. But I’ll need to be careful. Only Gaston has the authority to officially question suspects, though I suppose he might deputize me if I managed to convince him it was his idea.”

  “Then you agree with my hypothesis? One of the maids, probably Kitty, killed him in a fit of jealous passion?”

  Ben frowned. “I can’t imagine a chambermaid slicing a man’s throat from ear to ear.”

  “Hell hath no fury, Dr. Bones. It was true in Shakespeare’s day and perhaps even more true today.”

  “I don’t doubt that, but there’s the question of physical strength. Bobby was standing up when he was killed. If he�
��d been quick enough, he could have caught her wrist and had her at his mercy. Doesn’t it seem more likely a woman would attack him while he was lying down?”

  “I see what you mean. Perhaps I’m wrong to exclude Odette, but her behavior was nothing short of bizarre,” Juliet said. “If a dead stranger was discovered in Belsham Manor, you wouldn’t find me wafting about in a fox fur, as if a murder investigation was all so jejune.”

  “I have some insight there,” Ben said, rising and stacking their plates in the sink. “If I tell you, you must promise not to use it against her. Or share it with anyone.”

  “Dr. Bones, you wound me.”

  He lifted an eyebrow. “Promise.”

  “Oh, very well.”

  “She believes Fitchley Park is haunted,” Ben said, returning to the table to pick up their cups and cutlery. “That some sort of evil spirit killed Bobby by luring him into the house and tormenting him, as she put it, till he topped himself.”

  “Hah! The woman who motored all the way to Birdswing to complain of my occult ways blames a murder on a ghost?”

  A nearby thump and clatter made them both jump. It was Humphrey, who’d leapt into the sink to inspect their plates.

  “He makes a good point,” Ben said, glancing wryly at the big cat. “We jumped, because we thought of Lucy. Do we owe Lady Maggart’s views closer consideration?”

  “What are they, precisely?”

  “That Fitchley Park has been haunted for some time. She claims she and Father Rummage have been trying to exorcise the spirit. That’s why she was so upset with your activities,” Ben said. “She said something to the effect that she and the rector kept trying to close the door on supernatural interference, while you and I kept prying it open.”

  “Codswallop. Bobby was killed by a human, not a ghost.”

  “I thought the veil between worlds was supposed to be thinner in Cornwall.”

  “Oh, it is,” Juliet agreed. “But people presume evil has far greater latitude than it does. Evil is quite real, of course, but it isn’t alone, and it certainly isn’t in charge,” she said, articulating a view that had been coalescing in her for some time. “Moreover, from what I’ve seen, evil seems to work entirely through human hands. It’s not that I don’t believe in the occasional supernatural intervention. Unlike one of us,” she couldn’t resist adding, “I attend St. Mark’s on a weekly basis. I believe the supernatural occasionally intervenes in our lives, but I think it does so only to help, never to harm.”