by Emma Jameson
“Helen, where were you Sunday night?”
“At home abed, like decent folk.”
“Did you know Bobby would be in Barking?”
She sighed. “Yes.”
“How?”
“His new woman lives there, don’t she?”
“What’s her name?”
“He wouldn’t say. Maybe he thought I’d scratch her eyes out.” She emitted a humorless laugh. “Should have known I’d scratch mine out first.”
“This new woman of his. Could it be a maid at Fitchley Park?”
“I don’t think so,” Helen said. “He claimed she was a real lady, like Penny.”
“Why did you close your restaurant during its peak hour and go to Barking?”
“I needed advice from Father Rummage.”
“Can you see how a jury might not believe that? They might think it too much of a coincidence. I don’t suppose someone got word to you about Bobby’s death?”
“No.” She returned his gaze unblinking, the good eye and the dead one.
Ben studied her for several seconds. “I think you did know about it,” he said at last. “Gaston agrees. He talked to Father Rummage, who denied speaking to you yesterday. So I’ll ask again: Why were you in Barking?”
“I was in a state!” Helen cried. “Trying to scrape up the courage to ask the rector if he’d still minister to a divorced woman. I was walking up the high street when that old windbag pulled up, and the next thing I knew, I was under arrest. They brought me here and locked me in for the night. If not for my fingernails, I would’ve gone mad.” She traced the marks on her cheeks as if caressing a talisman.
“All right. Thank you, Mrs. Archer. I’ll speak to Gaston,” Ben said, rising.
“I’ll be here, won’t I? Wasting away under a silk coverlet till Mrs. Richwine forces a scone on me. Probably force a cuppa on me, too,” Helen grumbled. “Bloody Barking.”
* * *
“Well?” Gaston asked as Ben joined him on the hill overlooking the lane. “Is Helen fit for transport?”
“Broadly speaking, yes. You’ll have a bit of a shock when you see her, though.” Ben realized he had to make some explanation for Helen’s face, but he couldn’t tell Gaston the absolute truth. If he did, it would be discussed in Morton’s Emporium the next morning and spread across Birdswing thereafter. Besides, who knew how a jury might receive such information? They might assume a compulsion for self-harm indicated the capacity for harming others.
“A shock? What do you mean?” Gaston’s eyes glinted curiously. He was as committed a gossip as any of the ladies in Morton’s. “Did she rend her garments? Heaven knows she loved the man.”
“She had a nightmare and clawed at her face,” Ben said. “Now she’s ashamed to show herself, which is why she hid under the covers.”
“Oh.” Gaston frowned. “Peculiar woman. I suppose murderesses always are.”
“As to that… I have a question for you in your capacity as ARP Warden.”
Gaston’s thick neck swelled. “Of course.”
“Who patrolled Birdswing last night?”
“Corporal Briggs and Corporal Jones.”
“Do you trust them?” Ben asked needlessly, just to watch Gaston’s nostrils flare.
“Aye. Trained by me and trusted by me. They’d die for Birdswing, and so would I.”
“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that. Now. The quickest route from Birdswing to Barking is Clodgey Lane. If Mrs. Archer took that road, presumably on her bicycle, during the blackout, which of your men failed to report it?”
“Corporal Briggs has that zone. He would never fail in his duty.”
“Very well. It’s possible Mrs. Archer reached Barking by cutting through Pate’s Field and going through the woods on foot. Is that Corporal Jones’s patch?”
“Yes.”
“Did he miss a woman carrying a torch or a lantern?”
“Impossible!”
“I agree. Last night, I let a bit of light out my front door, and either Briggs or Jones shouted at me straightaway,” Ben said. “So if Mrs. Archer killed Bobby sometime in the predawn hours, how did she get to Barking?”
Gaston’s mouth worked.
Ben was tempted to let him twist in the wind indefinitely, but Plymouth CID would arrive any minute. They needed to present a united front.
“If your men are blameless,” Ben said, “I suppose there’s only one answer. Mrs. Archer left while the sun was up and returned after sunrise the next day. The twins were alone for hours, and her restaurant didn’t open on time.”
“But it did,” Gaston said, still transparently dragging Ben’s contention through the narrow avenues of his mind. “When I passed, I caught her scraping a pan into the dustbin. I reminded her that leftover food must go to the pig barrel, and she scowled at me.”
“Right. So it’s down to this. One of your officers fell asleep on the job, or Mrs. Archer couldn’t have done it.”
“No man of mine sleeps on the job!” Gaston slapped a fist against his palm. “I must get back to the village and look into this. In the meantime, Helen shouldn’t go to Plymouth.”
As if on cue, a sleek gray automobile appeared on the lane, running so smoothly, it seemed to glide on a bed of air. Enthusiasm squelched, Gaston walked out to meet the Plymouth CID men as they disembarked. One was middle-aged, in a blue suit with a fedora; the other was younger and taller, with a pronounced limp. Both seemed markedly serious and professional next to Gaston, who suddenly looked like an old man in a borrowed kit. To his surprise, Ben found himself resenting the flashy policemen and hoping they treated Gaston with respect. Was that proof he was becoming a true Birdswinger?
The exchange was brief. From his position, Ben couldn’t hear every word but he caught most of Gaston saying, “There are new developments.” Predictably, the policemen did not look overjoyed at what may have been an unnecessary pilgrimage into postcard country. The younger man remained outside with Gaston, taking notes, as the man in the fedora entered the roundhouse, apparently to question Helen himself.
Satisfied that Helen would be freed at best, or allowed to remain in Barking’s cozy lockup at worst, Ben started toward his car. Just as he got behind the wheel, the older policeman exited the Cow Hole, leading Helen by the arm.
“I say! What’s happening?” Ben called.
Neither policeman paid him any mind.
“Don’t be hasty,” Gaston shouted at their backs. “No good ever came from being hasty!”
“Mrs. Archer,” Ben called to Helen before they loaded her into the gleaming silver car. “What happened? What did you say?”
“The truth.” In direct sunlight, the scratches on her face looked all the more vicious. “I did it. I followed Bobby into Fitchley Park, cut his throat, and threw the knife in the river.”
“On Account of Her Ladyship”
“I don’t understand,” Gaston said, deflated.
“Neither do I. She told me she was innocent, and I believed her. How did she know his throat was cut? How did she know we hadn’t found the knife?” Even as Ben asked, suspicion flared. “Gaston. You didn’t discuss the case with her, did you?”
“No,” the special constable cried. “I tried picking her up on the high street, but you know how she is. She wouldn’t get in the car. So I told her Bobby was dead, and she was under suspicion of murder. She got in, shrieking all the while, and then she wanted to know how he died. I had to say something, didn’t I?” He sounded unconvinced by his own narrative but continued nonetheless.
“I told her his throat had been cut. Then she wanted to know where he died. I said below stairs at Fitchley Park. Then she wanted to know who did it. That brought me to the end of my tether. I said, ‘Good Lord, woman, it must have been you! Where did you stash the knife?’ But otherwise, Doctor, I give you my oath,” Gaston concluded solemnly, “I kept mum and let her do all the talking, just as Dirk Diamond recommends.”
Ben counted to ten, reached it, and sta
rted again.
“Perhaps it doesn’t add up yet,” Gaston said. “But she confessed, Dr. Bones. Case closed. You raised good questions about Corporal Briggs and Corporal Jones, but don’t forget, Helen knows these parts as well as I do. Maybe she didn’t need a lantern. Maybe it’s possible to make it through Pate’s Field, the woods, and across Little Creek—”
“The river?”
“A narrow point,” Gaston said. “Easy enough in daylight. In darkness, what with mossy stones and perhaps some ice….” His eyes widened. “Maybe she an accomplice. Someone skilled and underhanded. Professional enough to do the impossible,” he said, clearly warming to his own theory.
“Leaving aside how she met this assassin,” Ben said, “and how she paid him, since I’ve never heard of hired killers accepting payment in pies, why would she claim to have done it herself?”
“If I knew that, I’d be poncing around Plymouth, flashing my CID credentials, now wouldn’t I?” Gaston snapped. “All I know is an innocent woman wouldn’t confess.”
He had a point. Ben had read about accused men recanting their confessions in the dock, of course, but it always sounded like mere desperation.
“Well. Right. Whether Helen is guilty or not, there are still unanswered questions at Fitchley Park,” he told Gaston. “I’d better be off to interview the staff.”
“Aye. I’ll head back to the village. Can’t put off breaking the news to the Archer twins much longer. As for Briggs and Jones—just because I have faith in them doesn’t mean I won’t investigate. If either man failed in his duty, you should arrive in time to perform the post-mortems.”
“Oh. That reminds me,” Ben said. “I overslept this morning, then rushed back here to continue the investigation, but Bobby’s still in my examining room, awaiting post-mortem. I don’t suppose Plymouth CID will want me to muck about with their evidence.”
“I can ring them. Tell them to collect the body,” Gaston offered. “Agatha’s tough as hobnail boots, but I bet she’ll be glad to get Bobby out of Fenton House. Poor bugger,” he added, shaking his head. “I never liked him, but this was a sorry end. His old mum will be destroyed. Do you suppose those Plymouth dandies will take the trouble to inform her?”
“I doubt it,” Ben said.
“I was afraid you’d say that.”
They shook hands. Then Ben, still pondering Helen’s confession, got back in his car and drove to Fitchley Park.
* * *
“Good afternoon, Dr. Bones,” Mr. Collins said with passable civility, stepping aside to permit Ben entry. He’d made peace, it seemed, with the notion of Ben coming and going through the front door. “Lady Maggart is not at home. However, she welcomes your assistance and bid me provide anything you might require. Within reason, of course.”
“Of course. I’d like to start by walking through the house. All of the house, including the family rooms.”
“I see. As it happens, I am engaged with various responsibilities, but if you can perhaps wait an hour or two….”
“No need,” Ben said cheerfully. “I prefer to wander at liberty. Easier for me, and no interruption for you.”
The butler’s eyes narrowed. “Most of the family rooms are locked.”
“Then I’ll go where I can, while you procure the keys.”
Mr. Collins stared at Ben as if weighing the consequences of refusal. “Very well.”
As before, Ben passed through the great hall on his way to the grand staircase. And as before, Lord Maggart was ensconced in front of the fire, leg propped on a hassock. Last time it had been the right leg. Now it was the left.
“Who’s that?” the baron called, squinting.
“Ben Bones. We met yesterday, my lord.”
“Oh! The undertaker.” Lord Maggart coughed, groping for his pewter-tipped cane. Finding it, he coughed harder, rising with a groan. “Didn’t I tell you I’m not dead yet?” Grinning, he thumped toward Ben. “Bones! Fine name for an undertaker. Why are you back?”
“The special constable enlisted my help,” Ben said. “He asked me to check on a few details. Lady Maggart graciously gave her assent.”
“Oh, well, if Odette gives you leave, who am I to argue?” Lord Maggart said sourly. “Anyone would think she’s a widow. Always gallivanting around the West Country or finding an excuse to visit the rectory. I’d think she was having an affair with Father Rummage, but for one thing.”
You’ve seen him? Ben thought unkindly but chose a more traditional response. “What’s that?”
“I’ll kill any man who makes me a cuckold, and she damn well knows it!” Lord Maggart banged his cane against the marble floor. The yellowed skin of his face pulled tight, making his cheeks and jaw startlingly prominent, as if his skull was fighting to emerge.
“Your wife is faithful and only wants the best for you,” Ben said soothingly. “Let’s get you back to the fire.”
Without asking permission, he took Lord Maggart’s arm. After a moment’s resistance, the sick man allowed himself to be led back to his chair.
“Good chap,” he said as Ben draped a blanket over his gaunt frame. “What a world. Doctors are ghouls and undertakers are kindly. Before I went to war, I never thought of violence. When I was there, in the thick of it, all I wanted was to run away. Any soldier who tells you he isn’t afraid from time to time is a liar.”
“Any person who claims they aren’t afraid from time to time is a liar,” Ben corrected, wondering if Lord Maggart would ever forgive him, should he reveal his true vocation. Surely this was late-stage cancer; if not of the pancreas, perhaps the liver. Either way, medicine could offer the baron nothing in the way of a cure. But his remaining days could be made far more comfortable, if he could be persuaded to accept help from a “white coat.”
“Did I tell you how I was wounded, boy?” Lord Maggart held up his hand. The palm was deeply scarred, and the little finger was missing. “Hardly seems worth talking about. Sometimes I say I was bayonetted in the leg or the gut. Better that, than to admit I cut myself on barbed wire, and it was gangrene that put me in Dottyville.”
“Gangrene can kill.” The fire had guttered, so Ben stirred up the coals, exposing the red which pulsed beneath the grayish white.
“Of course it can kill. Perhaps that’s why I let it go so far.” Lord Maggart pulled the blanket up to his chin. “God and country, my boy, God and country. I was expected to kill the enemy, but the only person I wanted to die was me.” He closed his eyes, speaking slowly, as if already dozing. “Now my side aches, night and day. Perhaps I was bayonetted and only forgot. Take that, Dr. MacHardy, you bloody nightmare.”
Ben glanced at his black doctor’s bag. Lord Maggart had failed to note it, even though it sat on the floor not far away. The bag contained a pocket medicine case of twenty-four bottled drugs, including phenobarbital and morphine. Either one would afford the baron deeper, more restful sleep than a day spent propped before the fire.
“Is it possible, your lordship, that young doctors—recent graduates trained to modern standards—are more trustworthy than MacHardy and his ilk?”
The baron’s eyes opened, glittering with sudden acuity. “Are you trying to trick me?”
“What?”
“She tries to trick me. I know her game. I recognize her agents,” he said, staring hard at Ben. His eyes, shadowed by the fire, seemed to recede in their sockets, the skull once again straining for preeminence. It would win before long, Ben thought. Maybe in six months. Maybe in six weeks.
“Do you mean Lady Maggart’s tried to trick you? How?”
“Sleep.” Lord Maggart coughed. “Rest. All I want is rest. You wouldn’t understand.”
“Oh, but I would. I’ve been jarred out of a sound sleep for two nights running.”
“Is that so?” The baron’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Who wakes you? Do you believe what they tell you? They kicked up such a ruddy fuss about the evening dress, but she told me the earl was coming, I swear it. Now I wonder. When I saw Ch
arlie upstairs, bold as brass, Collins told me it must have been a dream. She came to me later and said it was true. I’ve always trusted her. Why would she lie?”
“She wouldn’t. Lady Maggart has no reason to lie to you.”
This time his soothing reply made Lord Maggart cast his blanket onto the floor. “You’re not listening!” he cried, as loud as his limited breath allowed. “Go bury someone else. I’m not dead yet, damn you, and I’ll show MacHardy I’m no coward before the end, I swear it.”
* * *
Ben spent the next hour working his way through most of Fitchley House’s ground floor, checking rugs, walls, and upholstery for splattered blood. Of course, after roughly forty-eight hours, anyone determined to conceal blood could have taken action, but Ben was betting the undertaking was too massive to pull off flawlessly. He’d never seen a man’s throat cut, but he’d witnessed the immediate aftermath in St. Thomas Hospital’s lobby, when an assailant from the notorious Elephant & Castle Mob turned up to finish a fight.
Sauntering into the lobby, the killer had spied his rival, a member of some lesser gang, waiting to have a wound stitched. Pulling a knife, the killer had plunged it into the man’s neck. By the time Ben got there, the victim was dead, the killer had fled, and blood was everywhere. It soaked the rug, stained the seat cushions, and seeped into the mortar between the floor tiles. A relatively small spurt had discolored the blue wainscoting and ruined the wallpaper. Even days later, after the floor had been scoured, the seat cushions replaced, and everything repainted, those red-brown flecks kept turning up. Ben had spotted them on the doorjamb, on the ceiling, and even baked on the surface of a lightbulb.
The search for blood in the solarium and conservatory—two areas easily cleaned, since they had bare floors instead of fitted carpets—turned up nothing. A glance out the solarium window, however, revealed more than an overcast afternoon vista. Ben saw a young man in a cap and overalls pushing a wheelbarrow loaded with smoking debris.
