by Emma Jameson
“Did I do that? Oh, dear.” She placed one shortbread biscuit on Gaston’s plate and three on Ben’s. “The rest are mine,” she said, holding onto the tin. “If you have need of me, Doctor, I’ll be in the sitting room. Doing nothing whatsoever except eating biscuits and enjoying the view.”
“There’s no joy in being a widower, is there?” Gaston said, rubbing his head. “Forever at the mercy of sisters and housekeepers. We’re in the same boat, boy, tossed by evil winds. Womankind is devilish changeable. Except for my own dear Priscilla, God rest her soul.” He bit into his biscuit.
“Did you come to discuss bachelor life or the Archer case?” Ben poured himself a cup of tea. Nothing tasted as good as that first sip of afternoon tea, except of course that first puff of a post-tea fag, and he was still off cigarettes.
“The case. You may have heard Lady Juliet mention a Yank detective called Dirk Diamond.” Gaston said. “I’ve enrolled in his correspondence course. This war won’t be won in a fortnight. In the meantime, crime in the West Country will explode. Mark my words. Every man you see between twenty and forty ought to be in uniform or have proof he’s in a reserved occupation. If not, he’s a coward, a defective, or a criminal.”
“Which one was Bobby?”
“Hm? The first, I reckon.” Gaston polished off the shortbread. “I’m not trying to shift blame onto Bobby for his own murder. I only mean to explain why I enrolled in Mr. Diamond’s course. One of his rules is, ‘When in doubt, act it out.’ That’s what I spent the better part of last night and this morning doing.”
Taking another sip of tea, Ben braced himself for a torrent of idiocy.
“I put myself in Helen’s shoes,” Gaston said, leaning back in his chair as he expounded. “We know if she killed Bobby, she must have slipped out of her house while the twins were asleep in bed. Mind you, I wouldn’t turn my back on them if they were pilloried, but that’s me. Once Helen was out, she got to Barking by bicycle, if she took Clodgey Lane. Or on foot, if she cut through Pate’s field and the woods, crossed the river, and followed Hummock Lane. So I took Mr. Diamond’s advice and tried both routes myself.”
“This afternoon?”
“No. Too easy in full daylight. I did it this morning, technically. Around 0400 for the first trip, 0700 for the second.”
“You must have frozen solid.” Ben regarded the old soldier with new respect.
“Mustn’t give in to the cold, Dr. Bones. Nothing good ever came of giving in to the cold. Remember that when we’re fighting Jerry in the streets.” Gaston smiled fondly at the idea of physically beating back an invasion. Then he polished off the rest of his biscuit and continued.
“The first route, Clodgey Lane, wasn’t as easy as those smug townie policemen might imagine,” Gaston said. “First, Helen would have crossed the path of two ARP officers. Assuming she got lucky, and they were both off answering the call of nature, what followed would have been a long, dark ride.”
“Did you cycle all the way to Fitchley Park?”
“Aye. At night, the gates are locked. So Helen would have needed to ditch the bicycle, find a scalable point on the wall, climb it, and go shank’s mare another half mile.”
“You really did all this before sunrise?” Ben asked.
“I’m not as old as all that,” Gaston said proudly. “My father was a miner, and his father, too. I never worked a day in my life compared to Granddad. Even so,” he said, helping himself to one of Ben’s biscuits, “I couldn’t very well act out the final bit—slipping into the house, choosing a weapon, finding Bobby, and killing him.”
“It’s too much.”
“Far too much. Plymouth folk think of distance in terms of cars and buses. In their minds, an easy drive between Birdswing and Barking equals an easy trek, even off the beaten path.”
“I certainly thought that way, but I’m not a police officer,” Ben said. “No matter how busy or uninterested Plymouth CID may be, they must have worked that out by now. How can they justify keeping Helen locked up?”
“Never trust townies to see reason. At any rate, I took a wee refresher, forty winks, before I investigated the second route. By then the sun was up. Taking that route would have saved Helen an hour’s travel time, but heaven knows it’s tough. Without daylight, I couldn’t have managed it. If I couldn’t, that goes double for Helen.
“Last but not least, I checked with Helen’s neighbors. I told you, I saw Helen scraping food into a bin. Mrs. Mansker saw her a bit earlier, chasing away your tomcat with a broom. Not exhausted from a long night of killing Bobby but sharp as a hornet’s tail, as usual.” He drained his teacup, setting it back in its saucer with a clatter.
“That’s remarkable detective work,” Ben said sincerely.
“Indeed it is. I enjoy being constable. But why would Helen confess to something she didn’t do?”
Ben knew it was time to give voice to his suspicions. He only hoped he would be proven wrong, and swiftly. “I’ve been thinking about Caleb and Micah. What sort of relationship did they have with Bobby?”
“They loved him for being their old dad. And they hated him for betraying their mum,” Gaston said. “Missed him every hour God sent and blamed themselves for him being gone. Bobby said motherhood ruined his pretty bride. That dropped the fault on the boys’ shoulders, in their eyes.”
“They’re big lads. Strong for their age,” said Ben, who had wrestled one down after the Bonfire Night debacle. “More underhanded than the average nine-year-old boy, which is saying something. Could they slip out of the house without Helen noticing?”
Gaston stared at him. “Could a fish swim?”
“So taking either route to Fitchley Park would have been easier for them than an adult?”
“Of course. But why do you—” He caught his breath. “No. You can’t mean it. Never.”
“The idea of children murdering anyone, much less their own father, is ghastly,” Ben said. “But here’s what we know. Bobby asked Helen for a divorce. The boys already blamed themselves for the separation, so I doubt they took the idea of him remarrying much better. Helen shut down her restaurant in midday to go to Barking. When you gave her the details of Bobby’s murder, she let herself be arrested, and when the policemen interrogated her, she confessed. She’d do that, wouldn’t she, to shield her boys?”
Gaston shut his eyes. “I dislike being constable. Maybe I’m not cut out for work like this.”
Ben’s telephone rang. A candlestick model made of black Bakelite, it occupied the phone cubby installed in the corridor between kitchen and office. Ben occasionally used it to ring his family or one of his colleagues at St. Barnabas’s Hospital, but he rarely received calls, because most of the villagers lacked phones. That meant the caller was almost certainly Lady Juliet.
“Revolting!” she cried, forgoing “Hello” as usual. “Do you know what that rat did? He got on his knees and begged me to take him back. I should have vomited on his head. I told him to get out if he wouldn’t sign the papers. That I would never consent to see him or speak to him until we’d finalized the divorce. And do you know what he did then?”
“No.” Ben’s head still ached, but at least now he was smiling.
“He agreed, Ben. Can you believe it? He agreed!”
“Really? That’s marvelous. I’m so happy for you, Juliet.”
She gave a cry of joy so pure it made his heart leap. “I feel like a condemned prisoner granted a reprieve. He’s returning to the manor tonight with his solicitor to sign the papers. That’s all he asked—one last dinner with Mother and me as a farewell. After that, we won’t see one another till the dissolution.”
“A last dinner?” Ben repeated suspiciously.
“Ethan never pays for his own meals. He always finds a way, even if he has to crash a party for the hors d'oeuvres or get himself arrested for the bread and water. In light of which, his desire for French cooking and fine wine is hardly surprising. But the blackout makes it tricky. Before, I would have shooed
him out by nine o’clock, and that would have been that. Now, having him for dinner means putting him up all night. Even with Mother present, the birds will sing.”
“I suppose they will. Five snoops pretending to be patients wasted my afternoon.”
“Mrs. Cobblepot is too soft-hearted. You need someone with a spine to handle your bookings. In the meantime, what I require is a buffer. Another guest, someone who’d appreciate canard à l'orange, Côtes-du-Rhône, a snifter of brandy, perhaps even a cigar. Of course, such an individual would have to endure three hours of Ethan, not to mention the sight and sound of him at breakfast the next day. It would be a sacrifice on that score. But said individual would also get to share in an occasion I’ve looked forward to for a very long time.”
“You’re inviting me?”
“Are you quite sure you’re a detective, Dr. Bones?”
“It’s only—your, er, soon-to-be-ex-husband and I didn’t part on friendly terms. My presence could make the occasion a shade adversarial, as it were. Besides, won’t the birds sing louder if you have two men in the house?”
“Three, if you count the lawyer. And that’s the point. When it becomes a party, even a small party, the song is less compelling.”
“Well. In that case, I can’t possibly refuse. What should I bring?”
“Nothing but yourself,” Lady Juliet said happily. “Be advised that Ethan will be tricked out in evening dress, because he imagines it makes him look dashing. Mother will wear a gown and look regal. As for me, I may appear in a kerchief and hip waders, to inspire Ethan to sign those papers with all due haste.”
“Evening dress it is. Goodbye,” said Ben, but Lady Juliet, predictably, had already rung off.
* * *
After the comparative splendor of Fitchley Park, Belsham Manor was even more of an eyesore, despite a smoldering orange-red sunset as a backdrop. Lady Victoria kept no butler, only an ancient jack-of-all-trades called Robbie, still abed with rheumatism. She also had yet to replace her housekeeper, Mrs. Locke, who was missed by no one. So when Ben pulled up by the front steps, he expected to park the Austin there and show himself in. Instead, someone familiar hurried out to greet him.
“Good evening, Dr. Bones. I do hope you’re well.”
“I am, Bertha. Thank you. How do you find your new job?” he asked, smiling at the young woman’s transformation. He remembered her as skinny, nervous, and spotty, but her skin had cleared up, and she’d put on a bit of much-needed weight. They’d met under fraught circumstances—he’d lied to her face to catch a killer—and when the smoke cleared, Lady Juliet had demonstrated their joint gratitude by offering Bertha a place at Belsham Manor. Ben had assumed that meant a starched white cap and a feather duster, but instead, the young woman wore a sort of feminized chauffeur’s uniform: navy skirt, smart jacket, and matching cap.
“Lady Juliet is very good to me,” she said, smiling. “I’m in training as Old Robbie’s assistant. May I park your car?”
“Of course.” He tossed her the keys. “Not a scratch.”
“Not to worry,” Bertha said, getting behind the wheel. “I spent all morning learning how. Lady Juliet says I’m a natural!”
It was too late to rescind permission without crushing her confidence. Biting his tongue, Ben let her get on with it. As he watched, she drove to the mews at a measured pace, shifting gears smoothly. That was better than he’d performed on his first day as a motorist.
After he climbed the steps, another familiar young woman waited to usher him into the house. Dinah wore the usual maidservant’s black dress, but her cap was different. Its colors were reversed—black with a peep of white lace, instead of the other way round—and her welcoming smile looked pinned on.
“Hello, Dr. Bones.”
“Hello, Dinah. How are you feeling?” He probably should have left it at “How are you?” but he couldn’t help himself. Dinah, his very first patient in Birdswing, had concealed her illicit pregnancy right up to birth, which she’d endured in secret. Now that her son had been adopted by a loving couple in Plymouth, and the Lintons had refused to discharge her for immoral conduct, as most households would have, Dinah had resumed her place on staff. But a cloud of misery followed her, which he would have liked to lessen, if he only knew how.
“I’m pleased to welcome you to Belsham Manor,” Dinah said with less inflection than the average parrot. A whey-faced girl of eighteen, she looked physically strong again, with pink in her cheeks. “May I take your hat and coat?”
“Please.” Handing them over, he tried another tack. “Is that a new cap?”
“Yes, sir. Lady Victoria says it means I’m acting housekeeper for the evening. The position rotates.” An icy wind swept through vestibule, blowing Dinah’s special cap askew.
“Oh! The door.” She shut it hurriedly. “Keep forgetting that bit. Mr. Bolivar teased me something awful, and Mr. Duggin stared at me like I was simple.”
“It takes time, adjusting to new roles.” Ben glanced down the hall to be sure they weren’t overheard before asking quietly, “How are you, really?”
She pinned the smile on again. “Good. And ever so grateful to you, sir. Thank you, sir.”
“You know that’s not what I—”
“Another arrival, Dinah?” Lady Victoria called from an inner room. “Do lead him in. The hall is positively arctic.”
Dinah scurried toward her mistress’s voice with Ben’s coat still hugged to her chest. He didn’t have the heart to suggest she hang it up, so he followed.
It was true that Belsham Manor’s exterior was painful to look at; nothing short of a wrecking ball could cure the house’s structural deformities. But the interior was as lovely as a strangely proportioned, irregularly laid-out house could be. Lady Victoria had worked miracles with everything at her disposal: carpets, wallpaper, paint, and furniture. The parlor was a fine example. Having seen it in daylight, Ben knew the room’s shape was odd and the ceiling was too low, but it was beautifully lit by wall sconces and candelabra. On the hearth, a wood fire crackled invitingly.
“Dr. Bones, it’s lovely to see you.” Lady Victoria looked younger than her years, particular in this forgiving light. Clearly, she’d been a great beauty once, given her high cheekbones, full lips, and dimpled chin. Her gown, black satin set off by a bolero jacket edged in white, revealed her trim figure, more ingénue than matron.
“Hello, Lady Victoria. Thank you for having me.”
Turning, she gestured to the pair of men sitting by the fire. “Shall I make the introductions? This is—”
“Bones!” Ethan roared, surging out of his seat before Lady Victoria could finish. “Good to see you, old man.”
“This Gold Mine is Claimed”
As foretold, Ethan was in his evening kit, an immaculately tailored, double-breasted suit that fashion columnists called “blacker than black” but was actually midnight blue. As he crossed the room, he looked like he’d stepped off the silver screen, one hand extended to Ben, the other holding a gin and tonic.
Ben’s headache, which had limped away in late afternoon, lurched back on the scene, rested and ready for action. It made him wince as they shook, which Ethan clearly took as a sign of weakness.
“Sorry about that. I have a firm grip. Don’t know my own strength,” he said heartily, pounding Ben on the back like they were long-lost schoolmates. “Look at you. Tails, eh? A fine investment. As serviceable now as they were in your mother’s day. But a white waistcoat with pearl buttons? You’re a braver man than I. Somebody might ask me to strike up the band.”
Ben looked down at his suit as if noticing it for the first time. “Sometimes the girl I walk out with remarks on my clothes. That sort of thing appeals to her, I suppose. But you may be the only man who’s ever spoken two words to me on the subject.”
Ethan’s grin faltered. As a matter of fact, Ben had coveted Ethan’s highly fashionable waistcoat, single-breasted with jet buttons, the instant he saw it. But a key part of his vanity wa
s pretending he had none, particularly when faced with Lady Juliet’s husband and his five-hundred-pound suit.
“You mistake me. I find other men’s sartorial choices unspeakably dull,” Ethan said, clearing his throat. “Whereas Lady Victoria’s are endlessly appealing. Might I usurp you, my lady, and make the other introduction?”
“But of course.”
“Dr. Bones, that po-faced devil nursing his G and T is my solicitor, John Duggin,” Ethan said, gesturing toward the other man, who’d remained seated. “What do you have to say for yourself, Jack, my lad?”
Duggin, a nondescript man in a nondescript tuxedo, looked up from well-polished but equally utilitarian shoes. His face was the sort easily forgotten: no facial hair, no identifying marks. However, his stare was acute to the edge of impertinence. Ben felt like he was being x-rayed.
“How do you do,” Duggin said.
“How do you do,” Ben echoed. Was Duggin some sort of legal hatchet man, come to extort the maximum from Lady Juliet and her mother?
“Well. Now everyone’s acquainted, which means the evening can really begin,” Lady Victoria said. “I think I’ll just pop upstairs to see how my daughter progresses. Do make yourselves at home, and pull the bell for Dinah the instant you have need of something.”
After she exited, Ethan knocked back the remainder of his drink. “Just the lads now. As they say in Chicago, anything goes. I could use another,” he continued, heading to the drinks trolley. “What about you, Bones? Fancy a G and T?”
“Yes, please.” Since Ethan and his solicitor had claimed the brass-studded leather armchairs near the fire, Ben reluctantly took the sofa. It epitomized Lady Victoria’s tastes: lemon and white stripes further feminized by chintz pillows edged in lace.
“I have a knack for this,” Ethan said in that mellifluous voice. He poured liquor and twisted lime with a theatrical flourish, like a headliner playing to the box seats. “Mixing drinks is an art, not a science, and as Ju told me many times, mine is the soul of an artist. When I was twenty, I spent a summer in Paris. Glorious, living in a drafty old garret, drunk on the colors of life. What about you, Bones? Where were you at twenty?”
