The Dr Benjamin Bones Omnibus

by Emma Jameson

  “Yes, well, with any luck, you’ll be able to tell her so before long,” Gaston said. “I’ve an appointment in Plymouth on Tuesday. I’ll take the boys to see their mum and present my evidence to whichever overpaid imbecile is in charge. Till then, I’ll keep them busy serving the greater good, even if that amounts to sitting on a roof, playing with my old field glasses.”

  “Here we are. Cinnamon and currant,” said Mrs. Cobblepot, putting three slices of fruited bread before Ben. “I do hope it suits. Sugar is precious, so I tried a substitution.”

  Ben tasted a slice. “Oh, it suits, never fear. Is that rum I taste?”

  Mrs. Cobblepot winked.

  Gaston cleared his throat. “Am I not sitting here waiting, woman?”

  “Aspersions were cast,” she said airily. “Didn’t you insinuate that fruited bread is effeminate? Far be it from me to unman you. Now, if you’ll excuse me, woman’s work is never done.”

  “Take some advice from an old widower,” Gaston said to Ben, pitching his voice so Mrs. Cobblepot would hear as she swept out of the kitchen. “Never remarry. Keep wooing spirit women. Easier than the real thing.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Spirit women,” Gaston said, gesturing in a way apparently meant to encompass Fenton House. “I’m not finding fault. Let the girl you’re walking out with flit off to Plymouth. Make yourself a hermit in this cottage. Muck about with spirit boards and crystal balls. An imaginary woman is less trouble than an actual wife, am I right?”

  Gaston waited, clearly expecting a laugh. When none came, he groaned.

  “Fine. Sit there with your mouth hanging open. Let the flies in.” He nicked a piece of cinnamon and currant bread. “I’ll help you with that.”

  * * *

  After Gaston got the twins off the roof, promising to show them an even better location for watching for German planes, Ben tried to keep busy, so as not to stew in his own juices. He didn’t like the idea of Helen Archer spending a single unnecessary moment believing her sons capable of murder, so he telephoned the Plymouth police. Unfortunately, under the conditions of her remand, no one was permitted to speak with her except in person and by appointment. The good news would have to wait until Gaston’s visit on Tuesday.

  With the twins and their mother eliminated as suspects, Ben took out his notebook and made a fresh list of those who might have killed Bobby. It would have been nice to turn to Lady Juliet for a sounding board, but he couldn’t stomach the idea of ringing her. Better to keep his mind on murder.

  Lord M.—changeable, irascible, may be dangerous

  Lady M.—almost certainly had an affair with Bobby

  Mr. Collins—helped cover up the murder after the fact

  Mrs. Tippett—callous enough to be involved, talkative, might let something slip, appears to be left-handed

  Kitty—left-handed, not entirely believable, expects Mr. C. to marry her

  He added a few other names, those who might have additional information or prove helpful.

  Mrs. Grundy—clearly loyal to Lord M., distrusts Mr. C . and probably Lady M.

  John—might remember more, but malleable, must be treated gently

  Rev. Rummage—spends so much time at Fitchley Park, he may have seen or heard something helpful

  A few scenarios came to mind. First: Lady Maggart and Bobby had been having an affair. After surprising them in the act, Lord Maggart killed Bobby, perhaps in a confused or completely deluded state. Lady Maggart and the staff then acted to move the body, destroy evidence, and push the “lady in black” story to protect the dying baron from the humiliation of arrest and trial.

  Second scenario: Kitty and Bobby had been having an affair. After surprising them in the act, Mr. Collins killed Bobby. Then he and his loyal staffers took action to conceal the truth, probably without Lady Maggart’s knowledge. But why would Kitty or anyone else go along with such a demand? Would they care so much about protecting Fitchley Park’s reputation, or was it simply out of fear of Mr. Collins?

  There were other scenarios, of course. Kitty was left-handed and had referenced killing rats, but Ben had difficulty imagining the plump maid overpowering Bobby, even with the element of surprise. Mrs. Tippett’s earthiness and jaded quality made her seem capable of anything, but would she have ever been alone with Bobby? John’s passivity and desire to please might make him capable of murder, if sufficiently threatened into it, but the more Ben considered the notion, the more he discounted it. Even if John could go through with such a thing, he would probably collapse immediately after, confessing to anyone who would listen. He had an easier time imagining Kitty as the killer, or Lady Maggart herself.

  That took Ben down an interesting road. What was it Lady Juliet said when she’d quoted Hamlet? Something about being a gifted natural actress? Perhaps that was true of Lady Maggart. He’d assumed her belief in the “lady in black” was genuine. Perhaps it was only a cover for various household aberrations, like footsteps, doors closing, and muted voices—all the things that went along with a secret affair.

  Claiming to believe in the ghost also would have given Lady Maggart an alibi in Birdswing while her butler destroyed evidence at home. And they would have known it would be me charged with writing the death certificate. Perhaps they assumed the doctor who lives in a haunted house would sign off on a killer ghost without question.

  That unflattering thought dropped him right back in the pot, stewing. With effort, he redirected his attention from his own stupidity to the idea of Lady Maggart as Bobby’s killer. Perhaps Bobby had tried to discard her callously, as he’d discarded his wife, and Lady Maggart had snapped. Did she have the strength and grit to cut a man’s throat and watch him bleed out? And did the other bits and bobs of evidence fit such a scenario?

  That bloodstained rug, Ben thought. The one John said Mr. Collins burned. If it was from her ladyship’s room, that fits. But why burn her compact and other toiletries? Any blood spatter would have wiped off.

  Then there was Lucy’s contribution to the investigation—moving his cane from wardrobe to nightstand. Lord Maggart possessed a pewter-tipped cane. And there had been a gaudy brass cane in Lady Maggart’s bedroom, stuck in a vase with a couple of umbrellas.

  Why were umbrellas in her bedroom? he wondered. Why not downstairs, beside a door? Lady Juliet would know if it’s a common affectation among the gentry. I could ask her.

  He pushed the idea away. Circumstantially, his theory was already solid, or at least plausible. Evidentially, he had nothing whatsoever.

  As the physician who still had yet to finalize Bobby Archer’s death certificate, Ben had a right to ring up Plymouth CID and inform them of his suspicions. But would they arrest Lady Maggart or even question her? Probably not until Helen was freed, if then. Like many Englishmen, Ben believed his country’s system of laws second to none, but no one pretended its application was flawless. Ordinary flatfoots, as Dirk Diamond might say, would need strong evidence to accuse, or appear to accuse, a baroness, or their jobs would be forfeit.

  Gaston, Ben decided. I’ll lay all this at his feet and see what he proposes to do about it. He eliminated the twins from suspicion competently enough. Maybe he’s growing into his role.

  He sighed. The part of his nature that found puzzles irresistible didn’t like that idea, but there was nothing else for it, except to see what Mrs. Cobblepot had cooked for lunch.

  Around one o’clock, Ben decided to catch up on his paperwork: updating charts and writing letters. Most young men in Birdswing and Barking were anxious to join either the Army or the Royal Navy. Those who struggled to earn a living were enticed not by the pay, which was low, but what came with it: food, lodging, and plenty of respect when friends and family saw them in uniform. Most were patriots, determined to defend their island nation against threat of aerial gas-bombing and invasion. A few felt obligated to enlist because of social pressure, which even Ben, as a young man destined to spend the war out of uniform, occasionally felt. All pre-enlis
tees required a doctor’s exam, certifying their fitness to serve. The exams were easy enough, but at the end, Ben had to type up letters—a duty that would drive him to take on a secretary, as soon as he could afford it.

  With two fingers, it was slow going. Midway through the second letter, the typewriter’s ribbon needed changing. As he searched for a replacement spool, he glanced out the front room’s window and saw Mrs. Garrigan. She was heading for his office door.

  I should get Mrs. Cobblepot to say I’m out on a call, Ben thought. There’s nothing wrong with her except a tendency toward neurosis.

  He tried to convince himself, but his conscience was having none of it. He had the right to be a little stern with her, perhaps. But he didn’t have the right to dodge her, especially not during office hours.

  “Hello, Mrs. Garrigan.” He opened the door before she could ring the bell. “Come in.”

  “I’m sorry to bother you, Doctor,” she began, as she always did. “I’m sure you’re far too busy….”

  “As a matter of fact, I’m not.” Taking her coat, he hung it on a peg, then led her to the chair in front of his desk. “What’s the trouble?”

  “I didn’t sleep well last night,” Mrs. Garrigan said. “I had a terrible dream. My Felix was in his coffin.”

  “You dreamed your husband was dead?”

  “Not dead. In his coffin. Dressed in his best. Handsome, smiling, joking with me,” Mrs. Garrigan said earnestly. “But he wouldn’t come out. Not even when I told him the baby was coming. And when it did come, it was only a doll.”

  “I understand,” Ben said as patiently as he could. “Dreams can be frightening. But it’s just the way our minds process our hopes and fears while we rest.”

  “But the doll,” she insisted. “Only suppose—suppose it was a foretelling? Suppose it means the baby will be stillborn? I saw a stillborn baby once. It looked like a doll with a blue face. When I remembered that, I got lightheaded. I got out of bed and had a glass of milk. But I couldn’t get back to sleep. My heart pounded, my head ached, and all I could see was that doll’s queer face.”

  “Put it out of your mind. You’re a healthy woman, and before long you’ll have a healthy son or daughter.”

  “Thank you, Dr. Bones.” Mrs. Garrigan’s eyes shone. “I’m past grateful you came to our village. The mums down my way cross the lane to avoid me. One said she won’t hear another word from me till the baby’s born. If I say my heart races or my head hurts, they pull faces. But not you.”

  “I’m glad I could help,” he said, thinking those mums were smarter than he was. “Let me fetch your coat.”

  Mrs. Garrigan stood up, tottering as he pulled her coat off the peg. “These ruddy shoes will be the death of me,” she said. “I tried to stretch them with beans. Do you know that trick? You fill your shoes with dried beans and dribble in a bit of water. The beans take up the water and swell, plumping your shoes by morning.”

  “And then for supper, I suppose you must eat the beans, or ARP Warden Gaston will cite you for wasting food.” Ben held out her coat, and she slipped into it. “Perhaps it’s time to bin those shoes and chalk it up to experience.”

  “Cor, no. They’re the only ones I’ve got. Have a good day, Doctor.”

  He held the door as she went down the steps and along the path. From behind, her right calf was so swollen, her legs looked mismatched.

  “Um… hang on?”

  Ben hurried to her side. She was so alarmed, he tried to address the issue without further adding to her distress.

  “Forgive me. Only—one of your calves looks a bit larger than the other. Have you noticed?”

  “I’d be blind not to.” She laughed. “We women are used to suffering for our beauty. My feet throb and smell of beans besides!”

  “The other day, when you came to see me,” Ben said. “Was it as swollen then?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  Ben suppressed a groan. When he’d examined her, he’d focused on the skin discoloration and the fetal heartbeat, ignoring the red flag under his nose. It didn’t matter that Mrs. Garrigan had come in multiple times, fretting about cold weather, hot tea, and bad dreams. He was the one who’d gone to medical school, and he was the one who knew better than to let the patient’s perceived issue dictate his exam.

  “Would you mind terribly coming back inside for a moment?” he asked. “Coat off again, I’m afraid, and back in the chair. I just remembered. Did you mention your heart was racing last night?”

  “Rat-a-tat-tat, like a drum. The face of that doll set it off. Monstrous dream! The day before, it beat like that while I did the wash. By the end, I felt half-delirious.”

  “Is that so?” he asked, getting his sphygmomanometer and stethoscope. “Headache, too?”

  “Fiendish headache. My gran used to say, when your feet hurt, everything hurts.”

  “Of course,” Ben said, working hard to sound casual. “Why don’t I check your blood pressure, just to say I did? If you’ll roll up your sleeve….”

  He wrapped the cuff around her slender arm, inflating it by squeezing the attached rubber bulb, placed his stethoscope, and listened carefully. He would only get one chance at an accurate reading. If he asked to measure a second time, she would surely panic, driving the numbers up.

  “How is it?” She didn’t sound alarmed; on the contrary, she seemed to enjoy the extra attention.

  The systolic was 200. The diastolic, 140.

  “Jolly good,” Ben said breezily. “Have you been following my advice?”

  “As much as I can. Maybe a few extra pints to calm my nerves. Is there something I can do to get my leg back to normal size?”

  “Yes, but it’s a bit unusual,” Ben said. “Do you ever travel by car?”

  “Only once. To a funeral.”

  “Then you may not know that travel by car is quite relaxing. And relaxation is proven to reduce swelling,” Ben lied, still in that carefree tone. “I don’t have anyone booked for the afternoon. I don’t suppose you’d let me try the treatment on you, as a sort of experiment? It’s not a bad day for a drive. Bright and sunny, even if the trees are bare.”

  Most patients would have asked if he’d gone mental, but Mrs. Garrigan looked overjoyed. “Of course! I’m so tired of afternoons alone, scrubbing the same patch of lino.”

  “Wonderful.” Ben scribbled a note for Mrs. Cobblepot, left it in the center of his big black desk, and walked Mrs. Garrigan out to his Austin Ten. She giggled as she accepted his arm, thinking it a chivalrous flourish; in truth, he wanted a hand on her in case she collapsed.

  The drive felt endless. Ben kept her occupied with leading questions about Christmas in Birdswing. She was telling him about the time she was chosen to play Mary in the annual Christmas pageant, while her best mate was relegated to the role of a non-speaking sheep, when the two tall peaked roofs of St. Barnabas came into view.

  “Oh. There’s the hospital. Are those nuns on the veranda?”

  “Yes, they run the place. We doctors come and go at their pleasure,” Ben said. That wasn’t literally true, of course, but it felt that way to him when he compared St. Barnabas, a tiny cottage hospital run by no-nonsense sisters, to London’s St. Thomas, where nurses stood at attention for physicians and treated them with near-reverence. He parked just outside the front door.

  “Do you have an errand to—” She stopped. “Oh, dear. My leg.”

  “Now you must be very brave, for the sake of your child as well as yourself,” he said in a low, measured voice, looking directly into her eyes. “The condition is called deep vein thrombosis. That means there’s a blood clot in your calf, in a proximal vein. It can’t do much harm where it is, but we cannot allow it to shake loose and go to your lungs.”

  As he paused for breath, he fully expected Mrs. Garrigan to scream or cry. Instead, she kept still, listening.

  “The doctors here can give you a new medicine called heparin. That, along with bedrest, is what you need to neutralize the clot. Heparin
and bedrest will work,” he said, not because he thought the drug was infallible, but because he wanted her to believe it was infallible, not only with her head but her whole heart. “You’ll get the best of care around the clock. We won’t stop till the danger has passed.”

  “I see,” she whispered.

  “Can you keep calm while I bring you in?”

  She lifted her chin. “Of course. Whatever you say, Doctor.”

  He took her hand and squeezed it in both of his. “I’m so very proud of you. Just let me find a sister and a wheelchair.”

  * * *

  By sundown, Ben was still at St. Barnabas. Not because he was displeased with Mrs. Garrigan’s care, but because he didn’t want her to feel abandoned. With her husband in France, and her parents dead, she had no support system beyond those aforementioned neighbors, the fed-up mums. He wished they could see her now, cool and resolved with her life at stake. Some people were like that. They fretted endlessly over trifles, but when faced with danger, turned to steel.

  Like Juliet, falling to pieces over a hat but standing firm when held at gunpoint, he thought, smiling. She was an astonishing woman. Then he remembered he was angry with her, or himself, or someone.

  “Should I feel the medicine working?” Mrs. Garrigan asked Ben, who was stationed beside her bed. “Probably not. But my leg hurts less, and my feet are getting a proper rest.”

  “For now. But remember what Dr. Van Pelt said. St. Barnabas has a new approach to DVT,” Ben said. “The dogma I was taught, leg splints and bedrest, is now obsolete. A nurse may get you up and walking as soon as tomorrow.” He smiled at the thought. Drugs like heparin brought sweeping change, eliminating decades, even centuries, of accepted practice in a matter of months.

  “Tell me the truth, Dr. Bones. Like you did in the car,” she said, regarding him steadily. “Will I deliver this baby?”