The Dr Benjamin Bones Omnibus

by Emma Jameson

  “Yes.”

  “Will it be healthy?”

  “I don’t see why not.”

  She was silent. Then: “Will I get another clot someday?”

  “Perhaps. But that’s why St. Barnabas is here. And why I’m here.”

  “You saved my life. Thank you,” Mrs. Garrigan said. “Thank you for listening to me.”

  Ben’s eyes stung. For a moment, he was tempted to confess. Then he dropped his head, bit his lip, and accepted her gratitude with a spontaneous prayer.

  I won’t forget this. I’ll do better in future. I promise.

  The Phantom

  Dinner at St. Barnabas, although begged off the cook an hour after dinner, was better than most hospital meals. It was hot for one thing, and seasoned for another. The only meat was in the soup—boiled chicken—but it was filling. Along with the soup came mushy peas, boiled potatoes, and a roll, all quite decent. Only the pudding—literally tapioca pudding—looked like something out of a bricklayer’s pail.

  After dinner, he looked in on Mrs. Garrigan again. She was propped up on pillows, one hand resting on her belly.

  “Hello, Dr. Bones. I hope they’ll make you as comfortable as I am, since you’re stuck here overnight.”

  “They will. It won’t be the first time I’ve begged a cot from the charge sister.”

  “Dr. Bones? From Birdswing?” a young woman in a pink-striped pinafore asked. He nodded as she pushed her library cart to Mrs. Garrigan’s bedside. The cart offered a modest collection of novels and magazines, all well-worn.

  “Only look! Picturegoer,” Mrs. Garrigan said happily. “Since my husband joined up, I’ve gone off dancing, but I go to the pictures every week.”

  Passing over the magazine, the volunteer glanced at Ben, dipped her head, and looked again amid a fluttering of black lashes. Her blonde hair was held back by a pair of tortoiseshell combs. He’d always liked blondes, especially her sort, with her slender neck and confident air.

  “You’ll enjoy that one,” she told Mrs. Garrigan. “My friend donated it, but only after we’d read it to pieces.”

  As his patient started her dose of cinema gossip, Ben wished her a restful night, nodded at the pretty volunteer, and went downstairs. The charge sister was transparently annoyed by his request for a bed assignment. She consulted a ledger, rang another nurse, muttered about “some doctors,” then marched off to survey the wards. Ben took a seat in the visitor’s waiting room. His thoughts had only just returned to his list of Fitchley Park suspects when cart wheels squeaked across the linoleum.

  “We meet again,” the blonde volunteer said. “I’m Peggy Dean.”

  “I’m Ben.” He gestured at the empty chair beside him. “I’m surprised you’re here so late. Surely St. Barnabas doesn’t require its volunteers to stay the night?”

  “No. I could have ridden my bicycle home, but I left it too long,” Peggy said. “My friend was meant to meet me around three for a bit of fun. By the time she rang to say it was off, it was too close to sunset for me to risk it. I decided to crack on until the wards were quiet, then kip for the night in a linen closet. Some coincidence we’ve both stuck overnight, eh?” She fluttered those curling black lashes again. “You’re getting quite the reputation. Is it true you turned Mrs. Archer over to Scotland Yard?”

  “No. Special Constable Gaston made arrangements with Plymouth CID. Mrs. Archer is my patient, and I consider myself her advocate, come what may.”

  Peggy looked around before leaning closer. Around her neck was a paper-thin heart, colored to look like gold, hanging on a junk chain. Only a very young woman could wear such a thing without looking undiscerning. Their dewy youth made it seem playful and fresh instead of worthless.

  “I’m on Mrs. Archer’s side, too,” she whispered. “I think she’ll be proved innocent.”

  “Is that so?”

  Peggy nodded. “I live in Barking, but I know Mrs. Archer from her restaurant in Birdswing. Sometimes my sisters and I drop in for pie and a Schweppes. Sad old bird. I wouldn’t swap places with her for a million pounds, stuck with those heathen boys while Bobby did as he pleased.”

  “‘Bobby?’” Ben said, noting that Peggy used his Christian name. “Sounds like you knew him better than you knew his wife.”

  “Not by choice.” She rolled her eyes. “He was in and out of the village all summer. Every time I walked the dog, there he was, winking or making a comment. When he wasn’t in the pub, his lorry was on its way up to Fitchley Park. We used to joke about what he was delivering.”

  “We?”

  “Oh. Betsy and me. She works at Fitchley Park, in the kitchen,” Peggy said. “I told her Bobby was stinking up the pub again, pestering Old Mrs. Trentham, and Betsy said the man never sleeps, because he’s visiting the park at all hours of the night.”

  “I see.” Ben decided to find out how much more Peggy would volunteer. “I believe I’ve met Betsy, briefly. The cook, Mrs. Tippett, seems like a hard mistress.”

  “She’s a beast. You know the sort. Frustrated,” Peggy declared, glancing toward the charge desk as if to assure herself it was still empty. “She’s the reason Betsy called off our get-together. Some matter of life and death involving the soup. Can you believe it? Let the old bat work in a hospital for a day or two, and she’ll know about life and death.”

  “I wonder who Bobby was seeing at Fitchley Park,” Ben said. “If it was a company lorry, I’m surprised he wasn’t discharged for wasting petrol, what with the ration.”

  “Oh, I know all about that,” Peggy said, toying with her necklace.

  She didn’t strike him as an entirely reputable source, but there was no harm in listening to what she had to say. “I’d like to hear it,” he said in a low, just-between-us voice, holding her gaze till she giggled.

  “Why, Dr. Bones! How can I say no when you look at me that way?” She shot another glance at the charge sister’s empty desk. “Lady Maggart was feathering her nest. Bobby wasn’t making deliveries in the furniture lorry. He was loading up heirlooms for auction.”

  “What?”

  “It’s clever, really,” Peggy said, clearly enjoying his attention. “Lord Maggart’s very ill. When he dies, Lady Maggart will be out in favor of whoever inherits. Perhaps a niece or nephew. Betsy said she heard Mrs. Tippett telling Kitty that when Lady Maggart goes, it will be with her clothes, her jewelry, and nothing else. So last year, her ladyship started selling off bits and bobs. Little sculptures, first edition books, and so on. Then she started selling off beds and chests and paintings, frames and all. Bobby whisked them away to an auctioneer and brought back replacements for the larger things. Betsy heard him say he knows a man who can make a new chair look a hundred years old with nothing but Borax and a wire brush.”

  Ben remembered the vast kitchen with its battered, mismatched implements, and the paltry decorations in every room but Lady Maggart’s. Still, the brazenness of such theft was hard to believe.

  “Surely Lord Maggart would have noticed?”

  “His lordship doesn’t know what day of the week it is,” Peggy said. “Or if it’s day or night, poor lamb. His long-lost heir will get the family portraits, the silver, and some imposters to fill out the solicitor’s inventory.”

  “So everyone but Lord Maggart knew,” Ben said. If Peggy’s account were true, Lady Maggart and her staff had pulled off a conspiracy of unusual scope and duration. Which might embolden them to attempt something similar after a murder. Mr. Collins had already proven himself capable of offenses that could send him to prison, and Mrs. Tippett seemed jaded enough to at least turn a blind eye. The rest of the staff, like Kitty, Betsy, and John, would do as they were told, either to get along or in hopes of future gain. But that still left Mrs. Grundy, who’d grown up at Fitchley Park and would surely object to Lady Maggart’s theft.

  “It seems like someone would have tipped off the police. At least anonymously,” Ben said. “What about the housekeeper?”

  “The Phantom?” Peg
gy laughed.

  Ben had a sudden image of Lon Chaney on the silver screen, unmasked by Mary Philbin. He’d seen the film several times in his mid-teens, when every boy he’d known had spent their pocket money on horror spectacles like The Phantom of the Opera, The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari, or Nosferatu.

  “Have you had a look at her?” Peggy asked, glancing toward the charge sister’s empty desk again. “Wouldn’t she be at home banging on a pipe organ?”

  “Yes, well. Beauty, skin deep, and so on,” Ben muttered, wondering if that faux gold heart was the only one Peggy had. He wanted very much to add a cutting remark, but telling her off would get him no closer to finding out who killed Bobby and why. “Do you think Mrs. Grundy was in on Lady Maggart’s scheme?”

  “Cor!” Peggy giggled. “Never. She’s in love with the old gent, and that keeps her busy. Nurses him through the night when he has one of his spells. Kitty told Betsy her ladyship invents things for Mrs. Grundy to do. Makes up errands. Even sends her into the village. The Phantom has been sighted in the Cow Hole rose garden, the pub, and St. Gwinnodock’s.”

  In love with Lord Maggart? Ben thought, filing it away. As with everything Peggy said, it warranted verification, but struck him as plausible. They’d grown up together, perhaps shared secrets and become affectionate, at least on her side. It wasn’t outrageous for a maid to dream of being raised up by her lord and master—popular literature was clogged with such fables.

  “You said you thought Mrs. Archer would be proved innocent. Who do you think killed Bobby?” Ben asked.

  “His lordship. Or the Phantom. Or the two of them together,” Peggy said lightly, as if choosing horses to back at the races.

  “Why Lord Maggart?”

  “He’s terribly confused. It makes him cross. He’s always threatening to hit someone with his cane,” Peggy said. “If Bobby was visiting her ladyship to do more than shift furniture, and the old gent came upon them, it would be a crime of passion. Mrs. Grundy would have helped him cover it up. Or she would have done it herself to avenge him,” she added, as if the idea had just occurred to her.

  “Have you ever known her to be violent?” Ben asked.

  “No. But she’s a thief. Not a clever one like Lady Maggart. I’d secure my future, too, if I was soon to be a widow with no children and nowhere to live. But the Phantom’s different. She’s a low thief,” Peggy said scornfully. “Those Picturegoer magazines on my cart? They used to be Betsy’s. She donated them to the hospital rather than let the Phantom confiscate them. She does searches and seizures, like the staff girls are her prisoners. Takes away everything she calls ‘corrupting.’ Novels, magazines, tubes of lipstick. I don’t know how Betsy can bear it.”

  Ben bit his lip. Of course this girl with her high cheekbones and peaches-and-cream skin would cast Mrs. Grundy as a Hollywood monster. Then again—hadn’t he glimpsed an issue of Picturegoer in the housekeeper’s sitting room?

  “Dr. Bones. There’s an open bed in ward two. You may sleep there tonight.” The sister in charge spoke so sharply, he stood to attention like a medical student. “Miss Dean. How disappointing to find you imposing on another physician’s time and patience. I shall speak to the head of the Young Ladies’ Auxiliary.”

  “Yes, sister.” Peggy hurried off, head bowed. This left no chance for goodbyes, which suited Ben. Her casual cruelty about Mrs. Grundy had left a bad taste in his mouth.

  His assigned bed was one of three in the Peace ward. In a quiet little cottage hospital like St. Barnabas, three to a ward was typical; to Ben, accustomed to what seemed like warehouses stacked with patients, two silent roommates was indistinguishable from none. Dressed in threadbare hospital-issue pajamas, he climbed into bed amid a host of familiar noises: cart wheels squeaking, sisters conferring, and the endless soft patter of footfalls on linoleum. Almost as soon as he closed his eyes, he fell asleep. It was the best sleep he’d had since leaving London.

  His Wishes

  3 December 1939

  Duggin hadn’t been surprised by Juliet’s decision to scrap the divorce. In fact, he’d been so confident Juliet would agree to assist with Ethan’s spy work, he’d already conceived a plan of action to ensure their “reconciliation” appeared believable to the public at large.

  First she would be disentangled from giving evidence at a certain trial. As it turned out, Juliet was a far less pivotal witness than she’d imagined, perhaps because of that preemptive character assassination Duggin had described. In fact, she didn’t even have to go to Plymouth and explain herself to a judge, as she’d imagined. It was both convenient and galling to learn that Ethan could handle all the details himself, simply by virtue of being her husband.

  Second, Duggin wanted Ethan to move back into Belsham Manor, at least on paper. Naturally, Ethan couldn’t remain in Birdswing and spy for Britain. But having his personal possessions transferred back to the house, directing his mail to Birdswing, etc., would powerfully reinforce the illusion of restored influence over Juliet and Lady Victoria.

  Third, Ethan would stay in Birdswing until after New Year’s Day. He was meant to have tamed the shrew, partly for his so-called friends and their vile cause, and partly for his own comfort. Now that he had regained access to the Linton fortune, he must be seen enjoying it.

  Fourth, Duggin wanted them to be seen out and about as a happy couple. He even had the cheek to suggest possible activities, all of them abhorrent: taking in the pictures, dancing at the Palais, attending church, even taking a long holiday in Plymouth and booking the honeymoon suite at the Duke of Cornwall hotel, an action the BUF would surely consider friendly. Behind Duggin’s blank face lurked the heart of a sadist, apparently. Juliet hadn’t minced her words.

  “Mr. Duggin. I will not accompany Ethan to the cinema,” she’d said. “I will not dance with him at the Palais. We will not throw a Christmas party, and we will certainly not embark on a honeymoon pantomime for fascists. We will attend church together, during which I promise to pray for your soul as much as mine.”

  “I understand,” Duggin had replied, completely undeterred by her defiance. “This is why we must manage the gossip as much as we can. Your staff will be cornered and questioned in your absence. It’s no use asking them to recite a script. But if you keep up appearances, the desired narrative will take shape. Whispers are inevitable. It’s imperative those whispers describe cordiality at home, meals taken together, and a shared bed.”

  “Hah!” Juliet had cried. “Try and make me.”

  “Darling, he speaks of appearances only. The master bedroom is quite large….” Ethan had begun.

  She’d rounded on him, too. “Darling. Let me be clear. When staff or villagers are about, you may indulge in certain liberties, including the judicious use of endearments. But in private, you will not call me dear, darling, sweetheart, sugar, ducky, pigsney, or dear old thing. Nor will you refer to yourself as my hero, my white knight, or—most especially—my Romeo. As for the bedroom,” she’d continued, scarcely pausing to draw breath, “there’s a fine old tradition of respectable couples keeping in separate rooms. I happen to know Odette Maggart has a private boudoir with a lighted mirror from New York City. If she can lock out her husband at night, so can I.”

  Once Duggin and Ethan had been driven away, doubtless to dream up new ways to put the screws to her, Lady Victoria had asked, “What did the lighted mirror from New York City have to do with your argument, dear?”

  “I don’t know. Ben described it, and I thought it sounded rather wonderful. So in the heat of the moment, I threw it in.”

  Mentioning Ben proved unwise. It made tears threaten, and Juliet couldn’t go to pieces every time she thought of him. How could she impersonate a cheerful wife if she always looked like she’d come from a funeral? Besides, excessive weeping was the first step on the road to becoming a ninny. And if she allowed herself to become a ninny, the subsequent responsibilities wouldn’t be pleasant. She’d be required to shriek over a mouse, treat the arrival of desser
t like a moral crisis, and wander about looking for ordinary things to declare offensive. It didn’t bear imagining.

  “Oh, Mother. I know I have to hold my head up and do this properly. I just don’t know how,” she’d confessed.

  “I do,” Lady Victoria had said. “You start by finding someone else with a problem, and try to help.”

  * * *

  Lady Victoria’s plan, which initially struck Juliet as ludicrously pat, carried her through what otherwise would have been an excruciating week. That first day, after Ben departed without eating breakfast, she’d circled Birdswing on a number of ersatz errands, desperate to happen upon him and reassure herself they were still on speaking terms. Eventually, however, word came from Mrs. Cobblepot that he’d driven Mrs. Garrigan to St. Barnabas. Juliet decided her first act would be to pop in and visit the expectant mother.

  She found Mrs. Garrigan in the cottage hospital’s upper day room, where ambulatory patients were encouraged to take in the “good light” and “vitalizing view,” as one of the sisters explained. Since they’d never been close, Juliet didn’t know how she’d be received, but Mrs. Garrigan was overjoyed to see her.

  This made Juliet feel a little guilty, since she’d gone mostly to cheer herself up. As she’d expected, they still had next to nothing in common, apart from gender and marital status. But then she learned Mrs. Garrigan loved to read but was afraid of the Birdswing lending library.

  The fault lay with the librarian from her school days, Miss Ida Dratt, who’d been a one-woman scourge on children. She’d discouraged the boys and girls from touching the books, lest they leave dirty fingerprints, and read aloud to them only from Pilgrim’s Progress or the Old Testament. Such animosity toward youngsters sprang, no doubt, from the childhood tragedy of being called Ida Dratt, but it no longer mattered; Miss Dratt had retired. The new librarian, Miss Verbena Harington, was kind to everyone and more than happy to encourage young readers or discuss literature—in an appropriately soft voice, of course.