The Dr Benjamin Bones Omnibus

by Emma Jameson

  “People speak well of Miss Harington,” Mrs. Garrigan said. “It’s nothing against her. Only as a girl, I made a firm rule to stay away from libraries.”

  That caused Juliet to launch into an impassioned defense of libraries in general and Birdswing’s own library in particular. No one could withstand such a logical offensive; in the end, not only was Mrs. Garrigan convinced, but so were three other patients and a ward sister. Proud of herself, Juliet promised that on her next visit, she would bring a copy of The Yearling for Mrs. Garrigan to try, dismissing the expectant mother’s fear that such a celebrated novel was meant for cleverer people.

  “Anyone who’s lived a country life will get on with it beautifully,” Juliet assured her as she stood up to leave. “Picturegoer is all very well, but Woman cannot live by printed gossip alone. When I get back to the village, I’ll tell everyone you’re doing well, and I’ll make sure Father Cotterill mentions you in our prayers, Sunday next.”

  Mother was right, Juliet thought, walking out of St. Barnabas with her head held high. Birdswing was full of people riding out their own crises, some minor, some grave. She couldn’t cure Mrs. Garrigan, or promise her a healthy newborn, but she could lend her a book. It wasn’t much, but it was better than sitting at home wishing for a shin to kick.

  Other good deeds followed. On Sunday, she brought Old Robbie soup and visited with him for an hour. On Monday, she returned to the vicarage, the site of her dressing-down, and finally had her Christmas discussion with Father Cotterill. This time it went off without a hitch. Together, they sorted through St. Mark’s mothballed decorations, posted an audition notice for daytime carolers, and made a list of children in need. Juliet committed to gathering clothes, getting them sorted by age and sex, and wrapping them in festive paper.

  During their search for cheerful daylight activities, a Christmas bake-off came up. Of course, Mrs. Cobblepot would enter, which meant she would win. Foregone conclusions were discouraging, so Father Cotterill suggested she be asked to judge the competition instead.

  “You’re often at Fenton House,” he told Juliet. “Next time you drop by, will you ask her to do us the honor?”

  This was the moment Juliet both wanted and dreaded: legitimate business that would shunt her Ben’s way. Wednesdays were usually busy for him, particularly in the afternoon, so she chose to arrive then, expecting to have Mrs. Cobblepot all to herself.

  She’d forgotten the housekeeper’s obligation to the Archer twins. School was still in session, but given the boys’ parental situation, they’d been excused until further notice. Gaston had taken over their general management, but the indefatigable Mrs. Cobblepot was still expected to cook their meals and wash their clothes. So when Juliet arrived on Fenton House’s doorstep, it was Ben who opened the door.

  “Oh. Lady Juliet. It’s good to see you.”

  “I don’t mean to impose,” she said, wondering if she ought to make an excuse and flee. “Do you have a patient waiting?”

  “No. Things are quiet. I may visit Mrs. Smith in a bit. Down Pigmeadow Lane.”

  “I heard her rheumatism is kicking up.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  She regarded him steadily, wondering if she should manufacture another comment or wait for him to say something. The wind blew harder, making her shiver.

  “Cold today,” Ben said.

  “Yes, indeed. I don’t suppose I could, er… come inside?”

  “What? Of course. Sorry!” Opening the door wide, Ben stepped back to let her in. “So. How are you?” he asked, clearing his throat. “How’s your mother? How’s Old Robbie?”

  “Oh. Well. That is to say, I’m well,” she began, wondering if she still had the right to plop down on the sofa without invitation, as she’d done so many times before. Probably not. She couldn’t have felt more awkward if she’d burst into a stranger’s front room and proceeded to quiz him on politics and religion.

  “As for Mother, I hope the winter won’t prove too stressful. I didn’t like the sound of her breathing the other night.”

  “Call me at once if you think it necessary,” Ben said.

  “Yes, of course. As for Old Robbie, I think he’s taken a turn for the better. One doesn’t get to his age without being tough as old boots.”

  “Glad to hear it.”

  “Yes.” Why did she keep saying yes? If she didn’t come up with something better, Ben’s next question might be about Ethan, which would only make things even more awkward.

  “Caleb and Micah,” she said, seizing on the twins in desperation. “I’m pleased to report that several times this week, I’ve caught them in the act of being good citizens. When I heard Gaston was taking over, I expected him to chain them to a cellar wall. Instead, he has them painting fences, weeding gardens, and standing guard. I asked Caleb if he didn’t find it painfully boring, watching for enemy agents while Gaston sat in the pub drinking a pint. He told me, ‘Pain builds character.’ Can you believe it?”

  Ben chuckled. “You’re not the only one who underestimated Gaston’s ability to handle those boys. I suppose it comes from rearing two of his own. Heaven help the German who chooses our village to infiltrate. Between Gaston and the twins, the surrender will be quick and unconditional.”

  “This morning at Morton’s, I heard their visit with Helen went well,” Juliet said. “Most children would probably be traumatized for life if brought to jail for a chat with their mum. I think the boys half enjoyed it. One can only hope they appreciated the idea of justice prevailing and evildoers put away, as opposed to the convenience of finding a few dozen soul mates gathered under one roof.”

  This time Ben laughed outright, which to Juliet felt like a monumental victory. “Sit down,” he said, as if surprised to find her still standing. “I’ll put the kettle on.”

  It was all she could do not to burst into song. “Have you made any progress with the case?” she called.

  “No, but I need to try,” Ben replied from the kitchen, over the sound of a running tap. “Did the Morton’s crowd know Mrs. Archer recanted her confession?”

  “Naturally.”

  “And that Plymouth CID still refused to release her?”

  “That part went without saying. The murder took place in a great house,” Juliet said. “Only think how it would look for them to release her and turn up empty pockets when the press comes calling. Until they find a new suspect, they’ll keep her under lock and key for bearing false witness, or whatever the technical term is.”

  “She’ll have to answer for that,” Ben agreed, returning to the front room and sitting across from her. “Hopefully the judge won’t be too hard on her, given she’s a widow with two sons and a business to keep afloat. But to keep her behind bars just to make themselves look more competent is reprehensible. It defies all logic. When you work through a differential diagnosis, you collect the facts and strike out the diseases that don’t fit.”

  “I’m sure that’s true. But if you hit a snag in making a final diagnosis,” Juliet said, “I doubt you’ll open the next day’s newspaper to find yourself described as incompetent and disinterested in public safety.”

  “Fair point.” Ben sighed. “The coroner in Plymouth is a bit cross with me, by the way. He finished Bobby’s post-mortem but can’t clear the case from his docket until I write up my findings. I’m not willing to do so until I’m absolutely certain there’s nothing more I can do to catch Bobby’s killer.”

  “Did he say what the post-mortem found?”

  “Death by exsanguination, second to a throat wound severing the jugular and carotid,” Ben said matter-of-factly. “No surprises, like poison in the system or a hidden disease. Now that Mrs. Archer’s recanted, I wonder if the detectives will return to Fitchley Park anytime soon? I mentioned the crime scene photos Father Rummage took, but they treated me like I was a ludicrous amateur. Quite possibly I am, but if they’re back to square one, those pictures are the only record of the crime scene. Seems like as good a place to start a
s any.”

  “Oh! The photos.” Juliet stared at him. “I only just realized we never looked them over together. Perhaps they contain a smoking gun, as Dirk Diamond likes to say.”

  “I doubt it. You said they were unremarkable.”

  “To me, yes. But I should still bring them round for your opinion, when I’m in the village next. Two heads are better than one.” If Juliet had felt like singing before, she now felt an aria coming on. Possibly a light opera.

  “When you’re in the village next?” Ben look surprised. “I know things have been—disrupted, so to speak, due to your, er, happy news. But tomorrow is the day we give evidence. I thought we’d take the train to Plymouth together.”

  Juliet didn’t know how to answer. Rather, she knew what she was meant to say. Duggin had been very firm on that point. Though treason proceedings were kept from the public, word of her change in stance would still reach those who had ears to hear. It always did. But knowing her duty didn’t make doing it any easier.

  “I won’t be giving evidence,” she said quietly.

  “What?”

  “It shan’t affect the verdict. The defense council has already constructed an opposing narrative to render my testimony unreliable,” she said. “They’ll say I was in love with—you know. That I was jealous and hysterical, and now I’m out for revenge.”

  “How do you know what the defense will say?” He sounded gobsmacked.

  Juliet cringed. She’d done exactly what Duggin had warned against—inserted privileged details that couldn’t be explained.

  “Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it? You don’t have to be Dr. Carl Jung to work out what the defense’s position will be,” she said, hoping the celebrated doctor would forgive her for dropping his good name into her web of lies. “Why should I go and be insulted when your evidence will be more than sufficient to convict them?”

  “You’ve been champing at the bit to have your say,” Ben snapped, a flush rising from under his collar. “Two weeks ago, you were practicing a monologue about English patriotism in the mirror. I threatened to inject you with a sedative.”

  “Don’t let’s quarrel over it,” she pleaded. “I changed my mind. Isn’t that a woman’s prerogative? And just because I won’t give evidence, it doesn’t mean the outcome is endangered. I’m certain of it.”

  Ben stared at her. “Your husband,” he said at last, in a tone he’d never used with her. “He objected, didn’t he?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “He—he doesn’t approve.”

  “Why?”

  “He thinks the courts are unfair. That some people are being persecuted for their political views,” Juliet said. Those were the phrases Duggin had supplied. “I don’t agree. Of course I don’t agree. But at the end of the day, Ethan is my husband, and I must accede to his wishes.”

  Ben’s flush turned scarlet. He stood up. “I just remembered. I said I’d visit Mrs. Smith a quarter-hour ago. She’ll be wondering. I’d better go.”

  “But—tea. What about tea?” Juliet asked. On cue, the kettle started to whistle.

  “Help yourself. If Ethan doesn’t object,” Ben said contemptuously. Then he yanked his hat and coat off the rack and strode out, leaving her sitting alone in his front room.

  The Especial Genius of Monsieur Baptiste

  4 December 1939

  In the winter, Victoria Linton liked to rise early. Some mornings she sat in front of her electric fire reading; other mornings she went down to the kitchen, where bread for lunch and dinner was already baking, and shared a pot of coffee with the cook. Since the illness that had killed her husband and weakened her heart, she found cold-weather forays into the village proper more tiring than she cared to admit. Fortunately, her cook—a lifelong friend named Ruth—was a lively conversationalist more than capable of passing along the latest. As chairwoman of the Council and Birdswing’s chief citizen, Victoria considered it her duty to know what went on. Strictly the facts, with a minimum of editorializing. Of course Juliet was always brimming with news, but her version of events was usually filtered through the concern du jour. For a week after her involvement in a young girl’s rescue, Juliet had been unable to relate anything about current events without connecting it to Dr. Bones and his piercing blue eyes.

  After lunch and bit of embroidery, Victoria sometimes grew drowsy. Sometime around two, she often returned to her bed for a nap. It allowed her to replenish her strength and gave her the stamina to stay up late with Juliet, who liked a long conversation after listening to a favorite wireless program like It’s That Man Again.

  She was on her way upstairs when she heard raised voices. As usual, it was Juliet and Ethan. Duggin’s instructions for them to “keep up appearances” at home—to behave like lovebirds in view or earshot of the staff—had clearly fallen on deaf ears.

  “I only said—”

  “I don’t care. I’m going to bed, and I’m locking the door,” Juliet shouted. “What a curse it is, never to have a moment to oneself!”

  Victoria found Ethan standing beside the staircase, hand resting on the lintel. He was wearing one of his ensembles she secretly thought of as “The Master Rides to Hound,” which meant a woolen jumper, knee-patch breeches, and black riding boots topped with bands of russet leather. He looked like a berk, but an upper crust berk, his jacket mended in spots, his boots down-at-heel. Only the aristocracy would dare to wear clothes until they fell to rags; the bourgeoisie would die of shame.

  “What happened, Ethan?”

  “I’ll be deuced if I know. I think I said hello.”

  “It had to be more than that.”

  “It wasn’t,” he said, and she believed him. Ethan was an accomplished liar, but mostly about the big things—his family history, his bank account, etc. Lying about a remark he’d made two minutes ago wasn’t grand enough to be worth his while. “I’m concerned about her demeanor.”

  “She’s been weepy lately, which is understandable, given the circumstances.”

  “Not weepy. Gutted,” he said with conviction. “If I knock on her door, it’ll be curtains. I don’t suppose you could go up and have a look?”

  “Of course.” Victoria started up the stairs and then paused, looking back at him over her shoulder. “Congratulations on keeping in character. One who didn’t know any better would imagine you genuinely care.”

  Ethan smiled wryly, looked at his feet, and for once had the decency to say nothing.

  * * *

  “Go away,” Juliet called through the door when Victoria knocked. “‘When beggars die, there are no comets seen.’”

  “Yes, well, I’m not sure what Julius Caesar has to do with it, but some believe a quote from Shakespeare is always appropriate,” Victoria said. “Please let me in. I’ll fret endlessly until you do.”

  She waited. After a moment, the lock rattled and the door opened.

  Juliet was not weeping, which was a relief. Still, Ethan had hit the mark. Gutted was right.

  “Thank you, dear,” she said as she entered. “What’s happened between you and Dr. Bones?”

  “How do you know it’s him?”

  “I begin to be psychic in my old age. Also, I didn’t like how he left it, the morning after the dinner party.”

  “He’s lost all respect for me.” Juliet heaved herself onto her four-poster, which had been in the Linton family for many years. It was sturdy enough to withstand such a blow, which would have flattened ordinary beds. That was fortunate, as she’d acquired the habit of throwing herself down during her melodramatic teenage years and now continued it into her semi-melodramatic adulthood.

  “I told him I wouldn’t give evidence. He asked why, so of course I said Ethan. Now he thinks I’m a ninny.”

  “I doubt that very much. He’s probably just bewildered by what seems like a hundred-and-eighty degree change of direction,” Victoria said. “You’ve been on fire to enter that courtroom and say your piece ever since the arrest. To suddenly an
nounce, ‘Never mind,’ would strike anyone as bizarre. Particularly a close friend.”

  “Friend,” Juliet repeated bitterly. She lay on her back staring up at the four-poster’s canopy. “Not anymore. Ethan’s destroyed everything I ever wanted, including my connection to the only person worth talking to in this godforsaken place.”

  “Small wonder you feel like a dying beggar,” Victoria said, fighting a smile. “But I must say you’re bearing up beautifully. I expected to find you sobbing inconsolably.”

  “I’ve issued a moratorium on sobbing. It doesn’t do any good.”

  “Sometimes it does. Bottling up sadness is like borrowing money with interest. In the end, the bill still comes due, only larger. Do you know what I think?”

  “I should have gone to Clarion Academy and learned how to catch a respectable husband?” Juliet asked with still greater bitterness, if such a thing was possible.

  “I think you need a change. I’ve embarked on a secret project,” Victoria said. “It began a few weeks ago. To be honest, I haven’t covered my tracks very well, and I’ve kept expecting you to confront me. But unless you’d care to confess now, I think it’s possible I’ve succeeded in keeping you in the dark.”

  “Dark is exactly right. Dark as the grave.” Juliet sat up suddenly. “Wait. Does it have to do with secondhand clothes for the poor? If it does, I had an inkling. I just chose to ignore it, because I’m unforgivably self-absorbed.”

  “It has to do with the coming clothes ration,” Victoria said. “I know you haven’t taken much interest, but I’ve thought about it a great deal. Tell me, darling. Do you trust me?”

  “What? Of course I trust you.”

  “I mean deep down. Where the sole meets the soil. Do you believe I have nothing but your happiness at heart?”