Dr. Bones and the Lost Love Letter (Magic of Cornwall Book 2)

by Emma Jameson

  Dr. Bones and the Lost Love Letter

  Magic of Cornwall, Book #2

  Emma Jameson

  Lyonnesse Books

  Contents

  Copyright Page

  Author’s Note

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Postscript

  From the Author

  Also by Emma Jameson

  Dr. Bones and the Lost Love Letter

  Copyright © 2017 Emma Jameson

  First eBook Edition, 2017

  All Rights Reserved

  Cover design by J. David Peterson

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  Publisher’s Note:

  This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Author’s Note

  This novella is part of the Magic of Cornwall series, a companion to the Dr. Benjamin Bones Mysteries. The ideal reading order is:

  Marriage Can Be Murder (Bones #1)

  Divorce Can Be Deadly (Bones #2)

  Dr. Bones and the Christmas Wish (Magic of Cornwall #1)

  Dr. Bones and the Lost Love Letter (Magic of Cornwall #2)

  FORTHCOMING: Friendship Can Be Fatal (Bones #3)

  I’ve written these books so newcomers can, if desired, read them out of chronological order. However, for maximum enjoyment, I recommend following the list above. I do hope you’ll enjoy this latest offering. Cheers!

  Emma Jameson

  1

  By 10 February 1940, the tiny Cornish village of Birdswing was in crisis. This crisis had nothing to do with Britain’s recently implemented food rationing scheme, which limited each citizen’s ability to purchase bacon, butter, and meat. It was no good going to pieces over the government’s efforts to allocate foodstuffs and prevent the widespread hunger experienced during the Great War. As country folk, Birdswingers had certain advantages over city dwellers. They could supplement their store-bought items by fishing in Little Creek or buying a share in the Pig Club.

  Nor did the village turmoil concern the war, which was progressing uneventfully. First Lord of the Admiralty, Winston Churchill, called it the “Bore” War; even that most patriotic of Englishmen, Chief Air Warden and Special Constable Clarence Gaston, had called it “phony” in a weak moment. There had been no battles, no ground taken, and thankfully, no casualties. Between Christmas and Epiphany, many of Birdswing’s sons had received two days’ leave, returning fit and flash in their uniforms. If sitting around in France awaiting their baptism of fire had injured their nerves, they’d hidden it well, dancing and romancing with gusto.

  The crisis didn’t even concern the unusually cold winter, despite its having reached “Bloody York” levels, according to some. The snow was piled high and the roads stayed frozen, but Birdswingers had adapted. The vagaries of weather could never keep a Cornishman down.

  No, the village turmoil revolved around that supreme foible of all tight-knit communities, gossip. Specifically—there wasn’t any.

  Every first-year medical student knew that critical vitamin deficiencies gave rise to various maladies. Too little iron caused cold hands and feet; lack of calcium led to muscle cramps; a shortage of Vitamin C loosened teeth and softened bones. And as Dr. Benjamin Bones had discovered, a critical deficiency in gossip triggered various symptoms in his fellow villagers.

  The butcher, Mr. Jeffers, had reacted by turning into a fabulist, handing out nuggets of ersatz information with every joint of beef. “By April, the King will arrive on Bodmin, mark my words,” he’d blithely lied, passing a neatly-tied meat parcel across the counter. “London isn’t safe for His Majesty, so he’ll remove to the moors and live in a hut under an assumed name.” When Ben asked the butcher why he’d begun trafficking in obvious deceit, he’d replied, “Stratagems, Doc. Spreading falsehoods is an old Cavalier trick. He who disputes the lie lets slip the truth.”

  This approach might have befuddled the Roundheads in 1649, but in 1940 it did nothing but make Mr. Jeffers less popular than his meat prices, which was saying something. Meanwhile, the proprietor of the Sheared Sheep, Angus Foss, renowned skinflint and celebrated crank, had begun arguing with anyone who looked at him crooked. He’d even gone so far as to alienate those cantankerous old timewasters who made up his core clientele, accusing them of being, in his words, “cantankerous old timewasters.” To punish them for loafing more than drinking, he’d hidden the pub darts (leaving the board up as a silent recrimination) and done away with the racy postcards behind the bar.

  Ben’s across-the-street neighbor, Mrs. Parry, suffered more than most during the gossip drought. She’d even lost weight, strengthening the perception she literally subsisted on rumors and innuendo. Lately Ben had glimpsed her walking the streets at various hours, looking about hopefully as if something scandalous might fall from the sky. Meanwhile, Ben’s orange tabby cat, Humphrey, seemed too depressed to leave home. Instead of roaming the countryside, the tom now spent his days lying in a patch of sun, desultorily licking a paw.

  Even one of Birdswing’s most notorious figures, Ethan Bolivar, recently-reconciled husband of Lady Juliet, had failed to deliver. Dashing, charismatic, and deceitful, Ethan kicked off trouble wherever he went. But instead of settling in, Ethan had departed after the twelfth day of Christmas, going to Plymouth for what Juliet and her mother, Lady Victoria, called an extended business trip. As Ethan had no legitimate business, only a history of bad debts and felonious near-misses, the villagers assumed his trip was mere cover for more gambling and womanizing. Yet Juliet, who’d shocked everyone by taking him back, remained serenely silent on the topic. Reluctantly, Birdswingers had concluded that Juliet’s earlier protestations had been pure theater, and a reunion with Ethan was all she’d ever wanted. This was understandable, given the gravity of their commitment, but he’d made a fool of her time and again. It was hard to watch their spirited, outspoken Juliet lie down like a doormat and invite Ethan to walk all over her.

  If they only knew, thought Ben, smiling.

  He was sitting behind his big black-lacquered desk, which dominated his office in Fenton House. The impressive desk, inherited from his predecessor, had five drawers. The bottom drawer on the right contained a King James Bible, one of the few things Ben knew Mrs. Cobblepot, his housekeeper, would not move or attempt to scour if she came across it during one of her daily cleaning raids. Inside the Bible, he’d tucked a snapshot of Juliet taken a few months ago, during their excursion to Plymouth. When he was alone in the office, he often took out the photo and studied it, wishing he could connect with the woman herself as easily.

  In Birdswing, there was no such thing as privacy. Not the sort that he had known from birth as a native Londoner. In London, one was surrounded at any given moment by dozens of people consumed with many personal goals, not the least of which was ignoring virtually everyone they met. When it came to strangers, or even acquaintances, people found a reason to look elsewhere, to avoid the opportunity to
say hello, and if threatened with conversation, to shake open a newspaper and hide. Thus, it was no feat of skulduggery for a man to carry on an affair in London. He need only take a double-decker to another borough, meet his amour at a hole-in-the-wall club, and escort her to a suitably nondescript hotel. But none of these things existed in Birdswing. Not double-deckers, hole-in-the-wall clubs, or hotels, nondescript or otherwise.

  Can’t imagine her going for such a thing, even if it were possible, Ben thought, smiling at the picture. She disliked it; he wouldn’t have traded it for a fifty-pound note. Standing beside a memorial on a windy day, Juliet had forced a smile even as she kept her hat in place with one hand and pushed back some loose blonde curls with the other. The uncertainty in her gaze—the vulnerability of a woman who disliked posing for pictures— made her very pretty indeed. Heaven only knew how fast things would be progressing between them, if not for her faux marriage.

  Juliet and Ethan’s situation, boiled down to its bones, amounted to patriotism on her part and newfound heroism on his. Ethan was spying for Britain, gathering information on domestic Nazi sympathizers. As his cover relied on his ties to the Linton family, a spy handler from Whitehall had traveled all the way to Cornwall to ask Juliet to halt the almost-completed divorce process. Naturally, she’d agreed; what good Englishwoman wouldn’t? But as a result, because of the Official Secrets Act, she was required to pretend she and Ethan were back together. She couldn’t drop the charade until the war ended, or until it made her a widow.

  In London, we could have dinner, go dancing, take in the pictures, thought Ben, whose imagination didn’t stop there. But in Birdswing, even romance by telephone was dangerous, as the switchboard operator routinely eavesdropped on calls. Even an old-fashioned love letter carried risk, as the postmistress (who was also the switchboard operator) would surely remark on correspondence from Fenton House to Belsham Manor and back again. It was a shame, since by this point, Ben had enough pent-up energy to write a scorcher.

  Something creaked overhead. Looking up at the ceiling, Ben smiled again. The Fenton House ghost, Lucy, had fallen silent of late. Probably because another female had taken over the attic—Juliet.

  The attic scheme, which Ben and Juliet had hatched together, was working beautifully so far. One weekly trip by car from the Manor to the village proper wasn’t enough to arouse suspicion, so after running her usual Monday errands, Juliet went to Fenton House, arriving around eleven o’clock while Ben was still seeing patients. Going up to the attic, she resumed sorting and boxing Lucy’s personal effects. Her sudden death had left behind a jumble of items, many of which could be sold to benefit St. Mark’s or given away to the poor. This charitable endeavor put Juliet nearby, allowing Ben to go upstairs between patients and steal a little alone-time. Of course, Mrs. Cobblepot frequently popped in, too, so it was hardly the equivalent of an anonymous London hotel. But it was better than nothing.

  One last patient, Ben thought, glancing at his watch. Reluctantly, he tucked the photo of Juliet back into the Bible and put it away.

  It had been a busy morning. This was typical; Saturdays were usually smooth sailing, but by Sunday afternoon the water turned choppy. Ben, now a regular churchgoer who received considerable praise for setting a good example (and deserved none of it, as he attended to see Juliet) could scarcely rise after the dismissal before someone said, “Doctor, I hope it’s no bother, but may I have a word?”

  This “word” often turned out to be a full-blown complaint, including signs and symptoms. By the time Ben completed the short walk from St. Mark’s to Fenton House, Mr. Scow had described his halitosis; Miss Jones had hinted at a mortifying rash; and Mrs. Garrigan, the new mum, had whispered something about a “concern.” As she was holding her newborn son at the time, Ben had assumed this had to do with the baby. Because Mrs. Garrigan tended to worry, and because she’d already had one brush with death, Ben told her to come first thing on Monday, a quarter hour before his opening time. As expected, she arrived even earlier, and he was there to open the door.

  “Good morning,” Ben said to Mrs. Garrigan as he peeked in at Charles, asleep within warm swaddling. “I can’t imagine a more perfect baby. What’s the trouble?”

  “Oh, no, Doctor, it’s nothing to do with our Charles,” Mrs. Garrigan said. “He’s good as gold. It’s me.”

  “Not feeling dizzy again?” Eight weeks before the newborn’s arrival, Mrs. Garrigan had been hospitalized for deep vein thrombosis, or DVT. She’d responded well to a new wonder drug called heparin, and might never be troubled by the condition again. Or a new clot might be forming in her thigh or lower leg even now, destined to obstruct blood flow at the worst possible moment and put her in an early grave. “Headaches? Heart racing?”

  “None of that, thank goodness,” Mrs. Garrigan said. “I’m a little tired, keeping up with the wee one’s demands, but it’s a joy, isn’t it? The only bit I don’t fancy is forever boiling bottles.”

  “Milk still irregular?”

  “Yes, and he’s so keen for the bottle now, I’m not sure he’d give it up, even if my milk was more regular.” Mrs. Garrigan’s gaze darted around the office, lighting only briefly on Ben. “But I must try, because it’s better, isn’t it? Helpful, they say, in more ways than one?”

  “Of course. But you aren’t the first new mother to turn to formula and you won’t be the last,” Ben said reassuringly. “I reviewed the literature before I gave you those samples. A study in 1929 showed no difference in development or weight gain in bottle-fed babies. Cow’s milk or goat’s milk can be dangerous. But scientifically developed formula—”

  “I don’t mean that,” Mrs. Garrigan uncharacteristically cut across him. “Sorry, Doctor. I’m all aflutter. My Felix couldn’t get Christmas leave, and he missed the birth, you know, so Monday next he’s coming home for seven days. Seven whole days! He’ll be dead handsome in uniform, and I’ve missed him ever so much, but….” Trailing off, she stared hopefully into Ben’s eyes as if trying to bridge the gap telepathically.

  “In church, you said something about a concern,” Ben prompted, wondering if he’d overlooked an essential clue, as he had during her first medical crisis. “Are you quite certain you’re not experiencing renewed symptoms?”

  “No, I promise. Only with Felix coming home and Charles, who needs me every hour God sends….” She fell silent again.

  “Is it your husband? Are you worried he won’t know how to cope with the baby?”

  “Gracious, no. He has five brothers and six sisters. I expect he’ll teach me a trick or two.”

  “Then what?” He cast about in his mind for new mums’ rarer complaints. “Are you afraid Felix will feel neglected? Jealous of the baby?”

  Mrs. Garrigan shook her head. “Never. It isn’t Felix. It’s me. I—” Once again, words failed her, and she blew out her breath, defeated. “Oh, forgive me, Dr. Bones. There’s nothing the matter. I should never have taken up your time.”

  With that, she’d fled. Ben had followed her all the way to the High Street, but she wouldn’t return to his office or say anything more, except sorry.

  After Mrs. Garrigan, he saw a farmer with an infected toenail and a crofter’s wife with a nasty burn. Then came a little boy who’d taken to swallowing various objects to protest parental tyranny: bedtime, bathtime, veg before pudding, etc. The boy’s mother, clearly at her wits’ end, wanted Ben to lecture her child on the dangers of choking. After donning his starched white coat and head-strap mirror reflector, Ben had interviewed the boy. It seemed that after swallowing a tadpole over the summer, the child had received attention heretofore undreamt-of, inspiring him to perform more daring feats using buttons, pennies, and his sister’s paper doll.

  “I don’t reckon I’ll choke,” the boy had told Ben. “I’m experienced.”

  “Clearly.” Ben had sighed in the manner of a great healer forced to deliver grim news. “But when it comes to swallowing things, there can be unforeseen consequences. Tadpoles are
very bad. Especially when followed by ice cream. It makes them multiply. Odds are, you’ve bred a colony of frogs. I’ll bet you’ve felt them hopping around.”

  Eyes widening, the boy had nodded. Most children would agree with any statement made by a man in an impressive white coat with a shiny metal disc strapped to his forehead.

  “You must prepare yourself,” Ben had said dramatically. “The cure is rather extreme.”

  There he’d overplayed his hand. Little girls threatened with an operation tended to foresee fear, pain, and forced bedrest. But little boys often reveled in shocking proposals, going along boldly until words became action.

  “Cut me open and pull them out!” the boy had urged him.

  “Yes, well, I would,” Ben had said, ignoring the mother’s frantic throat-clearing. “Only your history of swallowing other objects renders surgery impossible. No, unfortunately, we’ll have no choice but to starve them out. That means absolutely no pudding, cheese, milk, or candy. Nothing for you but water and bread crusts. Oh, and no wireless. Frogs have been known to rally and live twice as long in boys who listen to adventure stories.”

  That proposal got the desired response. Once the boy had vowed to stop swallowing objects if he could avoid such a draconian cure, Ben finished up by peering down the child’s throat with a handheld torch and announcing that by some miracle, he saw no gastric amphibians clinging to the stomach lining.

  “You’re very lucky. But remember,” he’d warned the boy, “from now on, you must swallow nothing but food and drink. If I hear differently from your mother or teacher, it’ll be nothing but bread, water, and schoolbooks for six months.”