by Emma Jameson
“‘From afar, I suppose the moment that changed my life must have appeared as prosaic as every other. The bell rang, as it does so many times each day, and I looked up, the welcome on my lips perfunctory and threadbare, divorced from all meaning….’” Juliet paused for breath before plunging on. “‘And then our eyes met, and the worlds shifted. No poet would dare employ such a hackneyed phrase, yet I can think of no other. The insincere greeting died on my lips, as impurity cannot resist the cleansing fire; even an undeserving creature such as myself cannot persist in falsehood when faced with his ideal, his imago, his reason for living and, should fate demand it, his reason for relinquishing that life.’”
“We really shouldn’t be listening to this poor man’s rot,” Ben broke in, chuckling uncomfortably. “Overwrought and ridiculous, wouldn’t you—”
He stopped. Juliet and Mrs. Cobblepot were glaring at him as if he’d switched off the wireless during It’s That Man Again.
“Rot, is it?” Juliet asked.
“Never mind him. Go on,” Mrs. Cobblepot urged her. Juliet read:
“‘Where once I believed any man with an hour and an ulterior motive could write intricate descriptions of his devotion, I find myself today with a free afternoon, a devotion so pure it astonishes me, and this uncharacteristic poverty of words.’”
Chuckling again, Ben felt the heat of the women’s disapproval. He forced himself to finish his sandwich as Juliet continued,
“‘Before I knew you, my existence was a foregone conclusion. I knew every step before I took it, every word before I said it, every choice before I made it. Loving you has swept away all certainty, bringing with it both fear and delight. My old life is dust and bereft of mourners, my old patterns of thought obliterated. I await each new day, each sunrise, with gratitude and an awareness of what can only be called grace.’”
Moving to the second page, Juliet said, “‘Oh. This part must have been written rather hastily. Every other line is smeared or crossed out. It’s dated 14 February.” She read:
“‘You will not accept my letter, will not speak to me, will not even look me in the eye….’” Frowning, she fell silent.
“What happened?” Mrs. Cobblepot sounded shocked.
“The affair ended,” Juliet replied distractedly, still reading.
“That’s it. As the only man in the room, I must speak up for this poor beggar, whoever he is,” Ben said. “This wasn’t meant for us to hear. We should burn the letter and be done with it.”
“We’ve come too far for that,” Mrs. Cobblepot said.
“Quite right.” Juliet began again. “‘14 February. You will not accept my letter, will not speak to me, will not even look me in the eye, after you uttered that last terrible speech.
“‘You say it is over. That we must never see one another again. That I must forget what happened and disavow it utterly, as a madman, once cured, disavows his delusions. What am I to make of this?
“‘Is what we shared so deplorable in your mind? Have you come to despise me, to find me morally repellant?
“‘Rereading my own words now feels like an accusation. How ridiculous the page seems, exposing my grandiosity, my egotism writ large. Where were you in it, I wonder? I see only references to myself. What I believed. The possibilities which suddenly occurred to me. My transformation, the redemption of my character. Is that what drove you away? Did I forget to celebrate you, your charms, your virtues, even your foibles? I now comprehend what King Solomon meant when he wrote, “Then I looked on all the works that my hands had wrought, and on the labor that I had labored to do: and, behold, all was vanity and vexation of spirit, and there was no profit under the sun.”
“‘I realize you will perhaps never read this. Yet I have one final truth to tell.
“‘When I was a boy, only one man in my village, Squire Philpott, possessed an automobile. It was an infernal thing, prone to failure. One day it surged out of control, struck a wall, and killed him. The steering apparatus collapsed and the exposed shaft pierced his chest. It impaled him through the lungs, not the heart, yet it was a wound no man can survive.
“‘I was there when Squire Philpott staggered free of the wreck. It was a sight I shall never forget. Not the blood or the gore but the look in his eyes, the terror and disbelief. He lurched about, keeping his feet for what seemed like an eternity, though it must have been only a minute. I think he was trying to behave as a man would after a lesser crash. To tut over the damage and hang the blame on some gear or cylinder. But all he could say was ‘No, no, no.’
“‘At last he dropped and was still. When I confessed to my father that I was relieved when Squire Philpott gave up the ghost, he replied, ‘The poor devil was already dead.’
“‘For years, I puzzled over my father’s words. How can a man arise and move, however pathetically, and speak, however brokenly, and yet be dead?
“‘Now I know. I comprehend it only too well, my love, my only love, my lost sweetheart. And it was no accident that I was one of the few people to behold Squire Philpott’s sad demise. It was a foretelling of my own fate.’”
No one seemed to know what to say. After what felt like a long time, Juliet folded up the letter and slipped it back in the envelope.
“I wonder who wrote it. Not to mention who it was meant for.”
“There’s not much to go on,” Ben said. Apparently, the habit of detection became increasingly difficult to resist, even in cases where it probably ought not be used. “We know the letter writer is male. We know he works in a shop, or once did. He’s educated, clearly, though a prodigious vocabulary doesn’t rule out self-education. Do either of you recognize the Squire Philpott story?”
Both women shook their heads.
“Then we know he was born somewhere other than Birdswing or Barking. That, and if he’s still alive, he’s probably around fifty years old.”
“Angus Foss was born in Scotland,” Juliet said. “He’s fifty-two—no, fifty-three. But I can’t imagine him writing such a letter. Then again, I’m not sure I’ve ever seen him write anything at all, apart from totaling receipts and marking his racing form.”
Mrs. Cobblepot said nothing. She’d gone pale, as if the contents of the letter had touched her personally.
“What about your brother?” Ben asked her. “You two were born outside Birdswing, right?”
“Yes, we came as children. But Clarence never wrote that.” Mrs. Cobblepot’s voice quavered. “But I believe I know who did.”
4
Hole-and-corner, Juliet Linton-Bolivar thought on her way back to the village proper the next morning. As she had no bicycle, and petrol rationing meant she could only drive the Crossley once a week, she’d saddled up Epona for the occasion. An experienced equestrienne, she enjoyed the opportunity to ride, even if it meant she couldn’t dress up for Ben. Besides, riding gave her the opportunity to collect her thoughts before she and Ben brought the lost love letter to their prime suspect.
Mrs. Cobblepot had convinced them that their quarry was none other than Birdswing’s chemist, Mr. Dwerryhouse. He was the correct age, had grown up elsewhere, and like all the men of his profession, was extensively educated. Juliet had never heard of Mr. Dwerryhouse, who was unmarried, in any romantic context, nor had she ever stopped to wonder why. Yet the older residents of Birdswing like Mrs. Cobblepot knew a story about Mr. Dwerryhouse’s failed youthful romance that they didn’t repeat. And they didn’t repeat it because it was hole-and-corner.
The phrase usually meant secret, albeit with an unsavory connotation, like black market beef or whatever business transactions the barmaid, Edith, conducted upstairs at the Sheared Sheep. But in Birdswing, hole-and-corner also had a special meaning, one that was, in itself, hole-and-corner. That was precisely the sort of circular peculiarity Juliet delighted in, now that she’d been clued in.
It had been a minor scandal concerning her lady’s maid, Dinah, that opened the door. The previous autumn, Dinah had fallen pregnant and been ab
andoned by her still-unnamed lover. Terrified of the consequences, she’d concealed her condition to the end, giving birth in secret and leaving her newborn on the steps of St. Mark’s. Often these situations led to tragedy, but thanks to Juliet, the baby boy had been adopted by a loving couple in Plymouth, giving both him and Dinah a second chance.
For weeks thereafter, Juliet had waited for the birds to sing. It wouldn’t require Hercule Poirot to notice that the day after the foundling’s rescue, Dinah had entered St. Barnabas’s Hospital for undisclosed reasons. Or that she was listless and teary for weeks thereafter. Yet each week when Juliet had arrived at Vine’s Emporium to look over the wares and catch up on gossip, no leading questions about Dinah had been asked.
“It’s gone hole-and-corner, darling,” her mother, Lady Victoria, had explained. “I can’t take credit. Well, perhaps just a bit. Mrs. Parry stopped me after church to remark that Dinah seemed stricken, rather like a bitch whose pups were taken too soon. I’m afraid I looked down my nose at her, like the worst sort of snob, and said quite coolly, ‘I do prefer it when the sermon touches on forgiveness and mercy rather than wickedness, don’t you?’ She fell over herself to agree, and that may have been the tipping point.”
This had mystified Juliet, but upon further questioning, Victoria had insisted that Birdswing’s essential nature remained unchanged. “The birds will sing when they will. I can’t stop them, and neither can anyone else. Our collective sin as a village has always been a passion for gossip. But in some cases, the gossip is….” She’d paused, clearly at a loss to articulate something that apparently happened without discussion. “I don’t mean to suggest we Birdswingers choose to ignore the more negative gossip. I’m afraid we enjoy bad behavior or a comeuppance far more than we should. But when the gossip has a pitiable quality, it triggers our collective decency, I suppose. In which case, the entire village goes mum.”
“Just like that?” Juliet had asked.
“Just like that. Nicholas explained the phenomenon to me,” Victoria had continued, referring to her late husband, Nicholas Linton. “He said once something’s gone hole-and-corner, we never refer to it, except under extraordinary circumstances. He called it benevolent amnesia.”
“That sounds like him.” Despite her unshakable admiration for her late father, Juliet hadn’t been sure she altogether approved.
“I’m pleased for Dinah, of course,” she’d told Victoria. “But can it really be good, a group impulse to sweep things under the rug and ignore the lump, as it were?”
Victoria had smiled. “Probably not in every case. But a short memory can be a great virtue when it comes to village life. We can’t always approve of one another, but refusing to dwell on disapproval is the next best thing.”
When Juliet reached the High Street, she dismounted in front of Vine’s Emporium. Fenton House no longer had a hitching post, but the general store had three, as Mr. Vine hadn’t remodeled since the rise of the automobile. After reassuring Epona that the visit shouldn’t take more than an hour, she fed the dappled white mare a handful of oats and started toward Fenton House.
The day was cold but bright. Was there a hint of spring in the air? Perhaps she was imagining it. Always a fresh air fiend, Juliet convinced herself every year that spring was coming early. This year it would be particularly welcome, as longer days would render the blackout less oppressive.
“Over here!” Ben called, waving to her from the patch of lawn between Fenton House and the neighboring cottage. As usual, he looked handsome in his black coat, red scarf, and fedora, which was cocked at a smart angle. “I’m inspecting my new shelter.”
In the cottage’s back garden, Juliet found an Anderson shelter as expertly constructed as the one on Chief Air Warden Gaston’s own property. It didn’t look terribly impressive, just a small shack with corrugated steel sides and a green roof bolstered with earth all around. But Gaston had made a study of its virtues, and between him and the informational programs on the wireless, Juliet had come to accept that if German bombs fell on their village, Ben and Mrs. Cobblepot would be safer inside the shelter than inside Fenton House. It was difficult to conceive of Birdswing as a Nazi target, but the whole point of the blackout was to confuse enemy bombers. Suppose in their quest to hit Truro or Plymouth, they struck Birdswing by mistake? She didn’t like thinking about that any more than she liked contemplating a mustard gas attack. But one had only to revisit photojournalism from the Great War to picture those very things happening to her friends and loved ones.
“The twins did well,” Ben said. “I made my own inventory of the tools and didn’t find any missing. Think they’ve turned over a new leaf?”
Juliet laughed. “Civilization seems rocky enough these days without considering that sort of change. What’s it like inside?”
“See for yourself,” Ben said, smiling. “Come in and view my etchings.”
She gave him what she hoped was a stern look. From time to time, he made what she considered a boundary-testing remark, most of which she pretended not to hear. Down deep, she enjoyed them, but it would never do to say so.
“It’s even smaller than I imagined,” she said, ducking her head to enter the shelter. “Thank goodness there’s a bench. Otherwise I’d have to hunch over or sit on the floor. Which is damp,” she added, taking a closer look. The shelter’s single light bulb revealed an earthen floor that seemed to be taking in water at one corner.
“Gaston warned me that it may flood if we get the requisite April showers,” Ben said. “He said I should floor it in. I could buy the boards from Mrs. Daley at the Co-op, but then I’d have to find time to do the job properly.”
“It may be worth it. Imagine you and poor Mrs. Cobblepot out here all night in the cold, with coats over your pajamas and water rising over the tops of your shoes. Makes me grateful we have a wine cellar at Belsham Manor. We’ll have room to move, we’ll be too far away for Gaston to harass us unnecessarily, and I suppose we can uncork a bottle and pass it around if things get too grim.”
“That sounds nice,” Ben said, pulling her into his embrace. “Perhaps I’ll get myself stranded there one night.”
“You really must. Mother, Dinah, Bertha, Cook… they’d all be overjoyed to have you as company.”
“Fair point.” He kissed her, not the usual quick peck he gave her when they were in danger of discovery, but a long, luxurious kiss that took her out of the moment and into some personal Elfhame where they were finally alone.
“Ben,” she whispered, resisting. “Someone must’ve seen us go in together. We need to leave. Now.”
He sighed, unable to argue, and out they went.
“Have you thought of what you’ll say?” Juliet asked Ben as they walked the short distance from Fenton House to Dwerryhouse’s Chemist Shop. Its façade was sober, black and gold, and while many such establishments sought to exude an air of aggressive modernity, Dwerryhouse’s looked as old as time.
“No.” Ben frowned at her. “I assumed you would do all the talking.”
“Me? Why?”
“Apart from the fact that you already do?” Ben grinned. “It just seems more natural for you to broach the subject of an unhappy love affair. Especially in this case.”
“Oh, really? Why is that?”
He cleared his throat, a typical stalling technique. “You’ve known him all your life, for one thing. And you’re a woman….”
“So I’m better suited to tackle something difficult, is that what you’re saying? You’re the physician. Haven’t I heard you say there’s nothing new under the sun, and you won’t shy away from topics that benefit your patients?”
“Never mind that. Shouldn’t you try and look at this from Mr. Dwerryhouse’s point of view? What he might find easier?”
“You were charged with delivering the letter. You must be the one to present it. Never fear, I’ll be there, silently providing moral support. Possibly with the occasional sympathetic nod of the head.”
They’d arri
ved at Dwerryhouse’s and its iconic window collection of bottles and flasks filled with liquids of red, sapphire blue, yellow, pale green, and pink. Since the rise of the pharmaceutical trade, a collection of such bottles had signaled “chemist shop” to the unlettered. The colors changed from time to time, as did the posted adverts and tableaus in the other windows, but that line of bottles and flasks never went away. They contained no drugs, performed no functions, and were much-mocked by the medical establishment, who considered them a perfect symbol for chemists in general: purveyors of potions that looked lovely and did nothing.
However, a glance at the patent medicine adverts made Dwerryhouse’s seem like a nexus of fast, reliable healing. The signs proclaimed various offerings:
WHITE’S GOUT PILLS
COOLEY’S TONIC BITTERS
WEDGE’S COUGH MIXTURE
WARNER’S TUSSO
as well as more general items inside:
TRUSSES
ELASTIC STOCKINGS
CRUTCHES
ENEMA SYRINGES
NURSERY ITEMS
SICK-ROOM REQUISITES
ARTIFICIAL LIMBS ORDERED & FITTED UPON REQUEST
“I still think we’re likely to humiliate ourselves,” Ben said, hesitating by the door. “If Mrs. Cobblepot is so certain he’s the author, why couldn’t she recognize his penmanship?
“Penmanship can change over the years.”
“I’ve never known Mr. Dwerryhouse to use so many grandiose words.”
“It might be a habit he’s abandoned, or one he reserves for the epistolary rather than the colloquial.”
“Are you sure you didn’t write it?”
“Mrs. Parry is watching from across the street. In!”
The twin bells above the door jingled as they entered. One of Mr. Dwerryhouse’s assistants, Miss Miller, waved from behind the counter as the other, Miss Trewin, sailed up to greet them.
“Good afternoon, Dr. Bones, Lady Juliet. How may I serve?”
