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

by Emma Jameson

  5

  Mr. Jeffers was not at the butcher shop. His assistant, a rail-thin, spotty-faced boy with an Adam’s apple the size of a horse chestnut, stood behind the counter. Alone with customers for what must have been the first time, he looked frankly terrified when the bell above the door signaled Ben’s entry.

  “Mr. Jeffers wasn’t feeling well,” the boy said. “Went home to Owl Cottage. Had some bad sprouts, you see. Hasn’t been the same since.”

  The bell’ s ringing followed Ben as he drove to Owl Cottage at the top of Mallow Street, where most of the ice and snow had thankfully melted away. Now that his irritation over the botched visit to Dwerryhouse’s Chemist Shop had faded, he’d begun to doubt whether Mr. Jeffers could have devised such a complex bit of fakery. Not only did the butcher possess no special facility for language, but he didn’t appear any more comfortable with emotional declarations issued on paper than he was at speaking them aloud. Had he been, he would surely have sent a written marriage proposal to Ernestine.

  What about his father? Ben wondered. If he’d lived, he’d be about the right age. Perhaps the late Mr. Jeffers had written it to a woman who’d broken his heart so completely, he’d never spoken of love again, even to his only son.

  There was still a bit of ice on the path to Mr. Jeffers’s front door. Here, the cane Ben so resented proved essential, as the extra bit of leverage saved him from a nasty fall. The front garden was in disarray, which wasn’t surprising. Mr. Jeffers practically lived at the butcher shop, and came home only to sleep. His front door needed a coat of paint, and the brass knocker was tarnished. Ben knocked.

  No answer. Ben knocked again, louder, glancing up and down the street as he waited. The butcher’s lorry was parked by the curb. That proved Mr. Jeffers had indeed driven it home, and not to the Sheared Sheep, which was his second most likely destination.

  Still no answer. Going around to the back, Ben knocked louder.

  “Come in,” someone called softly. Ben couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman. The back door, like most doors in Birdswing, turned out to be unlocked, so he let himself in.

  “Mr. Jeffers? It’s me, Ben Bones.”

  “In here,” someone called weakly. Ben followed the voice upstairs and into the master bedroom. There he found Mr. Jeffers sitting up in bed, supported by a pile of pillows. His face was gray, his eyes wide and frightened.

  “Feels like there’s a brindled cow on my chest,” he said. “I reckon I’m dying.”

  “No, you’re not,” Ben replied automatically, in the abrupt tone he always used on frightened men. Too much sympathy would only deepen their alarm, which could be fatal. “Take slow, deep breaths. Only let me fetch my bag from my car and I’ll be back to take care of you.”

  “I don’t understand,” Miss Ernestine Trewin, elder sister of the chemist shop assistant, told Ben. But from the look in her eyes and the flatness of her voice, he knew she understood perfectly.

  “I can arrange for a sister from St. Barnabas to look after him for the first week or so,” Ben said. They were sitting in Mr. Jeffers’s kitchen, where they could speak softly without being overheard by the patient upstairs. Ernestine had put the kettle on automatically, but forgot to turn on the cooker, and Ben, not wanting to fluster her further, had decided to pretend tea was never offered.

  “In the meantime,” Ben said, “if you’re willing to nurse him, I’m sure Mr. Jeffers will be grateful. No training is required. You need only keep his bedroom curtains drawn, keep the room quiet, speak to him in a low voice, and give him a little broth or weak tea if he asks. Should he try to get up, remind him that my strict orders are to stay in bed and keep still. This means a bedpan and sponge baths. No walking of any kind, for any distance.”

  He’d said all this before, twice in fact, and he knew Ernestine had already incorporated the instructions into her being. Thin and plain-faced, she carried herself with the air of a young woman accustomed to doing things, and doing them right.

  “I’m sorry, Doctor. I understand how I’m meant to help Abraham. But I don’t understand what you’re doing to help him.”

  “I’m not doing anything,” Ben said gently. “There’s no treatment for a heart attack. Nothing but rest, and quiet, and prayers, if you wish.”

  “But you told him he wasn’t going to die,” Ernestine said. “I heard you tell him quite clearly that he wasn’t going to die. But no sooner did we step into this kitchen then you told me he could go at any moment.”

  Ben nodded. “I know. I dislike concealing the truth from patients. But I was taught that it’s often best, because many of them take the word of a physician as one rung below the word of God. To tell Mr. Jeffers this is the critical time, that he’ll either survive the damage to his heart muscle or it will fail altogether, may take away his hope, and if I do that, it could be as good as killing him.”

  “But killing my hope makes no difference,” Ernestine said bitterly. Digging in her purse, she took out a gold-toned case and withdrew a cigarette. Automatically producing his lighter, Ben lit it for her, shaking his head when she offered him the case.

  “Why hasn’t that bloody kettle whistled? Oh.” She rose to turn on the cooker, then stood beside it for a while, back turned to Ben, smoking. Halfway through the fag, she whirled around as if remembering something important.

  “Nora Garrigan! She lives on my street. She told everyone you saved her life by giving her a drug called hep—hep—”

  “Heparin,” Ben supplied.

  “Why can’t you give it to Abraham?”

  “Because that isn’t what it’s for.”

  “You don’t want to help,” Ernestine accused, stabbing at the air with her cigarette. “Small wonder Nora can’t ask you for Rendell’s or French letters. She probably thinks you’ll tell her to go away and never come back.”

  Ben blinked at Ernestine. “So that’s what she wanted. She couldn’t tell me. I even saw her in the chemist shop, but she couldn’t tell your sister, either. You’d think her husband would take care of those matters.”

  Ernestine scoffed at that. “Yes, well, you’d think the Germans would keep to their own bloody patch and the King would sell off the crown jewels before taxing the working class. As for Felix Garrigan, he’s a sweet lad, but he has the brains of a moldy potato. If Nora were nursing it might protect her. But as it stands, if she doesn’t do something, she’ll have another baby before the year ends.”

  Ben took that in. Ernestine, perhaps regretting her outburst, seemed relieved by the kettle’s soft whistle. Stubbing out her cigarette, she busied herself with the tea, hands working deftly despite her clear unease. It confirmed Ben’s suspicion she would make a good nurse.

  “I hope you’ll forgive me, Doctor. I shouldn’t have spoken to you that way,” she said, pouring them each a cup. “Of course Nora is afraid to speak to you. That’s the trouble with this village. We live to gossip about each other, but we won’t say what begs to be said. I’ve been hinting for Abraham to ask me to marry him. It’s anyone’s guess how that turned into a row over sprouts. I wonder if the row caused this.”

  “I can promise you it didn’t,” Ben said. “He himself told me all the things he ought to do for a longer, healthier life. And that his father died young.”

  “Yes, well, old Mr. Jeffers was a study in misery. I think he believed the world had passed him by. Wouldn’t talk about the war. Wouldn’t talk about much of anything, and couldn’t read or write, apart from his own name. Mum says he was waiting for life to become simple again. When it didn’t, he gave up.” Ernestine set down her teacup with a clatter. “But Abraham has so much to live for. He’s spent years building up the business to a modern operation. I even helped him with the books, and clearing up some delivery problems. I’m so cross with him, I want to scream! Suppose he dies alone in this house, with only a sister to care, because he wouldn’t ask the bloody question?”

  “What’s stopping you?” Ben asked quietly.

  Ernestine s
tared at him. “What’s stopping me from what?”

  “Asking him the bloody question.”

  “Dr. Bones,” she said, shocked. “I’m not that kind of girl. Bad enough to be pushy and insinuating, which I’ve become, thanks to him. I could never… What would people say? Only suppose the story got out. What would people say?”

  Ben was tempted to ask her if it mattered. But when it came to pushiness, insinuation, and outright interference, he felt guilty of all three. It was time to right the ship. Ignoring the question, he sipped his tea, waited a short interval, and asked, “Shall we go up and tell Mr. Jeffers you’ll be staying for the next day or so to see to his needs?”

  Ben had hoped to find Juliet waiting for him at Fenton House. Although it was past four o’clock in the afternoon, there was still at least an hour’s daylight before the blackout took hold, and Epona could get her home, even in the dark. But Epona was no longer tied up in front of Vine’s, and Mrs. Cobblepot was out, too. A note on the kitchen table said,

  Something came up. I should be back by eight. There’s still that bit of trout in the icebox.

  This was as close to an outright rebuke as he’d ever received from his housekeeper. Hadn’t he said sorry? Not well enough, apparently, if he was being threatened with the specter of leftover trout.

  His office bell rang. It was after hours, but then again, he’d been out the entire day. By now, everyone in Birdswing, Barking, and probably parts of Plymouth knew that Mr. Jeffers had suffered a heart attack and Ben had been at his side. Perhaps someone with a lesser complaint had been watching the curb in front of Fenton House, waiting for Ben’s car to return.

  Still in his coat and scarf, he opened the office door to find Mrs. Garrigan on his front step. It was the first time he’d seen her without the baby since she’d given birth.

  “What’s this? Where’s little Charles?” he asked, ushering her inside.

  “I left him with my neighbor. What I mean to say isn’t for children’s ears. But first, how is Mr. Jeffers?”

  “We’ll just have to watch and wait. Miss Ernestine Trewin is taking care of him at present, and he couldn’t ask for a better nurse.”

  “You can count on Ernestine,” Mrs. Garrigan agreed. “I’ll add Mr. Jeffers to my prayers, and her, too. But what I came to say is this.” She paused, took a breath, and forged on with a steely look in her eyes. “I don’t want another baby just now. Felix gets flustered, talking of such things, and I’m not sure he understands what I’ll be risking when I’m back in the family way. If I die giving birth, I want it to be after Charles is old enough to get along without me.” Her voice cracked.

  “I disagree that another pregnancy may kill you. With or without more children, it’s reasonable for you to expect a normal life.”

  “I hope so. But Charles needs me now, especially while Felix is overseas,” she said. “I’ve seen that sign in Dwerryhouse’s. The one that says Rendell’s. I didn’t cotton on to what it was until I overheard a man in the pub say if it weren’t for Rendell’s, he’d be in the poorhouse and his wife would’ve stuck her head in the oven. If Rendell’s can keep me out of the family way, I want it. If not, I want French letters. But I can’t ask Mr. Dwerryhouse. I’ve known him my whole life. I don’t want him to think of me as needing—well. That. Will you help me?”

  This is where it got tricky for Ben, although Mrs. Garrigan could have no idea. Any man or married woman could walk into a chemist shop and purchase condoms, known as French letters, or contraceptive pessaries, sold under the brand name Rendell’s. But few men and even fewer women did. When a couple wanted advice on family planning, the man tended to have a quiet word with his pharmacist or even his barber. Speaking to his doctor was no good. Although the common types of family planning were legally sold, and even euphemistically advertised, they inhabited a gray area legislators preferred to ignore. Instead, politicians dictated to the medical profession, requiring them to behave as if such items didn’t exist, except in cases where pregnancy was certain to imperil the mother’s life.

  Mrs. Garrigan looked him in the eye. “Please. Can you write me a prescription so I can pass it over the counter? So I won’t have to ask?”

  “Of course,” Ben said, and reached for his pen.

  6

  14 February 1940

  Sunny and springlike, it was a pretty day for a wedding. Not that Mr. Jeffers or the new Mrs. Ernestine Jeffers could tell from inside the venue, a dark, quiet bedroom in Owl Cottage. Juliet, like the rest of Birdswing, was not invited. Ben had allowed the ceremony only after being promised it would avoid too much noise or excitement. This meant no guests, no music, no toasts, and no cake. Mr. Jeffers was required to remain in bed, though Ben helped him into his Sunday coat and stuck a carnation in the top buttonhole. Ernestine wore yellow chiffon, borrowed from her sister, who served as a witness, and both beamed as Father Cotterill said the words. Ben was meant to be the only other witness, but as one of the village’s preeminent citizens and someone who could not resist a happy ending, Juliet turned up “accidentally” just before the ceremony (merely to deliver a pie, of course) and remained to watch the couple become man and wife.

  “It really is a happy ending, isn’t it?” she asked Ben as they walked down Marrow Street toward the High Street and Fenton House.

  “You sound like Ernestine. Mr. Jeffers’s prognosis isn’t dependent upon finding the correct way to phrase the question. If he survives another five weeks,” Ben said, “then the worst crisis is past. I won’t be able to guess at the damage his heart has sustained until then.”

  “So you allowed the marriage now because it might be their only chance?”

  Ben seemed to consider that. He was matching her long stride fairly well despite his cane, which probably meant the day’s warmth was settling into his joints. Before long, he would be putting it aside again. Juliet didn’t care either way—to her mind, the cane was distinguished, and hearkened back to a courtlier age—but she knew young men could be peculiar about such things.

  “Yes,” Ben said at last. “But also because I thought marrying Ernestine would give Mr. Jeffers his best chance at survival. She’s already overseeing the butcher shop in an unofficial capacity, and she’s enforcing my orders with an iron hand. He tried to get out of bed yesterday and she sent a neighbor to fetch me. By the time I got there, he was back where he belonged, meekly sipping broth like the world’s best patient. It’s clear to me that he adores her. I think there’s a very real chance his heart may repair itself just so he doesn’t let her down.”

  She liked the sound of that. Only yesterday, the rumor of the impending marriage by special license, as there was no time for the banns to be read, had inspired plenty of birdsong, most of it sweet, some of it not.

  In Dwerryhouse’s chemist shop, Miss Trewin had let slip to a customer that Ernestine had proposed marriage to Mr. Jeffers, rather than the other way around. Not everyone in Birdswing found such an arrangement appropriate, with a few going so far as to say it was further proof the country was coming under petticoat rule. Once, Juliet would’ve been deeply displeased and waded into the fray herself, but these days she’d begun to think there was no action one could take, or fail to take, that couldn’t be criticized by someone determined to find fault. Ernestine had done what was best for herself and her new husband. Having witnessed the joy on the new couple’s faces, Juliet felt certain that was what mattered, not a bit of disapproving chatter.

  “Look, it’s Mr. Dwerryhouse,” Ben said. The little man stood outside his shop, sunlight glinting off the colored glass bottles in the window behind him. As they turned the corner onto the High Street, he waved, motioning for them to come over. “I haven’t had the chance to speak with him since the letter debacle, have you?”

  “No, and I welcome the opportunity,” Juliet said. “One can never let misunderstandings fester in a village this size.”

  “You don’t plan to attack him for calling you a liar, do you?”

 
“Ben! How dare you accuse me of attacking anyone?”

  “You attack people daily. You’re attacking me now,” he retorted, not quite keeping his straight face, and she realized he was teasing her again. Tossing her head, she chose to address Mr. Dwerryhouse, who stood smiling as he awaited them.

  “Ideal day for nuptials, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Yes, indeed,” Mr. Dwerryhouse said. “I look forward to the day Mr. Jeffers is up and about, so I may shake his hand. In the meantime, I sent a few bottles of Iron Brew to Owl Cottage with a note of congratulations. Since he’s forbidden spirits, of course.”

  Before Juliet could reply, Mr. Dwerryhouse said, “Before either of you says another word, please accept my heartfelt apologies for my behavior on Tuesday. It was inexcusable, and I can only beg you both to forgive me.”

  Such a sterling mea culpa never failed to mortify her. She suddenly felt put on the spot, uncertain if she should grant forgiveness or insist there was nothing to forgive. Fortunately, Ben was better at smoothing over these minor hiccups between friends.

  “Think nothing of it,” he said breezily. “I see you’ve put salves and lotions on offer. Can I assume springtime in Cornwall can be hazardous to one’s skin?”

  “I fear so, if one is an unwary rambler or a child with bare arms and legs,” Mr. Dwerryhouse agreed. “There’s giant hog weed, stinging nettles, and wild parsnips, all of which will cause a rash if one’s susceptible. A bit of lotion will do for most sufferers, and I’ll send those who need greater care to you, Dr. Bones. Only now that I’ve finished arranging my offerings in the window, I find myself in need of tea. Would the two of you do me the very great honor of joining me?”

  They did. Juliet thought they might return to Mr. Dwerryhouse’s consulting room, but instead he took them upstairs into his bedsit above the chemist shop. One of the few homes in Birdswing she’d never set foot in, it turned out to be snug and homey, filled with bits and bobs related to his secondary passion, fishing.