On an unrelated note, I have a suspicion that W.D. might be involved in something untoward. She has been acting rather superior of late, particularly as concerns her sponge cake. I fully intend to investigate.
V.A.E. Husselbee
Chapter 7
Friday, 2nd May
Captain Aldridge was a better dancer than George, and having readily accepted her challenge to taste the pariah cake, Olive suspected he was more of a daredevil, as well. But when she’d dragged him back to the refreshments table, the entire cake had disappeared; nothing remained but the sad little tented sign, not even the plate. Olive had stood in stunned silence, entirely impressed with the village’s collective backbone. Miss Violet, she was quick to note, had also disappeared.
“I should still get credit,” Aldridge said when they were back in the car, slinking along the inky black lanes.
“I’m afraid that’s not how we do things around here,” she said officiously. “You have to do the deed to get the glory.”
“I’ll remember that.” His voice was quiet, but she could hear the amusement lurking beneath.
As much as she’d dreaded spending the evening with him, the irony was, she’d been more trouble than he. But she didn’t regret her outburst, no matter how childish it might have been. Neither did she regret pressing him for the story behind his scar. As unpleasant as it had been, it seemed to have inspired an easiness between them.
As he effortlessly manoeuvred the car around the bends in the road, the low, slatted beams of the headlamps raked over the hedgerows, and tiny glowing eyes reflected eerily back, sending a ghostly little shiver along Olive’s skin.
“Don’t forget I’ll need a bird tonight to take to the airfield, and I’ll let you know when we need them for our own missions,” Aldridge said quietly.
Crackers! She’d forgotten about tonight’s little test. “Very well. I’ll do my best to prepare them without benefit of any relevant information.”
“Excellent,” he said, irritatingly chipper, as he turned the car through the open gate of Blackcap Lodge.
She narrowed her eyes at him. “Do you happen to know the secret behind a pigeon’s innate ability to find its way home? Even if released in an unfamiliar location, hundreds of miles away?”
“Instinct?”
“In part, yes. They’re also very intelligent. But neither of those explanations accounts for their motivation to brave harsh weather, predators, and exhaustion, flying at full speed to get home.” She paused a moment, wondering if she’d piqued his curiosity. It was impossible to tell. “While the young cocks might cat around a bit, for lack of a better term, pigeons tend to mate for life. And they don’t like to be away from their partner.”
The car coasted to a stop. “Are you saying you breed a cock only with a single hen?” The disbelief was clear in his voice.
Optimistic that he might have been somewhat affected by her sentimental explanation, she was abruptly flustered. “Well, no, but—”
“I suppose, like the rest of us, they’re expected to lie back and think of England.”
Seeing her expression, he let out a deep, rolling laugh that sounded as if he’d lured it out of hibernation, and she promptly groped for the door handle. “I think we’ve reached the limit of each other’s company for one night, Captain Aldridge.”
He killed the engine. “So, we’re back to Captain, are we? It’s becoming uncommonly difficult to keep up.” She could hear the amusement lingering in his voice.
A shadow crossed the low beam of the headlamps he’d not yet extinguished and had the pair of them starting in surprise. Jonathon was hunched in on himself and ghostly pale, his dark eyes squinting against the light.
Aldridge was as fast as she, the pair of them swooping down on the boy where he hovered near the hood. “What is it?” they demanded in unison.
There was just enough light to see that his eyes were wild and he was shivering violently. She ran her hands over his arms, then finally let them fall to grip fingers that were like icicles. She propped him against the bumper, still holding one of his hands, and noticed the subtle sheen of perspiration on his brow.
“What is it, darling? Are you feeling ill?” She was pressing the back of her hand against his forehead when he finally spoke.
“I found a body.” His voice was high and clear, as if he was fighting free of feelings that threatened to engulf him.
Aldridge started violently on Jonathon’s other side, but Olive relaxed slightly at this explanation and put up a hand to still his urgency. Jonathon was a sensitive boy and viewed each of the birds as a beloved pet. When Tavi, named for Rudyard Kipling’s precocious mongoose, had died a few months ago, he’d been devastated. Aldridge waited, rigid as a tension wire.
“It must have been distressing to find another one so soon,” she said gently. There would be time later to worry over the cause of death.
In a voice like the edge of a knife, Aldridge said, “What do you mean, another one?”
“For heaven’s sake, they’re pigeons, and while it comes as a shock—”
“It’s not a pigeon,” Jonathon cut in, his voice cracking with strain. “It’s a person.”
Olive’s exasperation evaporated, to be replaced by patent disbelief. “Are you quite certain?” She gripped his hand tighter, instantly realising what a stupid question it was. He had lived through the Blitz and must have seen his fair share. She swallowed. “Of course you are.” A frisson of shock skipped up her spine. “Who is it? Do you know?”
“I’m afraid it’s Miss Husselbee,” Jonathon croaked.
Olive gasped. “But it can’t be. We just saw her at the dance.” She turned desperately to Aldridge. “I don’t know if you spoke to her. She was in tweed, with a duck feather in her hat. She was probably prosing on about patriotic duty.” Her voice caught on the last words.
There was recognition in his eyes, and something else, shock perhaps, and Olive wondered what had put it there.
“Where is she?” he demanded, his voice sharp.
“Beside the yew hedge near the dovecote,” Jonathon replied quietly.
Aldridge strode off with silent steps. In the pale light from the headlamps, his broad shoulders exuded a sense of unrelenting competence.
Olive turned back to Jonathon. “Are you all right? We’d better go along, if you can manage it.” At his nod, she gently pulled him off the bumper. “What are you doing out here all alone? Why didn’t you go and fetch someone?”
He seemed to waffle a moment. “I was waiting for you to get home,” he admitted. “Captain Aldridge said everything’s to be kept secret . . .”
Olive considered this. It wouldn’t have occurred to her that a dead body near the dovecote came under the jurisdiction of the Official Secrets Act. Nor that it should involve Captain Aldridge. Because why should it? It didn’t matter. He was here; they were both here now. She urged Jonathon to go on talking as they walked.
Home from the dance, he’d come straight out to check on the pigeons and heard a strange sound coming from the shadows just beyond the door. Naturally, he hadn’t wanted to get any closer without a weapon. Olive just barely resisted taking him to task on this point, and he forged on with his story. Armed with a garden hoe, he had stepped around the corner and found Miss Husselbee lying on the ground, her hands swatting limply at the air. He’d dropped down beside her, but there was nothing he could do.
Beside Olive, he sniffled quietly, clearly relieved to be done with the grim retelling.
“Oh, Jonathon, how horrible for you.” She threaded an arm, now felted with goose pimples, through his, imagining his worry and helplessness as he waited with Miss Husselbee in the dark.
By this time, they’d navigated the darkness well enough to reach Aldridge, who had surged up from his crouch beside the body. “She was alive when you found her?” he demanded roughly.
The pair took a faltering step back at the intensity of his reaction, and Jonathon looked chastened. Olive gave Jon
athon’s arm a reassuring squeeze, not bothering to hide a flash of annoyance. But Aldridge, looking intently at Jonathon, missed it altogether.
“Yes, sir.”
“Did she say anything?” he asked, his voice low and urgent.
Olive felt the boy’s body go tense beside her. “N-no,” he stuttered. “Nothing.”
“You’re certain?” Aldridge pressed. She could tell by the set of his shoulders that his obdurate manner had returned full force. As if the past few hours never existed.
Again, that little flutter skimming through Jonathon’s thin form, there and then gone, like a damselfly touching down.
But he shook his head sharply. “Yes, sir.” The waver had left his voice, and he stood straighter. It occurred to her that he was taking his new job as assistant pigeoneer very seriously indeed.
“Good lad.” As Aldridge clapped him on the shoulder, Olive slid past them and bit her lip. As she stared at the crumpled shape on the ground, her heart began to pound out its objections. “Are you quite sure she’s . . . ?” she said, her eyes darting to Aldridge.
He gave a single, solemn nod. “Don’t touch her,” he bossed.
“Don’t worry,” she snapped, kneeling down and instantly regretting the instinct. The ground beside the body was wet. Ignoring her newly damp dress and chilly knee, she peered down at the village termagant, startled to find the woman’s eyes wide and staring and her cheek smeared with moisture. Miss Husselbee’s hat had tipped backwards when she’d fallen, and her fingers lifelessly brushed the handle of her umbrella while its black folds fluttered limply in the light breeze. Her legs, wrapped up in thick stockings beneath her sturdy tweed skirt, were arranged at an awkward, uncomfortable angle. Olive couldn’t help but think that it all looked so very wrong.
She gave her head a firm little shake, exasperated with the turn of her thoughts. It seemed her penchant for murder mysteries had left her prone to sinister imaginings. But as her mind darted from one recent memory to the next, each involving Miss Husselbee, she stilled, suddenly a bit worried.
Margaret, facing exposure and lashing out. Violet Darling, slandered and casually chatting about murder. Winifred Danes, publicly accused of black-market dealings and full of rage. Not to even mention Dr Ware’s odd behaviour. But surely it was all the typical village melodrama. It couldn’t possibly be more than that. Could it?
An unhealthy odour reached her nose, and with sudden realisation, Olive struggled to stand, getting her heel caught in the hem of her dress. She felt a hand under her elbow and allowed Aldridge to help her up. Turning to face him, she said, “She’s been sick right here.”
“Yes, I know,” came the brusque reply.
“And here was me thinking you might have let on before I landed in it,” she retorted. Determined not to be distracted by his lack of chivalry, she pressed on. “This doesn’t make any sense. She was absolutely fine not an hour ago and is . . . was,” she said soberly, “as healthy as a horse.” Olive felt the words tumbling out of her, coming too fast. “She was always prosing on about the healthy habits that had led to her robust constitution and lifelong reprieve from the pokings and proddings of doctors.”
“And?” Aldridge had not yet let go of her arm, and the tone of his voice hinted that he was waiting expectantly for her to reach the same conclusion he had.
She glanced at him, wondering if she should voice her suspicions—her fears. “I think . . . ,” she started, then tried again, this time channelling Hercule Poirot. “I think there is a strong possibility that she may have been . . . poisoned.” She had been going to say “murdered” but then had remembered the puddle of sick. Olive’s stomach rolled distressingly, and she desperately hoped she was wrong.
The grip on her arm tightened ever so slightly before he released her. “As it happens, I agree.” A surge of satisfaction welled unexpectedly in Olive’s chest as Jonathon’s mouth dropped open in silent shock. “She’s not in the habit of coming for a visit at this time of night, is she? I thought not. It’s possible she ingested something that caused her to feel disoriented or suffer hallucinations along with a sick stomach. She has no apparent injuries, and if you’re to be believed, no real health concerns. This all makes a strong case for poison.” Olive wrapped an arm around Jonathon and squeezed his shoulder. “The police will determine the official cause of death, but if it’s murder, we’ll need to eliminate the possibility that it might be connected to the work being done at Station Seventeen.”
“Murder?” Jonathon breathed.
“How could it possibly be connected?” Olive demanded, incredulous.
“It doesn’t strike you as odd,” Aldridge said tersely, “that a dead body has shown up virtually on your doorstep the very day you agree to supply pigeons for top-secret operations instrumental to the war effort?” Looking dispassionately down at Miss Husselbee, he added, “We can’t rule out the possibility that she was a spy—or involved in something nefarious.”
Olive goggled at him. “A spy? No.” She shook her head vehemently. “You couldn’t possibly be more mistaken.” The thrill it gave her to say those words was invigorating. “Nevertheless, Jonathon and I will be more than happy to assist.”
He made a noise between a laugh and a curse. “No need. Baker Street will handle the matter.”
Olive glared at him, her breath steaming out between them in the chilly air. When she spoke, her voice was honeyed and calm. “Why don’t you go and warm up in the kitchen, Jonathon. I’ll be there in a moment to make you a cup of cocoa and ring for the police.”
The boy shifted his feet but made no move to depart.
“Was there something else?” she asked quietly.
“Could you walk me?” he said in a shallow voice.
Immediately contrite that they’d mentioned murder in his presence, Olive wrapped her arm around his shoulders. “I’ll be back in a moment,” she told Aldridge, her voice hard, before leading Jonathon away.
As soon as they were out of earshot, the boy pulled to a stop. “She did say something,” he told her in a whisper, his eyes wide and fathomlessly dark.
Startled, she spoke without thinking. “Miss Husselbee?”
Nodding, he confided, “She said, ‘Serena.’ ”
The look in Jonathon’s wide, solemn eyes convinced her she hadn’t misheard. “I see,” she said slowly. “All right. That’s certainly curious.”
“I figured you might not want me to mention it in front of Captain Aldridge.”
“Right you are. It’s surely no concern of his, but I’m certainly curious.” She laid a hand lightly on his head and affectionately tousled his hair.
“Goodnight then,” he said and headed off with no argument, his thin shoulders set in a stolid line and his hands jammed rigidly into his pockets, no doubt relieved that his role in the unexpected tragedy was at an end. At least for tonight.
Olive stared after him, wondering what reason the Sergeant Major might have had for uttering her mother’s name. After a moment, she turned and walked back to Captain Aldridge to pick up where they’d left off.
“As you don’t require my assistance,” she informed him crisply, rubbing her arms against the chill, “perhaps I’ll investigate on my own.”
He levelled her with a warning glare. “It’s best to leave the matter to the authorities.”
She met his eyes and, in a cold, clear voice, replied, “I am stuck in this village for the foreseeable future, conscripted into all manner of WI schemes while supplying pigeons on the sly, not to mention conducting an extremely improbable flirtation with a certain broody captain. If I’m to make it through this war with my sanity intact, I need something else. Searching for clues to a murder should do perfectly well.”
Standing over Miss Husselbee’s body in the cold dark was more than enough to have tears pricking at her eyes and a great ball of regret forming at the base of her throat. With telegrams coming every day to inform desperate mothers that their sons would never come home, it was absurd that
this one unexpected death made her feel as if her world had been upended.
Despite her gruff exterior, Miss Husselbee had always been rather soft-hearted when it came to the Brights. She’d never batted an eye at Olive’s pigeon antics, often volunteering to cart a bird along on her travels or supplying a small sack of snails plucked from her garden plants. When Harriet’s condition had been diagnosed, Miss Husselbee had rallied to her side, willing to assist whenever necessary and undertake any task her friend could not. She hadn’t deserved to die this way.
A sigh escaped his lips as he raised a frustrated hand to the back of his neck. “Then perhaps you’d like to search the body?”
The offer was made with a gallant flourish of his arm, but she wasn’t entirely certain how to interpret the largesse. Glancing warily down at Miss Husselbee, she whispered, “For what, exactly?”
“Impossible to guess, my dear Watson.”
She was thankful suddenly for the darkness; his sarcasm was quite enough without her being subjected to the amused quirk of his lips, as well. And it wasn’t the time to tell him that she was unused to playing the role of Watson.
“Isn’t that a job for the police?” she asked.
“If an inspector performs the search, do you suppose he’ll share his findings? This is our best chance of gathering what information we can. But we’ll need to be quick about it. I’ve left the headlamps on—your father could happen along at any moment—and you’ve promised Jonathon a cup of cocoa.” His voice still held a note of urgency, but his tone was lighter, almost teasing.
Pressing her fingers against her palms, trying to prepare herself for the task, Olive stepped closer and crouched beside the umbrella. A scurry in the nearby hedge was quickly silenced by the answering call of an owl some ways off. Predator and prey. Staring down at Miss Husselbee, she wondered anew at the circumstances that could have resulted in her death, and simultaneously wished she was wearing gloves. Biting her lip, conscious of Aldridge waiting and watching, she let her hand hover for a brief moment over the still form while she mustered a bit of fortitude.
Olive Bright, Pigeoneer Page 13
