“Christ!”
The explosive hiss had Olive yanking her hand back as she half sprang, half stumbled up from her crouch, her gaze flying to Aldridge. Her heart hammered against her ribs as her eyes darted wildly in confusion.
He was staring distastefully down at something on the ground beside him. She squinted into the dark. “What is it?” she demanded nervously.
“It’s a cat.” He injected the word with a full measure of contempt.
Olive wilted with relief, then immediately recovered, propping an exasperated hand on her hip. “For heaven’s sake, Aldridge. What is your objection to felines? Or is it animals in general?” she said, wondering if this might explain his apparent dislike of the pigeons.
“It’s cats,” he said through gritted teeth, eyeing the harmless creature. The animal didn’t seem the slightest bit put off by his dislike, judging by the way it was butting its head up against his trousers. Aldridge was manfully enduring, his whole body clenched. “They’re so—” He seemed to be running through a compendium of unflattering adjectives, only to find them all lacking. “Unpredictable.”
Grinning, Olive said, “That’s Pandora. She’s one of the barn cats. It seems she’s found your Achilles heel.” A hysterical laugh bubbled up from somewhere inside her, and as she let it out, it shuddered into a painful hiccupping sob, which she stifled with a hand clapped to her mouth.
Aldridge detached himself from the cat with an oath, skirted Miss Husselbee’s body, and wrapped a comfortingly warm arm around Olive’s shoulders. She wanted to turn her face into his chest and inhale the spicy scent of him, to block out the circumstances just for a moment. But he wasn’t George or her father. He was a veritable stranger, and a disapproving one at that. A moment’s vulnerability would not stand in her favour.
She pulled away from him. “Don’t worry. I’ll protect you from the little kitty.” She plastered a wide smile on her lips and dutifully resumed her position beside the body.
She lifted the green felt hat from those moonlit-silvered curls, then slipped her fingers carefully along the edge of the band, dislodging the duck feather, and ran them over the inside lining. Finding nothing, she felt a bit silly but pressed on, nonetheless. Rather gratifyingly, her search uncovered a veritable treasure trove of items in the deep pockets of Miss Husselbee’s blazer, each of which was laid carefully on her prone torso.
The right-hand pocket held a folded cotton handkerchief, a key hanging from a length of blue cording, and a silver whistle. In the left, she found a miniature notebook, bound in camel-brown leather, and a short sharpened pencil, which stabbed itself smartly under the nail of her index finger. Her colourful curse took Aldridge by surprise. Resisting the urge to suck on her finger, she delved a second time and unearthed a trio of coins and an empty candy wrapper that smelled pleasantly of peppermint. She took a deep whiff, hoping to hold other scents at bay.
Once she’d finished with the blazer, she ran her hands lightly over the blouse beneath, then down over her skirt, searching for further clues. Finding none, Olive scrambled up, holding the little leather notebook. She brushed her fingers roughly against the skirt of her dress, saying dryly, “I’ll leave her undergarments to you.”
Aldridge squatted beside the body and tripped his index finger over her finds. “I don’t think that’s necessary.”
“You clearly didn’t know Verity Husselbee. She could have all manner of things hidden in there. What are you doing?””
He’d levered Miss Husselbee up on her side and run a hand along beneath her. Now he pivoted on the balls of his feet to stare up at Olive. “Leaving no stone unturned, so to speak.” He divvied her possessions back between the pockets and stood, putting out his hand for the notebook.
Olive didn’t want to relinquish it, having not yet had a chance to look through it. “She was a bit of a busybody,” Olive said, lowering her voice respectfully. “It’s likely only a list of grudges and grievances. Then again, it could be a log of bird sightings—blackcaps and wrens, the occasional kingfisher. Or perhaps it’s a bit of both and we’ve all been given code names. I’m probably the Pigeon,” she babbled.
“You seem to be going into a curiously talkative state of shock,” he said wryly, gesturing again for the notebook.
“I rummaged through her pockets,” she informed him archly. “I should get first crack at it.”
“I disagree, Miss Bright. And I’m not leaving without it.” He plucked the little volume from her fingers as she stared at him in confusion.
“You’re not going to take it,” she demanded, feeling suddenly panicked as he slipped it efficiently into his pocket.
“Weren’t you, only a moment ago, intending to abscond with it yourself?”
Olive bristled at his tone. “No,” she protested, “I only wanted to look at it.”
“I see,” he said disbelievingly. “As you said yourself, she’s dead under suspicious circumstances, and secrets are hard currency. I need to find out if her death touches us in any way.” He paused before adding, “I’m taking it.”
For a brief moment, Olive considered appealing to him with Miss Husselbee’s last word, but she didn’t yet know what it meant herself, and he didn’t need an additional reason to mistrust her.
He was watching her, waiting for her reaction to this gauntlet thrown down. Was he questioning her willingness to do whatever was necessary—even if it went beyond the bounds of the law? It was a fair question. Was she willing? She was rather surprised to discover that the answer came easily. No matter how frustrating and mysterious he was, she was inclined to trust him. She would just have to hope that any clue that might lead back to her mother was sufficiently cryptic in nature as to elude him. Not that she suspected anything untoward—her mother had been dead for more than ten years. The fact that Miss Husselbee was a collector of secrets—particularly naughty ones—was surely irrelevant.
“I won’t say a word,” she said carefully as they began walking slowly out of the shadow of the dovecote, lured by the twin beams of his motor car. “But I want a look at the notebook myself when you’re done. And I want your promise that you’ll keep me informed of any details relevant to her death.” The light struck the whites of his eyes as they rolled sideways with frustrated exasperation.
“Is that all?” he said, feigning indulgence.
“Stop being so bloody high-handed.” She was in a temper now—he seemed to bring it out in her. “You’ve been trying ever since we met to scuttle me out, and it’s a waste of both our time.” She rounded on him and looked him squarely in the eye. “I have a better chance than you of finding out who killed her.”
There was a beat of silence, and Olive tipped up her chin and crossed her arms over her chest, unwilling to back down.
When he spoke, his voice was dismissive. “It doesn’t matter—”
“Of course it matters,” she insisted hotly, stepping closer.
“That’s not what I meant. I was merely pointing out that it is neither of our responsibility to find out.” He paused, and she could hear the amusement in his voice when he added, “But humour me, Miss Bright. Why would you assume you’d be a more capable sleuth?”
“Plenty of reasons,” she snapped, raising her hand to tick them off, thumb already in position. “I’ve lived in this village my whole life, and I know its history, written in a thousand little grudges, arguments, and triumphs. Miss Husselbee was right in the middle of all of it.” Her index finger joined the thumb. “I’ve lived so long outside the bounds of expectation, no one bats an eye at anything I do or say.” Middle finger up. “I’m clever,” she said defiantly, fully expecting him to protest, “and good at deductive thinking. Better than all the boys at school.” She smirked, “Odds are, better than you.” Her ring finger made four. “I’m rather a stickler for fair treatment”—she swallowed—“and I want to be certain justice is done.” With the addition of her pinkie finger, her splayed palm was raised between them, as if to ward him off, but she took
another step toward him. “Miss Husselbee was a . . . fixture. A friend. She was important to me and my family. It’s personal.” She dropped her hand. “So, you would be wise to take advantage.” Suddenly conscious of how close they were now standing, she became aware that her last words might well have taken on a different meaning entirely. She poked him sharply in the chest for good measure.
“Be careful what you wish for, Miss Bright.”
“Do we have a deal, Captain Aldridge?”
He held her gaze for a long moment before deigning to answer. “As long as you understand that as far as Baker Street is concerned, everything is still top secret. Damn it!”
“Don’t tell me the cat’s come back?” she said with a superior smile.
His arm shot out, twisted, and she caught the flash of his watch in the light from the headlamps. “Very funny. Go get the bird. I can just make it if I go now and drive without any care for my own personal safety.”
“Just so long as you get the pigeon there in one piece,” she quipped. “Give me the torch.”
For once, he didn’t argue. In an impressive show of efficiency, she had the door to the dovecote unlocked and a bird in hand in less than a minute. With Aldridge trailing her, she strode quickly to the barn, leaving him to wait outside as she slipped in to retrieve a wicker carrier. She was murmuring to the bird as she stepped out again but stopped abruptly as she faced Aldridge.
“This is Hook,” she said wryly. “You met him once before and seemed entirely unimpressed. We’re confident he can change your mind.” Her voice was deliberately light.
“Ring up the manor as soon as he’s back,” he said as she ran her fingers skilfully over the pigeon and slipped him into the carrier before handing it over. “I’ll be waiting for your call.”
“Just what a girl likes to hear,” she teased as he walked away from her at a brisk clip. “I enjoyed dancing with you,” she called quietly after him. “It’s a shame we can’t always be on equal footing.”
“I suspect you’d run rings around us all, Miss Bright,” he said, already swallowed up by the shadows along the drive. A moment later, she heard the engine and the subsequent roar as the car hurtled into the night.
To say she was shocked would be to put it mildly, but the quiet admission from her reluctant partner in crime was nothing compared to Mrs Battlesby’s startling revelation the following morning.
Chapter 8
Saturday, 3rd May
“Verity Husselbee was an inveterate spy.” Mrs Battlesby thumped the greyish dough she was rolling out on one end of the kitchen table to punctuate the statement.
Olive sat up with a start. She’d been slumped over her breakfast at the other end, her mind muddled with sleep and questions, and quite possibly the onset of a cold. “What on earth do you mean?”
She nodded toward Olive’s plate. “Most folks would count themselves lucky to have farm-fresh eggs instead of that sickly grey substitute.” Her eyebrows rose pointedly, and she stayed silent until Olive dutifully lifted her fork and was chewing her first mouthful.
“While I wish it hadn’t been Jonathon who found her, poor mite, I can’t say as I’m surprised someone did.” She peered surreptitiously at Olive but needn’t have bothered: her audience was captivated. Turning the disc of dough, she went on, “It was only a matter of time.”
“What do you mean, spy?” Olive remembered her reaction to that very suggestion the night before and now narrowed her eyes in disbelief. “Was she working for the government?” Olive pondered this revelation. How had she missed something so tremendous? She pictured Miss Husselbee as an agent of the Crown, her brusque, no-nonsense manner, ready binoculars, and vicious umbrella skills now seeming a perfect fit. Could this somehow be the connection to her mother?
Mrs Battlesby cut ruthlessly through her imaginings. “Oh, no. Nothing so important as that. Can you imagine?” She snorted derisively.
“A spy for whom, then?” Olive pressed curiously, fidgeting in her seat, her breakfast entirely forgotten.
“Keep eating, dear,” Mrs Battlesby insisted. As Olive shovelled in the remainder of her eggs and chased them down with tepid tea, the housekeeper beamed and turned her attention back to the dough. “That one spied for no one but herself. Although she was quick to tell you she was keeping tabs for Mass Observation,” the housekeeper informed her in haughty tones. “Thought it justification for all manner of snooping.” The table was shaking with the vigorousness of her feelings on the matter, and her lips had puckered in agitation.
Olive frowned. “I’d forgotten about that.”
“No reason for you to remember.” Mrs Battlesby shook her head, adding, “Count yourself lucky you’ve not yet managed to do anything interesting.”
Neither Mrs Battlesby nor Miss Husselbee had ever met Liam. Olive smiled slightly and said, “But Mass Observation is meant to be a chronicle of mundane events, like summer dances, prize-winning cucumbers, and twisted ankles. A little glimpse of life in Britain, strictly for research purposes.”
The housekeeper raised a flour-dusted arm to wipe her brow. “Verity was more interested in ferreting out the secrets that people prefer to keep hidden . . . babies born too soon after the wedding, girls having affairs with married men”—she clucked her tongue—“all manner of broken commandments.” Olive digested this information as the housekeeper went on. “I expect she thought putting her busybodying to work for Blighty was downright noble. Setting it all down to be sent off in monthly instalments and read by heaven knows who all.” She shook her head. “It doesn’t bear considering.”
“She wasn’t necessarily recording everything to be sent off to Mass Observation.”
“I s’pose not. But everyone in the village had to know it was a possibility. And there are some for whom that could mean trouble.” The housekeeper looked up, her brown eyes snapping as her index finger divined itself toward Olive. “Verity Husselbee has chased the devil down the wrong path at last.”
Keeping a mental inventory of everyone’s shortcomings and missteps was one thing; documenting them for Mass Observation was quite another. The old martinet might have stumbled onto someone committing criminal—even treasonous—acts, someone who’d decided to eliminate her rather than risk exposure. A shiver ran over her skin as Olive remembered the rage in Margaret’s voice, but she deliberately ignored it. Her friend had explained all that, or had tried. There was, surely, something her friend was leaving out, but it certainly wasn’t murder. Besides, poison wasn’t her style. If anything, Margaret would have clawed the woman’s eyes out.
Jonathon had scratched at her bedroom door much too early with the news that the police had officially deemed Miss Husselbee’s a “suspicious death.” It was not the most auspicious way to wake up. Her stomach had clenched, her thoughts had caromed sufficiently to whip up a headache, and her attitude had quickly turned as grim as the cloud-laden sky. It certainly seemed as if the woman’s holier-than-thou attitude and brazen score keeping had somehow got her killed. More precisely, poisoned.
Olive’s lower lip slipped worriedly between her teeth. Jonathon’s information hadn’t run to specifics, but remembering the puddle of sick she’d had the misfortune to kneel in, Olive suspected the contents of Miss Husselbee’s stomach would prove very interesting indeed. She glanced at the pale yellow dregs on her plate and promptly shoved it away, bile rising to her throat.
Mrs Battlesby clearly felt they’d exhausted the subject of Verity Husselbee and was now prattling on with fond memories of bacon and, ironically, a pet pig she remembered from childhood. Olive offered an occasional murmur of curious attention as she sipped her tea and allowed her thoughts to run on.
She’d been rather baffled and, admittedly, a little concerned by the mention of her mother, but it was entirely possible that Miss Husselbee’s last uttered word had merely been the product of a delusional mind and a long-ago memory jarred loose. Alternatively, Jonathon might have misheard or confused the word amid the shock of the m
oment. If she consigned it to coincidence or circumstance, other questions rose quickly to the fore, the grim countenance of Captain Aldridge—it was once again impossible to think of him as Jamie—hovering alongside them in her thoughts.
What if Miss Husselbee’s presence at Blackcap Lodge was significant, related somehow to Olive’s recent involvement with the enigmatic entity known as Baker Street? What was really going on at Brickendonbury? Had she unwittingly put her family in danger? She frowned, wishing she could discuss everything with George, but writing letters back and forth wasn’t at all the same. Like it or not, she needed to have another chat with Captain Aldridge, and this time, she would have to demand a few additional details. He wouldn’t be keen on sharing, though, which was all the more reason to investigate Miss Husselbee’s death on her own. She imagined her little grey cells crackling with anticipation. It was also possible they were crackling with self-righteous glee at having information Aldridge didn’t.
It was entirely satisfying to cast him in the role of the bumbling Hastings, while she was determined to be as meticulous as Poirot. Order and method were key. The village was awash with viable suspects, dodgy behaviour, and possible motives. It would be easy to get bogged down in the sheer numbers. She would just need to focus. As she channelled the little Belgian detective, her finger ranged consideringly over her upper lip. After a time, it occurred to her, with a start, that she was stroking an imaginary moustache to rival Poirot’s. Relieved that no one had caught her out, she hurriedly tucked her hands into her lap. A moment later, with a secret smile, she stood up from the table and pressed a kiss to Mrs Battlesby’s cheek, having resolved to do something interesting for a change.
Olive Bright, Pigeoneer Page 14
