* * *
By Saturday afternoon, it was obvious that Captain Aldridge was avoiding her. She’d telephoned the moment Hook had shown up in the dovecote—quite exhausted from his flight over the Channel, but none the worse for wear—and been told by the FANY answering the phone that she would relay the message. She hadn’t mentioned that in her eagerness she’d ignored his directive and extracted the rice paper curled inside the canister strapped to Hook’s leg. He’d clearly been expecting as much. The message wasn’t encoded and, in fact, mentioned her by name. It had no doubt been written after they’d found Miss Husselbee’s body and planted before Hook had even left the airbase. The audacious missive read, If we’re to be partners, I need to be able to trust you. Do better, Miss Bright. The flush of shame had mingled with the heat of irritation, but she’d been forced to concede he’d won that round. He’d made his point, but if he pressed the issue, she fully intended to pretend absolute ignorance.
By Sunday afternoon, he’d yet to put in an appearance, and Olive was tired of twiddling her thumbs. She’d written to George, telling him of the dance, Miss Husselbee’s death, and her suspicions regarding the Spam cake, but the effort had only left her more frustrated. She refused to mention Captain Aldridge as a romantic interest, and the truth behind their “liaison” was strictly off-limits. For a long, horrified moment, she wondered what she was going to do when George came home on leave. How could she possibly explain him? It didn’t bear thinking about, which left her freshly frustrated with the captain.
She’d given Aldridge the benefit of the doubt, but he’d obviously never had the slightest intention of keeping her informed. She was disappointed but not surprised. He might have Miss Husselbee’s notebook, and the connections and credentials to obtain further details from the police, but she was flush with village gossip and potential clues. “He can keep his secrets,” she announced to an audience of thirty or so marginally attentive pigeons. “I’ll ferret out my own.” With a sharp nod, she stepped up beside the blue cock that Aldridge had selected for his farcical examination. “Look sharp, Fritz. It’s time for a little exercise,” she said, tucking his legs neatly between her index and middle fingers and slipping him into a carrier.
With questions and hypotheses frothing at the edges of her brain, Olive had convinced herself that a visit to Peregrine Hall was her best course of action. The police had surely been and gone, and while Detective Sergeant Burris might be a friendly sort of chap, he wasn’t likely to share their findings. It was entirely possible, however, that they’d missed something, and it definitely couldn’t hurt to look.
As she stepped out of the dovecote with her avian companion, her thoughts flickered immediately to George, then Jonathon, and even absurdly to Aldridge, before she yanked them back under control. She didn’t require a sidekick—Aldridge would never consent in any case. And while she was perfectly capable of going alone, Fritz would provide a ready-made excuse if anyone questioned her presence on the grounds. Her birds had been accessories to all manner of trespass over the years, so it was only natural to have one along on this endeavour. Her lips quirked—Poirot wouldn’t approve. Then again, as far as detective skills went, Fritz was likely to prove at least as useful as Hastings ever had in finding the killer.
The killer.
She stilled beside the barn. She’d come to grips with Miss Husselbee’s sudden, unexplained death, but her mind had not yet truly accepted the idea that someone she knew had, quite recently, done murder. Abruptly, her surroundings distilled: the delicate white flowers seemingly trapped among the blackberry canes tangling at the gate, the plaintive mewling of the barn cats skulking through the grass, the low trill from the carrier basket, signifying Fritz’s impatience to get on with things. Her current plan involved a solitary bike ride along a mostly deserted river path to Peregrine Hall, where she intended to poke about for evidence that could incriminate someone in this terrible crime.
With a grim twist of her lips, she conceded that the person in question might actively object to such a plan. Actively perhaps meaning violently. It was possible she was putting herself in considerable danger. She let that sink in for a moment before dismissing the concern. She was relatively confident she could talk her way out of suspicion, having had a long history of success with that tactic. Eccentric and peculiar were the words most often used to describe her behaviour, and she’d long ago discovered the ambiguity could be used to her advantage. It was unlikely anyone would suspect the real reason for her visit to Peregrine Hall, but if they did, it would surely be dismissed with a shake of the head and a roll of the eyes. However, as a concession to George, who wasn’t there to stop her, she resolved to be extra cautious. Willing to leave everything else to chance, she set off.
Soon she was peering out of the wood that bordered the hall, her gaze skimming over the expanse of what had once been a carefully mown lawn sloping down to the river. Now it was a mess of turned earth. The Land Girls had apparently already begun converting it into a vegetable plot, but a quick look around suggested they were elsewhere today. Olive shifted her gaze toward the hall. It was handsome but without frill, three stories, capped by a grey slate roof, with a stately portico over the door and a modest forecourt. A terrace occupied the corner where the main house met the modest east wing, and several tables and chairs filled the space. There were no cars parked in sight, and no movement behind the windows.
She left her bicycle stashed in a tangle of bramble, and carting Fritz along for cover, she stepped onto a narrow strip of remaining grass, then ranged her gaze up to the sky and over the landscape, as if assessing flight conditions. She strode quickly up the steps to the terrace and ducked out of sight behind a low garden wall, half expecting a cry to go up. When nothing happened, she peered through a topiary potted in a concrete urn, her eyes darting nervously around the grounds. Head cocked, she listened intently for any noises from the house.
None were discernible, further confirmation that the police had already carried out their investigation. She skulked to the nearby French doors and peered through the windows. Having been invited to Peregrine Hall for the odd garden party and purposeful tea, she was familiar with the flow of the rooms. The drawing room was empty, but the doors wouldn’t budge, so she slipped along the terrace to try the ones leading into the library. Also locked.
The effort of swivelling her head in all directions was making her dizzy, so she stepped off the terrace into the shelter of the kitchen garden and dropped thankfully onto an iron bench set into the curve of a holly bush. Fritz had remained appropriately silent. Biting her lip, she considered the merits of going round to the front of the house and knocking on the door. Under normal circumstances, she felt certain she could talk her way in, but the police had probably instructed the housekeeper not to admit any visitors without approval. Picturing the round face of DS Burris shaking his head with an indulgent chuckle, she promptly abandoned the idea and growled in frustration.
In support of her continued efforts to keep her wild curls in a semblance of order, her hair was chock full of pins, and she wasn’t unskilled at picking locks, but the French doors had sounded as if they were bolted to the jambs. What now? She stared down at the basket beside her.
“This is where you fall a bit short in the sidekick department,” she informed Fritz in a whisper. “I could use a brilliant idea right about now.” The pigeon stayed expectedly silent as Olive stared at the neat garden rows spread out before her, sown with lettuce, broad beans, and English peas. Her stomach growled as her eyes flared with inspiration. She hopped up and hurried along the cypress border, hunting for the kitchen door.
When she found it, she tipped her head close, listening, but could hear nothing over the infernal thump of blood in her ears. If someone was hanging about, she’d need a ready excuse for barging in. Unfortunately, one hadn’t yet occurred to her, so this was, admittedly, a trifle risky, but what choice did she have? Her hand hovered over the doorknob, and as she grasped it, a so
und rose up right beside her, a sort of ghostly chuckle. Olive yanked her hand away, recoiling several steps, even as she realised it was only Fritz, likely complaining at being cooped up too long. Or possibly offering a belated opinion. There was definitely something to be said for working alone.
“I’m not particularly happy with it, either,” she groused, “but we can’t keep skulking around. Have a little faith.” She tried the knob, and the door swung silently open on well-oiled hinges, thereby allowing her pins to stay safely tucked into her curls. Beaming, Olive darted inside.
Moments later, she was tapping the door to the library closed behind her and turning the key in the lock, having met no one on her trek from the kitchen. As she moved into the room, her gaze went instantly to the French doors, and she confirmed that they were indeed bolted shut. She took the precaution of crossing to draw the deep blue curtains against them, on the off chance that someone else might be inclined to snoop. With that done, she settled Fritz and his basket on a little table beside the unlit fireplace, giving him a clear view into the room. Knowing the Sergeant Major’s strong sense of moral rectitude and responsibility—to say nothing of her strict rules of order—Olive felt certain that her contributions to Mass Observation would have been written out in this room. As such, she deduced, any relevant clues were likely to be found here.
The room was very much like her father’s study, but with subtly feminine touches. The floor-to-ceiling shelves were lined with books, an occasional bust or knick-knack tastefully arranged amid the volumes. The desk had elegant turned legs and a pair of ceramic spaniels guarding one corner. In another, tucked into an ornate gilt frame, was a photograph of Miss Husselbee as a child, posing with her parents, each of them stiff and unsmiling. A typewriter sat in the very centre, an electric lamp positioned just behind it. Olive switched on the light and stared down at the Parsons chair, upholstered in a forest-green brocade. Its upright back was nearly flush against the edge of the desk, and she could envision Miss Husselbee’s arched eyebrow daring her to proceed.
With an oath, she dragged it back and moved to sit down, her foot skimming over something on the dark red patterned carpet. She picked it up and settled it in her palm. It was a tarnished brass button bearing the crown and anchor of the Royal Navy. Wondering if it might be a clue, she giddily slipped it into her pocket, then seated herself carefully in the chair and commenced her search, starting with the top right-hand drawer. At the front was a thick sheaf of paper for the typewriter. Determined to be thorough, she lifted out the entire stack and flipped through it, hoping to find a clue tucked between the pages: a cryptic message, a mysterious cipher key, or a copy of the Sergeant Major’s will, significantly altered the day she died. Unfortunately, her efforts yielded only a mocking puff of air, which fanned over her face as blank white pages arced past. Her shoulders slumped slightly as she replaced the paper. Tugging the drawer farther open displayed a box of envelopes and a spare typewriter ribbon.
Olive tugged on the handle of the small, shallow middle drawer just as Fritz’s patience wore out. A sudden flapping of wings, startling in the silence, had her heart plunging in fright. Once he had her attention, he clucked in churlish irritation. Her eyes slitted in frustration. “Give me a moment,” she insisted before hastily rummaging through a collection of letter-writing paraphernalia. Her hand stilled over a pair of postcards farther back. Both were addressed to Miss Verity Husselbee, one from the Isle of Skye, the other from Monte Carlo, both written as if from a template: It was a rather gruelling (tedious) journey, but we’ve made it. Weather is chilly (warm), but we’ve stumbled over an old acquaintance (school chum) and look forward to catching up. . . . Both were signed “Yours very sincerely, H&H.” Olive stared at the postcards, which were dated decades past, and suspected that such sterile missives might conceivably be from the upright couple in the frame. She placed them gently back in the drawer, a stab of pity slowing her movements.
The top left-hand drawer yielded nothing more interesting than a book on birding, a folded map of south Hertfordshire, and a paperback novel. She paged quickly through the latter, which appeared to be Gothic in the extreme. This must be the one Miss Husselbee had referred to. Written by Lila Charmant, it was titled A Lady Avenged. Olive tried to imagine the Sergeant Major taking refuge from the self-imposed rigidities of her daily life in these pages and failed miserably. Chiding herself for wasting time on fanciful thoughts, she dropped the book back beside its avian fellow and slid the drawer closed.
She laid her hands on either side of the typewriter and drummed her fingers on the desk. She glared at the trim little machine. A single sheet of paper sat at the ready, only an inch exposed above the ribbon, as if Miss Husselbee would momentarily swoop in to record the scandal of this very trespass. Olive ran her fingers over the metal keys, imagining the funny jumble of letters being pressed into words. Typing was not among her credentials.
What would you have to say, Miss Husselbee? What advice would you give an amateur sleuth like myself? Would you criticise me for dragging a pigeon into my scheme or warn me against trusting a man spooked by cats? Perhaps I would agree with you on both counts.
Distractedly, she fiddled with the typewriter’s platen knob, turning it forward, then back, watching the sheet of paper scroll hypnotically up and down, as she considered the repercussions of banging out her frustration on the little keys. But the thought scuttled guiltily out of her head the second she realised the page wasn’t blank. After rolling the entirety above the ribbon, she read it carefully.
Friday, 2 May 1941
Peregrine Hall, Pipley
Hertfordshire
I have lived in this village my whole life, and while there will always be wickedness and little immoralities, I’ve never had reason to be truly horrified by the behaviour of someone of my acquaintance. But just recently, I have discovered that there is one among us—I hesitate to even put down the initials—who has fallen quite irreparably from grace. The situation is even more distressing given the current state of affairs. As a country, we are fighting against the evil that would invade across the Channel, yet here it is among us, insidious, festering. I must decide what to do.
Olive’s eyes had grown progressively wider the farther they’d travelled down the page. Now it seemed they might pop out of her skull. This had surely been the beginning of a diary entry for Mass Observation. Dated the day of her death, it hinted at something so huge that it was beyond Miss Husselbee’s considerable experience at taking villagers to task. She’d rolled her thoughts back into the typewriter to give herself time to consider, and that little bit of caution had worked to Olive’s great advantage.
Everything else, it seemed, had been collected and taken away, whether by the police or the staff, it was impossible to tell. No newspapers or magazines had been left behind, and not a single slip of paper lay in the bin. She’d found no other typed pages, and a quick search of the bookcases had uncovered no additional pocket journals similar to the one found on the body. Mrs Battlesby had said the Mass Observation diaries were submitted in monthly instalments. While this was likely the first entry for the month of May, what of her April efforts? Could they have been sent off already?
Olive tapped her finger against her lips, thinking quickly. It was possible Miss Husselbee’s notebook would hold a key to deciphering this unfinished entry—and possibly identifying the murderer—which meant her next step was convincing Aldridge to let her have a look at it. Her lips curved into a slow, satisfied grin. She’d found something all on her own—something significant, she was certain of it. A bona fide clue. Sparing only a moment to consider the possible repercussions, she rolled the single sheet of paper from the typewriter, folded it neatly, and tucked it deep inside her boot. She comforted herself with the knowledge that Hercule Poirot would have likely done the same, had he been the boot-wearing sort.
On impulse, she pulled open the top left-hand drawer once again, pulled out the paperback novel, and tucked it into the po
cket of her jacket. She couldn’t help but be a little bit curious.
Done searching, she stood and positioned the chair just as she’d found it, pausing for a moment to consider whether to continue her search upstairs. The clue she’d discovered hinted that the Sergeant Major saw to the business of spycraft and Mass Observation in this very room. It was probably better not to risk it. With a little zing of confidence fizzing through her veins, she scooped Fritz from his spot by the fireplace, twitched the curtains back into place, and slipped through the door to the hall.
Getting out wasn’t quite as easy as getting in. She heard voices and was forced to kill a bit of time waiting for them to fade off in an indeterminate direction while praying Fritz would stay quiet. But before long she was hurrying back across the lawn, dodging behind statues and hedges wherever possible, in her haste to reach the shelter of the wood.
“I’d say you’ve kept up your end of the bargain,” she said, carefully lifting Fritz out of his carrier. “More or less.” She ran a finger over the silky-smooth feathers of his chest. “Remember to watch for hawks,” she lectured before tossing him into the air with a practiced motion. His wings beat mightily as he rose above her, and she watched as he wheeled in a wide circle, getting his bearings, before heading off in the direction of Blackcap Lodge. Olive stared after him as he flew over the river and the trees beyond, leaving her quite alone.
If Aldridge wouldn’t come to her, she would go to him. She’d fully intended a visit to Brickendonbury to introduce herself to the commanding officer at any rate. Two birds, one stone. Given the clarity with which she could imagine George’s scoff and eye roll, it was almost as if he was right there beside her.
“Jamie is going to be bloody furious,” she murmured. The corner of her mouth hitched in perverse anticipation as she yanked her bicycle from the brambles that held it upright and turned it toward Brickendonbury.
Olive Bright, Pigeoneer Page 15
