Thursday, 5 October 1939
Peregrine Hall, Pipley
Hertfordshire
It is perplexing to me how a well-meant, perfectly useful suggestion can be met with such ferocious opposition. I merely suggested to A. B. that the holly bush bordering the lane in front of her cottage would benefit from a ruthless cutting back. You would have thought I’d been referring to the woman’s toenails, although I suspect the same could be said of those, as well. That holly bush is particularly menacing whenever a lorry is trundling past. There’s simply no room to step onto the verge without getting trapped in a thicket of sharp-tipped leaves. I’ve had stockings ruined, hair disarranged, and my cheek marred by a raffish-looking scar, all due to that rapacious shrubbery. But A. B. isn’t even a trifle sympathetic. “It’ll be cut back when Mr B gets round to it,” she says. Which is to say, perhaps not at all. She coddles that man, whereas it is my opinion that he could benefit from a regular schedule and rigorous responsibility. It is widely known that he was caught up in a cloud of mustard gas during the Great War, and he’s never shaken free of it, poor man. It’s left him with sullen silence and a dodgy mind. Letting him run round the countryside in the Home Guard, with the notion that he’s the last line of defence against the Germans, is bound to test his sanity. Mark my words.
V.A.E. Husselbee
Chapter 9
Sunday, 4th May
As the wind streamed through her hair and whipped at her skirts, her thoughts seesawed wildly between resolute confidence and anxious uncertainty. For the first time since the war began, she felt a sense of purpose, as if she’d taken hold of her own destiny. Finding a really good clue had made a world of difference. That little success had served to remind her that she was clever, tenacious, and bloody resourceful. It had fired her imagination, bolstered her confidence, and urged her to march right up to the men in charge at Brickendonbury and tell them she wanted to do more—no matter how unnerving the prospect might be. Gripping the handlebars a little more tightly, she narrowed her gaze against the beams of green-gold sunlight streaming across the lane and stood on the pedals, pumping harder, eager to get on with it.
She’d planned to pedal past the main entrance to the property and instead find a more obscure entrée onto the estate, through the woods or one of the adjacent farms. But that was before she realised there were no guards posted at the gatehouse. Security had been entrusted to a wooden barrier and a sign instructing visitors to keep out.
Olive stopped her bicycle across the road, in the shade of an elm tree, straightened her shoulders, tucked a few flyaways back into their pins, and mentally rehearsed an introductory speech. Confident she could concoct a pigeon-related excuse without an actual bird, she stood on the pedals and crossed the road.
Her heart was thumping dully in her chest and her legs pumped in slow motion as she cautiously skirted the barrier and glided up the drive, past the gatehouse, with its shadowed windows and eerie quiet. She glanced around warily, but it seemed there were no guards lurking about, eager to send her on her way. So, with a wide grin and a jolt of confidence, she pedalled down the familiar drive, fully intending to walk right up to knock at the manor’s front door.
She would remember that moment for a very long time.
Her eyes were closed, the breeze skimming over her skin, when the bicycle jolted beneath her. As her eyes flashed open in confusion, the peaceful spring afternoon exploded all around her. Furiously loud reports, close at hand, had her arms jerking in shock, twisting the handlebars in a manner that had the bicycle cringing in on itself. With her balance off-kilter, she began to tip and couldn’t right herself, and she went down hard on one knee. Momentum sent her sprawling, scraping her elbow, her shoulder, and the palms of her hands, as the cacophony kept on. She recognised the sharp sting of panic clawing its way into her and fumbled to disentangle her legs from the twisted bicycle frame. Once free, she clasped her hands against her ears, pressed her cheek ever farther into the sharp bits of gravel, as the firing barrelled on overhead.
It was a fearsome tempest of sound, and Olive wanted desperately to crawl away, to find shelter, but it was impossible to tell which direction was safe. So, she stayed very still and wilfully tamped down her panic to make room for a burgeoning fury. When it finally stopped, her palms had been imprinted with countless tiny stones, and her jaw was sore from grinding her teeth. The sudden absence of sound was deafening, like being plunged underwater, and in the aftermath, her mind couldn’t make sense of things. She had righted her bicycle and was standing, staring bemusedly down at the stark red blood streaming from cuts on her hands and knees, when she noticed a cluster of men hurrying toward her. All at once they were crowding around her, as if she were a curious specimen in a lab, talking both to her and each other, seemingly baffled by the entire situation.
“Are you all right, Miss?”
“Her injuries look relatively minor, but we’ll need to get her patched up.”
“Good God! The spigot mortars weren’t rigged for girls on bicycles! What does she mean by riding through here, merry as you please?”
“Bloody hell! There are signs to keep people out of here. Do you suppose she can’t read?”
Words and faces swam out of the haze of shock, blurred, and ran together as she blinked, trying to get her bearings. Someone took her arm, and someone else slipped her bicycle from her limp grasp. A frenzy of questions, muted and unintelligible, so as not to reach her ears, were exchanged among the men.
Despite the general confusion, she felt compelled to announce, “Of course I can read,” in ringing tones. Then again, the whole world seemed to be ringing.
“Miss Bright.” The voice snapped her out of the fog with an almost Pavlovian response. She stood straighter, wincing only slightly in the process, disengaged her arm from the gentle grip of a man with thinning brown hair, dark eyes, and an aquiline nose. Gritting her teeth, she plastered a smile on her face as a familiar cap hove into view.
“I don’t particularly want to talk to you, Captain Aldridge,” she said sweetly, her mouth insufferably dry. Naturally, he’d been Johnny-on-the-spot for her mortifying fall from grace, and she was in no mood to be on the receiving end of a lecture delivered by smugly quirked lips. Anything she wanted to tell him could damned well wait.
Stifled laughter was drowned out as a short, stout man in an officer’s uniform stepped forward. He had a cherubic face, a wispy head of hair, and round spectacles, through which he eyed her critically. “You know this girl, Aldridge?”
“She’s the fancier, sir,” he said, coming to stand in front of her, his critical gaze ranging over her. Olive was fully aware that she must look a fright; she could feel her hair pulling out of its pins, hanging in clumps around her face, but she couldn’t be bothered to fix it.
“Pigeoneer,” she countered tartly.
He conceded the point with a single raised eyebrow. “Olive Bright, pigeoneer”—he paused, as if still resistant to make the introductions—“meet Major Boom, commanding officer of Station Seventeen.”
She took a deep breath, schooled her features, and put out her hand. “I’ve been hoping to have a word with you, sir.”
The CO seemed startled, his eyes roving over her uncertainly. “Yes, well, I thought I’d put Aldridge in charge of you. He did say you have a fair bit of bottle.” His eyes twinkled. “Come up to the house, and we’ll have a little chat once the FANYs have had a look at you. We need to make sure you’re fit to ride back out of here,” he added wryly.
“I’ll take care of her, sir,” Aldridge said, prompting Major Boom to spin on his heel and stride back the way he’d come.
Olive felt a warm hand grip her upper arm. “Are you out of your bloody mind?” he muttered.
She turned to look at him, exhilarated by her success, if still a bit overwhelmed by the shock of it all. His eyes shifted over her face, then darkened as they settled on the grin curving her lips. With an oath, he dug into his pocket for a handkerchief and
handed it over.
“Well, Lady Resourceful, I’ll be curious to hear how you explain your face, which is bleeding rather profusely, by the way, from a cut at your temple, not to mention the hole in your jacket and your skinned knees.”
“I’ll try not to involve you,” she said drolly, digging her finger into a jagged hole at her elbow. She sighed and used the handkerchief to dab gently at the stinging spots on her cheek and forehead, indulging in a few furtive sniffs. It smelled comfortingly of aniseed balls.
His grip gentled, and they walked slowly up the drive, falling behind everyone as they all returned to whatever it was they’d been doing. More than one man glanced curiously back at them, but not a single one lingered, except for her escort. Olive wondered suddenly if Mr Tierney was about somewhere, but she didn’t imagine Aldridge would appreciate the question.
“You could have been seriously injured, you know.” His voice had taken on its brusque, lecturing quality.
“Well, if I’d known what was in store, I certainly wouldn’t have charged up the drive,” she told him.
“I suppose that’s something.”
“What on earth do you mean booby-trapping the lane that way?” she said angrily. “Any number of curious individuals, children in particular, could wander through the gates. Someone could be seriously injured, to say nothing of a heart attack.”
“They were blanks, you know.”
“Obviously.” There had been several long, panicky seconds when she hadn’t known. “And yet I still find myself walking away with all manner of cuts and scrapes.”
“Would it surprise you, then, to hear that you’re the first trespasser to set off the spigot mortar, shoot up the grounds, and draw out a welcoming committee? Everyone else seems able to read the signs and follow the rules.”
She looked coolly at him and finally said, “I regret having made such a dramatic entrance. But if I hadn’t come this way, you can be sure I would have found another way in.”
This answer prompted him to rub a rough hand over his face and look away. Olive couldn’t help but notice that his jaw looked painfully tight. “This is a serious operation, Miss Bright. And your flagrant disrespect for rules and protocol does not inspire confidence or trust. It is, in fact, the sort of thing that gets people killed. Or at the very least, dismissed from service.”
They’d cut across the lawn, walking in the shade of enormous oak trees, and finally come in view of the manor house. Olive gazed soberly up at the stuccoed white, crisp and stark against the varying shades of spring and evergreen. Its jumble of architectural details reminded her of a carefully pieced scrap quilt, none of it matching, all of it working beautifully. Its two-storeyed line of windows was broken by a stone porte-cochère at the centre. Beyond that soared a broad square tower, crowded with masonry and ringed with a balustrade. She wondered what the view of the countryside must be like from up there.
“I suppose I deserve what I got,” she said, then sniffed once more before handing back his now bloodied handkerchief. “But you didn’t hold up your end of our bargain,” she finished stoutly.
“I didn’t what?” To his credit, he tucked the handkerchief back in his pocket.
“We agreed to share information regarding a certain murder.” Olive infused the final word with a bit of ghoulish excitement and felt instantly guilty. “I dug through her pockets and found the notebook. You carried it off, with a promise to share information, and then went radio silent. Trust works both ways, Captain Aldridge.” Before he could muster a response, she ploughed on, fuelled by self-righteousness. “You’ve left me to my own devices and have no idea what I’ve been doing.”
“I have some idea,” Aldridge said, a sardonic twist to his lips. “I’d venture the entire estate is aware of you at this point.”
She ignored that. “Would it surprise you to hear that I’ve been prowling about in Miss Husselbee’s library?”
His fingers gripped her more firmly as he pulled her to a halt. “That’s the dead woman?”
She nodded, anxious to sit down. Her knees were starting to pain her. “I found something, too.”
He swore, but any lecture he had planned was unavoidably postponed as he ushered her through the front door and into the hall, which was a bustle of activity.
A blond pixie, wearing the smartly belted army-tan FANY uniform, detached herself from her position behind a desk and hurried toward them, her curious eyes darting first to Olive but quickly settling on Aldridge.
“Can you get her fixed up, Liz? Then bring her along to Major Boom’s office?”
“Yes, sir,” the blonde said smartly, her tone rather at odds with the adoring gaze she trailed after him as he walked swiftly away.
“You look a little rough, sweetie,” she said confidingly once he was safely out of earshot. “I don’t know what happened to you, but if it got you an escort by Captain Aldridge, I’d say it was worth it.”
Olive snorted, her lips twisting into a grimace, as her gaze trailed after him. She noted the set line of his shoulders and the tight clench of his fists.
Liz wrapped her arm around Olive’s waist and tugged her in the opposite direction. “That man gives me the most delicious shivers. He doesn’t even need to speak. Those eyes, those shoulders, that little thing he does with his lips . . .”
Olive stared down at her, wondering if Liz was having her on. What little thing he did with his lips? Frowning? Scowling? She couldn’t imagine either inspiring the sort of fascination that Liz seemed to be harbouring toward the man.
Realizing it didn’t matter in the slightest, she switched her focus to her surroundings. It had been several years since she’d been inside the manor house, and while its bones were intact, it was obviously changed.
Liz led her into a room at the back of the house, which had been repurposed into a makeshift nurses’ station. Six empty cots, made up with crisp white linens and woollen blankets, were lined up along the cherrywood wainscoting, and an impressive stock of medical supplies was arranged on metal carts lined up near the windows.
Liz pressed her down onto the nearest cot and efficiently fetched the requisite supplies—gauze and bandages, antiseptic and scissors. “Lie back and rest for a moment,” she insisted, firmly pressing her fingers into Olive’s shoulder blades with an unexpected wiry strength.
“I really don’t think I need—” Olive started, resisting.
“Don’t worry,” Liz said, nudging her back down and settling herself on a stool beside the cot. “It’ll only take a few minutes. He’ll wait. He clearly wants to talk to you.”
Liz seemed torn between excitement and mild jealousy. Her mind sufficiently boggled by this alternate view of Captain Aldridge, Olive looked away from the gold-flecked green eyes and watched the quick efficient hands, which had started snipping dressings and sticking plaster to fit her myriad injuries. The dreamy sparkle in Liz’s eyes had dimmed, replaced with clarity and focus, as she set to the job before her.
“Have you been here long?” Olive asked.
“At the manor?” She considered. “It’ll be a year in June.”
The sting of antiseptic splashed lavishly onto her cuts had Olive screwing up her face and fighting down a flurry of cursing. When the worst of it was over, she resumed her questioning. “Are there a lot of injuries to deal with?”
“Not usually.” She was pressing a square of gauze to Olive’s temple—one that would require a darn good explanation. “But I’m not strictly a nurse. They have us FANYs doing all manner of odd jobs—whatever’s necessary. I much prefer the evening shift . . . dancing and parlour games, keeping spirits up and flowing.” She flashed a grin of straight white teeth, complete with pointed incisors, and affixed the dressing and sticking plaster to Olive’s temple.
Olive was desperate to ask for details but knew Liz must be constrained by the Official Secrets Act, as well, so she didn’t bother. Major Boom would decide soon enough if she was to be let in on the secrets of Brickendonbury Manor. Lost i
n her own thoughts, she settled into silence as Liz finished patching her up. She was swinging her legs over the side of the cot when another patient sauntered in, holding a hand up to stem the flow of blood from his nose. The bright red looked even more garish against a mane of coppery-coloured hair.
“I wouldn’t have thought you’d be visiting me so often, what with being the instructor and all,” Liz said, with a teasing little twist of her lips.
“I figure if they can get one over on me, then I’ve got them ready, haven’t I?” Danny Tierney’s eyes, full of mischief, sobered when he looked past Liz to Olive’s bandaged face and knees.
“What happened to ye? And what’re ye doing here?” he demanded, his Irish stronger than Olive remembered.
“I’d hoped to convince Major Boom to let me in on a few secrets,” she admitted, sliding off the cot to stand stiffly, “but getting shot off my bicycle by a booby-trapped round of blanks might have been the wrong way to go about it.” She lifted an eyebrow. “I’m guessing I shouldn’t bother asking what happened to you.”
“You two know each other?” Liz asked, nudging Tierney onto the cot Olive had vacated, twisting her head to look at him. “You’re determined to have the most interesting nose in the building, aren’t you? One more break and it might be a different shape altogether.”
“Is there a prize for that?” Tierney asked.
“We met briefly a few days ago,” Olive told her. “I figure it’s all right to admit that, seeing as we’re all in the belly of the beast, so to speak.”
Liz glanced curiously at Olive as she pressed several squares of folded gauze to Tierney’s nose. “I’ll need to go to the kitchen to get some ice for the swelling.”
“And I suppose I’m ready to face the firing squad,” Olive said, straightening her shoulders.
Olive Bright, Pigeoneer Page 16
