“Maybe even Britain herself,” Jonathon said soberly.
Nodding, Olive agreed. “He’s officially on the list.”
She settled on the bench as her eyes roved over the rest of them, some standing in profile, eyeing her warily, others peeping in and out of the pigeonholes in the roof, oblivious to her decision-making.
“Lancelot?” Jonathon suggested.
“Too risky. He’s young and hasn’t settled with a mate yet and could well decide not to make the journey home if a flirty mademoiselle crosses his path.”
“Of course he’d come back,” Jonathon insisted stoutly.
Olive shrugged. “We can’t take the risk that he might live up to his namesake. He just needs a bit of time.”
With two strong beats of his wings, a red-chequered cock flapped up from the floor and landed beside her on the bench. He bore her scrutiny with preening pride.
“What about Aramis?” Jonathon suggested, eyeing the bird critically. “He’s got camouflage colouring.” That was true to a point. White birds could be more easily spotted by the enemy—and its sympathisers. “Now that he’s mated with Roberta, he’ll be eager to get home again.”
Jonathon was almost fizzing with excitement, and Olive knew he’d be thrilled to have chosen one of the three birds to be sent. But she needed to consider carefully. She scooped up Aramis, ran her fingers over his breast and wings, examined his feet, and looked into his eyes. He had won several shorter races and had been in training for a longer one when his chance had been snatched away.
“You’re looking fit, Aramis. Ready to do your bit?”
“One for all, and all for one,” Jonathon said eagerly.
Grinning, Olive opened her hands and gave the bird a little toss. “Fair enough. Fritz, Badger, and Aramis will be the three pigeon musketeers. And Poppins will stand ready to assist.” She promptly sobered, fully aware that she might very well lose more than one of these birds.
Barring any health concerns that might come to light with a thorough inspection, Olive was confident all four birds could handle the flight from Pessac, France, and would clock in impressive times, but she’d need to get them back in racing shape quickly. They hadn’t been trained with any consistency or regularity since before she left for the Royal Veterinary College, and now they’d have to do it all in secret. Her father would naturally be suspicious of any sort of rigorous training unless she was able to come up with a plausible explanation for their no longer dwindling supply of pigeon feed.
A short, sharp whistle sounded from the drive. Her father was home, calling to Kíli to hurry along through the gate. Not quite ready to share her news, and unwilling to subject herself to a fresh diatribe on the NPS, she laid her index finger against her lips, winked at Jonathon, and slipped out of the dovecote, cut through the garden to the kitchen door, and hurried up the back stairs. Safe in her room, she beelined for her mother’s photograph, giddy all over again. If she wasn’t to be allowed to leave British shores or man a gun in support of the war effort, then her new role as a FANY was surely the next best thing. She was carrying on her mother’s legacy in this small way.
She knew the stories by heart, even so many years later—her mother had never tired of recounting her thrilling days as a FANY. Amid cold and mud, infection and fear, Serena Bright had thrived, relishing those fate-tempting, shiver-inducing moments that shifted the balance amid the maelstrom of death and destruction. As a young girl, Olive had taken it all for granted, but lately, thinking back over the details, she was staggered by the tales of her mother’s accomplishments. Olive had barely managed to get past the Brickendonbury gates unscathed to volunteer her services on the home front. She sighed and slid her index finger along her mother’s smiling face. “I hope you’d be proud of me,” she whispered.
* * *
“What happened to your head?” Rupert Bright demanded from across the table.
Olive, who’d been poised to announce that she was now, officially, working for the war effort, felt her shoulders droop with the distraction. Before coming downstairs, she’d pulled away the plaster and arranged her hair to cover the gash, but clearly not well enough. “It’s nothing,” she said, lifting a hand to feather her fingers over the spot and instantly realising her error.
“And your hand?” her father prompted, concern crowding over his features. Jonathon, who already knew the details, kept his head down. Harriet glanced up curiously in the act of scooping a serving of parsley potatoes.
Olive focused on the raw flesh on the inside of her palm. “I fell off my bicycle on Mangrove Lane,” she said calmly. Truthfully. Which, at that moment, felt an enormous relief. “Something shot out of the trees and startled me, and I went over, hit my head on a rock, and scraped up my hands and knees.” She curled her fingers and dipped her hands beneath the table, smiling at the eyes staring back at her and adding an innocent shrug for good measure. “My bicycle took the brunt of the fall, but Jamie lent me the use of a little motorbike to get back home, and he said he’ll take the bike around to Mr Forrester for me.”
“Did he?” Harriet said, with a knowing smile. “Such a nice young man.”
Olive nearly laughed out loud. While he might be a young man, Captain Aldridge wasn’t the least bit nice. At least as far as she could tell.
“What were you doing over on Mangrove Lane? Those military types don’t take kindly to trespassing, my girl. No matter what you think you’re entitled to do.”
“As a matter of fact, I had business at Brickendonbury.”
“Did you now?” her father said. His voice was teasing, but his eyes were wary.
“Yes, and I have some news.”
“It won’t interfere with the pig club, will it?” Harriet inquired, slicing neatly into her sausage and cabbage roll.
“No,” Olive said flatly. She’d forgotten the pig club.
“Don’t say you’ve heard from the NPS?” was her father’s guess.
She shook her head, feeling a pang of guilt to be squelching the guarded optimism in his voice. With a sideways glance at Jonathon, she exhaled a deep breath and announced, “I’ve signed up as a FANY.”
Her father had just shovelled a mouthful of food through his lips and now choked out a response. “You’ve what?”
Olive set down her fork. She’d known this conversation would be difficult, but she’d had lots of practice with difficult over the past few days. In fairness, it had been weeks. Months. And it wasn’t about to get any easier anytime soon.
“Jamie . . . ,” she started, lowering her gaze and schooling her voice to sound self-conscious, “Captain Aldridge knew I wanted to do something more for the war effort than I’m doing now.” She glanced at her stepmother as she clarified. “Something more than a scheme. So, when a position came open at Brickendonbury, he suggested I come in for an interview.”
“The projects undertaken by the WI are instrumental to the war effort,” Harriet reminded them all in a tone she used to rally support and donations for those very endeavours.
Before Olive could respond, her father swooped in with platitudes. “Of course they are, my dear. No one could possibly argue the counterpoint.” Then he turned to his daughter to demand, “What sort of position?”
Olive felt the heated flush, prompted by the impending lie, begin its slow rise from the base of her neck. “Officially, I’m to be a secretary, but in reality, I’ll be more of a dogsbody, or a driver if I’m lucky.”
“Wouldn’t they prefer someone skilled in those sorts of tasks?”
Olive rolled her eyes. “I appreciate the vote of confidence, Dad, but I think I can handle it. And you needn’t worry. I’ll be trained.”
“But you’ll be wasted there! All your schooling—none of it was preparing you to be a secretary. There’ll be no one to help me in my practice. I would have had a hell of a time delivering all those calves without you—to say nothing of the pigeons.” He looked round the table, at each of them in turn. “Not to mention the pig clu
b,” he hastened to add as his gaze touched on his wife.
Her stepmother laid a hand on her father’s arm. “I suspect she won’t be a secretary for long, Rupert. As long as she needn’t demonstrate her knitting skills, I feel certain she’s destined for a greater role. Just like her mother.” She winked at Olive, whose smile suddenly felt etched in place. She couldn’t decide whether Harriet’s comments were innocently reassuring or shrewdly perceptive.
Wanting to shift the conversation, she said, “I told them all about the work both of you did in the last war, and all you’re doing now. I thought it might bolster my chances.” She hadn’t really, but in fairness, they’d known plenty already. “They were very impressed with Mum, too, her being a bona fide hero of the ambulance corps, with plenty of daring evacuations to her credit.”
Rupert Bright’s demeanour instantly shifted from bushy-browed frown to slack-jawed stillness. His shoulders went rigid as he quietly demanded, “You told them about her?”
“Yes. Why shouldn’t I?”
“No reason,” he said hurriedly, with a sharp shake of his head. “Yes, well, her accomplishments are irrelevant. What matters is that they realise what a prize they have in you.”
“Thanks, Dad,” Olive said, wondering if the shivery feeling that clung to her insides was due to unexpected emotion or cringing worry at lying to her father.
“So, you rode in, happy as you please,” he inquired, “took a tumble on the drive, then got interviewed and accepted on the spot?”
“More or less,” she said, happy to leave the spigot mortar out of it. “They patched me up, as well.”
“Hmm. Is it official, then? When are you meant to start?” Her father clearly wasn’t yet ready to embrace this unexpected turn of events. Heaven help her if he ever found out about the pigeons.
“It’s official,” she assured them all. “My training starts next week. That’ll give me plenty of time to make a start on the pig club and maybe finish that pair of socks that’s been languishing.”
Harriet’s smile was wryly amused. “Wonderful.”
“You’re certain you’ll be safe working there?” her father pressed sceptically. “There’s plenty of talk in the Home Guard. Several of the men have been out on patrol and heard mysterious explosions coming from the grounds.”
“I’ll be fine,” Olive insisted. “I’m not to know any details of that sort, but it’s clear that they’re all very conscientious about it. All the necessary precautions are being taken. I won’t be in any danger.” Worried that her cheeks had pinkened at the memory of her explosive chat with Major Boom, Olive took a sip from her water glass.
Harriet spoke up. “I know you’re a very capable girl, but I hope your Jamie isn’t putting undue pressure on you.”
Her Jamie? It was really too ridiculous. They could barely hold a conversation without one of them seething with frustration. But she couldn’t very well protest.
“Don’t worry,” she said with a broad smile. “I’m entirely capable of pushing right back.”
“You’ve demonstrated that well enough, my girl,” her father said with a gruff shake of his head. “I suppose we’ll all have to get used to not having you around as often.”
He seemed glum, but it was a small price to pay. At least he’d raised no objections, despite being a little out of sorts with the whole business. The trouble was, he knew only the half of what she’d actually be doing. She took a bite of her supper, carefully not meeting anyone’s gaze, as she envisioned herself walking a narrow tightrope far above the village green. After several long moments, her father’s voice startled her out of her reverie.
“I stopped in at the Fox and Duck for a quick pint on my way back from the O’Connors’ farm this afternoon. I chanced to speak to the constable.”
Olive rested her arm heavily on the table, her fork cradled, forgotten, in her hand, as her heart thudded dully in her chest. It had been only hours since she’d trespassed, venturing into Peregrine Hall in the hopes of finding some clue to the Sergeant Major’s suspiciously sudden demise. And in the time since, she’d forgotten about her entirely. Forgotten that less than forty-eight hours ago, she’d been rummaging through the pockets of a dead woman. Forgotten she had found a lead and had fully intended to follow it, with Aldridge’s cooperation. She felt suddenly ashamed as she waited for her father to tell them the rest.
A glance showed her father running his tongue over his teeth, a habit he had when trying to gird himself to say something he’d rather not. His features were heavy with emotion, and Harriet had stilled, clearly braced against the worst. “The results of the post-mortem indicate that Verity Husselbee died of poisoning.”
“I think that’s what we feared,” Harriet said sadly. “She was in marvellous good health. It would have been hard to imagine it could be anything else. But what could have poisoned her? Not something she ate at the dance, surely. Otherwise there would have been other . . . tragedies. Do you suppose she could have had one of those rare allergies?” She was babbling, a clear indication of how thoroughly this news had affected her.
Rupert Bright turned his head slowly toward his wife, his face grim.
Instantly, Olive knew. “It was the Spam cake, wasn’t it?” she blurted.
Each of them started, and round the table, three heads swivelled to look at her. Her father’s eyes narrowed curiously, and he carefully demanded, “How did you know that?”
“I didn’t know.” Olive swallowed, already feeling the tears beginning to prick against her eyes. “But no one seemed to know who’d made it, and it disappeared with only a single slice served. Who else but Miss Husselbee would willingly eat a pudding made of tinned meat and potatoes?” She shuddered. “Whoever wanted to kill her went about it in a diabolical manner.”
Harriet was quick to object, her voice brisk. “Don’t be silly. Verity may have been overly outspoken, but she was harmless. No one wanted to kill her. It must have been some sort of accident.”
Her father cleared his throat meaningfully. “Harrington found digitalis in her stomach, my dear, and she’s not been taking it for her heart.”
Harriet’s frail-looking hand swept up to cover her lips as her eyes widened in disbelief.
“What’s digitalis?” Jonathon said, finally speaking up.
Olive stood and collected the dishes, her mind beginning to buzz with suspicion. “Digitalis is from the foxglove plant. If prescribed in the right quantities to patients with weak or irregular heartbeats, it can help stabilise the condition. But if administered in an incorrect dosage, or to individuals with healthy hearts, it can be fatal.” She plugged the sink, ran the water over the dishes, and left them to soak.
“Did you learn that at veterinary college?” Jonathon asked.
“As a matter of fact,” Olive said, coming back to her chair and fixing her gaze on Harriet, “I learned all about it at a WI meeting here in the village. We had a visiting lecturer from Oxford University. He explained how there’d been a shortage of the drug since the beginning of the war and requested our help in restoring the supply. He described in great detail how to handle and dry the leaves of the foxglove plant to ensure they could be made into effective medicine. And shortly after that, we formed a collection party. We donned our gloves, took up our baskets, and spent a week harvesting foxglove leaves as part of the Oxford Medicinal Plants Scheme.”
Jonathon’s eyes had widened ominously.
Harriet hadn’t spoken, but Olive’s father murmured, “I’d forgotten all that.”
“Are you familiar with the foxglove plant?” Olive asked Jonathon.
“I’m not sure.”
“It’s easiest to identify in the summer, when it’s blooming. Rather a showy number, with spikes of trumpet flowers mostly in shades of purple and pink or even white. We had no shortage of leaves to dry, as the plants were growing wild along the lanes.”
“Better to avoid it altogether,” her father suggested, prompting a nod from his young charge. “But I
believe we’re getting somewhat off topic.” He rubbed his fingers over his forehead so vigorously, the skin folded into fleshy wrinkles. “As difficult as it is to believe that Miss Husselbee’s umbrella has thumped its last, it’s harder still to accept that someone could have done this intentionally.”
They were all silent, lost in their own thoughts, until her father spoke again.
“There’s to be an inquest Wednesday morning. They’ve agreed to allow me to appear in lieu of Jonathon.” Beside her, Jonathon dipped his head, his face having paled sufficiently to set his freckles into stark relief. Her father turned his gaze to the hunched figure. “We’ll go over your story once more, and that will be an end to it.”
Olive rubbed a hand briskly over the boy’s back. “Chin up.” He was likely remembering his moments alone with Miss Husselbee as she lay dying, being the one entrusted with her last word. Poor chap. “Does anyone want pudding?” she said, her gaze shifting to the sticky mound waiting on the counter. Mrs Battlesby’s creations were valiant at best.
“I’m suddenly feeling rather queasy,” Harriet said, pushing her chair back. Her father rose and helped her to her feet. No doubt she’d realised that one of her close friends—a member of her beloved Institute—was likely to have done this horrible deed.
The pair had taken only a few awkward steps, her father’s arm banded tightly around Harriet’s waist, when he bent to sweep her into his arms. Olive and Jonathon stared as Harriet tipped her head against her husband’s shoulder and let herself be carried from the room.
Olive raised her eyebrows at Jonathon. “What about you?”
“I’ll try it,” he said gamely. “I can always fish out the sultanas if the rest of it’s awful.”
“That’s the spirit,” she said and set the steamed cinnamon pudding on the table beside him.
He took up the spoon, carved out a large piece, and settled it on his plate. Then he turned and glanced behind him, very obviously needing to confirm that they would not be overhead, before jutting his chin toward her and whispering, “Are you going out early tomorrow morning with the four musketeers?”
Olive Bright, Pigeoneer Page 19
