“Yes, I suppose so.” An outing at dawn would be her best chance to avoid the gossips. “It’ll be chilly,” she said abruptly.
“Are you taking the Welbike?” Jonathon pressed. Olive considered. It would be faster, but considerably louder, perhaps drawing unwanted attention at that hour. She should have been expecting the follow-up question. “Can I come along?” The colour was back in his cheeks, and he held his fork like a trident, each tine spearing a sultana. She couldn’t help but smile. It would be a tight squeeze, getting all of them onto the motorbike, but they were nothing if not resourceful.
She nodded emphatically. “Of course. You’re my right-hand man.”
“With the pigs, as well?”
Olive bit back a curse. She’d been deliberately pushing the pig club from her mind, but she knew she couldn’t escape it. She forced a bright smile. “You’re joking, right? I wouldn’t even want to do it without you.”
She let Jonathon enjoy the glossy, sticky pudding, a bit of the sauce having already adhered to his cheek, while she tackled the dishes and marvelled at the drastic changes a few days had wrought.
She bit her lip, rather embarrassed to have got so caught up in the shock and scandal of Miss Husselbee’s death as to envision herself as something of an amateur sleuth. Her mother’s name, the last word on the dead woman’s lips, had been entirely unexpected, and she’d understandably been curious. Add to that the fact that she’d been rather coincidentally on the scene for a great many suspicious circumstances. Clues and questions had niggled at the corners of her mind, prompting her to action, and she’d had the very best intentions, but why had she ever imagined she could do more than the police? Enough. She had a fair amount on her plate as it was. Tomorrow she’d have another chat with Margaret—for her own peace of mind. She didn’t really suspect her, but her friend’s past was somewhat of a mystery, and then there were her dodgy answers and odd behaviour. She’d get to the bottom of it, and then she’d turn over the clues she’d collected to the police, including, with any luck, the notebook Captain Aldridge still had in his possession. Although it wouldn’t hurt to check in at the post office for the missing Mass Observation diaries, just in case. After that, it would be up to the authorities to turn up any additional clues and determine who had poisoned the Sergeant Major. She had responsibilities of her own to get on with, and she wasn’t equipped to solve a murder.
Poirot, with his meticulously waxed moustaches, his tremendous ego, and his order and method, would never have allowed his life to become so thoroughly disarranged, she thought, yanking the stopper from the drain. Miss Marple, on the other hand, as a woman and a villager, would certainly relate. Miss Rose, she decided, may be onto something.
Tuesday, 11 June 1940
Peregrine Hall, Pipley
Hertfordshire
When the secretary of the Pipley WI suggested inviting a guest lecturer from the Department of Botany at Oxford University to one of our meetings, I assumed we’d be getting a lecture on vegetables: which varieties provide the most yield, which are the hardiest, etc. Having been encouraged to raze our flower gardens and grow for victory at the start of the war, it’s entirely understandable that we were all shocked to be lectured on some lesser-known benefits of certain flowers.
Living in a country village, naturally all of us present were well versed in the many natural remedies to be found in plants. But the scheme proposed by Dr James was considerably more involved than collecting a bit of chamomile for a soothing tisane. It seems there is a shortage of certain medicines, and he’s devised the “Oxford Medicinal Plants Scheme” to supplement the supply. We were all quite committed until he informed us we’d be foraging for foxglove. Imagine our consternation—foxglove is quite poisonous! With a bit of clarification, Dr James managed to set our minds somewhat at ease. Evidently, if given at the correct dosage, the dried leaves can be quite rejuvenative for individuals with particular heart conditions.
So tomorrow we’re to gather in the hall, and our collection party will troop off with baskets and pruning shears to wrestle the spires of foxglove into a worthy cause. Dr Ware was quite supportive of the idea and has volunteered to come along, as well. I do hope everyone remembers to wear gloves; otherwise this scheme could well end in tragedy.
V.A.E. Husselbee
Chapter 11
Monday, 5th May
Jonathon got off to school Monday morning with bright eyes, pinkened cheeks, and thoroughly chapped lips. They’d covered miles on the Welbike, with Jonathon clinging like a monkey to her back. All four pigeons had been released, and Olive and Jonathon had come home to find them all returned, waiting patiently for their breakfast.
“Don’t let on that you’ve been up for hours, buzzing around with some fly boys,” she reminded him with a wink.
“And a couple of girls,” he added, then flashed a mischievous grin before quickly tucking it away again.
Olive watched him dart up the steps, trailing his gas mask, before she turned to walk back toward the post office, trailing her own. Hoping to dodge curious questions from her father and Harriet, she’d decided to leave off using the motor and instead had pushed the Welbike to the bottom of the hill below Blackcap Lodge and back up again on their return. Between the fatigue and the numbing wind that had buffeted her face over the miles, she was dragging, and there was still a long day ahead. In addition to the tricky conversations and the compulsory gas mask training exercise she’d need to endure, there would, unavoidably, be pigs. What she wouldn’t give to settle into a cosy chair with a Christie mystery, but even a hot cup of tea would be nice.
Margaret, she knew, would be helping to clean the church this morning before work, but Olive fully intended to pin her down as soon as she’d finished at the post office. She turned her collar up against the wind and hurried.
She was back out in the damp chill ten minutes later. After waiting for the other customers to finish their business, she’d stepped to the counter, cornering the twittering Mrs Petrie, and launched into a whispered monologue on the ever-popular topic of Miss Husselbee.
It had been such a shock to find her near the dovecote—Jonathon had been first on the scene, but she’d been close behind him. Knowing Miss Husselbee to have been in robust good health, and having herself knelt in the sick, she’d thought instantly of poison, of that odd Spam cake at the Daffodil Dance. And then, just yesterday, they’d found digitalis in Miss Husselbee’s blood—foxglove. Olive had met Mrs Petrie’s gaze and enunciated the last word slowly, for full titillation effect. Then she’d nodded solemnly and proceeded to lie outright.
“The police,” she said, “suspect Miss Husselbee’s Mass Observation diaries might reveal a possible grudge or resentment that could have led to her murder.” The word hung between them: murder. The inquest hadn’t yet determined murder, but Olive was certain, and as incentive, it was too good to pass up. “But they haven’t found the diaries,” Olive said eerily. Mrs Petrie’s eyes couldn’t possibly have been wider if she’d said, “Bodies.” “Do you know what I think? I think she might have already mailed them off, hoping to stave off the killer.”
Mrs Petrie blinked several times, as if coming out of a trance. Her head twitched. “No, they must still be somewhere in Pipley. Miss Husselbee hasn’t been in to mail a parcel in weeks, although she was in a few days ago to pick one up.” She propped her elbow on the counter and leaned closer. “Maybe she’s hidden them, as an insurance policy.” She gasped suddenly, jerking upright and still, her eyes darting erratically. “Or perhaps the murderer has already got to them.”
Olive slumped, her lips twisting in disappointment. That was precisely what she was afraid of. It was still possible that Miss Husselbee’s notebook would help decipher the last words she’d written for Mass Observation, and thereby identify her killer; they could certainly hope.
“You have the makings of an amateur sleuth, Mrs Petrie.” She winked conspiratorially, and before another word could be said, she slipped out th
e door.
Now for the hard part.
* * *
Olive sat on a bench beside the river with a view of the church gate, having every intention of waiting for her friend to emerge. She could have slipped into the nave and helped Margaret dust the statuary and tidy the hymnals, but she had decided that a conversation touching on murder should probably remain outside. So, she waited and shivered and imagined what she would say. By the time Margaret came striding out with a tug on her jacket and a swirl of her skirt, Olive was ready to blurt her questions, decorum be damned.
She ignored Margaret’s start of surprise as she strode up and linked arms. Her friend’s stiff comportment and ghost of a smile made it seem as if Olive was escorting a hostage as they walked back to the cottage Margaret shared with her aunt Eloise. And, in a way, it was; she fully intended on inviting herself in for tea and letter writing.
“We’re due for a make-up,” Olive reminded her. “You cancelled on me the day before Miss Husselbee was murdered.”
“Murdered?” she gasped, her eyes looking hunted.
Olive hustled her down the lane and behind closed doors.
It wasn’t a good day for decorum.
Moments before sitting down across from Margaret at the kitchen table, Olive glanced in the hall-tree mirror and noted that her eyes were oddly bright, her cheeks uncharacteristically pink, and her smile a caricature of its usual self. She wondered if her friend had noticed the outward signs of her discomfiture.
Judging by the focused expression on Margaret’s face as she poured out their cups of tea, it seemed unlikely. Such was their ritual: indulging in a few quiet moments to pretend that some things carried on, unspoiled, in honour of the men for whom they penned encouraging letters. Men who were fighting for decency and humanity. They pretended not to notice the weak tea and the rapidly dwindling supply in the biscuit tin.
Olive accepted her cup of tea and waited politely for Margaret to take up her own. Then she pounced. “There’s something I need to tell you.”
Margaret pounced right back, leaning in excitedly as her eyes widened in avid curiosity. “It’s about your mysterious someone, isn’t it? The tall, handsome officer from the dance.”
Olive had forgotten all about her friend’s desire for a good gossip on the topic of Captain Aldridge. She would have preferred he not intrude in her life more than was strictly necessary, but men, particularly those of the broad-shouldered, chiselled-jaw variety, were not the sort of detail that Margaret readily dismissed.
Considering her options, Olive decided it would be easiest to go tit for tat. She curved her lips into a shy, secretive smile and said, “Not exactly, but I’m willing to offer a trade.”
Her friend’s answering smile flashed mischievously. “I’m engaged to the vicar, sweeting. There are no more tall, dark strangers for me.” True enough—Leo’s locks were paler than Margaret’s own.
Olive took a sip of tea, stalling for time. Then, carefully setting her cup in its saucer, she winced in self-conscious apology before coming straight out with it. “I overheard your conversation with Miss Husselbee. The day before she died.”
Margaret’s easy smile slipped slowly from evidence. An unconvincing replacement promptly appeared beneath a rapidly blinking, shifty gaze. Olive waited without saying another word. “I wish you hadn’t,” her friend finally said, her shoulders dropping in weighty resignation.
“It was awkward,” Olive admitted. “Jonathon was with me, and neither one of us could imagine what could have possibly provoked either of you to have spoken so fiercely.”
Margaret’s mouth flattened, her cheeks hollowing with the shifting of her jaw. But still she didn’t speak, distractedly fiddling with the tea things on the table between them.
“And now she’s dead,” Olive said into the silence. “And I, for one, believe she was murdered.”
“Surely not,” Margaret insisted.
Olive shrugged. “The inquest will be the official word, but the circumstances of her death are extraordinarily suspicious, and no shortage of villagers are relieved to see her gone.”
Margaret didn’t answer, and Olive was beginning to feel mildly frustrated when her friend’s eyes suddenly flashed wide in understanding. “Hold on . . . Is this your way of inquiring whether I had something to do with her death?” An acceptable reply had not yet occurred to Olive when Margaret barrelled on again. “Do you honestly believe that if I’d wanted to kill her, I would have poisoned her with cake?” A half laugh escaped her, and Olive thought it sounded forsaken.
Margaret speared her with a hard stare, and Olive hurried to reply. “I don’t. I don’t think that.” She really didn’t. A person would have to be mad to do something like that. Or desperate. The pad of her finger moved hypnotically over the embroidered flowers on the tablecloth as she thought back to that day. Margaret had definitely sounded desperate.
“I was angry—furiously angry.” Her friend’s fingers had clamped over the tiny silver locket that hung just below her collar. Olive was relatively certain she hadn’t imagined the little gulp of sadness that had punctuated that protest. “But I didn’t want her to die. I just—I didn’t want anyone to know about the adverts.”
Olive stared at her friend in disbelief. “But what did it really matter if everyone knew you’d modelled for ladies’ catalogues? It’s not as if it was gentlemen’s magazines.” Olive slanted a glance at her friend. “It wasn’t, was it?”
“Surely that’s not the question I’m to answer in exchange for details about your date to the dance,” Margaret said wryly.
“Er . . . only if the answer is yes,” Olive said, wincing at how horribly inept she was at this sleuthing business.
Margaret frowned. “I don’t follow.” Then the light dawned, and Olive cringed, braced against her friend’s feelings of betrayal. “You don’t believe me,” she said flatly.
Sighing, Olive propped her forearms on the table and leaned in. “I think there’s something else you’re trying to keep secret, and I wish you’d tell me what it is.”
“Why should I?” she asked, her tone and expression mulish. “Presuming I have something to tell.”
Olive’s own shoulders dropped. “Someone else might have overheard, and if they don’t know you like I do, I imagine they’d peg you as a prime suspect. If you’re investigated by the police, your life in London will no longer be a secret.”
Margaret’s lip quivered, and her gaze shifted angrily away, stubbornness holding her rigid.
Feeling like a heel, Olive tried to back-pedal. “I’m sorry, Mags. Truly. I didn’t mean—” She took a breath and started again. “I know you had nothing to do with Miss Husselbee’s death.” Cringing, she went on gently. “But if there is something else, it’s bound to come out. I only want to help you.”
“I appreciate that,” Margaret said, mustering a brave smile, “but, really, there’s nothing.” But of course, there was.
She raised her teacup to her lips, her eyes locked on Olive’s over the rim. When she set it down again, the lines of her face had smoothed out and the twist of her lips spelled mischief. “And now that I’ve answered your question, it’s your turn. Where did you find him, and how long do you plan to keep him?”
Olive tried to downplay everything, which was rather simple, because absolutely nothing was going on with Aldridge. Jamie. At least nothing Margaret would have been interested in. Being a devotee to romantic novels and their cinematic counterparts, she was determined to have what she termed “lurid details.” Which was how Olive found herself engaged in a quarter of an hour’s embellishment. She outlined her first meeting with the man—he’d seen her carting pigeons around and been curious. She gushed about their date to the dance—he was an excellent dancer and a marginally better kisser. And finally, she extolled the details of their time spent together since—long conversations, considerable flirting, and a number of heated moments. It was as close to the truth as she could manage without giving anything away. Marg
aret certainly didn’t need to know that the heated moments were the angry sort, and as such, she was thrilled with this progress. Unfortunately, she was particularly interested in discussing his physical attributes, which Olive had resolved to try not to notice. She’d worried it would only make things more awkward than they already were.
As quickly as possible, Olive turned the conversation to the new job she’d be starting the following week. Margaret was gratifyingly impressed.
“All of it is frightfully exciting—particularly your proximity to your handsome captain. It’s just a shame you’ll have to wear that dingy brown uniform. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if a sour old warden had designed it to resemble a burlap sack.”
“I think it looks smart,” Olive said defensively as they rummaged for paper with which to write their letters.
Margaret considered, her head tilted. “Brown does suit you.”
Not certain the words could be interpreted as a compliment, Olive didn’t bother responding. Brown did suit her. There wasn’t much to be done about that.
An hour later, having written their quota of letters to the Friendless Serving Men and shared a cosy meal of cheese and potato dumplings, they set off to the green for the training exercise. The entire village was out en masse, everyone made vaguely anonymous by the rubberised masks with their bug-eyed goggles and drain-like snouts. The children had been let out of school early and were dodging about, ignoring everyone in authority. And the daffodils were flowering carelessly underfoot.
As they all waited for the Home Guard to stop arguing amongst themselves and get on with it, Olive’s distracted gaze stuttered to a stop on the tall, masked figure whose careful, measured movements were so familiar. She’d hurried towards him until the truth, realised after three dull thuds of her heart, pulled her up short. It wasn’t—it couldn’t be—George. Flushed with fervent hope quickly dashed, and with private shame at her own naïve imagination, she turned her head away as the object of her perusal, Mr Forrester, leaned his head toward the publican, Mr Framingham, for a private conversation.
Olive Bright, Pigeoneer Page 20
