“And your expectations for the pigeons?” she asked quietly.
“Immediate information—success or failure. We might not otherwise get confirmation for weeks or even months.”
Olive nodded, suddenly eager to get her hands on a map and plot out the birds’ likely route home.
After a moment, he spoke again, this time with a trace of humour in his voice.
“Would it shock you to learn that the explosive devices designed for this mission use a condom?” Not certain whether or not he was teasing, she didn’t answer. “The prophylactic is used to waterproof the delay switch, which, for the time being, happens to be an aniseed ball.” He slipped his hand into his pocket and produced a little bag of the sweets. Feeling suddenly, marvellously, in on the secret, Olive grinned at him, selected an aniseed ball from the bag, and popped it into her mouth. “A fair bit of irony that the devices are called limpet mines,” he said, clearly in a punchy mood himself.
But it quickly faded, and his typical reserve had slid back into place by the time they reached the lodge.
After hauling a fifty-pound sack of pigeon corn around the barn to the back of the garden, where a little shed stood forgotten in the shade of a sprawling apple tree, he looked around him in silence. He didn’t appear convinced by her assertion that this was the perfect hiding place for the contraband, but then he wasn’t aware of her father’s aversion to earthly pastimes. Jonathon had been given free reign and full responsibility of their back garden the day he’d arrived, and no one had interfered since.
Content for once to have her advice accepted without debate, she refrained from comment. But when he yanked his jersey over his head, exposing a white cotton undershirt and the outline of corded muscles beneath, she stared unabashedly as her teeth clamped down on her lower lip. Her thoughts were instantly mired in memories of Liam and those rare evenings her flatmate had been away. Some things, she’d discovered, worked better than others at keeping spirits up.
Without warning, he lunged unexpectedly sideways, careening roughly against her and sending her teeth considerably deeper than intended. Clutching his arm, Olive winced in pain as she tried to regain her balance. “What is it? What’s the matter?” she demanded, her heart rate beginning to speed as her eyes roved in confusion.
Her gaze fell on a familiar calico cat stepping gingerly along the wall of the shed, heading for the open door. Olive managed to swing it shut before the animal could nip inside, prompting a scornful look and a twitch of its ear. One glance at Aldridge showed a nearly identical reaction as he stared at the unrepentant creature. Olive flicked her gaze between the pair of them, touching the back of her finger to the fresh cut on her lip. It was going to swell, she was sure of it. One more thing to explain without truly explaining.
“You really need to get hold of yourself,” she scolded, her voice awash with exasperation, even as she stared in admiration at the solid strength of him. “A liaison with this loft requires you to occasionally come into contact with cats. Are you prepared to face your irrational dislike of them and do what’s necessary in the face of these harmless creatures?” she demanded in a parody of his earlier gravity.
“It’s entirely possible I should have let you warn me off that first day. You may not have your father’s notoriety, but as far as I’m concerned, you have plenty of your own.” He pulled his gaze away from the cat and promptly focused on her lips. “Did I do that?” Chagrin warring with concern, he stepped closer. “Let me see.”
“It’s nothing.”
“You’re bleeding.”
“Because I bloody bit it when you shied away from Psyche.” In response to his raised eyebrow, she clarified. “The pigeons are all named for characters from children’s literature, and the barn animals’ names are pulled from mythology. And, evidently, the pigs are to be named for the geography of Ireland.”
“Naturally.” And then he was pulling her fingers away to stare more intently at her mouth. He dusted his hand against the leg of his trousers, settled his thumb in the centre of her lower lip, and rolled it gently away from her teeth.
“It’s nothing,” she objected, her words slurring slightly, as a shiver of awareness ran through her.
He ignored her. “There’s a tiny gash,” he confirmed, releasing his hold as he met her eyes. “And it’s already swelling a bit.” Waiting a beat, he added, “The good news is, you’ve got a ready-made explanation.”
It took a moment, his steady gaze on hers, eyebrows raised expectantly, but when it hit, she felt the dull thud of blood pumping in her throat, her lip, and her temples. “Right. I should have thought of that straightaway. A little more proof for the pudding. You’ll be the talk of the village.” No need to tell him he already was—the gossip had little to do with her and everything to do with his striking face and smartly uniformed physique.
“And you? Will you weather the resultant talk?”
“Oh, I’ll be on the fast track to fallen womanhood,” she said dryly. “But no one will blame me—except possibly my father. You’ve yet to win him over. He could tell you weren’t suitably impressed with his pigeons.”
He snorted. “I suppose that lends the whole business a certain amount of credibility, doesn’t it? What father doesn’t dislike the man courting his daughter, at least initially?” Shrugging good-naturedly, he said, “All right, then? I’m sorry for that.”
“It’s fine. I shouldn’t have been biting my lip.”
She checked to see that the shed door was tightly latched and started back through the garden. A glance at the parlour window confirmed that Harriet was there, reclined on her chaise, smoking a cigarette. She raised her hand in a wave. Olive returned the gesture and was turning to warn Aldridge when he slipped his hand into hers. She tensed, forced to remember all over again that it was merely a cover.
“Oh, what a tangled web we weave,” Olive quoted, plastering a wide, besotted smile on her face and trying to relax the stiffness in her shoulders. He squeezed her hand, and for a single lovely moment, she didn’t feel quite so alone in her deception.
“She’ll wonder why you’ve removed some of your clothing.”
“I don’t suppose we can just go with the same story . . .”
She cut her eyes around at him. He grinned. “Point taken. I assume you’ll come up with something.”
The conversation paused while he slipped his jersey back on, but the moment his head was free, he carried on.
“As far as anyone is concerned, your FANY training doesn’t start until next week. Use these remaining days of freedom”—the sardonic quirk of his lips at that designator was unexpected, to say the least—“to ensure everything is in order for Sunday.” He levelled her with a long look. “I don’t plan to see you until then unless there’s a change in plan. Put in a call to Brickendonbury if you have a problem, and I’ll come to you.”
Back at the car, he handed her a folded uniform and a small canvas bag full of rings, colour-coded for Baker Street. They were intended to help identify her birds if they lost their way, and thereby ensure any messages they carried were forwarded to the appropriate personnel.
“I can’t use these,” she said abruptly.
“Why not?”
“The rings have to be slipped over a chick’s foot while it’s still bendable. Only veteran flyers—full-grown birds at least three seasons old—can be used for these missions. The young birds don’t yet have the training or the stamina.”
“Fine. You can use them going forward, for the younger birds.”
“If I slip these rings on our chicks, they’ll stay on for the life of the birds. I don’t think there’s anyone in the world resourceful enough to explain that to my father.” She handed the bag back.
He cursed but took it, then rubbed a hand across his jaw.
“Don’t worry. The birds will make their own way back, but if they do happen to get lost, their rings are marked with nomenclature specific to the Bright loft. Eventually, they’ll show up here. Rest
assured that any messages will be delivered to Brickendonbury straightaway, more quickly for the loan of the Welbike.”
He snorted and said offhandedly, “What did you make of the test message that Hook carried back?”
Olive stared at him, giving nothing away. “I’d forgotten all about it. I called you when it arrived. It’s still in its canister, as you never came to retrieve it. Shall I get it?”
His eyes met hers, assessing. “You do understand that you’re not to read any message without proper authorisation.”
“I understood the first time you told me.” She’d learned her lesson, and she suspected he knew it.
“Quite. It’s rather uncanny how literally nothing goes as planned in my dealings with you, Miss Bright.”
“It’s the cats, Captain Aldridge,” she said snarkily.
He laughed then, one short chuckle, before stepping toward her. “In case your stepmother is still watching,” he said before he cupped the back of her neck and planted a warm kiss on her forehead.
Olive could think of nothing to say, and when he turned and walked away from her, she was left to stare after him. Her first impression of Jameson Aldridge had not prepared her for his skilful handling of their forced flirtation, which left her wondering whether he’d had a bit of practice in this sort of cover story. All she knew of him was that he’d lost his sister in the Blitz; everything else was a mystery, and the closer he guarded his secrets, the more she itched to uncover them. He didn’t seem to be similarly intrigued where she was concerned. Perhaps he knew everything already. With this possibility hovering in her thoughts, she walked back to the lodge and slipped upstairs.
Wednesday, 27 November 1940
Peregrine Hall, Pipley
Hertfordshire
It was a victory felt through the Commonwealth when a few intrepid young girls stormed a Boy Scout rally in 1908 and informed Lieutenant General Lord Baden-Powell, in no uncertain terms, that girls were quite as capable as boys. It prompted him, quite rightly, to found a partner organisation in their honour.
Despite being well past the age of inclusion, I couldn’t help but embrace the spirit of the Guides, as well as their motto: Be Prepared. Both have served me quite well, in Pipley and farther afield. I’ve gone so far as to devise my own set of challenges in the hopes of bettering myself and my little village.
There have been some challenges I feared I’d never master; the Nurture badge, in particular, was unexpectedly difficult. Having set myself to teach a fumbly-fingered R.D. to knit, I couldn’t have predicted that the true test of my efforts would come in instructing the woman how to make a proper cup of tea. But I prevailed; tea was brewed—and enjoyed!—and a pair of socks knit for some unsuspecting soldier. It was a good day, and I must say, I’m prouder of that badge than any other.
I may not officially be a Girl Guide, but preparedness is most certainly my watchword. I’m never without my umbrella, pencil, or paper, and I very often have my binoculars, as well. If the Germans do decide to invade, they will rue the day they tussled with me.
V.A.E. Husselbee
Chapter 13
Tuesday, 6th May
The conversation on market day resolved itself into two camps: gossip concerning Miss Husselbee’s murder and chatter surrounding the contest that had been devised as an impromptu distraction from said murder to raise money for the Red Cross. The ladies of the village had poured forth in their chapeaux, shillings in hand, all hoping to win Best Decorated Spring Hat and be awarded the grand prize: a lemon, sent by someone’s cousin all the way from the United States.
As she wended her way through the crowd, a study in comportment as she attempted to balance the lavish arrangement of wildflowers, feathers, and fern fronds affixed to her hat—there might even have been a mushroom or two—Olive’s only thought was to reach the judge’s table without running into Aldridge.
Eager to avoid all aspects of the contest, Olive had declined to enter. But as she’d stepped into the parlour that morning, the curls of silver smoke already in evidence, it was clear fate had other plans. Harriet had collaborated with Jonathon on a particularly elaborate creation and had been very much looking forward to showing it off. In the throes of yet another bad day, she had admitted she wasn’t feeling up to venturing into the village and had solemnly asked Olive to go in her stead—it was a good cause, after all. Olive had, naturally, acquiesced. She would have worn the hat straight up the drive to Brickendonbury if Harriet had asked.
Olive had stayed up late the night before, poring over the cryptic entries in Miss Husselbee’s notebook, searching for a hidden clue and coming up short. The entire process had thoroughly frustrated and exhausted her. As a result, she was wandering the stalls on the high street, fuzzy headed and distracted, and was quite relieved to drop Harriet’s shillings into the tin and leave the hat, positioned to best advantage, beside a brown felt number that looked as if it had been turned inside out to cradle a taxi-dermised bird and its trio of eggs. Free of the cumbersome weight, Olive experienced an odd sensation of floating and gazed up at the blue-grey sky, feeling fanciful. Mrs Crabbleton promptly bumped into her, wearing a cloche hat utterly engulfed in puffy white hydrangea blossoms, which made her look like a bobble-headed ninny. Olive smiled encouragingly and murmured, “Tremendous.”
Despite the warmer weather, and the more regular appearance of the sun, summer was still a ways off, and as such, the offerings at the various stalls were less than exciting. While imaginations were bursting with stone fruit and berries, tomatoes and corn, and the surplus that would be used to set up jam and chutney, instead they had beets, winter squash, and a few late cabbages, all of which had ceased to inspire any excitement months ago, if they ever had. Rather glumly, she drifted away a bit, not in any mood for gossip.
When she noticed Leo and Margaret tucked into the shadow of the lych-gate, talking earnestly, she couldn’t help but agree with Harriet’s decision that Margaret would be a perfect Jane Bennet, opposite Leo’s Charles Bingley. As she looked on, Leo took hold of Margaret’s upper arms and gave her a frustrated shake. Tugging away, her composure cracked, Margaret’s fingers clutched the locket that hung around her neck. His brow an angry furrow, Leo suddenly glanced up and raked his frustrated gaze over the lane until it settled inevitably on Olive. Feeling suddenly gauche, Olive raised her hand in a tentative greeting. Ever conscious of the conduct befitting a vicar, he struggled for composure, the frustration fading from his face to be replaced by a polite smile. Without even glancing in her direction, Margaret turned and walked away. While Leo stared grimly after her, Olive was struck by how the couple’s lives were mirroring their character roles: they’d moved past the early days of infatuation into loneliness and uncertainty. She could only hope for a happy ending.
As she walked toward Forrester’s Garage, she marshalled her thoughts. Margaret was quite obviously hiding something, and while Olive didn’t believe her friend was responsible for the Sergeant Major’s death, it was entirely possible that Margaret knew something that could lead to finding the killer. Maybe she knew who’d done it and why.
What else could it be? What sort of secret would need to be kept assiduously hidden away from every living soul?
Olive stopped walking, stunned into immobility as a thought occurred to her. Could it possibly be that straightforward? Could Margaret’s secret be the same sort she was harbouring herself? She frowned, stepping slowly now, keeping her eyes trained on the never-ending line of the yew hedge.
Margaret’s behaviour did not hint at a person working clandestine operations for the War Office. For one thing, she was too emotional, vacillating between anger, desperation, guilt, and even fear. While Olive had, admittedly, experienced her share of anger since being approached, all of it had been conveniently directed at Aldridge. Add to that the fact that her friend was making no real attempt to devise an excuse for her odd behaviour—her reason for arguing with the Sergeant Major was flimsy at best. If she was truly involved in some
sort of top-secret business, she’d have a cover story. Olive decided she could safely eliminate that possibility, which meant she was stymied all over again.
In truth, it came as no surprise. She’d only scratched the surface of every clue, rather than seek out the curiosities and inconsistencies that surrounded it. Poirot would surely have been disgusted with her, but, really, what could he expect? It wasn’t as if she had any experience with this sort of thing—if she was to compare herself to any of Mrs Christie’s sleuths, it should be Frankie and Bobby. Having mired herself in a murder investigation, Frankie described the experience as slipping between the covers of a book. Olive understood this utterly. Added to her discombobulation was the disadvantage of being rather alone in the matter. Aldridge wasn’t any help, she didn’t want to involve Jonathon, and who else was there now that George was gone? No one. It wasn’t her responsibility, but her curiosity—not to mention her sense of justice—was well and truly piqued, and the prospect of solving Miss Husselbee’s murder was an enticing challenge. She could do this.
Olive closed her eyes, determined to focus.
The scene of a moment ago ran back in her mind like a cinema reel: Leo’s freckled knuckles, showing pale against the sleeve of Margaret’s violet jumper, the worry and shame evident on both their faces, and Margaret’s fist pressed tightly to her collarbone, her locket tucked inside.
Olive Bright, Pigeoneer Page 23
