She ground her teeth in frustration. First, Aldridge and now the inquest officials, the coroner, and the jury. Not to mention her father. No one had the time or inclination to dig deeper and discover what had truly happened to Miss Husselbee. It simply wasn’t fair. Well, if everyone else was too busy or distracted to see justice done, then it was up to her.
Her optimistic zeal wavered after only a moment. What if something larger was at work here? What of that mysterious diary entry rolled carefully back into the typewriter at Peregrine Hall? What of Dr Ware’s dead mice, Margaret’s secret, and Violet Darling’s mysterious past, to say nothing of Mr Battlesby’s troubled mind? Her shoulders dropped as she realised that no one else was likely even aware of the harsh words, veiled threats, and disturbing air of menace that had prompted her to investigate. And she couldn’t possibly elaborate right now.
It was difficult to believe that a verdict of death by misadventure had tidily dispatched a shockingly unexpected death straight into the annals of village gossip.
Her thoughts turned faithlessly to Aldridge, even though he’d made his loyalties quite plain on the telephone. A further appeal would surely tear at the gossamer strands that had newly begun to bind them together. She couldn’t risk it. Which meant she was quite on her own. Her amateur sleuthing would need to carry on until she uncovered the truth.
If she were to get anywhere, she’d need to be objective rather than sentimental. As much as she’d prefer not to believe that anyone in the village could have harboured murderous intentions towards Miss Husselbee, it was critical that she resign herself to the reality that someone had. She couldn’t keep discounting viable suspects simply out of squeamish uncertainty. But the alternative was going to require a full measure of courage.
After a subdued dinner, they all retired to her father’s study, but only Olive seemed troubled by a rumbling stomach and a distressed mind. Harriet reclined on the sofa, her too-thin legs having been crossed with effort. She held a hardbound copy of Pride and Prejudice in one hand and a glossy black fountain pen in the other. A journal bound in bottle-green leather lay on her lap. Her father was dividing his attention equally between the evening’s radio broadcast and the latest edition of the newspaper, with plenty of muffled oaths for each. Jonathon had his back propped against the side of her father’s chair and his knees raised in a makeshift desk as he busily scribbled plans for some project or other with Kíli stretched out beside him.
Olive sat curled up on the window seat, leaning against the blackout curtain, which moments ago had been tugged closed against the fading twilight. She was mentally sifting through the developments and discoveries of the past few days, trying to slot them into categories: potential clue or general village shenanigans.
“Olive,” her stepmother said, peering at her over the gold wire rims of the spectacles she used only for reading and serious business, “do you need me to find someone else to manage the pig club? It seems as if a great many things are demanding your attention at the moment, and I don’t want you run ragged.”
As Olive pondered how best to answer and whether the question held an underlying suspicion, there was a loud crackle of pages as her father folded his newspaper onto his lap.
“It’s inconceivable to me that it’s come to this. The idea that a bunch of blithering idiots would put their personal grudges against me and my birds before the safety and security of this great nation.” He shook his head in disbelief as deep lines scored this wide forehead. “But it seems the Pigeon Service has hung us out to dry.” The anger abruptly faded, replaced by weary disappointment, and he rubbed one large calloused hand over his chin. “You mustn’t worry,” he said, almost to himself. “I’ll fix this. But until I do,” he added, with a glance at Olive, “you might want to focus on your other responsibilities and leave the pigeons to fend for themselves.”
Olive couldn’t imagine what it had cost her father to make such a suggestion, but she couldn’t spare even a moment for misplaced sympathy. She caught Jonathon’s eye, both of them conscious of the new difficulty this suggestion would pose. The pigeons had become her main responsibility, and she reported directly to Captain Aldridge. Ostensibly following her father’s advice would add a whole new level of cunning to an already duplicitous situation. She blinked at him, her thoughts darting and desperate for purchase on any believable justification to continue on as they were.
“I’m heading up to London tomorrow for some veterinary supplies,” her father informed them all casually. “Some things have become impossible to get hold of, and if I can’t find them there, I’ll have to start improvising. Perhaps I can have a talk with the committee while I’m there.” His eyes had taken on a faraway look, and he was nodding slowly to himself.
“No,” Olive blurted, the word springing like a tiger into the cosy little room. “I just meant,” she said, back-pedalling, “don’t put yourself to the trouble. I’ll write to them and explain our situation, remind them of our legacy of champions. I’ll convince them.” She let out the nervous breath clogging her lungs.
Her father had peered around the wings of his chair to get a better look at her. His face was as downtrodden as she’d ever seen it. “Tell them we’ll supply our pigeons with no strings attached.” He sighed. “It’s time we swallow our pride. We’re past the point in this war where we can cling to ideals. Better to let our birds do their best in the hands of amateurs. Any lives they can save will be worth the sacrifice.”
Olive was struck momentarily dumb, but seeing the pride in the smile Harriet bestowed on her father, she rallied. “You wouldn’t, by any chance, want to take one of the birds on the train with you . . . ?” She let the words trail off suggestively. “If the best we can do for now is keep them conditioned, then so be it.”
She was relieved to see a mischievous smile edge out the grimness of Rupert Bright’s demeanour. “You’re incorrigible—a chip off the old block,” he said with a wink. “Excellent idea. I’ll take Lancelot. He never really had a chance to prove himself before the war.”
“Good thinking,” she agreed. “We’re not faring too badly in the food department, either. Jonathon will shortly be supplying the birds with greens from the garden, and we’ll forage where we need to. We’ll make do.”
“Excellent,” he said, then pondered the situation for a moment before rattling his newspaper back into place. Olive leaned back against the window, sighing with relief at having found a bit of success without the need for outright deception.
The radio had begun a slow croon of a song Olive didn’t recognise, but Harriet hummed along lightly under her breath. “Violet Darling is sure to make a good job of Lizzy Bennet,” she allowed. Her eyebrows tipped coyly up. “But I would have so enjoyed seeing what you could have done with the part,” she informed her stepdaughter, “particularly if Captain Aldridge had agreed to play Mr Darcy.”
Olive smiled, wondering which of the pair of them would have been more miserable. She stilled as a flicker of an idea sifted through her thoughts. Captain Aldridge may very well balk at donning a cravat as the lead romantic role in the village play, but he might be willing to arrange a second impersonation on their behalf. It was simple, really, and she couldn’t believe she hadn’t thought of it before. If a liaison officer from the National Pigeon Service—one of the agents at Brickendonbury would do brilliantly—were to show up and convince her father that the Bright loft would be accepted on a trial basis, it would go a long way toward explaining away her work as a pigeoneer for Station XVII. After all, Aldridge’s appearance at the loft had nearly duped her. This could work, and she planned on convincing him at the next possible opportunity.
You must allow me to tell you how ardently I require your assistance.. . .
Monday, 3 March 1941
Peregrine Hall, Pipley
Hertfordshire
H. W. and I got off on the wrong foot from the very beginning. Men don’t care to be contradicted, particularly if it’s in regard to a topic in which
they fancy themselves something of an expert. Then again, most men fancy themselves experts on all manner of topics, which, I have found, can result in conversations fraught with conflict.
The man in question and I were discussing the comparative benefits of pharmaceutical tonics and lozenges versus homemade remedies. Given that he is attempting to sell the former, it can come as no surprise that he would tout the benefit of that sort. I’m sure I need not say that he was not able to convince me, but I will admit that he is quite knowledgeable on the topic.
Since then, I’ve kept rather a close eye on him. He flatly refuses to discuss his research, preferring to keep his own council. He walks along the river, shaking his head, muttering to himself, perspiration slick on his brow. He’s started collecting empty canisters and bottles, squirreling them away for some mysterious use. What can he be hiding? I can only assume it’s something unsavoury, possibly even traitorous. I worry he might be planning to incapacitate us all in preparation for a German invasion, and so I will remain ever vigilant.
V.A.E. Husselbee
Chapter 15
Thursday, 8th May
Olive spent the misty grey morning in the dovecote, scraping out the boxes, raking the gravel, and generally making sure everything was in readiness. The first Bright birds would be loaded into carriers for their flight across the Channel in only three days, and Olive was starting to feel fluttery. Lancelot had slipped in at midday, his short flight from London apparently uneventful. Her father, thankfully, would be hours yet, so there was no one to question her focused efforts.
She’d set each of the four birds—Poppins and the musketeers—into a pan of clean water to wash, and now they stood, shimmying about, twitching their wings dry. In the middle of this performance, Jonathon flung open the door to the dovecote, holding a ball of twine and flashing a toothy grin. “We’ll booby-trap the cage door,” he exclaimed. “All we need is a bell.”
Olive propped the rake she’d been using against the wall to give this suggestion her full attention.
They’d already determined that the missions would need to be treated essentially as long-distance races, which meant they’d have to control the comings and goings of all the birds in order to efficiently track those returning home. Whereas before, they’d been clocking in birds for a purse and prestige, now they were awaiting information that could help turn the tide of the war. As before, timing was everything.
The pigeonholes in the cupola would be sealed from the inside, while a single unglazed window at the back of the dovecote would have its shutters lashed opened and a cage attached, allowing returning birds to pass through a levered door into a confined space, thereby making message retrieval quick and efficient.
They were, however, facing a new difficulty: it would be impossible to predict when a pigeon might fly home. A crash landing could prompt a bird’s release almost immediately, in hopes of spurring a rescue, but otherwise there could be a delay of hours—perhaps days—depending on the timing chosen for the mission’s sabotage. She and Jonathon couldn’t be constantly patrolling, staring up at the sky, on watch for returning birds. That, more than anything else, would expose their secret arrangement with Station XVII.
Rupert Bright would certainly notice the conversion of the loft to its race day configuration, but Olive was certain she could convince him that keeping their birds under careful watch would work to their advantage, pending a visit from the NPS. Explaining the need for a bell would be, in Olive’s opinion, a different matter altogether.
“He needn’t know we’ve rigged it,” Jonathon insisted, reading both her mind and her dubious frown. “We’ll tie one end of the twine to the hinged gate on the window cage and run the other through the garden and up the wall to my room.”
Olive bit her lip. It could work; Jonathon would be able to hear the bell whenever he was at home—either in his room or the garden—and the jingling would instantly mobilise him.
“Brilliant,” she agreed, nodding. “With the dovecote adjacent to the garden, and your room just above, it could work. You might have to tell Dad and Harriet you’re practicing for the Christmas handbell choir, but needs must.”
“I’m sure Hen can get her hands on a bell for us.” Naturally. That girl had her finger in every pie. “Do you think Captain Aldridge will be impressed?”
Olive considered. “Perhaps. It’s more likely he hasn’t given the matter any consideration at all. He’ll expect everything to work like clockwork. And only notice if it doesn’t,” she said grimly. “But we don’t need his affirmation.”
He nodded agreeably, and she glanced around her, hands on hips. The place was looking spit-spot, with clean, scalded gravel, fresh straw in the nesting boxes and water in the pan, and plenty of feed, covertly fetched from the shed.
“Are there any green vegetables ready in the garden yet? It would be lovely if we could supplement their diet before the flight,” she said.
“Unfortunately, the peas aren’t ready yet—I know they’d be your first choice—but there are some tender young cabbages.”
“Perfect,” she said, then took a deep, contented breath and dipped her hands into her jacket pockets. The tips of her fingers skimmed something rough and rounded, and she drew it out. It was the button she’d found beneath Miss Husselbee’s desk. “Jonathon,” she said, holding it up, “isn’t Hen’s brother in the Royal Navy?”
He glanced at it and stilled as his eyes went wide. A moment later, his shoulders slumped guiltily, the twine hanging forgotten against his leg. “She keeps that button in her pocket, and she told me where she’d lost it. It wasn’t my idea, I swear.”
“What wasn’t your idea?”
“To lie to you.”
Olive’s eyes flared in surprise. Miss Husselbee had once barked at him, “What do you think, young man?” and he’d informed the old harridan that he thought she wasn’t being very nice. He wasn’t one to lie, a fact that had worried her slightly when he was made to sign the Official Secrets Act.
“What was the lie?” she asked carefully.
“Remember I told you I found Miss Husselbee’s body?”
It was the last thing she would have expected him to say, and for a moment, she was boggled. “If you didn’t find her, then who did?”
Now he looked flustered. “I did find her,” he insisted. “But I wasn’t the only one.”
Olive let out the breath she’d been holding. “Let me guess. Henrietta Gibbons was with you.”
He nodded.
“Why would she run off and leave you to deal with that alone? I thought she was made of sterner stuff.”
“We wanted to win the salvage contest,” he said helplessly. His ears were pink with embarrassment, and his face was racked with guilt.
“You’ve lost me.”
With an embarrassed sigh, he glanced at the pigeons lurking in the boxes beside him. They appeared as curious as Olive. “Miss Husselbee was going to give us her scrap paper.” He scuffed his right foot over the gravel, sending bits of rock skipping across the dovecote floor. “We stopped by the Hall after school on Friday, but Miss Husselbee was out. The contest deadline was Saturday morning, and we were neck and neck with Jimmy Gilroy, so we needed that paper. We planned to go and get it from her after the dance.” He’d started fidgeting, his thoughts no doubt shifting back to the memory of that night.
“And . . . ?” Olive prompted gently.
“Hen and I slipped out right after Miss Husselbee, planning to catch up with her, but we never did. And when we got to Peregrine Hall, she wasn’t there. We waited a bit, but eventually, we walked back to the lodge and found her beside the dovecote.”
At the mercy of her muddled mind, the Sergeant Major had mistakenly gone to Blackcap Lodge and so had been alone in her last, desperate moments.
“Did she truly say my mother’s name?” Olive inquired. She must have looked dubious, because he answered in the defensive.
“I swear,” he said stoutly.
“I
believe you. I just can’t make sense of it. But get back to your story,” she said encouragingly.
Grimly, he pressed on. “When we knew she was dead, and there was nothing we could do, Hen insisted we needed to fetch the paper she’d promised us. Otherwise we’d have to deal with the police and might lose our chance at the contest. The prize is five shillings, and we’d planned to split it.”
“Hen should never have been wandering alone in the dark,” Olive scolded. “Any sort of wastrel could be lurking about—English or German.” Unfortunately, the poor girl was probably well used to fending for herself; Mrs Gibbons tended to be rather oblivious.
His face flamed. “She said not to worry, that she knew where to aim if she had any trouble.”
“Perhaps she should be our first line of defence in the event of an invasion,” Olive murmured caustically.
“She got the paper, and we got our collection weighed in on time.” His face fell. “But Jimmy Gilroy—”
Olive was no longer paying attention. She was thinking back to the day she’d burgled Miss Husselbee’s library at Peregrine Hall and found an unfinished diary entry, presumably intended for Mass Observation. There’d been no scrap paper anywhere, only blank paper in the drawer and that single sheet—also seemingly blank—in the typewriter. Because Hen had got there first.
“Where did she find the paper?” she demanded, stepping toward Jonathon, her heartbeat kicking up as she realised what must have happened to those diaries.
Olive Bright, Pigeoneer Page 27
