He leaned toward her and said silkily, “You claimed your mother was a FANY, driving ambulances during the last war.”
“Yes,” she agreed, waiting for further explanation.
He stared, but when no further response was forthcoming, he growled, “She bloody well wasn’t.”
“Of course she was,” Olive insisted, her own voice rising in irritation.
His angular face looked harder, sharper—almost unrecognisable from that of the man who’d walked her home only hours ago. A frisson of uncertainty skittered along her spine as he carefully enunciated each word. “It’s standard policy to look into the backgrounds of anyone coming to work for Baker Street. We had done our research on your father when we approached you, but hadn’t looked into your mother. You were, after all, only supplying pigeons. But when it was decided you would become an official FANY, working inside Brickendonbury, privy to the secrets of Station Seventeen, I checked into her. You’d claimed she was on the front lines, heroically recovering the wounded amid the bombs and devastation.” Seeing Olive’s emphatic nod, he uttered his last words through gritted teeth. “I checked the FANY registry.”
He paused, and Olive’s eyebrows rose, willing him to go on.
“There is no record of her ever having been a FANY,” he said, his jaw rigid.
She shook her head dismissively. “Of course there is. Somewhere there must be.” She shrugged. “Probably a page got misplaced, or part of the records are stored somewhere else.”
Scoffing, he turned away from her but quickly whipped around again. “You’re persisting with your story?”
“Yes. I’m persisting.” Olive was in a temper now. “Because it’s the truth. You can take it up with my father if you’d like,” she challenged.
“Let’s,” he said coldly, raising one eyebrow to indicate he was prepared to go right now. She hadn’t expected this reaction but now smugly turned, already anticipating seeing him taken down a peg.
After finding the surgery empty, they were marching toward the house as Jonathon wheeled onto the drive. With one look at Olive’s face, he quickly scrambled after them.
Excellent. There’ll be an audience.
She found her father keeping Harriet company on the sofa in the parlour, and as their little procession trailed into the room, she wasted no time on pleasantries. “Captain Aldridge has just accused me of lying about Mother’s war work. He insists that she wasn’t an ambulance driver,” Olive said calmly, “or even a FANY.” Her chest rose with emotion and indignation as Kíli rolled to her feet and trotted over to give the officer a sniff. “He refuses to believe me, and so I’ve brought him along. Perhaps you can convince him.” Her introduction finished, she spun away and stared out the French doors, waiting for the glorious moment in which her father set him straight.
It was too long in coming, though, and she had no choice but to turn back to the room, a frown settling heavily on her brow. Her gaze darted to her father, who was looking decidedly uncomfortable, shifted to notice Harriet’s distress, and finally flashed on Jonathon, whose confusion likely mirrored her own. She knew Aldridge was watching her, but she refused to meet his eyes.
Moving closer, she demanded, “Why aren’t you speaking up for me—for her?”
She darted a frustrated glance at Aldridge, who now appeared oddly discomfited. Her father’s face had greyed, and he seemed to have shrunk right in front of her. As he bowed his head, she had the sense that he felt a tremendous shame. His words, when they finally came, were little more than whispers.
“Because he’s right, Olive.”
The wrinkles of confusion dug deeper. “Wait a moment. What do you mean, he’s right?” she demanded. “How could he possibly be right? I’ve heard all the stories. There’s a photograph on my dresser. She’s posing with her ambulance,” she insisted. “It can’t all be a lie . . .”
“You’d better all sit down.” Harriet’s voice drifted through the silent shock that hung over the room. Jonathon slipped to Olive’s side, and together, they sank onto the opposite sofa. Aldridge faded from view. Her father took a breath, propped his hands on his knees, and stood. He proceeded to pace, rubbing a rough hand over this mouth and chin as he considered where to begin. When he finally spoke, Olive was riveted.
“Your mother always had the best intentions. She wanted to volunteer as a FANY, wanted to help all those suffering on the front lines and in the trenches. She wanted to fetch them all away in an ambulance, to be stitched right up in hospital.” His eyes looked bleak and apologetic, but Olive couldn’t focus on that; she still couldn’t make sense of any of it.
“When I met her at the end of the war, she was sitting alone in a crowded café in Paris, with a table all to herself. She offered to share it, and we sat there together for hours, each of us sharing our own war stories. I was promptly smitten.” He looked over at Harriet with a loving smile. “She was like no girl I’d ever met. She was selfless and brave and fiercely intrepid, a heroine who had saved the lives of countless men.”
“Yes,” Olive said, nodding, “I already know all this.”
Her father heaved a great sigh. “What you don’t know—what she didn’t want you to know—is that those were other girls’ stories. They were never hers.”
A frighteningly dark hole had opened in the pit of Olive’s stomach, and it waited hungrily, as she did, for her father to go on.
“She’d worked as a secretary in Paris at the beginning of the war and had a chance to meet FANYs coming into the city when they had a few days off. They convinced her to sign up, and she tried, insisting she be assigned as a driver.” He gazed at her soberly. “But she couldn’t pass the test.”
“The driving test?” Olive asked, puzzled.
He shook his head. “They took her around to the local hospital and walked her through the wards full of injured men—gaping wounds, missing limbs, hideous, heartbreaking burns. She couldn’t stomach any of it. She was sick right there in the ward, and the only jobs they had were for drivers and nurses. The Americans snapped her up as a signal operator—she was efficient and spoke fluent French—and she spent the rest of the war sitting in front of a switchboard. She roomed with other girls—FANYs.” He huffed out a breath. “And she collected their stories to rewrite her own.”
“But why?” Olive demanded, her mind boggled by her mother’s deception.
“She had an image in her head of who she wanted to be, and she made it real in the only way she could.” He shrugged apologetically. “For years, even I didn’t know the truth, and by then it was so much a part of her. The lies never hurt anyone.” Olive was about to object when he said quietly, “Except her.”
She looked up sharply. “What do you mean?”
“The more she told them, the more the pressure and guilt began to eat at her. She’d have terrible headaches, and she . . .” He ran a hand over his eyes, as if trying to dash away the memories. “She was dependent on her tablets. She’d convinced me it was only headache powder,” he insisted. “Only later did I realise what she was taking, all of it supplied by friends in London.” He paused, clearly struggling to go on. “The cocaine was enough to garble her memory and stifle the prickings of her conscience. She was in its ruddy clutches. I should’ve—” He stopped and hung his head, the shame of it all seeming to pour over him. “But I waited too long, and then the illness took hold, and it was all too late.”
Olive stared at her father, her face slack with shock. It had all been a lie. Numbness had spread outward from that dark hole, but she knew, when it receded, the hurt would crowd in on her. Olive very much wanted to be alone when that happened—away from her father and Harriet and, most of all, Aldridge. But she had one very important question that needed to be answered first.
“Has someone been blackmailing you to keep that secret?”
“Blackmail?” her father barked, abruptly pulled from his misery. “No, no, of course not.” His head swivelled toward Harriet to confirm, but she shook her head, lo
oking simultaneously startled and concerned. “Your mother has been dead too many years for any of it to matter anymore.” When Olive didn’t respond, he went on, his voice heavy. “I know I should have told you. My only excuse is that I’d made a promise to your mother. You had your memories. What did it matter if they weren’t quite true?” He glanced disapprovingly at Aldridge. “What difference does it make that she wasn’t a FANY? We were, all of us, against the Boche.” He fell silent, then suddenly remembered her question and demanded, “What’s this about blackmail?”
“It’s nothing. I just wondered. People react to secrets in many different ways,” Olive said stiffly, conscious of Aldridge sitting somewhere out of view, listening to all of this—hearing the truth about her mother as she did herself. “Well,” she added crisply, bolting to her feet, “you’ve solved that puzzle. Score one for Captain Aldridge.” Curving her lips into a bitter smile felt like curving a bowstring—and she was deathly worried what might happen if she let go. “He’s probably anxious to be on his way, so I’ll escort him out.”
Walking stiffly, Olive moved to the door, then waited politely for her nemesis to follow. Thankfully, she was still in a state of shock and so was relatively unaffected by the shame at not only having lied—albeit unintentionally—to the CO at Station XVII but also having been caught out in such a way. Later, there would be more to say; questions already burned in her mind, but right now, she needed to be alone, to reconcile herself to the certain consequences of this deception.
She led him out through the kitchen, along the garden, and past the dovecote. It was drizzling in earnest, but she barely noticed. Neither spoke until they were well out of earshot, standing beside the car, and Olive got the jump on him.
Staring past his right shoulder, she was all politeness. “It seems I did lie to you, after all, and for that, I’m sorry. I do hope you realise I didn’t intentionally deceive you, but I understand that this will mean our liaison is at an end—or will be once this mission is complete.”
He sighed and was quiet for a long moment. “I admit, I was livid. I’d let you badger me into advocating a larger role for you at Station Seventeen . . .”
Olive stared in disbelief. He’d spoken up for her?
“And then you waltz onto the grounds and boast of your mother’s exploits in the Great War. Exploits I shortly discovered to be entirely false.”
She wanted to object but, for once, stayed silent.
“I considered it a betrayal,” he added, tipping his head down. Olive’s lower lip quivered in understanding. “But,” he went on, “it’s quite obvious you were unaware of the truth.” His voice had softened, and Olive bit her lip, determined to keep her emotions tucked safely away. “So, I’m inclined to chalk the whole thing up as a misunderstanding. As long as we agree that as of now, it’s to be only the whole truth.”
It was more than she would have expected, but at the moment, she wasn’t at all certain it was what she wanted. Could he ever truly trust her again? Would he judge her by her mother’s deception? Had their fragile relationship, built on gradual acceptance and respect, been irreconcilably broken? With each of those questions swirling unanswered in her mind, she didn’t know what to say. But her thoughts kept repeating the same refrain: He believed in you and is offering another chance. She swallowed past the lump in her throat, met his stormy grey eyes, and nodded solemnly. She would find a way to make this work.
Some of the tension seemed to go out of his shoulders. “It might perhaps be best for everyone concerned if we delay your training a bit longer. I need to explain the situation to the men in charge, and you probably need time to . . . think things through,” he said awkwardly. “You needn’t worry,” he added quickly when she would have objected. “There will be plenty of work when you do get there. And I understand you’re getting quite a bit of driving practice in the meantime.”
Curving her lips into a bland smile, she didn’t answer. Let him imagine she was speechless with gratitude when what she really wanted was to curse a blue streak.
“No pigeons back yet, I take it,” he said, leaning in to pose the question, as if someone might be listening in.
She shook her head, and he slid past, on his way again, as if he hadn’t just roared in and sent her world spinning topsy-turvy. It didn’t matter. He was the very least of her concerns right now.
Without even waiting for him to back the car down the drive, she stalked into the barn. It would seem, she thought sourly, Miss Husselbee’s final word had merely been a portent of trouble to come. Olive wondered if she’d known. This thought was interrupted by the postman, cycling up to meet her as she wheeled the Welbike over the gravel, eager to be away.
“One of those sure would make my job easier,” he said, nodding at the motorbike as he reached into his bag to pull out the letter he handed over with a flourish.
Olive glanced at it and instantly recognised George’s handwriting by the little cowlick he always added to the O of her name. Her fingers fumbled as she edged it open, and her eyes quickly scanned the words.
8th May, 11:30 a.m.
RAF Brize Norton
Dear Olive,
Damn if it doesn’t seem as if more has happened in Pipley in the week I’ve been gone than in the twenty-odd years I lived there. If you’re having me on, it’s not a bit funny, and I will find a way to get even. Miss Husselbee, dead? I fully expected my children’s children to run in fear of the tap of that umbrella. And murder by Spam? I’m looking forward to a long write-up of your investigation, complete with suspects, clues, and the unmasking of the murderer. If anyone can puzzle it out, you can, Sherlock. I suppose it’s not possible that she’s rigged the whole thing as an elaborate red herring, and any moment now she’ll spring to life again, criticising the mishandling of the whole affair? I truly wish it were—what a damn shame.
I imagined you’d be chomping at the bit for a little excitement, but I should have known you’d find it. I expect you’ve convinced (or coerced) the NPS to sign you on, as well. Training here marches on. We’re flying Hurricanes, and they’re rather old school, but they certainly get the job done. We’ve not heard yet if we’re being sent on—although with the weather as cold and wet as it’s been, we’re all daydreaming of warmer climes.
Please say hello to all, with a kiss for my mother and Gillian.
Your devoted Watson,
George
P.S. You’ve garnered quite a reputation among the chaps, what with being a pigeoneer and an amateur sleuth. Half of them have a crush on you already.
Olive’s shoulders dropped as she refolded the letter and slipped it into her pocket with the one Poppins had carried back. She wanted to laugh and cry all at once. If only it was a red herring.... It made her think of the time, so many years ago now, when she and George had trailed into the woods after Lewis one morning. They’d quickly run across a rabbit with its leg caught in a trap; it had fidgeted so much that its fur was missing on one side, and there was dread panic in its eyes. Having deftly freed it, while cursing roundly, Lewis had pressed the poor thing into George’s arms and sent him running for the surgery. Olive was meant to stay and help him bury the trap. They’d only just begun digging when they heard the crackling of twigs and a heavy, slurred voice murdering a familiar pub tune. Their eyes met; they knew that voice, and neither was keen to be caught at sabotage by a drunk who very likely had a gun. In an instant, she was running her fingers quickly and carefully along the jaws of the trap, gathering up the rabbit’s blood. This she smeared on her wrists and hands, adding a bit to her face for good measure. “I’ll get rid of him,” she said, “but hurry.” Then she was gone.
It had worked brilliantly. While she’d mustered tears, pretended pain and panic, and begged for help, Lewis had buried the remainder of the traps, all while keeping an ear trained on Olive’s bloody little drama. He’d reached the surgery shortly after she had, having stopped to clean his hands in the river. A success all around.
It had been
a clever diversion, a bloody red herring. Not at all the same as her mother’s calculated deception. What would Lewis say when he heard about their mother? And George?
Suddenly exhausted, she turned the motorbike and wheeled it back into the barn. Moments ago, her only thought had been confrontation, no matter how little sense it made to rail at a grave. But the betrayal had sunk in its teeth, and that compulsion had given way to dispassion. She’d been holding herself up to Serena Bright’s standard for as long as she could remember, and it had all been a lie—an illusion. The worst part of it was that she was no better, hiding behind her own deception, while others sacrificed so much. Maybe her mother would be proud of her, after all. The thought was a bitter pill.
She didn’t want to think about any of it right now, and she didn’t have the wherewithal to ponder the motives of a village full of murder suspects, either. Once she confirmed that none of the three musketeers had yet returned, she was going to find a lonely spot somewhere and settle in to read. Not the Agatha Christie—she was in no mood. She’d fetch the Gothic novel she’d pilfered from Miss Husselbee’s desk. So deciding, Olive felt the heaviness in her chest lighten somewhat. And as she came around the corner and noticed a biscuit tin left on the dovecote’s doorstep, it lightened even further. Jonathon must have left it, hoping to lift her spirits. Perhaps it was another tomato....
Gripping the lid with her fingernails, she worked it off and promptly sent the lot of it clattering back to the ground. Nestled in a bed of straw, quite dead, lay Guinevere, a chequered female hatched only two months before.
Chapter 18
Tuesday, 13th May
She didn’t tell Jonathon or her father; it was possible neither would even notice the bird was missing. Instead, Olive worried alone. She’d long ago become acclimated to the sight of dead animals. There was always a flicker of sadness, but no more. For Guinevere, there was more—there was worry and distress, and even fear. No natural predator had tucked her young body into a Cadbury biscuit tin and left her tidily on the doorstep. It had been intentional and deliberate—a warning—and she could think of only two reasons for it. Either someone had discovered her arrangement with Baker Street and was anxious she put an end to it, or else her amateur investigations into Miss Husselbee’s murder were making someone very nervous.
Olive Bright, Pigeoneer Page 31
