He hadn’t let go of her arm, but now his hand seemed almost comforting. “So that’s it? They’ll be brought home?”
“We sent them over with addresses for a few of our contacts in Paris. With any luck, they’ll find help and reconnoitre before trying again.”
“Did the message say anything about the other birds?”
He looked uncomfortable, and Olive tensed. “Tell me,” she insisted.
“I’m afraid there was an accident on the night of the drop. One of the men landed on a pigeon container.”
She nodded, feeling a welling of emotion in her throat. “I suppose you don’t know which one.” At the shake of his head, she said calmly, “And the last one?”
“That, I don’t know. It would be risky for them to hold on to him. It’s illegal to have them in France. But if they think they can manage, they might just do it.”
She nodded, trying not to reveal any hint of the emotion swirling through her. But something must have shown in her face, because he offered an encouraging smile.
“Don’t worry just yet. Roméo told you himself he has experience with pigeons. Trust him to do his best.”
Olive nodded, not meeting his gaze.
“Where have you been this afternoon?” he asked.
Olive bristled. “Jonathon is entirely capable of telephoning you, should the need arise. Obviously.”
“The question wasn’t intended as a reprimand.”
She wilted a bit, feeling rather childish. “Oh. Good, then, because I’ve had quite enough of those this month already.”
When her answer wasn’t forthcoming, he teased, “You aren’t hiding anything, are you?”
“What? No, of course not.” She wasn’t keeping secrets; she simply wasn’t telling him about her continued investigations, because he hadn’t expressed the slightest bit of interest.
“Steer clear of misadventure,” he said pointedly, “and say hello to the porkers for me, when you get a chance.” He flashed her a wicked smile, and in the early twilight, with his dark hair curling around his ears, he put her in mind of a satyr.
She fled.
Friday, 25 April 1941
Peregrine Hall, Pipley
Hertfordshire
If ever I require a reminder that a single ill-considered decision has the potential to wreak havoc on a person’s entire existence, I need only look to L.C. She chanced to pull her car into the local garage one summer day many years ago, and so began a tale of forbidden fruit. She should have been out of his reach, and he beneath her notice. But they cast convention aside, and it wasn’t long before it all turned to rot. She was too lovely, too accomplished, too ambitious, and he wasn’t man enough to rise to meet her.
In her role as president of the Pipley WI, she’s met with Lady Denman, exchanged letters with Mrs Roosevelt, and worked tirelessly to encourage and inspire us all. Her husband has merely stood sullenly in her shadow. I hope she hasn’t even a little idea that he has sought illicit comfort from one of our number—an effort that required rather more gumption than he’s mustered in all the years I’ve known him. I would spare her the humiliation and have decided to take both parties to task at the next opportunity.
I will endeavour not to enjoy myself, but I make no promises.
V.A.E. Husselbee
Chapter 19
Wednesday, 14th May
Smartly turned out in a juniper-green dress with mother-of-pearl buttons, Lady Camilla ushered Olive into her parlour, its windows open to the fragrant late afternoon breeze. Having once again hurried into the village the moment Jonathon had returned home from school to relieve her, Olive was breathing quickly, and the ever-present scent of lavender in the house quickly calmed her nerves. She’d effectively been twiddling her thumbs all morning, distractedly skimming chapters of A Lady Avenged and shooting curious glances at Fritz, as she worried over the remaining musketeer, the mission, and the conversation ahead.
A number of puzzling circumstances had slotted together in her mind, presenting a possible solution. One possible solution. Olive didn’t like being wrong, and she certainly didn’t like having witnesses when she was, but in this situation, it couldn’t be helped.
“I expect you’re curious as to whether I’ve wheedled any information from my father regarding the flying training schools,” Lady Camilla said briskly. She’d gestured for Olive to have a seat on the sofa and settled herself on a cream-coloured armchair.
Olive forestalled mentioning the real reason for her visit in order to hear what George’s mother might have discovered. She knitted her fingers and waited.
“They’re making arrangements for relocation to various out-of-the-way places—particularly Canada and South Africa—but they’re not ready to send them just yet,” Lady Camilla said, prompting a relieved sigh from Olive. Knowing George was still in England was a small comfort. With any luck, he’d be finished with his training before logistics were arranged and pilots shipped out. Lady Camilla, it appeared, didn’t want to get her hopes up. “If he decides to extend his training, perhaps become an instructor, then he’ll have to go.” She picked an imaginary bit of lint from the skirt of her dress, then laced her fingers. “But,” she said brightly, “it’s best to take each day as it comes.”
Olive frowned, tamping down the creep of worry for George, determined to get on with things. “I actually stopped in to speak to you about Miss Husselbee.”
“Oh,” she said blankly. “Not about her death, surely? Because I don’t know any more than anyone else.”
“I wanted to talk to you about her diary,” Olive said firmly.
“The little notebook she carried everywhere?” Lady Camilla said fondly. “I’m not sure any one of us escaped a mention. She was always ferreting away little bits of gossip.”
“The one she wrote for Mass Observation.”
“Oh, yes. Her very own Tatler, so to speak,” she teased, her smile a trifle brittle. “I’d quite forgotten about it.”
“She mailed the diaries off at the start of each new month, but her death prevented the April instalment from going out.” Lady Camilla’s lips had curved politely as she waited for Olive to come to the point. “Those latest entries were mistakenly collected by a pair of schoolchildren and were left for salvage in the collection spot behind the garage.”
George’s mother unclasped her fingers, lifted a hand to the back of her neck, and pressed her fingers into the upsweep of her hair. “Well, I suppose it hardly matters. The poor woman is dead. A few missing entries will hardly come amiss. It’s probably a blessing, all things considered.”
“It matters,” Olive said firmly, “because someone retrieved them from the salvage pile. Miss Husselbee was in the habit of recording the private details of people’s lives. The sort that could be used for blackmail.”
The older woman’s eyes widened in dismay, and she tsked her disapproval. “Surely not.”
Olive tried not to remember all the times Lady Camilla had seen her with a sticky face or skinned knees. She thought of Hercule Poirot and Jane Marple, and she mustered every bit of gumption she could manage. “It is, in fact, the reason you took them,” she said calmly.
Lady Camilla laughed charmingly. “My dear girl, why on earth would you even suggest such a thing?”
Olive shrugged, running her hand nervously over the sofa cushion. “The simplest explanation is usually the correct one. Your presence near the garage would never arouse suspicion. It would have been a simple matter for you to have noticed the typed pages and tucked them away for safekeeping.”
“I could have, yes, but then, so could any number of people, my husband included.”
“Except that your husband is being blackmailed,” Olive said simply. It was a hunch, but one she was determined to play.
“Olive, this is absurd,” Lady Camilla insisted, her aristocratic smile firmly in place, “but I’m going to take the accusation as an excuse for a little glass of sherry.” She stood, rounded the chair, and moved to the m
arble-topped table near the window, on which stood a tray of cordial glasses and a few dwindling bottles of liquor. Olive stared as she poured herself that drink.
Lady Camilla Forrester, president of the Pipley WI, George’s mother. Olive had admired this elegantly stylish woman her entire life, and she was suddenly caught up in the paralysing grip of uncertainty. Here she sat, accusing George’s mother of parlaying Miss Husselbee’s official Mass Observation diaries into blackmail fodder. It seemed preposterous, looking at her now, as she gazed bemusedly out the window. Her carefully powdered cheeks, delicately pursed lips, and the perfectly placed marcasite combs tucked into the icy-blond swirl of her chignon.
“Is there anything else?” Lady Camilla said abruptly, not bothering to turn. “Because as it is, you have only a vague suspicion.” She deigned to look at Olive. “And,” she added dryly, “I’m afraid, a rather inflated sense of your abilities as an amateur sleuth.”
“You were there the day Margaret’s blackmail letter was delivered. Before following her aunt Eloise to the kitchen, you left the letter on the mat, making it look as if it had been slipped through the mail slot sometime during your visit.”
“Is poor Margaret being blackmailed?” She feigned surprise before giving Olive a hard look. “It’s a pretty theory, dear, but you have no proof. You’ve simply slotted me in as the culprit, and I really don’t understand why.” There was pity in her voice now, mingled subtly with triumph. Olive now knew with absolute certainty that Lady Camilla was the blackmailer. Any thought to sparing the older woman’s feelings was abruptly shunted in favour of vindication.
“I suspect it started when you discovered that your husband was involved with Winifred Danes,” Olive said calmly. Lady Camilla gasped and likely would have protested, but Olive went on, refusing to be derailed by an interruption. “You very obviously don’t like her. Whenever you’re thrown into her company, you give yourself away.”
“How very observant of you.”
Olive blinked in surprise at the ready admission, not at all prepared to go tit for tat. The role Billy Bones had played in advancing her theory would remain her little secret. Lady Camilla walked back to her chair and sat, gracefully erect. She gazed at Olive expectantly, clearly waiting for her to elaborate, so Olive obliged. “George has always smelled faintly, comfortingly, of lavender, and until recently, so did Mr Forrester. Now there’s something else lingering beneath the scent of rubber and petrol, and I realised it smells rather like burnt sugar.”
“And, of course, you’ve noticed that that very aroma clings sickeningly to Miss Danes. I suppose it’s perfectly in character for a tart to smell like sugar.”
“Yes, well,” Olive said, wincing, “I’ve also noticed that when she’s around, you invariably touch the hair at the base of your neck. Sort of a nervous reaction, I suppose.”
“It must look like that, yes. But actually, I’m feeling for my combs.” With eyebrows raised, she performed the indicated action now, tugging the pair of combs from her hair, which tumbled down past her shoulders. “They were a gift from my mother before I was married,” she admitted, staring lovingly down at the art deco accessories with their flash of charcoal sparkle. “They’re my touchstone to a happier time, when I was certain of my place in the world.” She smiled sadly and added, “Before I wanted to murder anyone.”
Olive’s stomach turned over in shock, and she froze, blinking wide-eyed at the woman before her. She had suspected Lady Camilla as the blackmailer but was now forced to re-evaluate her theories. And wonder if she should abort this little visit.
“I’m not speaking of Miss Husselbee, Olive,” George’s mother said lazily, reading her reaction. “She was quite harmless—and invaluable to the WI.” She sipped her sherry, her gaze drifting around the feminine room, before going on. “Only two individuals have ever prompted me to think of murder, to imagine sliding the combs from my hair and stabbing them into their devious throats.” The words were said so calmly that Olive had to wonder if she was sitting alone with a madwoman.
Olive’s gaze shifted to the doorway as she considered her options.
“But,” Lady Camilla went on, undeterred, “murder isn’t an option for any civilised human being.”
The sentiment drew Olive’s eyes back to the older woman, whose pinkie finger was dutifully extended. “Blackmail is generally frowned upon in most circles, as well.”
“True,” she conceded. “But I need the money if I’m going to leave George’s father.” Olive hoped her mouth hadn’t dropped completely open at this revelation. “I was cut off financially when I married him,” Lady Camilla went on, “and while I haven’t the fortitude to endure the inevitable gossip along with the betrayal, I won’t divorce him. So, I’m planning to go away.”
As Olive gazed at Lady Camilla’s correct posture and brittle demeanour, she realised how unutterably weary she appeared, as if she was soldiering on by strength of character alone.
She lifted a pale hand to her hair, caught herself, and smiled with genuine amusement. “Force of habit. Don’t worry. I was thinking of the pair of them, not you, dear.”
“But why blackmail Margaret?” Olive insisted, her nerves on edge.
“Of course she would come to you for help. I admit I’m rather surprised she was willing to reveal her secret. Oh, I see she didn’t.” Olive’s expression, it seemed, had once again given her away. Something to work on. “I’ve never thought Margaret and Leo suited, and when I came across the diary entry and its tremendous secret, all I could think was to keep them from making the same mistake George’s father and I had made all those years ago.” Her hands fisted. “Margaret would break off the engagement, and I would supplement my savings. Better for everyone.”
Olive stared in disbelief. “And if she couldn’t pay? You were going to throw her to the wolves?” As a reference to the dynamics of village gossip, it was only a slight exaggeration.
“I was still undecided on that point.”
“Is there anyone else unwittingly helping to finance your escape?”
“Rose Darling,” Lady Camilla quickly admitted, “but she has money to spare.”
“Miss Rose? What could she possibly be hiding?”
“Other than that she’s entirely enamoured of Dr Ware, absolutely nothing. But Miss Husselbee’s diary was adamant that he is hiding something significant. I figured she’d pay to keep him out of trouble. A secret that will bind them together . . . how perfectly romantic.”
Olive frowned. “Does George know any of this?” she demanded, utterly stunned by Lady Camilla’s Machiavellian strategies.
“No. I’ll write to him, but with any luck, by the time he comes home, I’ll be living far away from here, with a job and money of my own.” Olive didn’t bother to correct this misguided interpretation of her ill-gotten gains. “Oh, I see you meant the blackmail. No, of course not.”
“You can’t go on blackmailing people,” Olive protested, “involving them in your plan for revenge.”
Lady Camilla finished her sherry and narrowed her eyes consideringly. “Would you be satisfied if I cease blackmailing everyone, save my husband and Miss Danes?”
“You’re blackmailing them separately?” Olive demanded. Thank heavens the woman considered murder uncivilised. . . .
Lady Camilla let a little giggle escape before tapping her fingers against her mouth. “I’ve written the notes to hint at two separate blackmailers, because, you see, their sins go beyond simple adultery. They’re in league with Miss Danes’s brother in a black-market petrol scheme.” She shrugged, a smug little smile playing about her lips. “What can they do but pay?”
Olive thought for a moment and ultimately decided that Mr Forrester and Miss Danes could, at any time, go to the police to report the blackmail. She suspected they wouldn’t, for fear of revealing their own nefarious deeds, and so Lady Camilla could take advantage in order to finance her new life far away from them.
Her head was starting to hurt, and she wanted
desperately to escape, but there was one more matter to discuss. “I need you to give me the pages of the diary and promise that you won’t use any of the information they contain to blackmail anyone else.”
Lady Camilla considered this demand, then stood and walked to the bookcases along the far wall. “I appealed to my father for funds, and he’s come up with a tidy sum, after all. Honestly, this whole business is rather tawdry, and I’m relieved to be done with it.” She lifted down a chinoiserie vase of jade green, pink, and yellow. She inserted her hand and removed a curled sheaf of pages, slightly smudged with indeterminate grime. She replaced the vase and walked to Olive, arm extended to hand it over. “Will you send them on to Mass Observation or dispose of them?”
“I don’t want to read them, so if you can assure me that no one will identify Margaret or Dr Ware, or anyone else, from the information contained in these pages, I’ll send them on as part of Miss Husselbee’s dubious legacy.”
She considered a moment, then said, “I believe I can. The one referring to Margaret is on top, though, in case you want to check with her.”
Olive nodded. “I’m sorry, Lady Camilla. I really am. And I’m sorry George isn’t here to help you through this.”
“I should have known you suspected,” she said, her smile already seeming more relaxed. “You always were such a clever girl.”
Olive smiled back and stood, relieved not to have to ask about Guinevere. Only someone who’d considered Olive a threat would have had a reason for such cruelty. She walked to the door and paused on the threshold. “It might be a good idea to tuck those combs away in your jewellery box for a while in favour of some others. Just as a precautionary measure.” She slipped away without waiting for an answer and walked straight to Pratten’s Grocery, hoping to set her friend’s mind at ease.
Quite easily persuaded to take a cigarette break, Margaret led Olive around to the alley and stood quietly while Olive explained that the diary pages had been recovered and the blackmail was at an end.
Olive Bright, Pigeoneer Page 33
