“How did you get them? And from whom?” Margaret demanded. And then, with her voice breaking slightly, she added, “I suppose that means you know.” She jammed her cigarette between her lips and inhaled as her hand shook.
“I didn’t read them,” Olive assured her, “but I think I know.”
A stream of silver-grey smoke emerged from between Margaret’s lips, and Olive remembered the “little room” where Violet Darling imagined she could breathe. “How?” her friend demanded with false bravado.
“Believe it or not, it was the pigeons,” Olive said, pulling her friend carefully down beside her onto a stack of empty crates. “Jeremy Fisher hatched in February, and his mother, Wendy, clearly wishes he’d never left the nest. She’s doting and watchful, and ruthlessly protective.”
Margaret’s eyes had glossed with tears, but as her fingers closed over her locket, she shook her head sharply and said, “I don’t understand.”
“Watching them, I can’t help but think of how closely you’ve been holding on to your secret, and how desperately you cling to that locket.” Margaret released a startled, shuddering breath, but Olive went on. “You’re never without it, and you never discuss it. Given the thoroughness of our chats about Leo, I have to assume it’s not a present from him. You’ve reached for it each time I’ve pressed you for answers, and you clutch it as if it holds the secret you’re trying to keep safe, but I’ve never seen you open it.”
Now the tears did fall, and Olive laid a hand on her arm. “You don’t owe me an explanation, but you shouldn’t keep a secret as important as this one clearly is from the man you plan to marry.”
But the dam had burst, and now the secret Margaret had refused to share was pouring forth.
“When I was in London, there were bombings every night,” she started, her voice flat. “Sometimes lasting hours, shaking your teeth, rattling your bones, making you wonder if there’d be anything left when it was finally quiet and you staggered back above ground. I was going to the same shelter every night, and it was always the same people. My favourite was a musician—a trumpet player at the Catbird Club. His name was Simon Gale.” The name caught in her throat. “We kept each other distracted with silly stories and quick card games. But one night the bombs were close, and we were both frazzled. I went home with him, and I thought I was falling in love.”
She swallowed, let out a shaky breath, and fumbled for another cigarette. Olive lit it for her, and she went on. “A week later, he was dead, and shortly after that, I found I was in the pudding club.” Olive’s heart clutched as she thought of her friend, pregnant and alone, with the city crumbling around her. “I told everyone I’d got married—and maybe I would have.” She was staring, sightless, into the middle distance, and Olive took her hand. “I held on to the lie even in the hospital when it was time for the baby to be born. But he died,” she sobbed. “I would have loved him. I would have lied for him for the rest of my life. But he died.”
Olive wrapped her arm tightly around her friend’s shoulders as she sobbed. After a few moments, Margaret was smoking raggedly, dabbing her eyes with the hem of her grocer’s apron.
“What was his name?” Olive asked softly.
“I called him Simon, after his father. I wear this locket to remember them both, but I don’t have a picture of either of them, and their faces are already fading away.” Fighting back another wave of sobs, she inhaled deeply, hiccoughed, and rummaged in her pocket for a handkerchief. “I know I should have told Leo, but I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know if he’d forgive me, and I didn’t want to lose him, as well. A vicar can’t very well marry a fallen woman,” she said bleakly.
“Why don’t you tell him the truth and let Leo decide what he can do,” Olive suggested. “I suspect he’ll surprise you.”
Margaret nodded resignedly and wiped her nose.
“I’ve decided to send the final diaries on to Mass Observation—a last hurrah from the Sergeant Major,” Olive said with a brittle curve of her lips. “But I think you should decide whether you want yours to be included.”
She handed over the relevant page and waited as her friend read over it.
When she’d finished, Margaret said, “When I was in hospital, I told the nurse that my husband had died in the bombing and I’d be coming to live with relatives in Pipley. It seems she was acquainted with Miss Husselbee and wrote to her, asking about M.G.—Margaret Gale.” She handed the page back to Olive. “Go ahead and include it,” she said stoutly. “I’m going to talk to Leo.”
“It might be wise to tell him about your kidnapping fantasies, as well,” Olive suggested.
Her friend nodded, a mischievous twinkle sparkling through the tears.
Regarding the blackmailer, Olive said only that the culprit was struggling with a difficult situation and had succumbed to an error in judgment. Margaret was quick to forgive.
Olive’s thoughts boggled at the hush of secrets already revealed, but she was determined to remain vigilant. If poor Guinevere was any clue, the murderer knew she’d appointed herself resident sleuth, and meant to warn her away. She would need to be on her guard.
Chapter 20
Thursday, 15th May
Flush with success, and overwhelmed by the secrets and emotions that had dominated the past few days, Olive decided to give herself a break from the dovecote and Jeremy Fisher a break from his mother. Harriet, who’d been concerned with Olive’s subdued reaction to learning the truth about her mother, was delighted with her plans for a day trip to London.
“Imagine you’re on holiday,” she said with a flap of her hands. “Solve a murder on the train with Monsieur Poirot, go to the cinema, have a cream tea, if you can manage it. Send off your bird and forget all about him—or her—for a few hours. It’s been a difficult, frazzling two weeks. Honestly, I wish I was going with you.” With this unabashed declaration, she fell back against the cushion of the chaise longue and reached for the enamelled box.
Olive waited until midday, as a concession to her responsibilities as pigeoneer, but when neither Badger nor Aramis had slipped through the cage, she snatched Jeremy from under Wendy’s watchful eye and packed him into the wicker carrier. Tired, for the moment, of mysteries of all sorts, she slipped A Lady Avenged into her pocketbook and walked to St Margarets station to catch the train. Ready to be rid of the provoking pages of Miss Husselbee’s Mass Observation diary, she’d slipped them into an envelope and, with an index finger laid softly against her lips, passed them conspiratorially to Mrs Petrie at the post office. The cloak-and-dagger bit had no doubt thrilled the woman to no end.
Olive spent the entire train journey caught up in her novel, while Jeremy cooed quietly on the seat beside her, gazing curiously out the window. They were nearly to the station when she gasped aloud, and a tingle of awareness skipped through her veins. The words swam in front of her as her thoughts darted urgently. She should have picked up on it earlier, but she’d been distracted, her attention unfocused. She flipped back through the pages until she’d reached the beginning. As her eyes ran over the frontispiece, a suspicion began to take hold. And, along with it, a worry, a shock, a horror.
But something was fretting at the corners of her mind. She slipped her hand into the pocket of her jacket and closed her fingers over the folded pages tucked inside. It had brought her a small measure of comfort to keep George’s letters near at hand—as if he was still within reach—but right now it was suspicion that drove her need for them. She hurriedly pulled them out. Her gaze skimmed over the first message, carried home by Poppins, and her heart began to beat in slow, dull thuds as the words sank in, forcing her to consider another possibility. It was so astonishing as to be almost unbelievable, and yet not quite.
Trying to remain sensibly unruffled, she calmly read through the second letter, which had been delivered by post a few days before. Two words caught and held her attention, and her thoughts strayed back to the dance and the play rehearsal, to Lewis and George. Possible coale
sced into probable. As the train rumbled down the track, gradually decelerating, the gossamer strands of her memories wove themselves into an elaborate web of deception, betrayal, and murder. The book was the key to everything.
As usual, George had said precisely the right thing, and Olive suddenly felt certain she knew who had killed Miss Husselbee. She had no proof, but as Poirot had demonstrated, sometimes a little idea was enough to catch a killer. A sense of urgency swept through her, and she realised she’d need to forfeit her little holiday. So much for the cream tea.
Her gaze drifted to Jeremy, waiting patiently to be dispatched back to Pipley, and a thought occurred to her. She could send a message ahead, with directions for Jonathon to contact Aldridge. The man quite obviously had access to resources she didn’t, and could confirm information critical to her theory. If she could convince him to help.
Olive had intentionally brought a canister along, planning to affix it to Jeremy’s leg for the journey home. She’d suspected Jonathon would be thrilled to receive a message, no matter how frivolous.
As she carefully printed her instructions onto a slip of rice paper, she tried to manage her expectations. Aldridge would not relish her involvement—and certainly not his own—and would, quite possibly, refuse her request.
“In that case, we’ll simply have to make do without him,” she told Jeremy, slipping the paper into the canister and tucking it into her pocket. Either way, she planned to be on the next train home again.
When the train chugged to a halt, Olive hurried onto the platform and then out to the street, which was bustling with activity. Crouching beside the station building, she pulled Jeremy from his carrier, attached the canister to his leg and, with a word of luck, tossed him into the air. A pair of children standing nearby watched the first powerful beats of his wings and then twirled to track his progress up over the ragged rooftops, far beyond the bomb damage, which was all too prevalent. Tugging at their mother’s hands, they pointed into the sky as he banked, first left and then right, on his way home. Olive hurried back inside, wishing she wasn’t at the mercy of the train schedule.
* * *
A bit later, Olive stood outside, staring down at the pigeon carrier, which she’d propped beside the door, as she took a moment to gather her courage. With George gone and Aldridge entirely indifferent, there really was no one to temper her recklessness, but in fairness, she’d taken precautions, and the business had to be got over with, so here she was. With a deep breath, she pushed open the door and stepped inside. The comforting scent of leather and paper did nothing to calm her frazzled nerves, but with a deep breath, she approached Miss Rose’s tidy desk.
The mousy-brown head tipped up, and shrewd blue eyes sharpened with curiosity behind the lenses of her spectacles.
“I think I know who killed Miss Husselbee,” Olive said in a raspy whisper. She hadn’t expected this sleuthing business to be so difficult, and now it seemed the unmasking of the murderer—Poirot’s favourite part—would be particularly so.
Miss Rose blinked, quickly rose to her feet, and came around the desk. “Why don’t you come into the kitchen,” she said, moving around Olive to set the sign in the window and lock the door. “You look quite pale. I’ll make you a cup of tea.”
Olive nodded and followed her past the bookcases, to the door that went through to the kitchen. But just as they reached it, someone knocked. They turned to see Violet Darling peering in through the glass, beckoning her sister to let her in. Olive clutched her pocketbook tightly and stood motionless as Miss Rose hissed out an exasperated sigh and brushed past her once again to unlock the door.
“Don’t tell me you’re off to play hooky, Rose?” Violet teased, running a hand over her hair to tame the flyaways, as she stepped inside.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” her sister said sharply. “Olive is looking rather peaky, and I’ve offered to make her a cup of tea. Why don’t you come along,” she said tolerantly.
Violet looked at her sister curiously, then glanced at Olive. “Why not?” she said with a shrug, then gestured at the pair of them to lead the way.
As Miss Rose swept briskly by her yet again, Olive’s mind raced, wondering how this little chat might now play out.
Miss Rose went straight to fill the kettle, then twitched the flowered curtains at the window over the sink closed against the sunlight glancing off the faucet. Olive stepped up beside her, ready to help with the tea things, but Violet tugged her toward the scrubbed and scarred table, saying sotto voce, “Rose prefers to do everything herself. That way, she can be certain it’s done precisely how she wants it.”
Olive wavered before dropping into a chair beside Violet, and several moments passed in silent, wary perusal.
“Was that a pigeon carrier outside?” Violet finally said. Seeing Olive’s nod, she added, “I always expected you’d grow out of that.”
“Yes, well, I find that some things defy expectations,” Olive replied calmly.
“Well, I certainly never thought I’d agree to play Elizabeth Bennet in a village production of Pride and Prejudice,” Violet allowed with a half laugh.
“Yes, well, Harriet is quite good at getting her way,” Olive said. She hoped Miss Rose hadn’t had her heart set on the role.
“I confess, having the chance to flirt with Dr Ware in the role of Fitzwilliam Darcy was what convinced me,” Violet admitted.
With a telling flush pinking her cheeks, Miss Rose set the tea tray carefully on the table, sat, and scooted her chair forward. Olive flicked a glance between the sisters, suddenly feeling more awkward than she had only a moment before. She shifted her gaze to the tray and saw that there was a little plate of shortbread to go with the tea. Violet reached for a piece and held it with long, elegant fingers as she broke it in half and sent a flurry of crumbs onto the tidy tabletop. Miss Rose poured out the tea and handed the cups around, one for each of them.
“Olive believes she has solved the mystery of Miss Husselbee’s murder,” Miss Rose said tightly, lifting her cup to her lips.
At a startled sound from Violet, Olive shifted to look at her. She’d abandoned all pretence of casual disinterest and now sat forward, eyes wide. “Really? Do tell. I’m quite desperate to know who had the nerve to kill the old harridan.”
Olive decided the tea was quite safe, as they were all having a cup, and took a tiny comforting sip, burning her tongue in the process. Then, without a word, she unsnapped her pocketbook, pulled out A Lady Avenged, and laid it on the table.
“Where did you get that?” Violet demanded, with an agitated glance at her sister.
Miss Rose merely stared into the pale depths of her teacup. Olive sipped again, recalling the little speech she’d rehearsed on the train. She hadn’t expected to be making it in the presence of Violet Darling.
“Miss Husselbee loaned it to me,” she said—it was the truth, more or less—“and I’ve just finished reading it.” She met Violet’s eyes. “I didn’t realise until almost the very end that you must have written it, even though it should have been obvious. Lila Charmant is a French variation of Violet Darling.”
“Yes, well,” the author said, “as I told you, I like to keep my private life separate from my professional one.”
“That decision seems to have served you rather well,” Olive conceded, her mouth dry. “It’s allowed you to keep a terrible secret hidden for years.” She put the cup to her lips, relieved the tea had cooled sufficiently for a restorative gulp. “Travers Hall felt so familiar—the square tower and majestic cedar tree, and the lawn running down to the river, with its little island and weeping willow—all of it clearly drawn from Brickendonbury and the River Lea. It wasn’t difficult to recognise you and Emory in the outspoken governess and the golden-haired musician who’d hired you to care for his charges. But the ending was unexpected, and rather horrible. We all thought you’d run away to marry him, and while you admitted the pair of you never married, you never said that he was murdered.”
�
�He wasn’t—” Violet started nervously, only to be cut off by her sister.
“Do be quiet, Violet,” Miss Rose snapped. “You were foolish enough to write out all the details to be published in a veritable confession.” She flicked a contemptuous glance at the book on the table. “It’s thanks only to my efforts in keeping your pseudonym a secret that the entire village hasn’t known for years.”
Violet, her face sickly pale, peered at Olive and seemed to realise that denying it any further was fruitless. She said flatly, “Emory and I had been spending quite a lot of time in each other’s company, and I fancied myself in love with him. In late summer he invited me for a midday picnic, and I imagined he was going to ask me to marry him.” Miss Rose snorted, and the only hint that Violet heard her was an up tilt of her chin and a subtle hardening of the muscles of her jaw. “It seems he’d never intended anything of the sort. He wanted something else entirely and had no qualms about taking it.” Her hands were clasped tightly in front of her now, and judging by the blankness in her eyes, her mind had travelled back to that fateful day.
“When he was finished, he turned away, scoffing at my expectations of marriage, and I went red with rage. I searched for something, anything I could use to hurt him. I cut my hands tearing at a wild raspberry cane, but when I would have thrashed him with it, he lunged backwards and fell, hitting his head against a rock. It was all a horrible accident,” she said, her voice quivering.
Miss Rose reached for a biscuit and took a dainty bite, seemingly detached from the entire business.
Olive felt vaguely dizzy; her vision was beginning to blur at the edges, and her heart rate had begun to speed.
“When he didn’t wake up,” Violet continued, “I panicked, covered him with branches, and went to fetch Rose.” She glanced gratefully at her sister. “We couldn’t see an alternative to simply getting rid of the body, so we waited for darkness, tucked stones in his pockets, bound him up, and pushed him into the river. The elopement was Rose’s idea—it would explain his disappearance and get me away. She’d searched his pockets and found his banking information. He may never have intended to marry me, but he financed my life on the Continent for years.”
Olive Bright, Pigeoneer Page 34
