Olive slumped against the arm she’d propped on the table, a feeling of nausea having overtaken her. She tried to focus. Something in Violet’s confession was nagging at her, just out of reach. “Miss Husselbee wasn’t concerned that you hadn’t married Emory. She suspected you’d murdered him. Somehow, she’d managed to unearth A Lady Avenged—your confession—and she was going to go to the police. She had to be got rid of.” Suddenly, like a puzzle piece snicking into place, the proof was plain. Olive was now certain that her theory was correct.
“You said you didn’t believe I killed her,” Violet objected in confusion.
“I don’t,” Olive said, her voice vaguely slurred—she really wasn’t feeling at all well. “I believe you loved Emory Hammond, and you were the victim of appalling treatment and a dreadful accident.” She remembered the pain lurking in Violet’s eyes, and the wistfulness in her voice, whenever she spoke of him, and her stalwart acceptance of Miss Husselbee’s intentions. She took a steadying sip of tea. “I suspect you’ve suffered tremendous regret and a guilty conscience, and you were resigned to having the story finally come out, no matter the consequences.”
Violet hung her head and silently sobbed.
Olive shifted her gaze, the movement forcing her to close her eyes against a wave of dizziness. Her head tipped sideways, and she fought to right it. “The elopement was the perfect red herring to throw suspicion off the real murderer.” She credited George with setting her thoughts to dissimulation, and right now, she’d give anything to have him there beside her. If nothing else, he could hold her head up.
“What do you mean, the real murderer?” Violet demanded.
“I mean Rose,” Olive said flatly.
“Rose?” Violet objected. “I already told you, she only helped me get rid of the body.”
Olive closed her eyes, then winked one back open. “In the book, the body dragged to the river was pushed and contorted into all manner of positions. It was almost comical. But you claim to have killed Emory in the afternoon. If that were true, at least four hours”—she held up four fingers and stared bemusedly at them—“would have passed before twilight, time enough for rigor mortis to set in. The body would have been relatively stiff.” Olive was particularly proud of herself for having picked up on that little detail—especially in the state she was in. “Emory obviously wasn’t, which meant he must have been killed much later.”
“I don’t understand,” Violet said unsteadily.
Olive looked expectantly at Miss Rose.
“Very clever,” she said agreeably. “Even Miss Husselbee hadn’t puzzled it out, judging by her confrontation with Violet at the dance. Oh, yes, she told me all about that.”
“Rose, what does she mean?” Violet demanded urgently.
But Olive cut in impatiently. Her stomach was rolling with nausea, and she was determined to say her piece. “The play provided the final piece of the puzzle. Two sisters.” She swivelled her gaze between the pair. “One falls for a cad, and the other swoops in to save her. Well, really it was Darcy, but he did it for—”
“Shut up, Olive.”
But Olive barrelled on, undeterred by Rose’s objection. “The two of you changed the story—tricky of you—none of those bits are in the book,” she said, shaking her head. “And Elizabeth Bennet never would have stooped to murder . . .” Olive suspected she’d got off track; her thoughts were getting gummed up in her brain.
“It wasn’t in the book, because that’s not what happened,” Violet insisted frantically.
“Violet never knew,” Rose corrected, her voice steely, “that I suffocated him with his own jacket when I sent her to gather the stones. He was just starting to come around.”
Violet’s face was ashen with shock and disbelief. “All these years I’ve kept away, I thought—”
“He deserved to die, Violet,” Rose said ruthlessly, “and I deserved a little peace from all your foolishness. You weren’t capable of doing it yourself, so I took care of it.”
“Rose, how could you?” Violet’s hands were beginning to shake, and her demeanour had shifted to wary uncertainty. Olive didn’t blame her: Rose had fooled them all. Rubbing her temples, she peered nervously at her sister. “And Miss Husselbee?”
“Dead,” Olive confirmed. Both sisters cut their eyes around to look at her. “Murdered. She did it,” she said emphatically, pointing at Rose. “She knew Miss Husselbee had got hold of a copy of A Lady Avenged, and she played on her patriotic fervour with a poisoned cake made of tinned meat. Diabolical.” Olive’s head tipped back and forth like a pendulum.
“She suspected the truth—or a version of it, anyway. She’d hinted as much to me,” Miss Rose calmly answered her sister. “There was no other choice. You would have confessed to murder and admitted I was there. At the very least, I would have been an accessory. And if someone had managed to figure out the truth, I would have hanged. Emory Hammond deserved what he got, but Verity Husselbee would never have condoned his murder, and I couldn’t let her steal my life away. Not when it’s just started—”
Violet pushed back from the table and stared at her sister in horror.
Olive stared into her teacup, her mind fuzzy, and tried to focus. Something was very wrong, but whatever it was remained frustratingly out of reach. Instead, her thoughts floated back to the day of the Daffodil Dance. She could picture Miss Rose slipping quietly into the hall before the dance to leave a cake on the refreshments table. A Spam cake, laced with foxglove, meant for the person who’d dug up a long-buried murder. Then suddenly she was dancing with Captain Aldridge, spinning dizzily. . . . She blinked, coming back to the moment with effort.
Her thoughts slogged through her synapses. She’d confided to Miss Rose that she’d solved the murder, and now here they were, having tea. Olive’s eyes slowly travelled among the other cups on the table, and she drew her memory back over the preceding minutes. If memory served, neither sister had actually drunk any tea—she should probably have noticed that earlier. The situation seemed to have got away from her, and it now seemed rather likely she’d been poisoned. The trouble was, she no longer had the wherewithal to do anything about it. She thought briefly about sticking her fingers into the back of her throat, but she couldn’t make her arms move the right way. She couldn’t even muster an appropriate level of panic.
“Don’t worry, Olive,” Miss Rose said, reading her thoughts as Olive’s gaze continued to drift aimlessly from one cup to another. “It will be over quick as a wink. It’s rather ironic, really. Agatha Christie not only gave me the idea for the murder weapon, but she also inspired you to imagine yourself an amateur sleuth. A pity, really.”
Violet’s gaze flicked from her sister to Olive, comprehension dawning. “Rose, you didn’t,” she said, aghast. She stood and pushed back her chair, staring wide-eyed at the table, no doubt wondering if the shortbread had been poisoned.
“You killed Guinevere,” Olive said, unable to muster even a modicum of fury in her current state.
Miss Rose frowned then and, with false pity, said, “I suspect she’s rather far gone.”
“My pigeon,” Olive muttered, enunciating slowly. “You killed her when you thought I was closing in.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Miss Rose scoffed. “I assumed you’d been rummaging about in Miss Husselbee’s diaries, searching for clues, but I certainly never expected you to turn to blackmail. The things she’d written about Dr Ware weren’t true, but I couldn’t have you spreading rumours—not when his research is so important.” Spots of anger had popped out on her cheeks. “I’d planned to deal with you, but you forced my hand, showing up at the library with a murder accusation.”
“What has Dr Ware got to do with any of this?” Violet demanded, only to be once again ignored. She looked worriedly at Olive.
“Listen,” Olive said sharply, “I didn’t stoop to murder or blackmail. I only ever tried to find out who did. And I was bloody good at it, if I do say so.” She nodded emphatically as her
thoughts began to drift. Funnily enough, the whole business had all worked out precisely like a mystery novel. All sorts of things—words and memories and pigeons—had clicked, fitting together like one giant village jigsaw, until all the questions had been satisfactorily answered. Except that none of this was satisfactory. . . .
“I’m going for the doctor,” Violet insisted.
“You don’t want to do that, Violet,” her sister said calmly. “I’ll tell everyone you killed Emory Hammond.”
Olive’s eyes fluttered, and her heartbeat soared until there was a roaring in her head. She slipped from the chair just as she imagined Jameson Aldridge riding to her rescue.
Thursday, 15th May, 2:05 p.m.
Victoria Station
I do believe I’ve solved the mystery of Miss Husselbee’s murder, my boy! The whole thing is really quite astounding, and I will catch you up as soon as possible. I know I’ve exhausted Captain Aldridge’s tolerance, but if he happens to be in a genial mood, I’d like his help in confirming my theory. Please give him a ring and ask him to look into the death of Emory Hammond . . . anything he can find on the man, really. If he refuses, I’ll handle the matter on my own. I’m taking the next train home from London, and I plan to go straight to the police after I’ve had a quick chat with Miss Rose.
Home soon,
Olive
Chapter 21
Sunday, 8th June
Olive had propped herself on the gate and was carelessly kicking her feet as she waited for Aldridge to come barrelling down the lane. No doubt Harriet thought she was mooning for the man, but in reality, she wanted information. Aramis had hung on, bless him, defying the odds and carrying home a message that could make all the difference to her loft’s continued involvement in the war, and she fully intended to learn what it said.
She’d hardly seen Aldridge since her close call—her father had insisted she be given time to recuperate before settling into her job as a FANY—but he’d maintained the fiction of their relationship, delivering a tidily wrapped parcel of aniseed balls, an armful of hydrangea blooms, which she knew grew in profusion on the manor grounds, and a note from Danny Tierney, promising some lessons in self-defence when she was recovered. After that initial visit, he’d called instead, and she’d stood in the hall, within earshot of Harriet, and dutifully flirted with him down the telephone lines. He’d made a point of asking after the pigs by name and occasionally a pigeon, as well. Slowly but surely, the barriers between them were beginning to come down. Since the deadly conclusion of her amateur investigation, she’d adopted a newfound respect for caution and protocol, and he’d lightened his typically brusque demeanour. Not nearly enough, though. She was still working on that.
The gossip surrounding her attempt to ferret out a murderer was only now starting to die down, three weeks after the incident. Everyone told a different version of that disastrous afternoon, but she trusted Aldridge’s. He had, after all, been there, and not just as the hallucination she’d imagined. He’d burst in the door just as she’d lost consciousness, while Jonathon and Hen had gone for the doctor. The effect of the activated charcoal and potassium chloride had been quick and thoroughly unpleasant, and likely just in time. As the digoxin had gradually left her system, she’d begun to feel a bit more herself, well enough, at least, to explain how she’d stumbled upon the truth, before being whisked away to Dr Harrington’s surgery. It was only later that she’d learned all that had happened.
While Aldridge and Violet had been busy trying to revive her, Miss Rose had drunk the tea from her own cup and slipped out of the hall. Naturally, Hen had followed and been beside her as she’d succumbed to the poison on the river path. There was nothing to be done but offer comfort in those last moments, in which her final words had, rather curiously, been, “Tell Darcy how ardently I admire and love him.” Dr Ware had, understandably, been slow to recover from the shock of it all.
Violet had confessed her role in Emory Hammond’s murder, but she hadn’t been charged. Olive suspected there’d been no discussion of the man’s finances. But Aldridge knew. He’d done as she’d asked, and he’d been thorough. But he’d waited until they were quite alone to deliver a fierce and furious lecture. Her head had still been rather fuzzy, though, so she suspected some words had been imagined. Unless an eavesdropper had prompted him to wax sentimental.
And there he was now, speeding down the lane in his bulky black Austin, churning up a cloud of dust. She jumped from the gate, wanting to get ahead of the motorcar, and waited for him near the barn, snatching Psyche mid-skulk and tucking the cat under her chin.
Stepping out of the car, he eyed her companion suspiciously. His hair was neat, and his jaw clean shaven, and it seemed as if he’d been away for a very long time. So long that she felt a faint awkwardness overtaking her. Judging by the intense gaze he’d levelled on her face, Aldridge was feeling much the same as always.
“Would you like to pet her?” she teased.
“It appears you’re feeling better,” he said dryly, making no move toward the pair of them.
She slipped her hand into her pocket to retrieve the canister and handed it over. “Will you decode it now? Please.”
“Let’s go for a drive,” he suggested. “That cat stays.”
Smirking at the sternness in his voice, she followed him to the car, dumping the cat in the shade of the cherry tree. The beast already had her eye on the twittering blackcaps in the hedge. Aldridge’s inexplicable aversion to felines brought to mind Violet’s bitter reaction to raspberries, which Olive now sadly understood. His little quirk, however, continued to defy reason.
Psyche, it turned out, had been responsible for Guinevere’s death. Mrs Battlesby had casually confessed her husband’s good intentions while mashing potatoes for supper one evening. He’d come across the cat, slinking out of the loft, and divested her of her kill. He’d left the pigeon for Olive, tucked out of reach in a biscuit tin, as a warning to keep the dovecote shut up properly. He wasn’t quite right in the head anymore, Mrs Battlesby had admitted sadly, and not up to a chat. Olive suspected even Hercule Poirot wouldn’t have managed to solve that little mystery.
Aldridge drove to the spot where he’d waited the night of their first mission, then parked in the long shadows of the wood. He pulled a little book from his pocket and unrolled the message tucked carefully into the canister. Olive peered curiously at the jumble of letters but couldn’t make any sense of it, so she sat back to wait.
With her head resting on the seat back and her breathing even, the air holding the barest hint of liquorice, she relaxed and hoped for good news. She had no idea how much time passed.
“They did it,” Aldridge said abruptly.
Her head came up off the seat. “What happened?”
He was grinning, and there was a gratified gleam in his eye. “They found one of ours, Joël Letac, in Paris and trekked back to Bordeaux. After discovering that the Germans had become rather lax in their security at the power station, they planned the sabotage for last night. They retrieved the gear they’d buried in the woods, broke in, planted the limpet mines on the transformers, and got out, riding their borrowed bicycles to safety in the light of the explosions. It seems they’re going to find their way home through Spain, and the Nazis are going to have a lot of recovery work ahead of them.”
Olive smiled, the moment bittersweet. It was a victory for all of them. Except Badger. She would find a way to commemorate his sacrifice, as well as that of all those who might come after him. To say nothing of the birds that would come back. In nightmares, her mind still played over the scenario in which Jeremy never found his way home, Jonathon never got her message, and Aldridge didn’t come. Her pigeons—all of them—were heroes, and it would be worth every sacrifice she made if they were allowed to do their bit.
She’d put away the photograph that had sat on her dresser, a daily inspiration for so long, and replaced it with one that captured the woman her mother truly was. Olive had let go of the fe
elings of anger and betrayal and was instead thankful that finally hearing the truth about her mother had helped her to recognise and appreciate her own small efforts in the grand scheme of things.
Her hours of recovery had given her plenty of time to think back over her stint as self-appointed village sleuth, prompted, as it was, by Miss Husselbee’s dying declaration. She could only assume the poor woman had confused two long-ago secrets trapped in her befuddled mind. While she’d recently uncovered what she imagined was Violet Darling’s grand deception, she’d evidently known about Serena Bright’s for years. Judging by what Olive’s father had confessed, and the unfinished journal entry had revealed—with a little guesswork thrown in for good measure—it seemed likely that Miss Husselbee had been utterly conflicted by duty and loyalty in those two particular instances. But only one had got her killed.
Generally speaking, the village remained mostly ignorant of the deceptions perpetrated in their midst. But both George and her brother Lewis would need to face their mothers’ secrets when they finally did come home. For now, Mr Forrester’s black-market scheme with the Daneses continued, but Olive couldn’t help but wonder how long it would last. Dr Ware carried on with his research and his role as Mr Darcy. And then there was Margaret. She’d confided in Leo, and they were to be married at the end of the summer. An engraved stone had been placed at the foot of the yew tree in the corner of the cemetery, marked simply IN MEMORY OF SIMON GALE, 1940.
Olive, who would be starting work at the manor house the following week, was anxious for an escape from village affairs, but there’d not yet been a final decision on the pigeons.
Olive Bright, Pigeoneer Page 35
