by Emma Jameson
Could it be nothing more than a cruel joke? An attempt to pay me back for monopolizing the room Edith usually entertains in?
Mr. Dwerryhouse chatted companionably about adrenal extracts as he led the way, but Ben listened with only half an ear, his thoughts returning to the nursery rhyme every English child learned by heart.
Five for silver, six for gold, seven for a secret, never to be told….
Mrs. Cobblepot had described young Penny as a girl who manipulated her schoolmates by threatening to spread gossip. An amateur blackmailer, paid off in candy and ribbons. Had she continued down that path as an adult, or rediscovered it sometime during their marriage? That letter she’d received not long before their departure, the one that put her in such a foul mood, had been postmarked from the southwest. But who had she kept up with in Birdswing? Who in the village had the resources to pay off a blackmailer, particularly with tastes as refined as Penny’s?
Technically, Lady Juliet fit the bill, as did Lady Victoria. But Ben refused to entertain either woman as a suspect. Lady Juliet in particular wasn’t one to write check after check to a blackmailer. She was more likely to seize control of the situation by publishing the scandalous news herself, without apology and perhaps accompanied by illustrative photographs. Then she’d drive to the would-be blackmailer’s house, hand them a copy hot off the press, and box their ears for good measure. Since Penny hadn’t been pummeled by a trouser-clad giantess, Lady Juliet was off the list.
Besides, Penny never did without. Her father kept her supplied with cash. We didn’t talk about it, but he must have. My salary wouldn’t have covered her summer wardrobe.
And one of the last things Penny ever did was remind him that when she returned to the southeast, it was to Plymouth, not Birdswing.
Walking along Stafford Road reminded Ben of the Hibbets and that long-ago crash in this very spot. If Penny had been discovered with a large bruise across her chest, she’d probably struck the steering wheel on impact. That meant she was the person driving when a deliveryman called John Leighton was killed outside Daley’s Co-op. Penny struck and killed by a lorry several years after accidentally killing a lorry driver—was it poetic justice or just a coincidence?
Finally, there was Lucy McGregor. Somehow, she’d provided him with the lighter leading him to Freddy Sparks. But why would Freddy run Penny down? He wasn’t the sort she’d have flirted with. Freddy was too low for Penny to even torment. Unemployable, yet capable of purchasing spirits and companionship after coming into some money….
The money means he was paid to do it. But by whom? And why?
He needed to discover which businesses made local deliveries in Birdswing proper and if Freddy had access to those lorries. And it was high time he went through Penny’s things: the scant possessions she’d brought to Birdswing by car, even the contents of her handbag, which he hadn’t touched since her death. Including that slender volume of Shakespeare’s sonnets, the book she’d been reading the day she died.
Bonfire Day
5 November, 1939
The next few days were busy for Ben. A nasty head cold was moving through the school children, beginning with the older ones and working its way toward the littlest, for whom a high fever could be fatal. Old Mr. Laviolette, father of the widely-derided restaurateur, fell in his bathtub and broke his hip. He was transferred to St. Barnabas, where he was expected to die within a fortnight, like most elderly patients subjected to surgery and hospitalization. And Mrs. Garrigan, barely twenty, was six months pregnant and already showing signs of hypertension. It didn’t help that she wept frequently over her husband, off being trained at a location he couldn’t disclose, to perform duties he couldn’t name. Quite likely the piloting of combat aircraft for the Royal Air Force. She also ate too much salt, drank too much brandy, and worried day and night she would be a widow before she gave birth. Twice Ben was called to her house for false labor, once in the early morning, once in the middle of his supper. Both times he could do little more than sympathize. If only Birdswing had a midwife to help out, preferably a mature woman who’d overseen dozens of births. There was only so much comfort a young, childless male could give.
Attempts to trace a damaged lorry within the village went no better. During his lunch hour, Ben visited three garages, but all the vehicles were intact without a new bonnet or restored grille. One man had sold a lorry three months ago, but through a telephone inquiry, to a lady starting her own delivery service. A third party had picked up that vehicle and driven it away. As for the mechanics, none had worked on a crashed lorry around the time of Ben’s injuries and appeared shocked and mildly insulted he would even ask. Acting Constable Gaston might be derelict in maintaining the investigation, but the garage owners insisted they knew vital information when they heard it and would have gone straight to the constabulary, Birdswing Gazette, or Ben himself.
Between patients and the lorry search, he sifted through Penny’s belongings. The contents of her luggage proved unremarkable, but then it occurred to him to check for hidden compartments. In her valise, he found a pocket unartfully sewn into the original satin liner: Penny was clumsy with a needle and thread, while Ben could make sutures as small and neat as any seamstress. Cutting the pocket open, he found two folded bits of paper. The first was a typed note, unsigned or dated.
This is absolutely the last time we shall communicate in any way. Do not attempt to draw me out by writing letters, making phone calls, or sending third parties. It’s done. Do not test me.
The second was a short, handwritten letter from Penny to him. It was dated 29 August 1939, just two days before they’d departed London. Seeing his name in that familiar script, Ben was seized by the temptation to burn it without reading. His breath came faster; his heart thudded against his ribs. But what if it contained the answer? He closed his eyes for a moment, willed himself to remain cold, remain strong. Then he opened it and read.
Ben,
I’d call you darling, but you despise that now. And since I don’t suppose you’ll ever let me speak to you of Albie, I can only explain in writing. I didn’t love him. Didn’t even like him. And no, he wasn’t better than you, certainly not in bed. He was a toy, love. If you weren’t so serious, you’d understand, but I suppose that’s asking too much.
I should have told you ages ago about the baby. Did I say the father was a man to be reckoned with? No. He was just one of those fraternity rakes, and would you believe he made a fool of me? It’s true. I did everything in my power to bring him to the altar, but he wouldn’t have it, and I was desperate. Which brought me to you.
Once you asked me why I chose you. I wish I could take back the lies I told. But you were so close to my darkest secret, that a man broke my heart and left me too far gone for anything but marriage. So I said the worst things I could think of. When the truth was, you had a pretty face and a strong voice and a gentleman’s manners. All the raw materials for a good husband, a hundred and eighty degrees from where I’d been. That’s why I chose you. Because I foresaw what you would become.
Now you see why I can’t stay in London, my dearest, however much you hate me now. Father’s money has dried up, and soon I must learn to economize. Why not learn it in Birdswing, since fate seems determined to have her little laugh? If I can make you love me again, it will all be worth it.
Penny
Ben studied the letter for a long time, the well-known pen strokes, the slash across each t. Even as his eyes burned, as the words on the page grew watery, he knew it wasn’t her apparent tenderness that spurred the tears. Could she have meant it? Had she ever been sincere? Impossible to be sure. And so he never could have found it within himself to love her again, not if they’d stayed married another fifty years. That was why he wept—not because of Penny’s words, but his inability to believe them.
Her edition of Shakespeare’s sonnets only provoked more questions. On the second page he found an inscription in a man’s handwriting:
Dear Penny,
G.
Ben puzzled over the identity of G. for some time. He’d expected a love note from Albie, not a miniature discourse on Hamlet. Finally he settled on Penny’s brother, George Eubanks. The man had never struck Ben as a student of literature, but it seemed worth a phone call.
“Sonnets?” George, also in a reserved occupation—mechanical engineer—sounded harried as the office secretary gave him the phone. “Never had any time for that rot. Neither did Pen. Did you get my wire about insurance money?”
“Yes,” Ben said, regretting the call already. “There isn’t any.”
“Too bad. Dad’s in a fix,” George said, and rang off.
Within the book, Penny had made little notations in the margins. On page four, she’d written D. Mail Jackson 3/13. On page nine, Olympia photo. On page twelve, Times letter Mosley study wall. On the final page, a list:
He had no idea what it meant, yet his instincts told him the numbers were sums, despite the missing pound signs. And that typed letter had seemed very much like the declaration of a blackmailer’s victim:
This is absolutely the last time we shall communicate in any way….
* * *
In addition to his amateur detective work, Ben kept up his rehabilitation efforts, forcing himself to put on his coat, pick up his cane, and walk the length of the high street twice a day. Only once did he fall, pivoting so quickly to avoid a tomcat that his left knee buckled. As the big, ragged creature darted into an alley, Ben was hauled to his feet by a trio of little old ladies, then questioned by ARP Warden Gaston, who’d burst out of Morton’s café when he heard the commotion.
“I’m quite all right. It was only a one-eared cat. Orange, with stripes. Did you think I’d been attacked by German agents?” Ben grumbled, dusting off his trousers.
“I didn’t think at all,” Gaston said proudly. “In event of emergency I never do. One of my luckier qualities.” To the small crowd, he said, “Off with you! Find suitable occupation. That’s an order. The poor man’s embarrassed enough, making up tales of cats without you lot gawping at him.”
“Tales?” Ben peered into the alley, gloomy from the shelter of two overhanging roofs. He thought he saw two yellow eyes glowing back at him from behind the metal rubbish bins. But as soon as he blinked, they were gone.
“I can give you a ride back to Fenton House,” Gaston continued, not unkindly. “Or give you my arm and help you there, if you’re dead set on walking. Need to speak to Agnes about this Bonfire Day nonsense. I’ve half a mind to drive up to the manor and tell Lady Juliet I’ve changed my mind about permitting it.”
“Please don’t.” The village thrummed with anticipation; Ben had heard about little else for weeks. Due to the blackout, Birdswing was forbidden from the usual nighttime festivities for Guy Fawkes Night: roman candles, Catherine wheels, a huge bonfire in the village square. There had been some efforts to convince the vicar to throw a substitute party in the church hall, perhaps with a papier-mâché bonfire, candles, punch, music, and dancing. Having never approved of Guy Fawkes Night, which struck Father Cotterill as practically pagan, he’d refused. But just as the disappointed villagers resigned themselves to 5 November as yet another silent, colorless night, Lady Juliet had appeared on the high street, bursting into shops and salons and restaurants with the news. On the very next Sunday, a daylight version of Bonfire Night would be held at Belsham Manor, and every resident of Birdswing was welcome.
“If you try and shut it down at this point,” Ben told Gaston, “you’ll likely have a riot on your hands. Besides, your sister isn’t home. She’s getting her hair done. I’ve never seen her so excited.”
“Excitement breeds disobedience,” the air warden muttered. “I can’t imagine what’s gotten into Lady Juliet. She’s never been one for parties. Usually wanders off halfway through or spends the whole night reading a book.”
Ben knew what had gotten into her, and while he had his doubts about the scheme’s efficacy, he couldn’t fault the good intentions behind it. Breathless with enthusiasm, she’d rang him a few days ago, spilling out her thought process before he could even say hello.
“Last night, as I was propped up in bed reading a mystery novel… wait. I just realized I’ve never asked. Do you enjoy mystery novels? I do, so long as the woman isn’t a ninny. Can’t abide ninnies. At any rate, I was reading, and thereupon it struck me like Archimedes in his bath: how does one advance a case like Penny’s, where there are more suspects than evidence? Eureka! Give a dinner party and invite all the players!”
She paused, both to take a breath and receive praise. Ben knew better than to laugh, though he was glad she’d announced her plan by phone. Had she been able to see his expression, the resultant injuries might have put him back in that ghastly Edwardian wheelchair.
“You mean, actually invite them to Belsham Manor, lock them in your parlor, snuff the lights, and wait to see who turns up dead?”
“No, that’s how murders happen, not how they’re solved,” Lady Juliet said patiently. “The idea is to get the liquor flowing, get them chatting and joking and laughing, and just observe. The murderer is sure to be exquisitely uncomfortable under pressure and thus reveal himself. Particularly if it’s Freddy Sparks.
“The pretext is simple,” she continued. “Guy Fawkes Night during the day. Why moan about not being allowed to burn an effigy when we can do it before sundown? As for our suspects, I doubt I can dig up Mrs. Hibbet, but I’ll invite her, just in case. And I’ll need to go back to Plymouth to invite Bobby Archer, but that’s no sacrifice. I can apologize for accusing him—the better to snare him later, if it comes to it—and purchase a new dress while I’m there.”
“New dress?”
“Yes,” she barked. “No tartan skirt and no trousers but a proper dress, like Margaret’s friends. Perhaps I’ll get my hair curled, too, and put on my mother’s sapphire earbobs, rendering you and your kind speechless.”
He grinned. Any day he could get a rise out of Lady Juliet was a good day. “Ah, but my kind is in short supply. Your table may be overloaded with ladies. How many villagers will you invite?”
“Why, all of them, of course.”
“What?”
“It’s not so many,” Lady Juliet said negligently. “More than a third are headed to France, if not there already. Many won’t come. And those mothers with sick children will stay home and tend them, naturally. Leaving Mother and me with three hundred guests, three-fifty at the absolute most.”
“Three hundred?” Ben couldn’t imagine such an undertaking, particularly on short notice.
“Oh, ye of little faith. Don’t forget, this is a fête at Belsham Manor hosted by Lady Victoria Linton, not some slapdash potluck presided over by me. I’ve never claimed to be brilliant at arranging galas or balls, but Mother was born for that sort of thing. I’m quite serious, born for it,” Lady Juliet said. “Had a certain summer in her youth taken a slightly different turn, she’d be throwing parties for the PM and His Royal Highness, not Bobby Archer and Freddy Sparks. Ask her someday, and she’ll tell you all about the glorious engagement that never quite happened.”
“I shall. And… very well, please convey to Lady Victoria how much I appreciate her efforts on my behalf. Just the thought exhausts me.” Not wantin
g to sound ungrateful, Ben was careful to employ his blandest tone as he asked, “How much did you tell her?”
“About our investigation of Penny’s murder? Everything.” Lady Juliet sounded blithe. “Doctor, please. Don’t make that sound.”
“What sound?”
“A sort of choked exhalation. Like this—heh,” she said, imitating it. “I once had a hound that wandered from room to room making that noise. As if to say he was exasperated or ill-used or surrounded by tiresome dogs that weren’t quite his sort. We had to have him put down.”
Ben swallowed the retort that came to him, caught himself on point of emitting the sound again, and cleared his throat instead. “Is it, er, wise to share so much when we have no proof?”
“Mother is completely reliable and silent as the grave. You’d be better off with her as an investigatory partner, truth be told, if it weren’t for her health. Where I’m robust, she’s—well. Fragile.”
“So you’ve said. When I met her, I didn’t note anything but a bit of breathlessness. I would have thought asthma or even chronic hay fever, but you’re not the sort to exaggerate about Lady Victoria’s health.”
“Her heart is enlarged. Heart failure, Dr. Egon called it, and frightened me half to death, but it still beats, even if the malady’s name suggests otherwise. It just performs weakly. He said if she remains calm, eats well, and gets adequate rest, she might live another fifteen years. If she suffers a shock or takes a chill, she might die next week.” Before he could frame the proper response, she continued more briskly, “But fear not, Dr. Bones, Mother throws a gala at least once a year, and this one is overdue. Arrive prepared to do some sleuthing; she and I will attend to the rest. Oh, and don’t wear top hat and tails. Come dressed for cricket and quoits, and all the usual country pursuits. Some ladies will be dressed to the nines, as is their prerogative, but the war left precious few men in Birdswing and most who remain are men of the soil, as it were. If you wear your best, they might feel ill at ease.”