by Emma Jameson
“And I’ll need half a tick to change out of these wet clothes,” Juliet said.
Gaston looked shocked. “Lady Juliet. You don’t know what you’re saying. Bringing out the dead is no job for a woman.”
“Is that so?” Her laugh was genuine. “Then who shall do the laying out? You?”
He didn’t answer.
“When my father died,” Lady Juliet went on, “Mother was inconsolable. So it was left to me to close his eyes, wash him, dress him in his finest, and comb his hair. Yes, the undertaker came round to fit him for the coffin, and arranged for the gravedigger and the pall bearers, but I did all the rest. Should I have proved unable, I suppose I might have hired the undertaker’s wife to do it, since we’re all so very modern these days. But either way, laying out has been women’s work since the dawn of time. Besides,” Lady Juliet said more gently, “Freddy Sparks’s mum is dead, and we can’t expect poor Edith to act as his wife. Nor should we expect such ministrations of Mrs. Kenner. I’m ready, willing, and able to help.”
As Gaston reluctantly agreed, she resisted the impulse to look at Ben. He would already perceive her ulterior motive, a desire to know if Freddy’s drastic act had been prompted by guilt. However clumsy and amateurish their joint investigation of Penny’s murder, it was still an investigation, and Juliet intended to see it through to the end.
The small number of villagers who owned cars had fled. Those not fast enough to catch a ride now milled about Belsham Manor’s main wing, lamenting about the ruined fête while tracking mud on the carpets and dripping all over the furniture. Lady Victoria, who’d already changed into a simple cotton dress, her damp hair covered by a turban, urged everyone to make themselves comfortable.
Watching her mother radiate kindness and solicitude made Juliet feel about as gracious as a head of cabbage and half as sweet. She’d over-dramatized Lady Victoria’s role in herding the children for no reason but to wipe the smile off Rose Jenkins’ face. Now she saw Rose and Lady Victoria working together, Lady Victoria handing out towels and calling for hot tea, Rose encouraging the tearful children to warm themselves before the hearth’s crackling fire.
Why can’t I be like Mother and Miss Jenkins? Or, failing that, why can’t I give up and be like myself? Today I wanted to be Penny Eubanks, to make Ben see me in a different light. All I did was prove myself an utter fool.
All the way upstairs, Juliet berated herself. For not canceling due to threat of rain; for choosing that hat; for blundering into the greenhouse and revealing how ridiculous she felt to the two people she’d never wanted to know. For allowing Lou Bottley’s “draft horse in a tiara” remark to cut her to the bone. Most of all, for forgetting her vow to never again fall for a beautiful man. Because she’d fallen for Ben, as hard or harder than she’d fallen for Ethan Bolivar. And in a tour de force of stupidity and bad luck, she’d intruded on what might have been Ben and Rose’s first kiss.
“Let me just clippity-clop over to the wardrobe and choose a new bridle,” Juliet muttered, entering her bedroom. At least the maids were too busy changing into dry uniforms and mopping up after dripping guests to follow her up. A generation before, Juliet would have been saddled with a lady’s maid, but after the Great War, such vestigial Victorian positions had finally shriveled up and dropped off. It was just as well. Juliet hated primping, found cosmetics bewildering, and saw no reason to subject herself to a girdle. She wasn’t fat, just big: broad shoulders, wide hips, thighs and calves as thick and firm as decent logs.
As she stripped, she looked in the oak-framed cheval mirror, just to see what her hair was doing. It was plastered to her skull, the top limp, the ends frizzy. Another reason she desired no lady’s maid: so she wouldn’t have to endlessly behold herself in a mirror as an employee fought to make her presentable. She did possess the bare minimum of femininity: small firm breasts and enough of a waist to keep from being an utter rectangle. Her still-lawfully-wedded husband, Ethan, had called her brown eyes lively, and her smile beautiful. But Ethan, in the words of the unfailingly sweet Lady Victoria, was a lying son of a bitch.
Leaving her wet clothes in a heap near the fireplace, Juliet selected a fresh white brassiere and knickers. Then a plaid shirt, so large it flapped, and men’s trousers she’d purchased by mail order, as only those cut for males ever fit. Wool socks, well-worn brogues, and a dark green mac with flannel lining. Braving the mirror again, she ran a tortoiseshell comb through her hair—three vicious strokes, hard enough to make her wince. There. Now she looked as bad as she usually did, or possibly worse. But a draft horse in its usual harness aroused no special contempt.
On her way out, she looked back over her shoulder at the bedroom she’d once shared with her husband. As a new bride, she’d eliminated every trace of childhood: slingshot, ant farm, beloved storybooks. As a disillusioned wife, she’d purged again: wedding portrait, satin and lace coverlet, once-beloved husband. Now every corner was filled with novels, histories, maps of the world, garden plans, dried flowers, an attar made from her own damask roses. Yet it still felt dominated by the colossal Linton heirloom bed, where she’d slept alone for what felt like ten thousand nights.
Ten thousand and one, on my return, she thought, darting back for a small hand-labeled bottle of attar. But at least I’ll sleep knowing the killer in our midst is no longer at large, and Ben’s new life can truly begin.
* * *
When Juliet returned to the front parlor, far fewer villagers were in evidence. Rain still beat against the windows, but most guests had nevertheless chosen to say goodbye while an hour or two of weak daylight remained. Not that Lady Victoria would hear of anyone attempting Old Crow Road after sunset without headlamps; she already had maids scurrying up and down the back stairs, opening guest rooms. The mix of those who’d settled themselves with a cup of hot tea or a plateful of nibbles was eclectic. It included Mr. Dwerryhouse, the chemist; Abel, the tall smallholder locked in an endless war with Japanese knotweed; Mrs. Sutton, Birdswing’s short-sighted driver; and part-timer Edith, running curious fingers over every embroidered pillow and silk tassel, blissfully unaware of her best customer’s demise. Conversation over tomorrow’s breakfast table, which might include up to thirty people, was surely not to be missed.
In a far corner, ARP Warden Gaston had put Freddy’s cousin, Luke Hewett, still red-eyed and stricken, in an armchair with a glass of whiskey, hovering by his side to ensure he didn’t blurt out the ugly news. Near the grand piano, Ben stood beside Lady Victoria, Mrs. Cobblepot, and Rose.
“Lady Juliet, you’ve changed clothes,” Rose said by way of greeting. “You look so—so—”
“Enchanting? Yes, I quite agree,” Juliet said lightly, pressing the brown vial in Rose’s hand. “For you. A peace offering for my earlier intrusion. And a, well, down payment on amends for all my other rudenesses over the years. Give it a sniff.”
Looking the tiniest bit suspicious, Rose uncorked the little bottle. Instantly the heavy natural perfume wafted out.
“You didn’t have to—I never—thank you,” Rose said, smiling. “It’s wonderful. Because of my name, I’ve always avoided rose fragrances, but this is too good to resist. I’ve never smelled it on you. Why not?”
Because, brief bouts of madness aside, I know the truth about myself.
“I plan to distill something different for myself. Eau de stick insect,” Juliet said and was rewarded with a chuckle from Ben. So he remembered the day they’d met—him out of practice as far as civil conversation, her too guarded to accept a polite remark. Though they’d known one another only a short time, he was already a true friend. And friendship should be enough, shouldn’t it?
“Can’t reckon why you lot are standing about grinning,” ARP Warden Gaston complained as he came upon them. “It’s disrespectful to Luke, not to mention the dead. Dr. Bones, I thought you were impatient to set out.”
“So I am,” Ben said. He said goodbye to Lady Victoria and Rose—no kiss, even on the cheek, Juliet noted wit
h some relief, but surely it was too soon for such public displays. Then they were on their way, Rose remaining behind and Gaston’s sister, Mrs. Cobblepot, insisting on accompanying them.
“I can’t leave you alone to manage what’s sure to be a grim circumstance,” the housekeeper told Juliet, polishing her round spectacles before settling them on her equally round, determined face.
“That’s very kind of you, but even alone, this ‘poor thing’ will do her best.” Juliet’s exaggerated emphasis was about as subtle as a falling anvil, yet the reference to Mrs. Cobblepot’s earlier remark had no effect.
Naturally. She has no guilty conscience because she meant no harm.
Juliet bit back a sigh. It seemed she would never learn, not even that she never learned. Fortunately for her, Freddy Sparks, whether a murderer or just a miserable unfortunate, had presented the perfect opportunity for her to focus on someone else for a change.
* * *
The trip back to the village went slowly, hampered first by the long line of vehicles trundling along Old Crow Road, then by more rain as they came upon the high street. Ben drove, with Juliet beside him and Gaston and Mrs. Cobblepot following in Gaston’s car. She vacillated between wanting to talk, to chatter about anything other than what awaited them, and growing uneasiness as the windshield wipers slapped down and whined up, slapped down, whined up. What had driven Freddy to top himself on a Sunday afternoon? The brooding storm clouds? The prospect of long winter nights marooned by snow and the blackout, alone with his guilt? The obligation to present himself at Belsham Manor and face the man he’d nearly killed?
“Are you certain about this?” Ben asked as he parked by the curb at Martha Kenner’s boarding house. “If you faint or fall to pieces, it will only be more work for Gaston and me.”
“If I faint or fall to pieces, pinch yourself, because you’re dreaming. Of all the ludicrous accusations!” Energized by a surge of righteous indignation, Juliet let herself out of the car, opened her umbrella with a great whoosh, and strode up the brick walk, tossing over her shoulder, “When have you ever seen me fall to pieces?”
“About an hour ago,” Ben said, limping doggedly behind her as Gaston’s car came into sight. “You seemed on the brink of hysteria over a hat.”
“That was different. That was fashion, and within fashion lurks the seeds of madness.” Reaching the shelter of the two-story house’s front porch, Juliet rapped smartly on the door. “This is death. Nothing I haven’t dealt with before.”
Martha Kenner was the sort of widow one pictured when the phrase “widows and orphans” came up. Unsmiling, white-haired, and sagging all over—pouches beneath her eyes, wattle beneath her chin, round shoulders, drooping breasts. Such was her customary appearance: hands red and cracked, apron gray from want of bleach, stockings falling down. Today she looked even worse, eyes red-rimmed and nose swollen, a gray handkerchief clutched in one hand.
“Mr. Hewett said he’d bring the doctor,” she told Juliet accusingly. Even on her best day, Mrs. Kenner’s querulous inflection made every statement into a reproach. “Why did you come?”
“I’m here to do the laying out. Dr. Bones is right behind me.” Turning to introduce him, Juliet felt a touch guilty for not moving slowly enough to shelter him under her brolly. His hat and upturned coat collar had afforded some protection, but his face glistened with raindrops, trousers wet below the knee.
“Benjamin Bones,” he said before she could speak, taking Mrs. Kenner’s hand in both of his. They were wet, too, but the old widow seemed too captivated by the handsome young man to notice. “I’m deeply sorry for what transpired under your roof. May I come inside and attend Mr. Sparks?”
“Please,” Mrs. Kenner croaked, bursting into fresh tears as she stepped aside to allow them in. Dabbing at her eyes, she managed to tell her story, brief as it was, pausing only to usher Gaston and Mrs. Cobblepot inside as well.
“Begging your pardon about the bonfire, Lady Juliet, but I didn’t mean to go. Naught to wear and no petrol in the car besides,” Mrs. Kenner explained. “I spent half the morning making bread and pies, the other half raking the back garden. By noon Freddy was still abed, but he came in very late last night, pounding up the stairs like a herd of elephants, so I didn’t fret. Thought he was sleeping it off.” A sniff and a dab. “I’d just fetched a cuppa and settled by the wireless for Bandwagon when Mr. Hewett turned up. I called for Freddy, but he didn’t answer. So I took Mr. Hewett up, and—and—” Renewed sobbing.
ARP Warden Gaston cleared his throat, shifting uneasily from foot to foot. He seemed about to pontificate when Ben cut across him.
“That’s all we require for now, Mrs. Kenner. Thank you.” To Mrs. Cobblepot, he asked, “Would you be willing to put the kettle on for all of us?”
“Of course. Come, Martha.” As Mrs. Cobblepot steered the widow toward the kitchen, she glanced back at Juliet, wordlessly inviting her to join in, but Juliet shook her head. Despite her brave words about dealing with death, in truth, she felt a touch uneasy. The only remedy was to march upstairs alongside the men.
Unpleasant odors wafted across the landing like ghosts. Stale vomit, urine, feces. Was there a tinge of something vaguely medicinal, like surgical spirit or strong liquor? Juliet couldn’t be sure. Seeing Gaston grimace, she pretended not to smell a thing. Let someone else feel like the weakling for a change.
The door was open, and Freddy Sparks knelt on the floor, trousers soiled, thin vomit down his shirtfront. In death he leaned forward, arms limp at his sides, supported by the leather belt coiled around his neck and fastened to the bedstead. How a wretched soul must hate his life, Juliet thought, to choose such an exit. His face was pale, eyes open and frosted white. What were his final thoughts as he wrapped the belt around his throat, then compressed his windpipe by leaning, leaning, leaning until darkness took him?
“I wouldn’t have expected emesis,” Ben said, awkwardly leaning closer to the corpse.
“Mrs. Kenner said he was drunk. I suppose sickness comes with the territory.” Without bothering to ask, Juliet helped Ben sink with obvious discomfort into a kneeling position.
“That’s better. Now I can have a proper look,” he said. “And for what it’s worth, Mrs. Kenner didn’t say he was drunk, she said he came in late and made a deal of noise. Also, that she presumed he was sleeping it off.”
“What else?” Gaston sounded annoyed, as if Ben was talking nonsense to obscure some self-evident truth. “The man was down the pub every time he could rub two pennies together.”
“Did he often make himself sick with drink?”
“Must’ve.”
“That you witnessed?” Ben asked more sharply. “Occasions you saw him retching in a gutter, et cetera?”
Gaston’s attention had gone to a bit of folded paper on the nightstand. “Never mind speculation, doctor. Speculation never helped anyone. Read this and case closed, I reckon.”
As Gaston opened the note, Juliet saw a few lines of script, no date, no signature. He read aloud, “‘I cannot go on. On 1 September, I drank too much and ran down Penny Eubanks and her husband. In the dark I mistook her for Edith, with whom I’d quarreled. When I saw the truth, I ran away. Soon after, I was discharged from my work, but I’d cleaned the lorry’s grille and the owner never guessed. Yet the guilt and the sound of that tire crunching over Penny’s skull….’” Gaston stopped and shot a look at Ben, whose face was stone. “Er… ‘kept me awake and drove me to send the doctor an apology. But of course he couldn’t understand. Let me die for my crime and find peace in the next world.’”
Juliet looked down at Freddy, pathetic in life, pitiable in death. So it had all been a drunken mistake, a momentary rage at Edith, the human contact he purchased once or twice a month?
“Who on earth wrote that?” Mrs. Cobblepot asked from the doorway.
ARP Gaston groaned at his sister. “The dead man himself, you daft old cow. When you find a suicide note beside a fellow who has committed suicide,
nine times out of ten, the fellow who committed suicide wrote the note!”
“Then this must be the tenth occasion, you daft old goat,” Mrs. Cobblepot snapped. “I taught Freddy Sparks, remember? Knew him from primary school on. He had a trusting nature but a weak head for sums. And he was hopeless at writing.”
“You don’t think a grown man can have finer penmanship than a wee lad?” Gaston waved the note under his sister’s nose.
She snatched it away. “I didn’t say he was hopeless at penmanship. I said he couldn’t write. He muddled his words and wrote his letters backward. I taught him to read simple stories and words with just a few syllables, but this?” She shook her head. “‘With whom I’d quarreled?’ Bloody hell, if you’d offered him a case of single malt whiskey, he couldn’t have coughed up that phrase, much less written it down.”
Juliet stared at Mrs. Cobblepot, entranced. Not only had she uttered the words “bloody hell,” she’d used them to show her puffed-up brother how ridiculous he was. And just as a low rumbling arose from his diaphragm, threatening to issue from his mouth as a comprehensive tirade, Ben cut across him for the second time.
“I’m glad to hear you say that, Mrs. Cobblepot. I don’t think Freddy died by asphyxiation.”
“Oh, he didn’t, did he?” ARP Warden Gaston bellowed. “What’s that around his neck, an Olympic medal? Did he collapse after the long jump?”
“Mr. Gaston,” Ben said coolly. “If, with Lady Juliet’s help, I stood up, took back my cane, and beat you to death, would it be possible for me to transfer this belt to your neck and position you as if you’d committed suicide?”
What felt like a full minute of ringing silence followed. Juliet exerted a superhuman effort not to laugh or emit even the tiniest squeak, and she sensed Mrs. Cobblepot doing the same.