by Emma Jameson
He looked up. Lady Juliet stared at him with slitted eyes. “What?”
“Nothing. Nothing whatsoever.” She lifted her chin, looking heavenward sadly. “Far be it from me to bore you with my ruminations… my deep frustrations… the abject misery of my existence in this wasteland.”
“Fair play,” he said lightly. From the hamper, he brought out scones, a jam jar, and a bowl of clotted cream. Exasperation radiated from Lady Juliet like gamma rays as he examined the store-bought jam. “Fig? How exotic.”
“Why did I expect any different?” Lady Juliet demanded of the ceiling. “Why should I find pity anywhere on the face of the earth?”
“All right, I’ve pity to spare, no need to get cross,” Ben said. Teasing Lady Juliet was one of his favorite pastimes. “Sit down. Have a tart. Unburden yourself while I brew the tea.”
“See that you brew it correctly.”
He let that pass. “What am I meant to pity you for?” he asked, filling the kettle at the tap.
“Not a single blessed thing.” She removed the horrible wooly coat, hung it on a peg, and sat down. “I am completely untroubled, Dr. Bones. Apart from the vexation of my plans and the assassination of my character.”
“And it’s not even noon. What plans?”
“I intended a lengthy tête-à-tête with our vicar. Most years we in Birdswing allow the Christmas festivities to coalesce in the ether, so to speak. Teachers plan the pageants, Mrs. Parry organizes the high street caroling, and Blind Bill chops down a tree that doesn’t belong to him and drags it into the village green, at which point, Mother and I arrange for the decorating and lighting of said tree on Christmas Eve.” She sighed. “Alas, because of the blackout, there will be no caroling by candlelight, no pageant on the Saturday night before Christmas, and certainly no tree-beacon to signal German bombers.”
“I hadn’t thought of that.”
“Of course not. You’re a man. All your life, the women around you have managed to pull off these beloved festivals by hook or by crook, for the betterment of society, while you presumed they occurred via spontaneous generation.”
“Some might call that ‘assassination of one’s character,’” he said.
“Is it true?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Our beloved Father Cotterill is much the same. He is responsible for our spiritual health, so he believes that so long as he preaches well on Christmas morning, his part of the bargain is done. This year I want to coax a bit more participation from him, so I asked Cook to pack a hamper. At the very bottom”—Lady Juliet reached into the hamper and pulled out a miniature pie—“are treacle tarts, his favorite. Alas, I’ve been branded persona non grata. Driven from the vicarage in disgrace.”
“You’re exaggerating.”
“I’m not. Well, a bit. But not much.”
“What was the dustup about? Not Gaston again?”
Clarence Gaston was Birdswing’s ever-officious, often-meddling ARP Warden and special constable. He’d recently petitioned the village council, which was chaired by Lady Juliet’s mother, Lady Victoria, to implement a new wartime preparedness scheme. According to Gaston, many of the great houses of England had resolved to no longer waste acres of cultivated soil on ornamental plants. From 1940 until the war’s end, they would plow under their pleasure gardens to create additional farmland.
“Belsham Manor must do the same,” he’d declared at the monthly meeting in St. Mark’s hall. Virtually every villager who could walk attended those meetings. The folding chairs were always filled, forcing latecomers to lurk outside. Some came to air grievances or make suggestions. The rest came to eat biscuits, sip punch, and hope for a row. Usually there was an undercurrent of chatter, but when Gaston made his announcement, everyone fell silent but Lady Juliet.
“What do you mean?” she’d demanded.
“Your flower gardens do not serve the war effort. They must be torn out and replaced with winter veg,” Gaston had said.
Mrs. Parry had gasped. Mr. Cranford choked on his biscuit and had to be thumped between the shoulder blades. Belsham Manor’s lovingly-tended gardens were a point of residential pride.
Amidst all the ominous murmuring, Lady Victoria had urged calm, asking Gaston to name the great estates which had made this sacrifice. He’d hemmed and hawed, unable to produce even one. Further cross-examination revealed his information had been obtained over a pint in the Sheared Sheep, from someone he called a “disinterested patriot.”
“You mean Angus Foss,” Lady Juliet had accused, referring to the publican. “I agree. When it comes to patriotism, no one’s less interested.”
This had produced laughter, which Gaston never handled well, particularly since his elevation to Special Constable.
“Lady Juliet,” he’d said solemnly, “I call upon you to lead this effort, so in the dark days to come, the people of Birdswing may eat. Tear out your heirloom roses and plant foodstuffs like onions. Or cabbage.”
“Cabbage?” Lady Juliet had surged up like an aggrieved crocodile. “You first. Plow under the cricket pitch and replace it with turnips.”
The ladies cheered. The men howled. Someone knocked over the punchbowl, which might have been an accident, or might have been anarchy taking hold. Lady Victoria banged her gavel and called for order, but a spontaneous adjournment followed as the villagers chased each other out of St. Mark’s, taking their individual arguments into the street.
The next morning, sanity returned. The villagers decided, not by vote or discussion but through that strange telepathy that often arises in tightknit communities, to carry on as if nothing happened. The notion of demolishing any local landmark in favor of veg was tabled indefinitely, but Lady Juliet and the ARP warden had yet to mend the breach.
“Gaston?” Lady Juliet scoffed. “Of course not. I can obliterate him with a glance. And not Father Cotterill. He was away from the vicarage, ministering to someone or other. When I arrived, who did I find? None other than Lady Maggart of Fitchley Park, lying in wait like a cardinal spider on its web. She’d come to the vicarage to complain to Father Cotterill about me, if you can believe that. So when I appeared in the flesh, she took it as some sort of sign. Denounced me to my face as an agent of the occult.”
“A what?”
“An agent of the occult. Among other things. As condemnations go, it was fairly comprehensive,” Lady Juliet said. “She began with a jab at my hair and ended by calling me a necromancer.”
“Who called you what?” Ben was doubly confused. He’d never heard of Lady Maggart or Fitchley Park.
“Odette Maggart, wife of Baron Maggart, called me a necromancer. Because—”
CREEEEEEEACK
Ben jumped. The noise had come from somewhere above his head—the master bedroom or the attic.
“Because of her.” Lady Juliet pointed at the ceiling. “Lucy.”
“Maybe It’s Murder”
“That wasn’t necessarily Lucy.” Ben paused in case another volley of spectral knocking proved him wrong. None followed, but the teakettle whistled. “It might have been a branch scraping against the roof. The big oak in the back garden wants pruning.” He spooned tea leaves into his brown betty teapot, then poured in hot water. “Mind you, I did have a rather rude awakening this morning. But I feel like I’ve lost the plot. I’ve never heard of Lady Maggart.”
“She’s the empress of Barking,” Lady Juliet said. “Look upon her works, ye mighty, and despair. Her husband’s ancestral home, Fitchley Park, is called the crown jewel of our little patch, don’t you know?” She gave a dry chuckle. “Charmless and ossified, in my opinion. I’d sooner live in a mausoleum. Wait—perhaps I do.”
Ben smiled. Belsham Manor did bear some resemblance to fictitious houses of horror. “I suppose you’ve known her since the day you were born, as you knew Penny. Familiarity breeds contretemps.”
“Actually, the correct expression is—oh. Never mind,” Lady Juliet said. “So unusual to find intelligent conversation
in this village, much less mildly witty banter. And don’t accuse me of being familiar with that woman,” she added, tasting one of the tarts. “Odette Maggart isn’t Cornish. She married poor Dudley and came to live in Fitchley Park around 1917, if I have it right. Making her an interloper.”
“Like me,” Ben said lightly. It would take a while for the tea to steep properly, so he helped himself to a tart. “But she accused you of witchcraft because…?”
“The story about Lucy speaking to me on Bonfire Night reached her ears. Odette’s always been a Nosy Parker, but in the last year or two, she’s become a sort of religious crusader. Pouncing on those she considers not morally up to snuff.” Taking a scone and halving it, Lady Juliet stabbed her knife into the jam jar, giving its contents a violent churn. “You know the sort. Repeating gossip, spying, and so on. Whenever she digs up something to disapprove of, she trots about telling everyone how shocked and mortified she is.” She spread jam on the scone’s crumbly inside, topping it with clotted cream. “If that’s the conduct of a good parishioner, I hope never to meet a bad one.”
“So on the basis of Lucy speaking to you once,” Ben said, “telling you something not only benign, but helpful, Lady Maggart decided you were a necromancer threatening Father Cotterill’s flock?” He chuckled.
“Yes, and I’ll thank you not to laugh at my pain. I’ll admit she didn’t actually employ the term necromancer. It has four syllables. But she did want Father Cotterill to rebuke me on the dangers of consorting with spirits. According to Odette, there are only two everlasting locales, and I must renounce the Evil One if I wish to luxuriate, post-mortem, in the more felicitous destination.”
“I thought Cornwall embraced the supernatural,” Ben said. “Standing stones, bowls of cream left out for the fairies, that sort of thing. But if Lady Maggart is so distressed, why didn’t she complain directly to me? I’m the one living in a haunted house.”
“Yes, but you’re an unknown quantity. She’s had a grudge against me for years. Something about my deportment reflecting poorly on the gentry.” Lady Juliet gave an unladylike snort. “I don’t care if the tea is steeped or not. I can’t wait another moment.” Pouring them each a cup, she continued, “Fear not, Dr. Bones. Odious Odette will come round to you in her own good time, though perhaps in a different manner. You’re precisely her sort.”
Finished with his tart, Ben cut a scone in half. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Oh, I don’t know.” Lady Juliet drummed her fingers against the tabletop. “But if you come across one of those flat reflective discs that hang on walls, do pause to take a look.”
“She’s a widow, then?”
“Not quite. Her husband is alive, though in poor health. The Dudley she knew was lost on the battlefield. He went off to fight the Krauts in 1915 and came back a broken man.” She shook her head. “On that score, I almost—almost—feel sorry for Odette. It’s twisted her personality. Turned her into a compulsive giver of advice who—” Lady Juliet broke off in horror. “Dr. Bones! For shame. How many times must I tell you? This is Cornwall. The clotted cream goes on top.”
Ben, who was nonchalantly spreading his jam over the clotted cream, savored a bite of his scone before asking, “Where were we? Compulsive giver of advice?”
She rolled her eyes.
“This fig makes a nice change, but I prefer strawberry. Did you run out of homemade?”
“Yes. We mismanaged our harvest. A sorry state of affairs, with sugar soon to be as dear as diamonds, and bought jam as dear as rubies. Next year I shall supervise every aspect of canning at Belsham Manor. Perhaps even invite the WI to help. Assuming Odette doesn’t drum me out. She controls the Women’s Institute, just as she tries to control Barking.” Pushing back her chair, Lady Juliet cast her gaze about like a woman in need of a mission.
“Enough about that wretched woman. What are you up to, Dr. Bones? When I arrived, you had Madame Daragon’s book in hand.”
“I was thinking of how we might contact Lucy. She was so active before, and now—”
“That’s when there was a killer on the loose,” Lady Juliet cut across him. “Of course she’s silent now. As far as I’m concerned, it’s all rather obvious. Lucy witnessed Penny’s murder and wanted justice done. Now that our village is back to normal, she has no reason to intervene. Perhaps she’s no longer even here. Perhaps she’s crossed over to the other side.”
“I don’t accept that,” Ben said.
Lady Juliet looked nonplussed. “Why? Because your house creaks and moans like every other house that’s passed its centennial?”
“Because—” He broke off, unable to put his feelings into words. “Because she’s still here. I’m certain of it.”
“Oh. Well. I’m sorry to hear that. I barely knew Lucy, but that was my fault, not hers. How terrible for her, trapped on this plane. I wouldn’t enjoy it.” Lady Juliet laughed. “As a matter of fact, I don’t enjoy it half the time. Perhaps you’re right. Shall we screw our courage to the sticking place and attempt a séance?”
“A séance requires three or more,” Ben said. “I thought Rose would be back by now, but it seems she’s extended her visit to Plymouth for another week. But—”
“Rose. Of course. First-rate choice,” Lady Juliet interrupted unconvincingly. “I wonder how she’s getting on? The Barbican is so romantic. All those vermillion sunsets over the harbor. And isn’t it good of her to visit a former sweetheart during his leave? I understand the young man in question is training to be an RAF pilot. Dangerous work. Very heroic. If they hadn’t gone their separate ways over the summer, I suppose she’d be marrying him right about now.”
“Rose is visiting a maiden aunt for whom she cares a great deal,” Ben corrected, refilling his teacup. The cavalcade of insinuations Lady Juliet had packed into a mere seven sentences didn’t trouble him. A young woman with Rose Jenkins’s face and demeanor was bound to have a few old boyfriends knocking about. Besides, Rose had been perfectly honest about her intention to have lunch with her flyboy ex. She’d seemed almost disappointed when Ben didn’t object, but he’d pretended not to notice, just as he overlooked Lady Juliet’s tendency to carp about Rose.
He cleared his throat. “As I was trying to say a moment ago, what about Lucy’s talking board? According to Madame Daragon, having only two people is ideal. In fact, a male and female are the perfect combination.”
“The talking board.” Lady Juliet sighed. “I’m willing, I suppose. But my initial concern remains. Though our intentions may be to contact Lucy, and only Lucy, what if the board opens a channel for other spirits?” She thought for a moment. “I don’t suppose it’s become less hideous since I saw it last?”
Ben had that inimitable sensation of eyes boring into the back of his head. He didn’t turn around but braced himself for the scent of Sous le Vent. It didn’t come.
“Let’s find out,” he said a touch louder than intended, in case Penny was listening. After repacking the hamper and putting it aside, he brought the talking board, also called a spirit or Ouija board, into the kitchen, placing it where the hamper had been.
“Good heavens. It’s uglier,” Lady Juliet said.
Made of walnut, it appeared hand-carved, with a sun on the left, a moon on the right. A-Z and 0-9 stretched across the middle, with HELLO at the top and GOOD-BYE at the bottom. Across its surface were vaguely sinister scratches and gouges.
“I wish we had Madame Daragon’s chapter on rancorous ghosts,” Ben said. “When I was a boy, my grandmother had one of these and used it from time to time. She held séances, too. I wasn’t allowed anywhere near them, but I eavesdropped when I could. In either case, Grandmother told her clients to bring something the deceased held dear—a piece of jewelry, a favorite book, that sort of thing. The personal item was meant to ensure the correct spirit answered, but with Lucy, the only item we have that belonged to her is the board itself, and I’m not sure that counts.”
“Yes, well, don’t be too hard on
Mrs. Cobblepot,” Lady Juliet said. “No one campaigns more tirelessly against filth. Of course she scoured the attic like Hercules scouring King Augeas’s stables.”
“What are you on about?”
“Your attic. Have you never been up there? Do you even know the history of Fenton House?” Lady Juliet shook her head. “Really, for an amateur detective, you have an appalling lack of curiosity. Next you’ll tell me you never enter Morton’s Emporium except to purchase goods.” She tsked at him, brown eyes lighting up. “As for Lucy, it may interest you to know she lived in this house every day of her life. She inherited it, lock, stock, and barrel, when she was only thirteen.”
“What happened to her parents?”
“She lost them in a car crash. No relation ever surfaced to take her in or lay claim to the property. Lucy lived here quite alone after their deaths, the brave little thing.”
“At thirteen?”
“She was a country girl,” Lady Juliet reminded him. “She could cook, clean, sew, do the wash, and keep her garden neat. All she needed was a little help managing her pocketbook, and Father Cotterill saw to that. We always thought some long-lost uncle or cousin would turn up, but none did. By the time she was sixteen, she was markedly independent.”
“Sounds a lonely life,” Ben said. As a boy, he’d spent half his time trying to escape his parents, grandparents, and his little sister, Cathleen. They’d lived together in one small house in a row of twenty, on a street with so many other children, a bookish young man had to climb the fire escape to the roof for uninterrupted study time. During his medical training, he’d slept in twelve-bed dorm rooms and eaten most meals cafêteria-style at tables which seated twenty. Lucy’s solitary girlhood was hard for him to fathom.
“I daresay it was lonely,” Lady Juliet said. “Pity I didn’t befriend her. At any rate, after Lucy died, Mother and I took charge of Fenton House. While I chose what to sell and what to give away on the ground floor, Mother went up to the attic. She came down and said it was jammed from stem to stern, positively crammed with personal effects, and we didn’t dare disperse it until we were certain none of Lucy’s relations would come and claim them.”