The Dr Benjamin Bones Omnibus

by Emma Jameson

  “What sort of things?”

  “I don’t know. Clothing, furniture, and the like, I suppose. When Mother called it a problem for another day, that was good enough for me.”

  “Well. Today’s another day.” Ben drained his teacup. “Let’s have a look.”

  * * *

  “Are you quite certain you’re up to this?” Lady Juliet looked on critically as Ben ascended Fenton House’s stairs, which were both steep and narrow.

  “Which one of us is the doctor?”

  “A question I frequently ask myself. Are you still using that gymnasium equipment I provided? Sloth is one of the seven deadly sins.”

  “Then you’ll be pleased to know I’m so busy with patients, any mucking about with parallel bars would count as sloth. And yes, my right leg’s as sound as ever,” Ben said, gaining the landing at last. “There it is.”

  He pointed at the end of the hall, where a cul-de-sac had been papered in the same floral pattern as the walls, making it almost invisible. Inside, four steps led to a small door, two-thirds the usual height, squatting beneath a low lintel.

  “Good Lord,” Lady Juliet said. “Methinks this passage was constructed by knockers.”

  “Who?”

  “Knockers. Beastly little creatures that lived in the tin mines, down in the darkest depths. They used to play tricks on the miners. Stealing their pickaxes or luring them into old corridors verging on collapse. I do hope the ceiling inside the attic is a bit higher, or I suppose you’ll wish someone petite, like Rose, was accompanying you.”

  Ben tried the tarnished brass knob. It didn’t turn.

  “I don’t see a key hole.” He handed her the battery-operated torch he carried and tried again with both hands. “Must be stuck.”

  “Now that I think on it, perhaps you should wait until Rose returns,” Lady Juliet said in a tone of brave suffering. “No doubt you’ve included me out of kindness….”

  “I have no idea”—Ben pushed against the door—“what you’re nattering about. Or how Rose’s size”—he pushed harder, putting his shoulder into it—“has anything to do with any of this. Blimey! Won’t budge. Something on the other side must have fallen and blocked the door. I’ve a crowbar in the garden shed. I’ll just pop down and—”

  “Step aside, Dr. Bones.”

  “It’s stuck fast.”

  “Step aside. And look, so you may learn.”

  “Right. Very well. Don’t hurt yourself. And don’t say I didn’t warn you.” Taking a step back, he folded his arms across his chest and waited.

  Lady Juliet jiggled the doorknob. It didn’t move. She examined the doorframe, running her fingers around it as if such delicate tracery might reveal a point of weakness. When she put her ear to the door and listened, like a Wild West tracker listening for buffalo, Ben readied a sardonic remark. Just as he was about to deploy it, Lady Juliet hurled herself against the door. It gave way with a crack, frame splintering.

  “Ha! I’d like to see Rose Jenkins do that.” She shot him a look of triumph.

  “Er. Well done. No doubt I softened it up for you,” Ben muttered.

  “No doubt.” She rubbed her shoulder. “Well, what are we waiting for? Once more unto the breach, dear friends!” Lady Juliet ducked her head and plunged into the pitch-black attic.

  Ben switched on his torch, but nothing happened. It took a few thumps against Ben’s thigh to jar the battery and produce a feeble glow. Eyes unadapted, he aimed the dim beam straight ahead and followed it into the dark.

  “Ow!” Ben banged an elbow into something unyielding.

  “Mind how you go,” Lady Juliet called. “You must feel your way. There isn’t a path.”

  “Blast!” This time it was his shin. Ben had a glimpse of tall, dark shapes rising around him, and then the torch went out. “I haven’t any other batteries. I should have brought the paraffin lamp.”

  “Yes, that would have been wise indeed. The light of a rampaging fire throws things into stark relief.” Lady Juliet laughed. “A bit of illumination from the hall is coming in behind you, through the doorway. There’s also a vent, just there, letting a bit of daylight through. Proceed with care toward my voice until your eyes—oh!”

  “What is it?”

  It took her a moment to answer. “I tripped.”

  “Are you hurt?”

  “No. Only—I thought I saw something. A face.”

  “It’s only nerves,” Ben said, but the attic felt oppressive, like a jailer’s embrace. As his eyes adjusted, one of those tall, dark shapes solidified into a cheval mirror. Another resolved itself into a coat rack.

  “Stay where you are,” he said, working his way past what he now saw were bits of furniture wrapped in sheets.

  Scrape, scrape.

  Ben stopped. It had come from a dark corner.

  Scrape, scrape.

  Lady Juliet sucked in her breath. “Dr. Bones. Is your home beset by vermin?”

  “Squirrels, possibly.”

  “In Cornwall, we have red squirrels, and they’re no trouble at all.” Lady Juliet sounded more confident as she slipped into lecture mode. “Unless you brought some of those wretched gray ones from your part of the country.”

  CREEEEEEEACK

  Heart hammering, Ben squinted at the roof’s exposed timbers. Was this it? Would he see Lucy again?

  BANG

  Lady Juliet gasped. Ben spun around. The attic door had slammed shut behind him.

  “Who did that?” he shouted. “Who’s there?”

  His torch chose that moment to revive. Sweeping it around the attic, Ben found Lady Juliet on the floor amid a heap of old toys. She appeared to have tripped over a tricycle with a twisted frame. Behind her, a popped-up jack-in-the-box bobbed on its spring, grinning maniacally.

  “I seem to have found the face you mentioned,” Ben said. “It’s only—hang on.”

  Behind the jack-in-the-box sat an object he recognized: the antique lamp with the blue glass shade that had figured so prominently in his dream about Lucy.

  “That’s it. That’s precisely what we need.”

  “Dr. Bones,” Lady Juliet said. “I remain on the floor, awaiting a hand up.”

  “Sorry.” He hurried to help her rise. “It’s cold up here. There’s probably a crack letting in a draft. Let me prop open the door with something so it doesn’t slam again and frighten us out of our skins. Then together we can carry the lamp downstairs.”

  “I see just the thing. A stout crate,” Lady Juliet said, taking charge again. “Let me test its weight.” As Ben followed, sweeping the torch’s beam in her path, it flashed across a woman in a white gown. Behind her lacy bridal veil was no face.

  “Lucy!” Lady Juliet cried.

  He didn’t think it was Lucy. Truth be told, he didn’t think at all. Lady Juliet’s terror was so palpable, he threw himself between her and the spectral figure, moving faster than he’d thought possible. When it jumped, he did, too, tackling it midair.

  CRACK

  The woman’s head flew off its shoulders. Veil still attached, it struck a rafter, exploding into powdery shards as Ben and the decapitated “bride” crashed into a heap of clothes.

  “Dr. Bones!”

  Ben flailed. The thing beneath him was only a plaster mannequin, that was now obvious, but the wedding gown’s voluminous skirts were tangled about his legs. His left knee throbbed. One of the mannequin’s broken arms jabbed him in the ribs. God only knew how ridiculous he looked.

  Mercifully, his torch had gone out when it struck the floor. Ben groped for it, but Lady Juliet found it first. The beam didn’t seem so feeble when flashed directly in his eyes.

  “Let me help,” she said, kicking away rubbish. Seizing the headless mannequin by its lacy bodice, she chucked it aside. Then, before he could protest, she gripped him under each arm to haul him upright. That would have been fine, if slightly detrimental to his masculine pride, but the long white train was wrapped around one of his ankles, anchoring a foot to
the floor. The moment Lady Juliet released him, the tangled fabric yanked him back again.

  Afterward, Ben would have had difficulty explaining what happened next, assuming someone ever tied him to a chair and forced him to try. Perhaps she overbalanced. Perhaps he overcorrected. Either way, they went down together. Ben fell on his back. Lady Juliet landed on top of him but facing the wrong way, the toes of her riding boots poking him under the chin.

  “Get off!”

  “I’m trying. Oh! Squirrel!”

  A good deal of undignified scrabbling followed. Ben kicked his way free of the dress. Lady Juliet twisted and turned, giving little shrieks as the squirrel hopped, skipped, and jumped its way from her to Ben to the nearest crate. From that vantage point, it chittered angrily at them, tail twitching, before disappearing into the attic’s depths.

  When they were back on their feet, Lady Juliet shone the torch full in his face. “Dr. Bones. Did you do that on purpose?”

  Ben’s patience, which had been steadily thinning since his rude awakenings that morning, snapped.

  “On purpose?” he all but shouted. “Yes, of course. You’re on to me, I won’t deny it. I set up that dress form to look like an apparition. I lured you up here under false pretenses. I rigged the door to slam itself through means Houdini himself couldn’t divine, and I trained an obliging squirrel to knock over the dress form at precisely the right moment. Then like a fool I attacked my own prank ghost, falling on my arse and taking you with me. All to produce five seconds’ indecency!”

  “You needn’t raise your voice.” Lady Juliet shifted the torch beam around the attic. “Ruddy squirrels. And I wasn’t being ridiculous. One hears of these things. Men maneuvering women into tricky positions.”

  “I’m sure.” He massaged his aching knee.

  “You sound unconvinced.”

  “Nonsense.” He rubbed his eyes, blinking as vision returned.

  “I can certainly be forgiven for a momentary suspicion. It did seem a touch convenient….”

  “Juliet.” Snatching the torch away, he flashed it in her eyes for revenge. “I’ve been alone with you many times, and I’ve always been the perfect gentleman. Believe me, if I’d planned that, I would’ve bloody well landed on top.”

  At that point, communications broke down entirely. Lady Juliet stomped downstairs, leaving Ben to wrestle the blue lamp down from the attic on his own. It was heavier than it looked. The claw-footed base was made of solid brass. Four panes of leaded blue glass made up the shade. Altogether, it was in good condition but coated with dust, triggering sneezes from Ben on the way downstairs. That was slow going, gripping the railing with one hand and the lamp with the other. His biceps were burning when he reached the front room, where Lady Juliet had retired to the sofa.

  “Ah. There you are,” she said airily. “I thought before we use the talking board, I ought to consult Madame Daragon’s book to be certain I have her advice in mind and not some folderol from childhood. Did I ever tell you we used to play at channeling spirits? A certain insufferable little girl named Penny was always in charge.”

  “What?”

  “Oh, yes. It was only a rainy day pastime, to be sure,” Lady Juliet said. “Nothing serious. She would dress up in her mum’s scarves, speak a bunch of gibberish, and claim to be possessed by the shade of Guinevere or some such. You may be surprised to learn that Guinevere made various unkind observations about the schoolgirl population of Birdswing. It’s always remarkable, don’t you think, when a famous spirit takes sides in the petty squabbling of—my goodness, Dr. Bones. I was having a go at Penny, but I thought we were past ‘nothing but good of the dead’ when it comes to her.”

  “It’s not that.” He placed the lamp on the coffee table. “Only—I didn’t realize Penny ever tried making contact with the spirit world. You don’t suppose she ever succeeded?”

  Lady Juliet laughed. “Never. It was only an excuse for her to dress up and be the center of attention. How can you even ask?”

  This was the perfect opening for Ben to reveal his fear that Penny was haunting him, but he couldn’t bring himself to say the words.

  “Now. According to Madame Daragon, it’s imperative we attempt the talking board in a ‘pitch-black’ room,” Lady Juliet said. “As I intend never to set foot in your attic again, perhaps we should darken this room by doing the blackout early.”

  “My thoughts exactly,” Ben said. He glanced out the window, which afforded a fine view of the high street. In Birdswing, scrutiny was never one-sided; often when he looked out, he saw his across-the-way neighbor, Mrs. Parry, staring back. “Mind you, the birds will sing if I do the blackout in the afternoon with your Crossley parked out front.”

  “They will indeed.” Lady Juliet sounded more pleased than scandalized. Rising, she joined him at the window, peering over his shoulder. “See Mr. Bunting? He’s spent every afternoon in his window seat for the last twenty years. I assure you, my presence has been noted. If—botheration!”

  A well-maintained, lovingly polished sedan slid up to the curb behind her Crossley. From it emerged Air Raids Protocol Warden and Special Constable Clarence Gaston, as puffed-up as a robin on a snowy day.

  “There he is,” she said. “The dirigible that walks like a man. If he weighs twelve stone, I reckon half of it’s wind. I do hope he hasn’t decided to apologize here, now, in the presence of a witness. If he does, I’ll have no choice but to forgive him.”

  “He’s carrying his ‘Official Business’ notebook. Perhaps I’m about to be cited for some infraction.”

  Like the rest of Birdswing, Ben was learning all the ways one could fall below expectations. To aid the war effort and enhance public safety, the government had passed dozens of new laws, which Gaston enforced with unflagging zeal. No one was exempt from his critical eye. Once he’d threatened to cite his own sister, Mrs. Cobblepot, for wasting food because he caught her scattering bread crumbs to the sparrows.

  “I doubt he’s here to correct you. He isn’t smiling,” Lady Juliet said.

  “Fair point.” Ben went to let him in.

  Gaston always looked ready for action. Slim and spare, with thick spectacles, white hair, a white mustache, and meticulously pressed tan trousers, he was in his sixties but often displayed the energy of a younger man. His black helmet with the white letter W hung by its chin strap from a canvas bag that contained his gas mask; a silver badge with the crowned letters ARP was pinned over his heart.

  “To what do we owe the pleasure?” Ben asked. “No one hurt, I hope.”

  “Hurt? No. Dead. At the manor,” Gaston said, pretending not to notice Lady Juliet three feet to his left. “You know the law, Doctor. I need you to inspect the body and write up the death certificate.”

  “The manor?” Lady Juliet cried. “Dear Lord. Is it old Robbie? He never does well in winter. He’s been laid up with chilblains all week.”

  “I never said Belsham Manor.” Gaston employed the sort of meticulous civility Ben found synonymous with deep dislike. “If you look carefully, your ladyship, you’ll notice I’m addressing someone else. Now. Dr. Bones. This morning, a dead man was discovered at Fitchley Park. That’s in Barking. The home of—”

  “Clarence Gaston,” Lady Juliet interrupted. “That was inexcusable. You nearly frightened me to death. Robbie isn’t the only one who’s ill. Mother isn’t a well woman, and you knew, knew I’d assume—” She stopped, probably because Gaston, though not precisely smiling, already wore a look of smug satisfaction that proved her right.

  “Let’s table the hostilities long enough to sort this, shall we?” Ben took control for Gaston’s safety; he thought if he didn’t, she might slap that look off the special constable’s face. “Who died at Fitchley Park? Staff or family?”

  “Neither, but someone of your acquaintance, all the same.” Gaston’s eyes gleamed behind his thick specs. “Bobby Archer. Death by suicide, as I see it, but you’ll have the final word, of course.”

  “Bobby Archer took
his own life? In Barking?” Lady Juliet clearly refused to silence herself in the face of Gaston’s disapproval. Rather, she seemed determined to insert herself in the discussion all the more. “What was he doing in Barking? He lived in Plymouth, with his mother.”

  “Aye, but he was known to roam,” Gaston said, still pointedly addressing Ben. “From door to door like that orange tomcat of yours, Dr. Bones. And for the same reason. The staff has clammed up, but it seems clear Bobby was fraternizing with one of Lady Maggart’s maids. I suppose the affair soured, and he took the coward’s way out.”

  Ben turned that over in his mind. While investigating Penny’s demise, he’d briefly considered Bobby Archer a suspect; Penny had been the great unrequited love of his life. Even so, her murder hadn’t driven him to suicide. To Ben, Bobby’s grief had seemed like self-pity, a sense that fate had cheated him. Had a fling with a maid tapped a deeper despair?

  “Poor Helen,” Lady Juliet said. “I know they’ve lived apart for years. I know she despised the man. But it still won’t be easy for her or the boys. Have they been told?”

  “No, and I’m not looking forward to it,” Gaston said. “I’d like Dr. Bones to weigh in first. Can’t be hasty. Nothing good ever came from being hasty. And it’s always tricky, naming a death a suicide....”

  THUMP

  In the attic, something crashed. Ben and Lady Juliet only exchanged glances, but Gaston’s hair nearly stood on end.

  “I, er, reckon something tipped over upstairs, Doc.” He looked slightly abashed to be the only one visibly startled.

  “Shows what you know, Special Constable,” Lady Juliet sniffed. “Today, Lucy bestirred herself after a long absence. Begging the question: when did Bobby die?”

  “That’s for Dr. Bones to say.”

  “Then when was his body discovered?”

  Gaston, who’d slipped back into the habit of addressing her normally, seemed to remember their feud. “I can only discuss the matter with Dr. Bones.”