by Emma Jameson
“Final in my head. Final in my heart,” Juliet said as Fitchley Park came into view. The tall wrought-iron gates stood open, as they usually did in daylight hours. “But not final in the eyes of the law. I still have to collect Ethan’s signature on the decree, but I took back my family name to let the world know that despite one wearisome technicality, the union is dissolved.”
“I see.” Clearing his throat, Ben pointed to the great house, which was constructed of pale Syreford stone. “Three columns and a pediment. That’s Palladian, yes?”
“Indeed. The façade was added in the eighteenth century. The Maggarts claim the main part of the house is far older, built around the time of the Protectorate, I think. But in Barking, truth and myth commingle. They also claim Fitchley Park was raised upon the foundation of King Mark and Queen Isolde’s castle. A broken stone wall in Odette’s formal garden is offered as the only proof, and it’s clearly the skeleton of an ancient longhouse, not a fortress. But I cast no aspersions. No doubt it kept some ancient pig-herder warm and dry, and all his porkers, too.”
“Queen Isolde,” Ben said. “Didn’t she run off with Sir Tristan?”
“Yes, so whether you view Fitchley Park as an adulteress’s ancestral home, or a place where men lie down with swine, you’ll get no argument from me.” As the Crossley bounced and rattled down the long gravel drive, she added, “Don’t be surprised if Lady Maggart insists on calling me ‘Mrs. Bolivar.’ She does it merely to aggravate me.”
“Charming. But can she really refuse to call you ‘Lady’? There’s never a copy of Debrett’s when I need it.”
“‘Mrs. Bolivar’ is all I’m entitled to. ‘Lady’ is merely a courtesy title. My goodness, didn’t you know?”
He shook his head.
Parking adjacent to the great house’s wide marble steps, Juliet tooted the horn to signal their arrival. “Mother is an earl’s daughter. From the day Father carried her over the threshold, all of Birdswing was in awe of her. They insisted upon calling her Lady Victoria. When I came along, the same consideration was extended to me, for her sake.”
“Is that so? All this time, I assumed your title came from Ethan. That he was a knight or a baronet.”
“Why?”
“Because you married him.”
Juliet bristled reflexively. “Meaning what?”
“Meaning Ethan’s a bounder,” Ben said patiently. “I thought perhaps your parents made the match. If he possessed a title, that would have helped them persuade you to marry him against your own good judgment.”
Juliet sighed. If only Ben’s scenario were true. Alas, her parents were not to blame; in fact, the precise opposite was true. Fortunately for her, Lady Maggart’s butler, Mr. Collins, chose that moment to appear in the doorway, postponing her duty to correct the record.
“Time to sally forth, Dr. Bones,” she said. “I give you my solemn oath, I shall strive for decorum and a spirit of harmony. Unless….”
“Unless what?”
“Unless Odette puts a toe over the line. If she does… I apologize in advance.”
The Broken Man
Ben took one look at Mr. Collins—proud bearing, stern features, a mountain of luxuriant brown hair—and formed immediate expectations. In London, he’d observed this type of smartly-dressed, patrician-faced manservant many times. They managed vast households with ease, often with no more than snapped fingers or a look. When no underservant was available for a task, they performed it themselves, often faster and more skillfully than footmen half their age. Thus when Mr. Collins appeared, exuding manservant-liness like the sun exudes rays, Ben expected the butler to head straight for Lady Juliet’s door and help her alight.
He did not. Instead, Mr. Collins closed the black-lacquered doors behind him and merely stood there, gaze fixed on some distant point.
“What’s he doing?” Ben asked Lady Juliet. While there was perhaps no woman in Cornwall less in need of such old-fashioned cosseting, the attention suited her station. To omit it was a deliberate slight.
“He’s gathering the courage to order us round to the tradesman’s entrance, most likely. On his mistress’s orders, of course.”
“Right.” Ben exited the car with his black bag while Lady Juliet brought out the stretcher canvas and those six-foot wooden poles. He tried to take charge of the canvas, but she seemed unduly invested in carrying it, as well as the poles, up the great house’s marble steps without assistance. Why? Because his limp had compelled him to take the stairs in Fenton House rather slowly?
Stung by the thought, Ben did his best to stride confidently up the stairs. It would have gone better if sitting in the Crossley hadn’t stiffened his knee, making his limp more pronounced, or if Lady Juliet hadn’t dropped a stretcher pole halfway up. It rolled all the way down to the gravel, forcing her to go after it with one pole in the air and the canvas clutched to her bosom. Through it all, Mr. Collins remained at his post, offering no assistance, only an expression of genteel disgust.
“Good afternoon,” the butler said coldly. Up close, his hair was flawless. “It would appear there’s been some mistake. I’m afraid I must ask you to—”
“Excuse your lack of decorum? Of course. I’m Dr. Bones. Special Constable Gaston sent me. Please show me and Lady Juliet Linton”— as represented by poles rattling somewhere behind him—“to the deceased.”
Mr. Collins’s impenetrable blankness could have shamed a cardsharp. “This is a misunderstanding. You’re in the wrong place. I’m afraid I must insist—”
“On apologizing to Lady Juliet? You’re quite right.” Ben glanced over his shoulder to be sure the lady in question really was behind him and not chasing a pole down the hill. “Allowing her to alight without offering assistance, or even a proper greeting, is inexcusable.”
“Sir.” Mr. Collins lifted his chin. “As a courtesy, I came to explain how things are done. You must go round to the tradesman’s entrance, and your associate must depart or wait out-of-doors, as she pleases. Good day.”
“Very well. Give my regards to the special constable when he arrives,” Ben said. “A physician from St. Barnabas’s Hospital may agree to come by in a day or two. Until then, preserve the corpse as best you can. If it’s ruled a murder and Fitchley House is seen as obstructive to the normal course of inquiry, I suppose Scotland Yard might appear on your doorstep. Resist the temptation to send them around back.”
He returned to the car with Lady Juliet in tow, poles rattling. They got back inside unhurriedly. As Lady Juliet started the engine, Ben saw Mr. Collins descending the stairs at speed.
“Shall we continue?” Lady Juliet asked.
“Absolutely.”
As she started down the long gravel drive, Ben watched the butler try to wave them down, shouting “Dr. Bones” all the while. Only when she picked up speed, forcing Mr. Collins to break into a run, did Ben suggest showing mercy.
The trio ascended the grand marble steps a second time. Ben carried his doctor’s bag, Lady Juliet carried the canvas bundle, and Mr. Collins brought up the rear, a stretcher pole in each hand. His hair had fallen in his eyes.
Fitchley Park’s double doors opened. Out swept Lady Maggart, who seemed to have been lurking nearby all along.
She smiled upon them graciously, as if the spectacle of her butler chasing a moving vehicle had never happened. Ben thought she resembled a middle-aged version of Penny. Slim and artfully made up, with red lips and arched brows, her blonde hair was styled in smooth, swept-back rolls. A silver fox stole was draped across her shoulders, boneless legs dangling horribly, mouth wide.
It looks surprised. And not without reason, Ben thought. Thanks to Lady Juliet’s tale of woe, he’d already worked out some of Lady Maggart’s movements. She would have left Fitchley Park by nine o’clock, if not earlier, and returned home around eleven, unless she made additional stops. Presumably she had left Fitchley Park before the body was found, rowed with Lady Juliet, then returned to find a corpse at home. Many ladies wo
uld be shaken, if not distressed. Yet here she was, not only receiving guests, but looking like a Paris fashion plate as she did so.
“Dr. Benjamin Bones,” she said warmly. “You’re younger than I expected. More commanding, too. I respect that, even if you were a touch unkind to poor Collins.” She extended her hand limply.
Ben chose to shake the proffered hand rather than kiss the ring. “There was a mix-up about which door I’d use. I’m a physician, not a ratcatcher. I’ve come to see about the dead man. My friend Lady Juliet has kindly agreed to assist me.”
“Yes. Very well.” Lady Maggart’s long-lashed eyes narrowed. “I confess, Mrs. Bolivar, I’m surprised you’d show your face here. This morning, I thought I made my opinion of you and your occultist activities perfectly plain.”
“Oh, really?” Lady Juliet huffed. “Well. Speaking of this morning, I thought I plainly made my opinion of you, and your opinion on my activities, which you call occultist, perfectly plain. This morning,” she concluded senselessly.
Lady Maggart smirked. Lady Juliet cleared her throat and tried again.
“Nevertheless, the situation which brings us to Fitchley Park takes precedence over a clash of personalities,” she said loftily. “Poor Bobby Archer’s death is deeply shocking. I would brave any unpleasantness to be of swift service in this time of need.”
“Swift? Yes, I can see that. You must have been scouring dust bins when the news came. What a remarkable coat you’re wearing. I pity the tramp who misplaced it.”
“Aren’t you clever? And brave, to be so unaffected by another human’s demise that you still glue on false eyelashes and wrap yourself in a murdered fox.”
“This is fashion.” Lady Maggart’s tone could have etched glass. “Something you cannot comprehend.”
“It’s rather cold,” Ben announced, though both women were probably too hot under the collar to notice. “Daylight’s at a premium. Can we get on?”
“Of course. The body is in the servants’ wing. Collins and I will be pleased to escort you,” Lady Maggart said, resuming a semblance of her former warmth. “But first, a word. As you declined to use the less obtrusive entrance, I have no choice but to bring you through the great room, where my husband takes his ease.”
“Ah, Lord Maggart,” Lady Juliet said. “How is he?”
“Unchanged,” Lady Maggart said coolly.
“Given the bizarre nature of this event, I feared perhaps—”
Lady Maggart cleared her throat. To Ben, she said, “My dear husband Dudley fought in the Great War. Bravely, as English patriots do. Over the top at the Battle of the Somme. Alas, he was injured, and though he underwent treatment at Craiglockhart, there was no cure. Here at home, he’s found a measure of peace. Therefore, I must ask you not to disturb him. No questions, not even pleasantries. And you absolutely mustn’t identify yourself as a physician. When it comes to your profession, Lord Maggart has a rather a low opinion.”
This didn’t surprise Ben. Craiglockhart, sometimes referred to as “Dottyville,” had been a psychiatric hospital for officers suffering from war neurosis—the affliction more commonly known as shell shock. At the time, most doctors had been ignorant of war neurosis, refusing to believe soldiers could be wounded mentally as well as physically. Thus many such patients, at Craiglockhart and elsewhere, were labeled cowards, malingerers, or emotional weaklings. They returned home to a country that regarded them not only as failed soldiers but inadequate men. Psychiatry had learned much in the intervening years, and Ben believed the Second World War’s casualties would receive better treatment. But nothing could erase the sins of the past.
“Thank you for explaining, Lady Maggart,” Ben said. “I’ll do my best not to disturb him.”
“I have no doubt you’ll behave, Dr. Bones.” She shot Lady Juliet a warning glance. “But remember Dudley is in continual pain. It’s caused him to become terribly frank.”
“I wouldn’t dream of accosting the poor man,” Lady Juliet sniffed.
“Good.” Lady Maggart turned to her butler, who was trying to repair his coiffure with a minimum of pole-rattling. “Lead on.”
* * *
The ceiling in Fitchley Park’s great room brooded over its lone occupant like an ominous sky. The tiered golden chandelier held no candles and didn’t seem to be fitted with gas or electric, but torchiere lamps burned here and there. Casting their light up, they revealed what looked to Ben like a half-hearted effort to scrub away layer upon layer of black soot. Perhaps the ladder had been too short, or the servant unequal to the back-breaking task, especially if armed with only soap, water, and a long-handed brush. The result: the ceiling’s plaster design, an endless procession of garlands, ribbons, and urns, stood out in bone-white glints amid the black background. What had been intended as cheerful now looked funereal, like a shallow grave giving up its secrets.
A coal fire burned low beneath the elaborate mantel. Positioned before it sat Lord Dudley Maggart, one leg propped on a leather hassock. Without turning his head, he called in a rasping voice, “Who was at the door, Odette?”
“No one of consequence, darling.” Lady Maggart sounded unconcerned, but her heels clicked rapidly on the marble floor as she made a beeline for the room’s far door. Ben tried to step softly as he kept pace, but his footfalls seemed absurdly loud, as did Lady Juliet’s.
“Good Lord, woman. Hannibal’s elephants crossed the Alps more quietly than you.” Lord Maggart turned in his chair, probably to upbraid his wife, only to behold two strangers accompanying her and Mr. Collins.
“Great Scott!” Lord Maggart pointed a trembling finger at Lady Juliet. “That’s a rough sort of man to admit through the front door. Was the tradesman’s entrance nailed shut?”
“Lovely to see you again, Lord Maggart,” Lady Juliet called in her sweetest tone. “I’m not a tradesman or indeed a man at all. I’m Juliet Linton. Lady Victoria’s daughter from Belsham Manor.”
“Yes, don’t let the dirty trousers and mannish boots deceive you. It’s Lady Juliet, come to take tea.” Lady Maggart maintained her carefree tone. Had she become adept at lying to soothe her husband, Ben wondered. Or could she lie smoothly on a variety of topics?
“Lady Juliet. Yes, of course. Misplaced my specs. Useless things,” Lord Maggart said. His raspy inhalations made each sentence painful. “Well, now you’re here, don’t run away like thieves in the night. Come closer. I have a right to look over who’s traipsing through my house.”
Lady Maggart grimaced, but in a light voice, she said, “Naturally, darling,” and led them over.
At close range, Ben was struck by the baron’s frailty. If he’d gone over the top at the Somme, he was probably around Lady Maggart’s age, the middle forties. However, he looked sixty—a weak and wasted sixty. His cheeks were hollow, his forehead stacked with creases; his hair and mustache were pale gray. Bizarrely, given the time of day, he wore evening dress. White tie, no less, with a red carnation in his buttonhole.
“Collins,” Lady Maggart said, her pleasantness becoming strained. “Why in heaven’s name is the baron attired for dinner? Dudley, you know we don’t stand on ceremony these days.”
“Don’t berate the man,” Lord Maggart said. “I’ll wear what I please. Besides, the earl has always been one for the old observances. We’ll have a drink together in the library before Collins rings the bell.”
Lady Maggart shot Ben a glance that communicated two things. Her husband had dressed for a visitor who wasn’t coming, and this wasn’t the first time he’d muddled his dates or perhaps even his years.
Lord Maggart squinted at Lady Juliet. “Still unnecessarily tall, I see.”
“I fear so, my lord. Should I ever discover a remedy for excessive female stature, I’ll be sure to disseminate it far and wide.”
“What? Hm. See that you do.” Lord Maggart looked Ben up and down. In the pervasive gloom, he couldn’t be sure, but the whites of Lord Maggart’s eyes appeared yellow.
“Well? Out with it.
Who the hell are you?”
“Benjamin Bones, Lord Maggart. Forgive my intrusion. I’ll try to be brief.”
“Brief? You’ll be brief, will you?” Lord Maggart harrumphed as only a blueblood could. “Damn generous, keeping your intrusion brief. What is your business, sir?”
Ben involuntarily glanced at his black leather bag, and Lord Maggart cried out as if struck.
“White coat! A white coat. Come to poke and prod me!”
“Dudley, calm yourself,” Lady Maggart cried.
“No bloody white coats in my house.” Lord Maggart shifted his elevated leg off the hassock with surprising speed. Fumbling beside his chair, he seized on a hardwood cane with a pewter grip, leaning on it as he got to his feet.
“I’ll teach you to go where you’re not wanted,” he roared, swiping wildly at the air with his cane. Lady Maggart gasped, but Ben easily stepped aside. He didn’t think the baron meant to land a blow so much as to frighten him. Handing his bag to Lady Juliet, he lifted his hands to prove they were empty.
“I’m not a physician, Lord Maggart.” A plausible fiction occurred to him. “I’m an undertaker.”
“An undertaker?” The baron stumped closer, leaning on his cane instead of brandishing it. His scleras were indeed yellow. So was his skin.
“I’m not dead yet, young man, however much these jackals may wish it,” Lord Maggart said. “Come to stake out your territory? What abominable cheek. Even if my wife invited you to measure me for my coffin.”
“Dudley. Please don’t be cruel in front of our guests.”
“In front of our guests,” he repeated to Ben. “That’s forbidden. Cruelty when guests are absent? Compulsory. I shall inform the earl. He knows the king. David, he calls him. David.”
King Edward the VIII, who’d abdicated the throne in 1936, had been called “David” by friends and family. It seemed Lord Maggart did indeed have his years muddled. Ben knew better than to argue with a delusion, especially in someone whose medical history was unknown. Redirection was better.