by Emma Jameson
“Who then?”
“Mrs. Tippett knows how to use a knife. And no one ever accused her of being too gentle.”
* * *
“They said I’d find you here,” Lady Juliet told Ben, letting herself into Mrs. Grundy’s sitting room before he could respond to her ceremonial knock. “What are you doing, Dr. Bones? If we don’t set out in the next quarter hour, we’ll reach Birdswing under cover of darkness yet again.”
“I know. I’m just re-reading my interview notes while they’re fresh in my mind.” Ben closed his notebook and tucked it away. “I took them down after the fact, since you never turned up.”
“I do apologize for the dereliction of duty. With whom did you speak, besides Helen Archer?”
“Lady Maggart, Mrs. Grundy, and Kitty, the maid who Boraxed the alleged blood stain,” he said. “I still need to interview Mrs. Tippett, but she’s in the midst of dinner preparations and chased me out of the kitchen. By the way—I don’t suppose you smell that?”
“What?”
“Perfume.” Ben hoped he didn’t sound mad. He’d caught another unmistakable whiff of Sous le Vent toward the end of his interview with Kitty. Now the odor had all but vanished.
Lady Juliet sniffed. “Can’t say that I do.”
Time to change the subject. Rising, Ben indicated the plain manila envelope in her hands. “Are those the prints?”
“Yes. The rector hadn’t started developing them yet, and he invited me into his darkroom to see the process. It’s fascinating. There are four pans, you see. The first one is called the developer, and while that’s a rather unimaginative appellation, I assure you, beholding the chemical reaction is a revelation….”
She continued describing it as they exited Fitchley Park by the tradesman’s door, circling the house to his Austin. He enjoyed her enthusiasm about light-tight rooms and F-stops, and her boundless pleasure in learning new things.
“Now that we can’t be overheard,” he said once they were en route to Birdswing, “put me out of suspense. Do the photos show any detail we missed?”
“Not that I could tell. And I’ve examined them closely, as you might imagine. Father Rummage even taught me to enlarge them, which was great fun but not illuminating, from a detection standpoint. Something in your face tells me you did rather better.”
“I think so.” As he drove, he put her in the picture. It was a long discussion. First, Helen’s self-inflicted wounds. Next, his encounter with the boot boy, John, and the contents of his wheelbarrow. Finally, the facts gleaned from his discussions with Lady Maggart, Mrs. Grundy, and Kitty, including her alibi for Mr. Collins and her belief that Lady Maggart and Bobby were having an affair.
“Ah, well, I suppose it would have been too poetic if the butler did it,” Lady Juliet said. “So much for dining out on it forever. But it seems reasonable that if Odette summons servants to kill rats, she may have demanded someone take care of Bobby. I just hope to heaven it wasn’t Mrs. Tippett.”
“Why?”
“It would be breaking a confidence to expose the details,” Lady Juliet said. “And it’s not as if I know her personally. Let’s leave it at this: I hope not. Can you return to Fitchley Park tomorrow?”
“No,” Ben said, pleased to see Birdswing not far in the distance. “I have a full roster of patients tomorrow. I can’t spend another day in Barking. Besides, I rather doubt Lady Maggart would be willing to have me back, particularly as I’m not a policeman.”
“You could send our intrepid special constable to interview Mrs. Tippett,” Lady Juliet said. “That would be appropriate, except for the fact I don’t trust him to get it right.”
“Precisely. I’ll ring him tomorrow, if I can find a moment between patients. He needs to hear Kitty’s accusation. And now that I think about it, Mrs. Tippett mentioned a missing kitchen knife. Which she also put down to rat-killing, I believe.”
“I suppose it might be a euphemism for knocking off Odette’s lovers.” Lady Juliet laughed. “But rats and large houses are inextricably bound. No doubt Fitchley Park has plenty of fat rats living like kings around the kitchen pipes. Belsham Manor, being newer and more stoutly built,” she added, smiling, “tends to draw rats only in the granary and garden. In fact, it wouldn’t surprise me at all if at this very moment, a preening, loquacious rat is pacing about my garden, smoking one of his ludicrous cigarillos Mother won’t permit indoors.”
“Hm?” Ben, who’d been wholly absorbed in the case, needed a moment to catch on. “Right. Ethan. I’d nearly put him out of my mind—a luxury you don’t have, naturally. If you like, you’re welcome to have dinner at Fenton House. It will mean another night away from your own bed, of course….”
“A small price to pay. But thank you, no. I can’t abandon Mother to battle the vermin alone.”
“I suppose not, though should it come to that, my money would be on Lady Victoria. You’ll ring me tomorrow, won’t you, around noon? Otherwise, my curiosity will eat me alive.”
“Yes, of course. Unless I’m banged up for murder. In which case, don’t bother trying to prove my innocence. If Odette turns out to be guilty, I only hope we aren’t made to share a cell.”
“Speaking of Lady Maggart, I told you what she said but not the circumstances.” Lady Juliet was in a fine mood after her introduction to darkroom photography; Ben didn’t want thoughts of Ethan Bolivar to spoil her evening any sooner than they had to.
“When I arrived, I was told Lady Maggart wasn’t at home. But as I made a sweep through the family rooms, I happened into her bedroom.”
“No!”
“Afraid so. She was in her dressing gown. By the time Mrs. Grundy interrupted, I was on my knees, practically under the bed.”
“That can’t be true.”
“Oh, yes, it is.” Pleased by her incredulous expression, he drew the story out as he drove her to Belsham Manor, exaggerating from time to time, simply because he liked to hear her laugh.
An Invitation
29 November 1939
The next day, Ben’s first patient, Mrs. Garrigan, was booked for nine o’clock. Habitually early, she outdid herself by turning up at eight, doggedly ringing the patient’s bell until he abandoned his breakfast to let her in.
“Oh! Dr. Bones, you locked the door,” she said disapprovingly, hurrying inside. “It’s bitter cold out. I do hope being chilled to the bone doesn’t hurt the baby.”
That was the refrain Ben now heard several times a week: “I do hope it doesn’t hurt the baby,” with “it” being some facet of daily life. Mrs. Garrigan, only twenty, was seven months into her first pregnancy. Her husband had joined the Army ahead of conscription and was now in France with the majority of Britain’s troops, waiting for the war to begin in earnest. This left Mrs. Garrigan home alone with unlimited time to obsess over her condition.
“Is that a napkin? Did I interrupt your breakfast?”
“Er—yes. As you may recall, I don’t begin seeing patients for another hour. Is there some urgent problem?”
“Of course. I would never risk my baby by going out in this cold if there wasn’t,” she said. “You don’t mind, do you?”
He did—it was his second truncated breakfast in two days—but he simply couldn’t bring himself to say so when Mrs. Garrigan sounded so plaintive. A premature line had formed between her brows, and more would be etched around her mouth if it didn’t stop making that O of uncertainty. So despite the fact he wanted his bacon and eggs, not to mention a second cup of coffee, he tucked the napkin away and shook his head.
“Must I disrobe?” Mrs. Garrigan cast a doubtful glance at the exam table.
“Not yet. Have a seat.”
He sat behind the impressive black-lacquered desk he’d inherited from his predecessor, Dr. Egan. In his day, medicine had been one part sympathy, one part ancient wisdom, and one part reassurance, also known as quackery. His antiquated equipment, which Ben had also inherited, illustrated these maxims: cure the patient, cut it out of the
patient, or confound the patient with tonics and elixirs until the situation resolved itself. Of all Dr. Egan’s arsenal, Ben found the desk most beneficial, because it boosted his air of authority.
“Now. What seems to be the problem?”
“Dear me, I’ve forgotten my manners,” Mrs. Garrigan said. “How are you, Doctor?”
“Fine, thank you. Now—”
“Only I know you motored to Barking twice in two days, so you must be exhausted. Isn’t it a shame about Bobby Archer? And Helen! I don’t know what to think,” Mrs. Garrigan said in that way people do when they not only knew what to think, but had been thinking it emphatically. “I’m so proud our own Dr. Bones is assisting the Plymouth CID with their inquiries.”
“I’m not—”
“As for Lady Juliet staying over the night before last,” Mrs. Garrigan continued, “you should know, Mrs. Parry was quite vocal in your defense. All the ladies in Morton’s agreed. Perhaps it looked irregular, but it was necessitated by the blackout. Just because things look irregular, or even scandalous, it doesn’t mean they are. Now Lady Juliet’s husband might say—”
“Mrs. Garrigan,” Ben cut across her forcefully. “Please tell me you didn’t turn up an hour early to bring me the latest gossip.”
She lifted a hand to her throat. “Why, Dr. Bones. I would never.”
“I’m glad to hear it. Let’s crack on. What seems to be the problem?”
“Er.” Her hands tightened on her handbag, positioned in front of her burgeoning belly. “I don’t like to say.”
Ben silently counted to ten. Lady Juliet was right; he needed to start attending church regularly. There, he could pray for patience as well as restraint.
“Mrs. Garrigan, I respect your modesty, but we’ve been through this. I’m not capable of helping you without at least hearing your complaint. Are you in pain?”
She shook her head.
“Do you feel unwell?”
“No.”
“What, then?”
“I....” She squeezed the handbag again. “I’m turning colors.”
“Really?” What he could see of her complexion looked normal. “Where?”
“I don’t like to say.”
“Right. Go behind, Mrs. Garrigan,” he said, pointing to the changing screen. “Choose a gown from the peg and meet me at the examination table.”
Despite her aversion to this necessity, Mrs. Garrigan presented herself as ordered, submitting to the exam with typical Cornish stoicism. For his part, he kept it brief, made no small talk, and allowed her to dress and return to the seat in front of his desk before issuing his verdict.
“What you’re experiencing is perfectly normal,” he said. Patients had a way of retaining less than half of what he told them, so he liked to start with the key point. “We all have pigment in our skin. In some parts of the world, people have more; we Brits tend to have less. As pregnancy progresses, extra pigment is produced, resulting in darkening of the skin in places.”
“But the line….”
“It’s always been there, even if you never noticed it,” Ben said. “It starts just below your navel and travels down. We call it linea alba—a white line. During pregnancy it darkens, becoming linea negra—a dark line. The same darkening of other areas is normal, too.”
“It’s ugly. Like a scar. Will it go away?”
“Probably, after you give birth,” Ben said. “Though even if it doesn’t, you may be too in love with your baby to notice. One more thing: your blood pressure is still higher than I would like. Have you done as I asked?”
“I’ve cut back, Dr. Bones, really I have,” Mrs. Garrigan said. “I stick with Players. They’re sweet and mild. And I traded the hard stuff for Guinness. Like the advert says, ‘Guinness for strength.’”
“Yes, well, adverts do offer a lot of medical advice. But I’ll remind you, none of them are aimed at expectant mothers called Garrigan, who happen to have elevated blood pressure. I’ll make you a bargain,” Ben said. “Swear off the fags for a week. Then pop back for another check. If your reading hasn’t improved, I’ll write the cigarette ompany a letter of apology. As for those pints—no more than one a week.”
“Thank you, Doctor,” Mrs. Garrigan said sadly. “Not sure if I can live up to your orders, but I’ll try. See you next week.” Rising, she took a step toward the door and winced, clutching the chair for support.
“What is it?”
“These ruddy shoes. Aren’t they the very thing? Too pretty for me to say no. I thought I could break them in, but they’re breaking me in, and no mistake,” she said, massaging her calves. “Never thought I’d go off heels so young.”
“Stay off your feet and take it easy,” Ben said soothingly, mind already back on his bacon and eggs. “You’re in the home stretch now.”
* * *
Mrs. Garrigan’s concern over her skin discoloration proved the day’s most medically significant complaint. Ben’s other five patients, all of whom had booked in via Mrs. Cobblepot during the last twenty-four hours, were afflicted with the same disorder: curiosity.
Miss Munk, who complained of a headache, mentioned how astonished she’d been to note Lady Juliet’s familiar Crossley 20/30 parked outside Fenton House Monday evening. “It was there all night,” she informed him. “I even ventured into the street and touched it. Some are saying she was here all night.”
Mrs. Keller, who complained of sleeplessness, blamed the blackout. Couldn’t ARP Warden Gaston and his officers discharge their duty with greater consideration for the nerves of decent folk? “I know you must feel the same, Dr. Bones,” she said. “Especially when Mr. Bolivar was ejected into the street and that officer shouted, ‘Douse that light!’”
The vicar’s wife, Mrs. Cotterill, complained of an infrequent cough, made worse by the fear Ben had been made to feel unwelcome at St. Mark’s. The congregation would benefit from his weekly example, and her husband would gladly make time, should Ben request a private chat. “A young widower, new to Birdswing, is a natural target for gossip,” she said. “My husband could offer pointers. Or act as a sounding board if you’d prefer to discuss something else. Like—the Archer case?”
Mrs. Parry, who complained of lower backache, admitted that paled beside her growing conviction she would be slaughtered in her bed. “Two murders in Birdswing this autumn! Now another in Barking? We’re becoming the murder capital of the West Country,” she said, sounding more delighted than terrified. “I do hope your association with Plymouth CID will make the village safer, Dr. Bones. Who knows what other killers lurk in our midst?”
His final patient was Mr. Jeffers, the butcher. Hopping onto the exam table with surprising agility, given his girth, he said, “Fine weather, don’t you think? My old dad used to say, it’s a waste of a frosty morning if you don’t slaughter a hog. Ran a piggery near Truro, you see. Dead now. Heart attack at thirty-eight, if you can believe it. Worked too hard, I reckon. Always ate well, like me.” He patted his vast midsection and laughed.
“Mrs. Cobblepot booked you special,” Ben said. “Are you having chest pains or shortness of breath?”
“Oh, that.” Mr. Jeffers flashed a gap-toothed smile beneath his ginger mustache. “Hope you didn’t mind me leaning on Agatha to pencil me in. She’s my favorite customer, truth be told. Can’t let that get out. But only the finest cuts for her and never a thumb on the scale, no sir. You reap the benefits when you tuck in, don’t you, Doctor? Nothing like a nice juicy joint. I do you a good turn, you do me a good turn, hey?”
“I don’t understand.” Ben’s head hurt. It had started when he realized Miss Munk’s complaint was fabricated, and now it throbbed ominously.
Mr. Jeffers’s smile didn’t waver. “My expertise isn’t just in prime cuts and organ meat. I’ve read every Sherlock Holmes story. I’ve seen all the Charlie Chan pictures. I was trained to be a butcher but born to be a detective. I want in.”
“What?”
“Bobby Archer was my mate growing u
p. We fell out over a bird, ages back, but I knew him well. As a result,” the butcher said, voice dropping theatrically, “certain inside knowledge has come to me through secret means. I’ve developed an expert theory as to why there was no blood on the scene. I think Bobby was hung by his foot from a hook, hey? All his blood drained in a bucket, as with hogs?”
Ben knew Mr. Jeffers’s “secret means” of getting inside information had to be Gaston. Like the rest of Birdswing, the man lived for gossip, and despite his warnings to others, his loose lips could sink a fleet.
“Mr. Jeffers, do you have a medical problem?”
“What? Never!” The butcher laughed. “Healthy as the fatted calf.”
“Get out.”
“Beg pardon?”
“Off my table. Out of my office. Now.” Leaving Mr. Jeffers to grumble to an empty room, Ben retreated to the kitchen. He hoped Mrs. Cobblepot would take pity on him by putting the kettle on. As it turned out, she’d already poured two cups of tea: one for herself and one for her guest, Special Constable Gaston.
“Finally, the man himself. Agatha wouldn’t open the biscuit tin till you turned up,” Gaston said, turning to his sister. “Well?”
“Keep your hair on. Are you well, Dr. Bones?” Mrs. Cobblepot asked. “You look a wee bit cross.”
“Not at all,” Ben muttered.
“I’ll fetch you a cup and saucer, then some biscuits,” she said, and it was a measure of his bad mood that even the sound of her voice made his temples throb harder.
“What brings you here?” he forced himself to ask civilly as he sat beside Gaston.
“What do you think? To discuss the case. Agatha,” the special constable said gravely. “You’re not wanted here while we talk official business. If you’ve nothing to do, there’s a hole in my coat pocket that wants mending. Why don’t you—ow!”
Mrs. Cobblepot, who despite her size effortlessly navigated the kitchen day in and day out, had taken a corner too narrowly, smacking her brother’s head with the biscuit tin in the process.