by Emma Jameson
“Don’t you walk away from me!”
“Get off!” she cried, trying to pull free of his grasp.
The man squeezed tighter. Energy rippled along Ben’s scalp. His hair stood on end; the metal frame of his wristwatch buzzed. Although this had never happened to him in waking life, he knew what was coming with the certainty of dreams: a bolt from the blue.
Something boomed. Ben sat up in bed, heart pounding. Only when the knock was repeated, and someone at the door called “Sir?,” did he once again recognize his surroundings. The bedside clock showed he’d overslept yet again, and breakfast was surely underway downstairs.
He washed up, shaved, and dressed in record time. He’d seen three aspects of Lucy—ghost, corpse, and living woman. Did that relate to the chieftainess? What about the lightning?
Head full of the dream, he went down to the solarium, which was pleasantly awash in winter sunlight. Five places had been set, but only Duggin was present. The resolutely blank man served himself in methodical fashion, lifting the lid of every silver chafing dish and extracting a helping from each: poached eggs, stewed tomatoes, beans, sausage, bacon, and potato cakes. Atop this he added two slices of toast, liberally buttered. Depositing this miniature mountain of food at his place, Duggin headed to the coffee carafe, where Ben was filling a cup.
“Good morning,” Ben said.
Duggin said nothing. Perhaps he considered pleasantries rhetorical.
Dosing his coffee with milk and sugar, Ben couldn’t resist interrupting the dour man’s peace. “Do you know when the others will be down for breakfast?”
Duggin shrugged.
“You don’t say much, do you?”
“Here’s a piece of advice,” Duggin said, tasting his coffee before adding milk. “Never take this sort of spread for granted. We may be eating our shoe leather before the end.”
“Yes. Well. Thanks for that. They should get you on the wireless. You could be an inspirational speaker.”
He chose a spot adjacent to Duggin so he could eat without making eye contact. Lady Victoria set a lovely table: crisp white linens, delicately-patterned china, and a centerpiece of fir, red berries, and cinnamon sticks. It seemed like something Lady Juliet might have concocted. Fleetingly, Ben wondered why she was so late to breakfast, but it was hard to focus on the real world as the dream of Lucy intruded like a spectral hangover.
If only the gas leak hadn’t happened….
The sentiment had been rising in him for some time. Of course, indulging in such wishful thinking was the worst sort of foolishness. Even if he devised a way to reliably contact Lucy, to see her whenever he wished, there was no future down that road, only an unbridgeable gap. And yet the thought of her captivated him in a way Rose never could. He felt certain if Lucy hadn’t died, if she were still alive and well and counted among his patients, he’d be courting her. And halfway to popping the question—assuming she’d have him, of course.
Who was that nasty bugger at the picnic?
Had he witnessed a true event? Dreamed up an unworthy suitor? Or was it some combination of the two?
“Bonesy!” Louder than life, Ethan burst into the solarium. “And Jack. Tucking in with both hands, no surprise there. What a glorious morning! I bestride the Earth like a colossus.”
Ben barely managed a nod in return. Perhaps Duggin’s stony disinterest was the inevitable result of listening to bombastic nonsense all day.
“Come now, Ju darling,” Ethan called over his shoulder. “Mustn’t keep our guests waiting. Connubial bliss is no excuse.”
Lady Juliet entered at her mother’s side. Lady Victoria wore a cashmere turtleneck, a tweed skirt, and a frozen smile. Ben didn’t notice Lady Juliet’s clothes, only her expression. She’d looked less desperate while held at gunpoint.
He stood up. “What is it? What’s happened?”
“On your feet, man,” Ethan rebuked Duggin. “Our hostesses have arrived.”
Setting down his silverware, Duggin reluctantly arose, dabbing at his mouth.
“Thank you. I apologize for being so late to the table,” Lady Juliet said. “Only we have wonderful news. The divorce is off. Ethan and I have reconciled.”
Jolly Good
1 December 1939
For a moment, Ben thought he was dreaming again. “What?”
“Reconciled. Man and wife, till death us do part,” Ethan declared, throwing an arm around Lady Juliet’s shoulders and pulling her close. “I don’t deny I was a dreadful husband. My Ju drove a hard bargain. Now I must walk the straight and narrow. I must become the man I pretended to be when she fell for me.”
Lady Juliet wouldn’t meet Ben’s eyes, so he looked to her mother. “Lady Victoria, what’s going on?”
She smiled at him like a mannequin. “Love prevailed. Isn’t it marvelous?”
He was silent for so long, Duggin was moved to croak, “Congratulations.”
Ben still couldn’t force out a word. He stared at Lady Juliet until she finally met his gaze.
“Dr. Bones. I—I hope you’ll be happy for me.”
“Of course. It’s good news. Jolly good,” he heard himself say, like someone’s daft old granddad.
“Look at her blush,” Ethan said. “She’s mortified because we lingered so long in bed. Don’t worry, my sweet, there are no innocents in this room.” He smiled at his wife in a proprietary way that made Ben want to hit him again. His hand throbbed, reminding him that despite its soreness, his fist was still available.
“Don’t tease me,” Juliet said, blushing still more furiously. “Shall we sit down to eat, so Dr. Bones and Mr. Duggin might resume their breakfast?”
“Yes, of course. Be a dear and fix my plate,” Ethan said, dropping into the chair between Ben and Duggin. “After so little sleep, I’m useless.”
Ben could only stare helplessly as Lady Juliet loaded a plate with bacon and sausage. How could this be happening?
“You’re deep in thought, Bones, my lad,” Ethan said.
“Er,” Ben muttered. Juliet had never spoken or behaved in a manner that so much as hinted she’d consider reconciliation. Leaving aside Ethan’s pattern of infidelity, he was duplicitous at best and an outright criminal at worst.
“Deep in thought,” Ethan repeated. “Bonesy? Are you in there?”
Ben shook himself. “Yes. Well. It’s just—I have patients booked. I really must say my goodbyes.”
“Come now. You can spare a quarter hour with friends.”
Pretending not to hear, Ben stood up and pushed his chair in. Lady Victoria looked dismayed. “Dr. Bones. Have we chased you away with poor hospitality? Please give us another chance. Ju, sweetheart, Dr. Bones is leaving. Help me convince him otherwise.”
Lady Juliet continued loading her husband’s plate. “If Dr. Bones has bookings, Mother, we mustn’t stand in the way.”
“You haven’t chased me away, Lady Victoria,” Ben said woodenly. “Thank you for everything. Dinner was superb. My room was quite comfortable. And the unexpected news was—jolly good,” he put in, aggravated by the way all four of them were looking at him. “Jolly good. Yes. Thank you again. I’ll see myself out.”
He was halfway to the front door when he remembered he’d left his things in the guest room. By the time he hurried upstairs, gathered everything together, and returned to the ground floor, Lady Victoria was waiting for him.
“My dear Dr. Bones, I do apologize,” she said in that warm tone that usually melted everyone, including him. “I feel like a miserable hostess.”
“Nonsense,” Ben said. For the first time since he’d known Lady Victoria, her courtesy struck him as grating. What sort of mother was she, anyway? One worth her salt would have put a stop to this. Locked her daughter in a tower, if necessary, till the madness passed.
“I realize Juliet’s decision has perhaps startled you,” she said, clearly oblivious to his blackening mood. “You’ve never heard her speak of Ethan, except in the most severe terms. But I assure you, t
hey were once the happiest of—”
“Lady Victoria, please don’t think me rude,” he said through clenched teeth. “But I shouldn’t keep my patients waiting. Goodbye.”
On that dignified note, he strode out into the twenty-eight-degree morning, at which point it became clear he’d forgotten his hat and coat.
I’m making a fool of myself. He forced himself to go back inside, feign amusement, and bundle up, then stomped out to the mews to retrieve the Austin. Of course he was cross. He’d had no breakfast, only coffee, and for the third night in a row, his sleep had been interrupted by dreams of—what?
He groped for it but couldn’t remember. Lady Juliet’s surprise announcement had wiped it away, like a hand across a foggy pane of glass. And the glass wasn’t a window, but a mirror, reflecting something he didn’t expect.
* * *
Ben managed to drive home without puncturing any tires or knocking any sheep over the rainbow. The real problem, he thought as he followed Old Crow Road back to the village proper, wasn’t the marriage of Ethan to Lady Juliet, but the marriage of malice to incompetence. Thanks to Der Fuhrer, Prime Minister Neville Chamberlain, and a laundry list of government cockups, his country was at war. That war had dropped him smack dab in the middle of nowhere, with no men of his own age about. What he needed were some lads for a drink and a laugh, maybe a game of cricket on weekends, if his limp allowed him to play. Too much time in the company of a female, any female, upset the male equilibrium. What did he care if Lady Juliet had given Ethan a blank check to continue hurting her for the rest of her life? She didn’t want his help. She hadn’t even asked his opinion.
There must be a couple of blokes up for some mischief, he told himself as Fenton House came into view. At the same time, two blokes up for mischief came into view: Caleb and Micah Archer, perched on his roof.
“What the devil is this?” Ben demanded, out of the car and through the gate in record time. The twins regarded him placidly from their perch between chimneys on the roof’s apex. “What are you doing?”
One twin saluted. “Sir! Monitoring the skies, sir.”
“Sir,” the other twin echoed. He lifted an outsized, antique pair of binoculars—or more specifically, he lifted his half. The other boy did the same, raising his right arm in perfect sync with his brother’s left. Sunlight glinted on identical metal bracelets, and Ben understood. They were handcuffed together.
“Carry on,” he said, entering the cottage and wondering what sort of explanation he was about to receive. It couldn’t be any madder than what he’d already been served at Belsham Manor.
“Good morning,” Special Constable Gaston called from the kitchen. Mrs. Cobblepot, who’d been sitting across from her brother sipping tea, jumped up.
“I didn’t expect you home for breakfast. Let me pour you a cuppa.”
“Why are the twins on the roof?” Ben asked as he took a seat.
“Because they blew up the constabulary and I couldn’t find a pair of straitjackets,” Gaston replied calmly. “Never fear, I’ll have them off the roof directly. What happened to your hand?”
“Nothing,” Ben said, flexing his fingers to prove it. “What’s that smeared on your face?”
“Soot,” Gaston said. “Reducing the natural shine of forehead, cheeks, and chin. Note I’m kitted out in drab colors. The crowning bit is this string vest I fashioned myself,” he added proudly. “Special gear for a covert operation. The twins were out of bed and out of bounds last night. I intercepted them and conducted an interrogation.”
“Well, don’t keep me in suspense. Were the boys involved in Bobby’s murder?”
“Do you imagine I’d be sat down passing the time of day if they were? The boys thought they had Agatha flummoxed, but she overheard them whispering about Pate’s Field. When they passed through, I was there, squatting behind a patch of gorse.”
“Were they headed for Barking?”
“Aye. Dressed in black. Carrying a shielded lantern they didn’t light until they were well out of sight,” Gaston said. “My junior wardens are vigilant, but no one would have seen them, unless they knew when and where to look. Besides, the boys are old hands. They’ve been making these expeditions to Barking for a month.”
“Why?”
“Sir Thaddeus’s gold.”
From her place at the stove, Mrs. Cobblepot tutted. “When I taught school, the boys used to tease the younger ones with that story. They’d draw up maps and drop them where the wee ones would find them. Then the older boys would swear the younger ones to secrecy and deputize them to search for the gold, on the promise that whoever dug up the chest would share with everyone. Naturally, it was just a trick to get the smaller boys out of their hair. A bit of fun, watching them chase something that didn’t exist. I’m surprised Caleb and Micah still believe the story. I took them for cleverer than that.”
“Clever never stopped a man from believing what he wants to believe,” Gaston said. “Or a boy. Caleb heard the story when he was seven, and he’s been looking for the gold ever since. He’s pigheaded, that one. Micah does as he’s bid, even though he knows it’s all a joke. He’s heard the truth from Miss Jenkins, Father Cotterill, and the older kiddies. Caleb won’t listen. They’ve been all over Birdswing, so Caleb thought it must be in Barking.”
“Here’s your tea, Dr. Bones,” Mrs. Cobblepot said, putting a cup and saucer in front of him. “I haven’t any biscuits, but there’s a loaf of fruited bread in the oven. Your favorite,” she sang.
“Thank you.”
“Fruited bread, eh?” Gaston chuckled. “You’ll be in skirts by spring if you don’t spend more time with the lads down the pub.”
Ben let that pass. It didn’t matter that he’d just spent a quarter hour telling himself the same thing. Fruited bread warm from the oven was quite possibly his favorite snack. He wouldn’t utter a word that might endanger his supply.
“Seems like treasure hunting is more of a summer pursuit,” Ben said, getting them back on topic. “Why brave the cold and risk their necks in the dark?”
Gaston gave him that pitying look he always did when Ben missed some essential of country life. “Did Father Christmas visit you as a boy? Leave presents?”
“Three. A book, a shirt or trousers, and a toy.”
“Good on you. Father Christmas has missed the Archer house five years running. Helen told the twins the jolly old elf only looks out for rich kiddies with a father at home.”
Mrs. Cobblepot tutted again. “I understand her bitterness. I just wish she’d bite her tongue now and then.”
Ben asked, “So they wanted gold to buy themselves Christmas presents?”
“They wanted gold to lure their father back to the house,” Gaston said. “Micah told me. They planned to pay all their mum’s debts, get her a new dress, and buy themselves an SS100 in British racing green. They reckoned that would bring Bobby home, which is what they wanted most.”
Ben feigned sudden interest in his teacup. He’d been warned about his soft heart in medical school, told to blank it out, control himself, and resist sentiment. He rarely succeeded, at least not entirely, but the advice prevented him from indulging in public displays.
“The boys have fine taste in cars,” he said. “The SS100 is a dream. Six-cylinder.”
“No running boards,” Gaston agreed. “I hear the inside is finished in sycamore.”
“Listening to the pair of you talk, anyone would think you heartless,” Mrs. Cobblepot said, removing the bread pan from the oven. “I burst into tears when Clarence told me. Children are always fanciful, but some of them have to get by on so little, even their wildest dreams are practical. Most would imagine their old dad returning because he missed them. They dreamed of bribing him to come back.” She shook her head. “And now it’s a reunion that can never be. I tried to console the boys, but they wouldn’t have it. I wonder if they fully understand their father’s dead.”
“They understand. They’re not daft,” Gaston sai
d. “Grief is private. You know that.”
“I know nothing of the sort. A burden shared is a burden halved.”
“Boys trying their best to be men will never be criticized by me,” Gaston said. “But I was stern with them about tramping over hill and dale after sundown now that Helen’s locked up. Caleb said something about using Sir Thaddeus’s gold to hire a lawyer, and I said, enough’s enough. I told them I was suckered by the story, every boy in Birdswing and Barking has been suckered by the story, and facing the truth is the first step to manhood.”
“Do they realize their mum must have known they were going out at night?” Ben asked.
“Of course. It’s been an ongoing battle. Them tunneling out, so to speak, and her plugging the holes too late,” Gaston said. “They went out the front door, so she made them sleep in the attic. They went out the window and down the oak, so she had it chopped down.”
“The drainpipe fell off the house with Caleb and Micah still clinging to it,” Mrs. Cobblepot chimed in, shaking the bread free of its pan. “Helen put it back up wrapped in barbed wire and nailed their window shut for good measure. Yesterday I realized they’d loosened the window frame so the glass pops in and out.”
“How did they get to the ground?” Ben asked, genuinely impressed by the boys’ determination.
“The wee devils nicked a thirty-foot rope ladder,” Gaston said. “I asked where from, and all they said was, ‘We didn’t steal it!’” He drained his teacup. “Never mind. It’s a relief to know they didn’t do in their old dad. I’m not sure Birdswing could bear the shock. Poor Helen must have realized they were slipping out to Barking and assumed it had to do with Bobby and his new bit of stuff.”
“A shame,” Mrs. Cobblepot said. “To be so sure her own sons were killers, she confessed to murder herself.”
“I’m not sure Mrs. Archer’s ever experienced much besides cruelty and selfishness behind closed doors,” Ben said. “In her own way, though, she managed to behave unselfishly. What she did wasn’t right, of course. If the twins had done it, she would have been letting two very dangerous boys walk free. Still, it was selfless, volunteering to take their punishment.”