by Emma Jameson
Ben drew in a breath to call her a liar. Then he shut his mouth, opened his black bag, and applied a new dressing.
Into the Stratosphere
17 December 1939
Fitchley Park was decked with boughs of holly, heavy with red berries. Spruce garlands perfumed the hall, and ribbon-tied bundles of mistletoe hung from the doorways. As the gathering was billed as a brunch, beginning around ten o’clock and meant to finish by three, Ben wasn’t obligated to trot out his evening dress for the second time in a month. Like most of Lady Maggart’s male guests, he wore his Sunday suit. Some of the women, like Old Mrs. Trentham, felt comfortable enough to mingle in a housedress accessorized with hand-knitted accessories. Others, like Mrs. Tippett, had made a special effort with dress and hair. Rarely more than a few steps from Father Rummage’s side, she looked completely transformed, her newfound glow of happiness exceeded only by his.
“It’s good to see you again,” Ben told the erstwhile cook. “After everything that happened, I half-feared Mrs. Grundy had done something to you.”
“I think she would have, had I loitered about to wait and see,” Mrs. Tippett said. “There was a mad gleam in her eye at the end. Stephen told me I was welcome to stay at the rectory until I felt safe to return to the park. Of course, thanks to you, it only took a day, and yet….” She glanced at the beaming little man beside her. “Now it’s all changed. I pop in every day at noon to check the new cook’s progress. She’ll be a Beaton devotee by the new year, mark me. By then, Stephen’s replacement will have arrived at St. Gwinnodock’s.”
“That’s right,” Ben said, smiling at Father Rummage. “I see you’re still in the dog collar.”
“Yes.” For once, the priest issued no nervous laugh. “My sabbatical officially begins shortly after Epiphany.”
“And the wedding?”
“Sunday next,” Father Rummage said. “I do hope you’ll come and wish us joy.”
“Try and stop me.”
Ben paid his respects to Lady Maggart, who was discussing the WI’s plans for 1940 with a knot of interested ladies. She was still under house arrest for the furniture scheme, but everyone pretended not to know, and according to the latest birdsong, the charges would soon go away. Lord Maggart had lied and told Scotland Yard he’d approved the liquidation. No one knew if this signaled a renewed bond between baron and baroness, but it had rescued Fitchley Park from further infamy, which Lord Maggart no doubt saw as his paramount duty.
Ben drifted toward the punchbowl. Betsy, on ladle duty, gave him a timid nod. Kitty, out of her maid’s uniform and dressed in festive red, held out a cup for Betsy to fill, then pressed it into his hands.
“There he is! The man who rescued me from a life behind bars!”
“Hallo, Kitty. You look well,” Ben said politely. “I hope your experience in Plymouth wasn’t too harrowing.”
“Cor. Harrowing is exactly right,” she said. “Those wenches in uniform are bone-cruel. I cried myself to sleep, hoping some man would hear and take pity. But no one did. I think those wenches would have killed me in the end, if you hadn’t sorted things out.”
“I was lucky, that’s all. But I heard you’ve left Fitchley Park. Someone even said you mean to leave Barking.”
“While I’m young,” Kitty agreed vehemently. “I could have died in this house. Can you imagine? After a life of nothing but scrubbing floors and boiling unmentionables. I’ve had it with village life. Time to see what Plymouth has on offer.”
“What about your engagement to Mr. Collins?” Ben asked. The butler was back at his former post, none the worse for his own ordeal, except for his hair. Apparently lice had been prevalent in the men’s lockup, forcing him to shave his once-luxuriant locks down to a quarter inch. The pink of his scalp shone as he made the rounds, but the guests tried not to stare.
“Him? Pull the other one,” Kitty said. “I told him, ‘Jasper, it’s now or never. Take me away from Barking or let’s shake hands and go our separate ways.’ I should have known he’d never pick me over his lordship.”
“Speaking of his lordship, he’s ever so much better,” Betsy put in meekly. “That’s good news, isn’t it?”
Kitty ignored that. “I still have the worry stone. I ought to fling it at Jasper’s shiny bald head.”
Excusing himself, Ben went to greet Lord Maggart, already less jaundiced and half a stone heavier. Mrs. Grundy’s food tampering had shortened his life, and would no doubt contribute to its premature end, but he no longer had the look of a man at death’s door. He might live another year, or five, or ten. It depended on what a full exam at St. Barnabas turned up, a prospect he had yet to agree to, but was considering. Given where they’d started, Ben was content to let his patient wait until after Christmas before pushing.
The punch was laced heavily with rum. Pleasantly surprised, Ben was contemplating a second cup when he saw Rose Jenkins. She lingered in the doorway, head positioned under a certain bunch of poisonous greenery.
Her back was to him. Maybe she was searching for someone else; maybe she was letting herself be seen. Either way, she was the prettiest woman in the room. Her red hair shone; her frock showed off her petite figure to full advantage.
Ben turned away. He didn’t try to justify the decision to himself. He just did.
To the left of the mantel was a door he remembered from his search of Fitchley Park. It led to an old-fashioned smoking room. He decided to venture inside.
It was a pleasant space with walnut-paneled walls, Turkish carpets, and lots of red leather studded with brass. Altogether it would have been ludicrously masculine, if not for vase upon vase of fresh-cut flowers. Someone had cleared out a hothouse to stage the room for a champagne reception. In a bucket stand, a bottle of Veuve Amiot was already chilling in ice.
Ben decided to take refuge inside. Lady Juliet’s Crossley wasn’t among the cars parked out front, which meant Mr. and Mrs. Bolivar had yet to make their entrance. He didn’t fancy being forced to hang about pretending happiness as they did. Ethan was sure to be insufferable, and the prospect of seeing Lady Juliet in person felt tricky. They’d spoken by telephone, of course—the rumor that Mrs. Grundy had tried to kill him had shot through Birdswing like pink eye through a pump room. Thanks to Lady Victoria and her open door, Ben felt certain the two of them could rekindle their friendship. But not at a party, with that strapping great mooncalf lurking about.
Besides, I don’t want to fall back into the same pattern. Maybe I should ask Rose to the cinema. Or wise up and take a look about. There’s sure to be a few women here I haven’t met. Perhaps a blonde.
That hospital volunteer, Peggy—she was pretty enough to ask out to lunch someday. Clearly, he’d judged her far too harshly for speaking ill of Mrs. Grundy. Perhaps he owed her a second look.
Blondes on his mind, he headed for the sitting area facing the window. Two overstuffed armchairs overlooked the east lawn, which offered leafless trees and the odd patch of green. As if conjured by his thoughts, a woman with honey-blonde hair sat in a chair, head tilted as if dozing. Her smart bob, enlivened by finger waves, emphasized an elegant neck and glittering teardrop earrings. Was this Peggy? Or had he stumbled across a new possibility?
She yawned, putting aside a book and sitting up straighter. Not dozing, then.
This is exactly what I need, he thought. To chat up a woman who makes me feel like a man.
His suit was pressed, his shave was close, and his hair approached Mr. Collins’s pre-arrest perfection. He liked his chances.
“A party’s all very well, but I needed a break from the conspicuous gaiety,” he announced, strolling forth to introduce himself. “It seems you did—”
He broke off. The next word, “too,” had gone out of his head, possibly never to return. “I… er….”
“Dr. Bones. Sorry I was hiding in here. You know me and parties. I always escape to read for a bit if I can manage. Besides… I was a little shy of seeing you again.”
The
voice confirmed that he was looking at Lady Juliet. It was uncanny. He didn’t know what to say, but he had to say something.
“You look stunning,” he mumbled. “I can’t believe it.”
She raised both eyebrows.
“Sorry. That is to say….” He stopped, took a deep breath, and tried again. “When did you become a blonde?”
“Round about the time Lord Maggart saved your life, I think,” Lady Juliet said, crossing her legs at the ankles. She sounded composed, but color was rising in her cheeks. For the first time since they’d met, she was made up. The cosmetics were so skillfully applied, the change seemed almost like a flattering trick of the light: complexion more even, lips redder, eyelashes jet-black.
“It suits you.” He stuck his hands in his pockets, pulled them out, and tried to remember what he usually did with them. The aura of casual interest he’d perfected with Rose had deserted him.
“So does the, er….” His hands waved about absurdly, indicating the sapphire blue dress. It celebrated her proportions instead of trying to conceal them, emphasizing her broad shoulders and that unexpectedly graceful neck. He wondered what it would be like to lift her hair and brush his lips along a soft, hidden curl.
“What is it? Have I got it wrong?” Lady Juliet sounded worried. “Is it the fête all over again?”
“No, no. It’s just—my detection skills must be failing. I missed the Crossley parked out front.”
“That’s because it’s parked out back. Ethan and I brought these flowers,” she said, indicating the extravagant blooms. “It was easiest to take them through the tradesman’s entrance. We brought the champagne, too. For a toast in your honor.”
“Oh. I see. Well. I’m glad you and Lady Maggart called a truce. But I’m not sure I deserve all this. I didn’t realize what Mrs. Grundy was about until it was nearly too late.”
“Odette’s alive because of you. You’re the hero of the hour. Act like it,” Lady Juliet said, sounding more like her old self now that she was telling him what to do. “I heard you went to Plymouth to give evidence. I do hope it went well.”
“It did,” Ben said. “Justice will be done.”
“And it’s already been done in Mrs. Grundy’s case. Self-inflicted,” Lady Juliet said. “Unless you think it was an accident. How her wound reopened in the night.”
“No. I warned her. She must have flexed her leg when Gaston wasn’t looking. Then lay there, bleeding to death, in total silence.” Ben sighed. “Maybe it’s for the best. It spares Lord and Lady Maggart from further scrutiny. It will also keep the details of her affair with Bobby from getting back to the twins. Still, I can’t help feeling like the world failed her. She accused me of romanticizing her because of her deformity. Perhaps I did. In which case, my empathy was wasted.”
“I used to worry about that when a charitable scheme flopped. As if my goodwill had been squandered by the undeserving,” Lady Juliet said. “But now I’ve come to believe kindness is never wasted. Genuine interest in another person always opens a door, if only within ourselves.”
“You really are one of a kind,” Ben said. “And I was an arse when I left you alone at Fenton House. Forgive me.”
Tears sprang to her eyes. She blinked awkwardly. “I don’t know what to do. I’m not used to mascara. They warned me quite severely not to rub my face.”
“Let me.” Gently, he swept away a tear as it fell. “There. Good as new.”
“Ju! His Lordship found it,” a familiar hearty voice intruded. “A saber to open the champagne. Good thing the merry murderess didn’t use it to cut throats, or we wouldn’t—oh-ho! Bonesy! This room was meant to be off-limits. You’ve cracked the case on our little tribute.”
Reluctantly, Ben turned. Ethan Bolivar was wearing another “blacker-than-black” suit. Its glossy midnight blue undertones would perfectly complement Lady Juliet’s dress when they stood side-by-side. But instead of barging in between them, Ethan remained where he was, fingering the ceremonial sword. The gold tassel hanging from the D-guard caught a ray of sunlight and gleamed.
“You’re going to open a bottle with a sword?” Ben asked.
“With a sword and with style. Sabrage is a vanishing art,” Ethan said. “French in origin. Napoleonic, I think. The ladies love it.”
“I don’t know how you discover these things,” Lady Juliet said.
“I only just said. The ladies love it.” Ethan slashed playfully at the air. “Arise, my darling. Your ensemble isn’t seen at its best when seated.”
“I don’t mean to be rude. Darling.” She tacked on the endearment with such woodenness that it would have made Ben laugh, had he not been obligated to feign belief. “But could Dr. Bones and I have a moment alone?”
“Oh. Yes. Certainly.” Ethan slashed at the air again. “I’ll just make the rounds in the other room. Show off the saber and all that.”
“I’m sorry,” Lady Juliet murmured as Ethan exited. “He won’t be around forever. Business will call him away before long. No doubt you think me mad. It’s only… the truth is ….”
Ben couldn’t let her break her oath. “Ethan’s right,” he interrupted. “You really must stand up. Let me see you in those heels.” He nodded at her black patent-leather pumps.
“These? Mother insisted, but they’re devilish hard to walk in. Besides, they make me so tall, I feel as if there’s a beanstalk I ought to climb.”
“Nonsense. Stand up.”
She did. In heels, her legs were elongated and nothing less than spectacular. She was also three inches taller, forcing him to lift his chin to take her all in.
“See? They propel me into the stratosphere,” Lady Juliet said.
“Yes.” He smiled. “And there’s no one I’d rather look up to.”
THE END
From the Author
I hope you’ve enjoyed book two of this series, the Dr. Benjamin Bones Mysteries. If the ending left you wanting more (and I hope it did!) please have a look at Dr. Bones and the Christmas Wish. It takes place a few days after the conclusion of this book, and will answer at least one burning question, I promise.
I had so much fun writing Dr. Bones and the Christmas Wish, I decided to write another novella, Dr. Bones and the Lost Love Letter. I’ve decided to call these short works the Magic of Cornwall series, and they are among my favorite things I’ve ever written.
For those who’ve enjoyed my Lord & Lady Hetheridge mystery series, I want to assure you it will absolutely continue, hopefully as long as I continue! Book #5, Blue Blooded, is available now.
Thank you for reading Divorce Can Be Deadly. If you enjoyed it, please consider leaving a brief review. Reviews are the lifeblood of my mysteries, and honest reviews make all the difference in a book that’s noticed and a book that goes unread.
Cheers!
Emma Jameson
2018
Marriage Can Be Murder (Bones #1)
Dr. Bones and the Christmas Wish (Magic of Cornwall #1)
Dr. Bones and the Lost Love Letter (Magic of Cornwall #2)
Copyright © 2018 by Emma Jameson
First Publication, 2016
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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Author’s Note
This short story, Book #1 of my Magic of Cornwall series, takes place after the second Dr. Bones mystery, Divorce Can Be Deadly. It isn’t necessary to read that first, but I recommend you do. Cheers!
Chapter 1
Dr. Benjamin Bones had no opinion on Christmas. That is to say, he had no polite opinion on Christmas. His actual opinion, the one he knew better than to say aloud, was that Christmas was a disappointment, a raising of hopes only to dash them, a festival of flash and dazzle which, come January, was hard to pay for and even harder
to justify. That was Christmas: disappointment, with a price tag.
It didn’t help that Cornwall, famously temperate compared to the rest of England, had turned bitterly cold. Or that the cold made his recently injured left leg ache in the morning and throb all night. Or that the woman who’d been right in front of him, the woman he’d found himself falling in love with, could never be his.
She’s back with her husband. I should be happy for her, he told himself.
His reflection scowled at him from the window of a secondhand shop. His coat collar was turned up, his red scarf double-wrapped, his fedora pulled low. In Ben’s native London, these clues, along with the grim set of his mouth, would have signaled passersby to give him a wide berth. In his adopted village of Birdswing, they had no effect whatsoever on the residents, who ranged from sociable to pathologically friendly.
“Oh! Dr. Bones. I hate to interrupt,” said Mrs. Parry. Her booming voice would have told him who was speaking, even if he couldn’t see the heavy, buxom woman in the gray coat cruising up slowly, like a battleship, behind him. “But you’ve been standing outside Howell’s for five minutes. Are you quite all right?”
He took a deep breath. Mrs. Parry sounded sweetly concerned, but then she always did. She lived directly across the street from him, and whenever he so much as stepped out to take the air, her white lace curtains twitched. If Special Constable Gaston knocked on his door, or Lady Juliet roared up in her Crossley, Mrs. Parry invented some reason to wander over for a closer look. She knew his affairs as well as he did, perhaps better. For a moment Ben was tempted to say so.
But looking into her face, he just couldn’t. Mrs. Parry was a Nosy Parker of the first degree, but that didn’t make her concern for him any less genuine. Her gaze was soft; the corners of her mouth turned up hopefully. Her son had been killed in the Great War; both her daughters had married and gone away. A young widower like Ben triggered both her instinct to snoop and her desire to nurture.