Olive Bright, Pigeoneer

by Stephanie Graves

  Gillian Forrester popped up just beyond her peripheral vision and asked eagerly, “Is your dishy captain here somewhere?” Olive turned to see the girl scanning the crowd.

  Her mother, standing beside her, chided, “Really, Gillian.”

  “He’s not here,” Miss Danes answered. “I’d recognise him straightaway—those shoulders are a dead giveaway.” Her plump hand was laid on her plump bosom. “Wherever did you find him?”

  Olive was tempted to say she’d run him down with her bicycle, but knew she didn’t dare.

  “He found her,” Margaret cut in, relishing this little bit of private knowledge. Naturally, this sent a wave of intrigue through the clustered group.

  “So, it was you who asked him to the dance?” Miss Danes queried.

  Lady Camilla pressed her fingers to the back of her neck, where her neat upsweep was surely being mussed by the mask. She was clearly determined to cling to decorum amid a sea of gossipy, goggle-eyed creatures.

  “No, he asked me,” Olive lied smoothly from behind the layers of rubber and asbestos that covered her mouth. “He’d seen the poster on the village noticeboard.”

  “He seems to have got more than he bargained for,” said a voice from behind her.

  Startled, Olive turned and found herself staring disconcertingly at yet another gas mask, but this one was whimsically topped with a wide-brimmed straw hat, a cobalt-blue scarf tied at its crown. A belted caftan and flowing trousers hinted that the newcomer was none other than Violet Darling. So, too, did the timid figure of Miss Rose, half hidden behind her, readily recognisable in her Fair Isle jumper and lace-up library shoes.

  “Gossip abounds,” she went on sweetly. “I understand that he was with you when you found Miss Husselbee’s body outside your pigeon loft.”

  A collective gasp went up.

  “Was he?” Gillian said excitedly, clearly having got hold of the wrong end of the stick. No one else cared that the pair might have been trysting in the dark; curiosity had shifted from romance to death.

  “He was,” Olive said shortly.

  “Lucky for him, he arrived in the village too late for the woman to prowl about in his private business.”

  “Violet, don’t,” Miss Rose said quietly. She laid a quelling hand on her sister’s arm.

  “Oh, leave off, Rose,” she said with a vicious motion. “I can’t be the only one who breathed a sigh of relief to hear it was finally over. The years she spent watching and listening for every little mistake, jotting notes and keeping track like an earthbound Saint Peter.” Her lips curved ever so slightly. “Well, no longer.”

  Only a few steps away, a cluster of men were gruffly arguing, and beyond were the carefree calls of children, but there was a sudden hush over their little group. Gillian had stepped closer to her mother.

  “You won’t admit it,” Violet went on, “none of you will, but I rather suspect there are enough of us to have formed a club. What fun those meetings would have been.” She tipped her head back on a hollow laugh. “We’ve all heard it was poison that killed her. Someone must have administered it. Someone who is, even now, hiding behind a mask, breathing with happy relief.” She paused, eyeing them each in turn. “I’ll leave you with a shocking truth. It wasn’t I.” With that final salvo, she whirled and, with their eyes trailing her, walked to the opposite side of the green to sit beside Harriet.

  “Well, she doesn’t pull any punches, does she?” Margaret said admiringly.

  “For all her faults, the woman is dead,” Miss Danes said sharply. “She deserves a little Christian charity. And I, for one, certainly didn’t kill her, no matter what she dared accuse me of.”

  “It would seem,” Margaret said slowly, “that there’s a terrifying truth to what Miss Darling suggested. It certainly makes one think.” After a pause, she added, “I hear she’s to be our Lizzy Bennet.”

  “I’m not certain Harriet was cut out for the responsibility involved in casting this play,” Miss Danes snapped.

  “Oh, I don’t know. I rather think she tapped into our true natures,” Lady Camilla replied. According to Harriet, she’d been delighted with the role of Lady Catherine—and even more so at having Miss Danes cast as Wickham.

  Before Miss Danes could bluster a response, Rupert Bright called out abruptly over the din. “All right now. We’re ready to start the drill.”

  It was then that Olive noticed that Miss Rose had slipped quietly away. She’d accepted the role of Mary Bennet without argument.

  * * *

  It was over almost as soon as it began. A bonfire had been built at the edge of the green, and the Home Guard now stood waving rugs on its far side in an effort to send the billowing clouds of smoke toward the cluster of villagers, most of whom patiently bided the exercise. There were, of course, the exceptions: those who hadn’t quite got the hang of tightening the straps of their masks and fell into coughing fits as the smoke overcame them, and those—mostly children—who attempted to navigate the murky environs, extending their arms out in front of them like Frankenstein’s monster as they slunk slowly through the man-made fog.

  In those few, otherworldly moments, with her head swimming in a private cloud, Olive reviewed what she’d discovered. She was forced to admit that despite Margaret’s abject refusal to share the secret that had prompted her ugly confrontation with Miss Husselbee, she believed her friend’s protestations of innocence. Similarly, Violet Darling’s bold admission of relief at the Sergeant Major’s death didn’t fit the modus operandi of a murderer. Every bit of new information led her to further questions. It couldn’t hurt to take a quick peek through Miss Husselbee’s notebook before it was turned over to the police—if she could ever manage to get her hands on it. Curiosity was pricking at her as fiercely as the desire for justice. She may not have been much liked, but Verity Husselbee hadn’t deserved such a horrible, harrowing death.

  As the smoke dissipated and the masks came off, a good number of villagers headed for the Fox and Duck. Harriet, however, was among those ready to be off. Olive could see that her thin frame, even supported by her husband, was entirely too wobbly. She camouflaged it well; with her ready smile and a tailored dress in a cherry-red and white print, Harriet perpetrated the elaborate illusion that the disease was no match for her typical aplomb. She’d be boosted into the lorry used by the Home Guard and ferried back home, but once safely ensconced in her parlour, with no one the wiser, she’d collapse in exhaustion and reach for her little enamelled box. Olive couldn’t help but feel a mild sense of relief that she wasn’t going off somewhere far away.

  Leo sidled up beside her, his gas mask tucked under his arm and his hands thrust deep in his pockets.

  “She’s getting worse, isn’t she?” he asked, following her gaze to Harriet and her father.

  “Little by little. But she’s managing,” Olive said, glancing up at him.

  His dog collar was softened by a camel-brown cardigan, patched at the elbows with ovals of tweed. Paired with the spectacles he now needed to review his sermons and the church accounts, he had the look of an armchair scholar. Margaret had been prompt in appending her assessment: an armchair scholar with the physique of a university oarsman. Olive tucked her tongue into her cheek at the memory of that gossipy afternoon on the little island in Pipley Pool, the pair of them sheltered behind the green curtain of its languid weeping willow. But she quickly sobered, her thoughts routed by her friend’s recent suspicious behaviour.

  Glancing around, she saw that Margaret was chatting with Gillian Forrester, the pair likely bemoaning the travails of wartime glamour. She had a few moments at least, and she decided to take advantage. She linked her arm with Leo’s and tugged him away.

  “I’m a bit worried about Margaret, though.”

  “You’re not the only one,” he admitted, his frown pulling at the corners of his eyes. “But there’s no use trying to grill me for information. She hasn’t confided in me.”

  Olive nodded once. “So, no confession of
murder.” Leo turned sharply in alarm, prompting her to add, “Ignore me. Miss Husselbee’s sudden death has me on edge as much as Margaret’s stubborn refusal to confide in me. I’ve been reading too many Christie mysteries and have been fancying myself an amateur sleuth.” Feeling punchy, she leaned closer and said, “Shall I add you as a suspect?”

  The question prompted a deep frown to overtake his typically placid face. “Why would you ask that?”

  “Margaret’s told me you have hidden depths.” She imbued the words with teasing curiosity.

  He coloured. “I don’t think murder is what she was implying.” In a low, solemn voice, he added, “Is it official, then? It really was murder?”

  “No, not yet,” she admitted. “But you can consider yourself crossed off my list. And you needn’t worry. I don’t suspect Margaret, either. It’s honestly difficult to suspect anyone.”

  “Of course it is. Even in the midst of war, it’s demoralizing to think of one person taking the life of another.”

  “You’re right,” she said with a sad smile. Leo was gazing over her left shoulder, and she turned to watch Margaret’s approach.

  “Hello, darling,” her friend said, going up on her toes to buss a kiss over her fiancé’s cheek, which promptly rounded in delight. But his eyes, as they met Olive’s, were troubled.

  She could offer only an encouraging smile. “Well, I’m off, then,” she said, having caught sight of someone with whom she wanted a word.

  “Dr Harrington,” she called, walking quickly across the green. “May I speak with you?” The older man turned to glance back at her and then waited politely as she approached.

  “Not sick, are you?” he said dryly, peering down at her from under his trilby hat, his gruff demeanour made more approachable by the flash of a dimple.

  “No, nothing like that,” she assured him, falling into step beside him. “How’s Dotty faring?” she asked, her lips curving at the thought of the energetic Jack Russell terrier.

  “She’s doing just fine, and Mrs Harrington is pleased to have her as a companion.” When his wife had insisted they couldn’t keep the little dog in the early days of the war, he had been devastated and had declared himself in Olive’s debt when she’d managed to change Mrs Harrington’s mind. “And what can I do for you?” he asked shrewdly.

  “I wanted to ask you about Miss Husselbee.”

  Dr Harrington would have been the one to examine her, making him the ideal person to answer her questions. He eyed her quizzically, his lips twitching below his moustache, as if poised to deny her.

  She hurried on. “We’ve just been so distressed by her death, and finding her, in such a state, at the Lodge. Jonathon, poor dear, said she was confused and disoriented. She’d been sick.” Remembering those bleak, horrible moments sent a shudder through Olive.

  He sighed resignedly. “Yes, well,” he said, briskly, “those are symptoms of foxglove poisoning, which, I’m sure you know, was the result of the post-mortem.”

  “And you’re certain that’s how she died?” It was an impertinent question; her only excuse was a desperate desire to escape the horrid reality of murder. Dr Harrington seemed to understand this and did not take offence.

  “Digoxin isn’t typically included in an autopsy toxicology screen,” he told her, “but I have several patients being treated with it and thus some experience at recognizing the effects of the drug. Verity Husselbee was the picture of health, with no complaints of the heart, and yet she died of that organ’s failure. Curious, I thought.”

  Olive nodded her understanding and said quietly, “It can’t have been an accident, can it?”

  “I tested her blood, and there were elevated, toxic levels of several cardiac glycosides, all of which are present in the foxglove plant.” He leaned closer. “In addition,” he added delicately, “there was the vomit, a known side effect of foxglove poisoning. It was a . . . er . . . reflux of a Spam and potato cake, which, I understand, was served at the dance. It would appear the cake had been dosed quite heavily.”

  “But the whole village was at the dance, and Miss Husselbee is certainly no wallflower. Someone should have noticed she was ill, shouldn’t they?”

  She must have sounded guilt ridden, as the question prompted the doctor to lay a gentle hand on her shoulder.

  “The symptoms likely didn’t manifest straightaway, and they might very well have come on quite gradually as she walked home or, rather, off. Her appearance at Blackcap Lodge could be the result of hallucinations or a general state of confusion caused by the poison.”

  Olive didn’t bother to mention Miss Husselbee’s final word; it seemed likely it was merely an adverse effect of the poison.

  “I must be off,” Dr Harrington said briskly. “If you have other questions, come along to the inquest with your father.” He tipped his hat and started off again, his gas mask tucked carefully under his arm.

  Olive stared after him. There could be no doubt now: murder had been done. The inquest would simply make it official.

  Hearing footfalls behind her, she turned to see Captain Aldridge walking towards her through the daffodils, his face a mask of aloof detachment.

  Chapter 12

  Monday, 5th May

  Despite her uncertainty, Olive flashed a wide smile and rose on her toes to kiss him on the cheek. “Hello, Jamie,” she said brightly, catching his eye and daring him to follow her lead. Rather shockingly, he took her free hand, laced his fingers with hers, and pulled her toward the river. She felt cold, her thoughts bleak, and the warmth of his callous-roughened hand was surprisingly comforting.

  The New River glinted a shimmery blue-gold in the sun. It had rained the night before, and the ground was criss-crossed with muddy tracks, but the grass was a dizzying spring green, with wildflowers scattered throughout. Olive let herself imagine, just for a moment, that the war was over and life, back to normal. And then she promptly stilled, horrified that she might have accidentally given Captain Aldridge’s hand a happy squeeze.

  “You weren’t here for the training exercise, were you?” she said abruptly, hoping he hadn’t overheard the gossip pertaining to her “dishy captain,” particularly her contribution to it.

  “Thankfully, no. I’d only just arrived when everyone dispersed. Was that the doctor you were speaking to?” he said, nodding after the retreating form of Dr Harrington.

  Deliberately ignoring his question, she asked, “Where did you come from? Don’t tell me you walked from Brickendonbury.”

  He waited a moment to respond, perhaps wondering if he should press her for an answer, and finally said, “I left the car in the wood near the lodge and came down to the village when I realised no one was about. I brought the feed, as promised, and your uniform.”

  Now she did squeeze his hand, without a hint of self-consciousness. No matter what Margaret had to say on the matter, Olive was thrilled at the opportunity to don a FANY uniform and get to be doing official work, whatever it might be.

  He reached into his inner jacket pocket and pulled out a trim leather volume. “And this, as well.”

  Her eyes widened. “Is that the notebook?” She’d never really got a good look at it in the dark. It had been pulled from Miss Husselbee’s pocket and handed over straightaway.

  “It is. And I’ve tucked the message from your friend inside.”

  Her startled gaze flew up to meet his steady eyes, which now seemed more blue than grey, as she tugged the notebook from his grasp. She fanned through the pages to quickly reach the bookmarked page. With a glimpse at the thin paper marked with George’s precise handwriting, her heart kicked over, but she quickly tamped down her mawkish reaction, eager that he not see. “What did you find out?” she said, glancing up at him. A little thrill shot through her veins at the possibility of another clue, no matter that she was officially done with sleuthing.

  “Nothing useful. The good news is, the woman appears to have had no connection to Baker Street or Station Seventeen whatsoever.”
<
br />   “That may be, but I’m certain there’s something here that points to her murderer.”

  “If it was murder,” he said pointedly, “the police will be looking for the most likely suspect.” Olive opened her mouth to protest that there was a village worth of suspects, but it seemed he wasn’t quite finished. “And from what I understand from Jonathon, your friend is suspect number one.”

  She’d been flipping through the pages, scanning the shorthand notes written in the Sergeant Major’s neat script, but now her head jerked up. “Margaret?” she demanded, the pitch of her voice rising. “What on earth did he tell you?”

  “That they argued about your friend’s sordid past,” he said dryly. Olive suddenly wanted to slap him.

  “She is not a murderer.” Never mind that intuition wasn’t a precisely compelling argument for the defence.

  “Really? Do you have a better suspect in mind?”

  Olive stared at him, at the unruly waves of dark hair, the steady, knowing gaze, and the mocking tilt of his eyebrow, suddenly aware that cluing him in on the Mass Observation diaries and the medicinal plants scheme would serve no purpose. Miss Husselbee’s sudden and unexpected demise didn’t touch him—not really. He didn’t know any of the players in this particular drama, and he fully expected it would play out exactly as it should, without any help from the pair of them. George would have listened to her theories and tagged along to the occasional burglary, and Olive realised she’d been harbouring a buried hope that Captain Aldridge might, somehow, fill the void he’d left behind. It was too naïvely optimistic of her. They were entirely incompatible—he would never be curious for curiosity’s sake, never be reckless or daring or bold. Confiding in him would lead only to disagreements and frustration.