Olive Bright, Pigeoneer

by Stephanie Graves

  “Not one I’m willing to share,” she said, her jaw painfully tight.

  He eyed her for another long moment before replying. “Suit yourself. I doubt you’ll make heads or tails of the rubbish in that little book. Just see that when you’re done, you turn it in to the police.”

  “Me?” she demanded, thoroughly exasperated. “Am I to always be left to talk you out of trouble?”

  His eyebrows went up, and in a startling change of pace, his lips broadened into an amused smile. “You report directly to me, Miss Bright. Or had you forgotten?”

  “I hadn’t forgotten, Captain Aldridge,” she said tightly. “It would be impossible for me to do so, as you’re determined to exert your authority at every opportunity.”

  His teeth flashed then, straight and white. “Aren’t you supposed to be calling me Jamie?”

  Ignoring him, she stepped closer and raised her index finger to poke him in his very solid chest. “I did not yet report to you when you decided to remove evidence from the body of a poisoned woman and withhold it from the police.” She felt compelled to add, “Except, perhaps, on matters concerning pigeons.” She then indulged herself in one more poke, for good measure.

  He grabbed hold of her finger and tugged, setting her off balance and putting them very close indeed. “You’re not entirely innocent, Olive,” he said quietly, his voice an Irish purr that sent goose pimples down her spine. “You removed the evidence, and you did nothing to stop me from carrying it off. You, my darling, are an accessory,” he said, releasing her finger and then flashing another toothy grin, this one decidedly triumphant. Before she could protest—it was a toss-up whether the endearment or the accusation was more startling—he leaned in again, quick as a flash. His lips brushing the hair at her temple, he whispered, “Just do it. And don’t pretend you’ll have any trouble. We both know differently.”

  “Yes, sir,” she said coldly, tucking the notebook out of sight and jamming her hands into her pockets.

  They walked in silence for several long moments, and Olive watched the finches dart in and out of the hedgerows, letting the birdsong calm her thoughts. A movement on the other side of the river caught her eye: a couple sat on the bench opposite, tilted toward each other and speaking softly. She slowed her steps as she realised the cosy pair was Dr Ware and Miss Rose, their movements tentative and rather awkward, their sidelong glances sweet and shy. Not wanting to intrude, she laid a rigid finger to her lips and tugged her companion into the shadow of the nearest tree.

  She peered curiously around the trunk and beamed at Dr Ware’s freshly combed hair and cherry-red handkerchief and Miss Rose’s primly buttoned pale blue cardigan and neatly arranged skirt. It was adorably obvious that they were as sincere in their affair as she and Aldridge were disingenuous. They were perfectly suited. This was romance, sweet and hopeful; it did her heart good. Miss Rose must have been referring to Dr Ware when she’d confided that there was someone she hoped could see her true self. The Sergeant Major’s accusations swam into her thoughts, but Olive quashed them. Dr Ware couldn’t possibly have parlayed his absent-minded, thoroughly endearing innocence into any sort of intrigue. They’d barged into his shop before it was even open and taken him unawares. What had looked like shifty behaviour was likely just frazzled exasperation. He’d wanted a few moments of privacy to work on his formulas or read the latest scientific journal, and they’d interrupted. His reaction had been thoroughly justified. The contented smile that had settled over her face faded instantly at the voice in her ear.

  “Which one of them is on your list of suspects?” He was peering past her, his jaw, beside hers, already darkening with stubble.

  “Oh, hush,” she said irritably. She took hold of his arm and dragged him off. She tried to smile, as a concession to their cover story, but she suspected she managed only a grimace. Why couldn’t Tierney have been the pigeon liaison and Aldridge the killing instructor? It seemed a much better fit.

  As if sensing her frustration, he began whistling out of tune.

  “Must you?”

  “That depends. Am I allowed to talk now?” He seemed in rather a good humour.

  Olive gestured expansively for him to proceed.

  “There are a few things we need to discuss, and seeing as there’s no one about to eavesdrop, now’s as good a time as any.” When she didn’t reply, he pressed on. “We’re going to need a bigger pool of pigeons.” He was quick to clarify. “That is, if this first mission is successful and it’s decided that we’ll continue to use the birds.”

  She turned slowly to look at him. “Let me get this straight. You’re suggesting that I encourage my birds to breed in the hope that, at some future date, Station Seventeen might require their services.”

  “I wouldn’t expect it requires too much encouragement, does it?”

  Olive glared. “And how exactly,” she said tightly, “am I expected to feed all these extra birds if it’s concluded by some narrow-minded individual that they are not worth the trouble?” She spied Mr Beamish approaching along the path just as Aldridge slipped his hand around hers. Without missing a beat, she arranged her face to express the sort of shy happiness she imagined she could conceivably be feeling if her fingers were linked with those of someone who didn’t behave like an utter blockhead where she and her pigeons were concerned. She then added quietly, “To say nothing of how I might explain this glut of young birds to my father when, as far as anyone knows, I have no way to feed them and no reason to encourage amorous activities.”

  When the scent of mothballs and perspiration had trailed off behind them, they dropped each other’s hands and shifted apart as if magnetically repelled.

  “Olive,” he said calmly. “This is what you signed up for. This job requires you to be resourceful, to find a way of making people believe what you want them to believe so that they don’t suspect the truth.” He stopped walking, and she pulled up short beside him, rather startled at his solemn expression. “I know I don’t need to ask if you can handle that, so I’ll ask instead, Are you committed to doing what’s necessary?”

  Olive had wilted a bit, feeling abruptly ashamed to have complained about such trivial difficulties when so many across the Channel were making tremendous life-altering sacrifices every day in the face of Nazi occupation. Having Aldridge deliver the lecture was all the more demoralising. But pride snapped her resolve smartly in place. “Of course I am. The fact that I’ve agreed to head the Pipley Pig Club should be all the proof you need,” she said, her voice heavy with sarcasm. “Murder,” she muttered, turning and setting off at a brisk pace back toward the village. She didn’t even bother to check that Aldridge was following her. “The piglets are being delivered today. I need to go look them over and make sure everything is shipshape.”

  Expecting him to object, she was surprised to find him amenable and grinning. “There’s no shortage of code-name possibilities for you now, is there?”

  “I don’t need a code name,” she snapped, striding briskly. “I’m not an officer or an agent.”

  “But the Brights are pigeon famous. Or so I’ve been led to believe,” he teased, easily keeping pace. “We wouldn’t want the Germans coming to look for you.”

  “Why not? Jonathon and Hen would likely relish the chance to dispatch them.”

  “Hen?” he said sharply. It was almost comical the way he could switch between personalities; one moment he was teasing and mildly charming, and the next he was abrupt and thoroughly suspicious. She wondered suddenly if he’d ever been an agent—before he’d been deemed medically unfit. If their relationship were different, she would ask him. But she’d been put dispassionately in her place enough times to know the way the wind blew, and she wasn’t in the mood for the chill just now.

  Olive held up her hand to stave off a peppering of questions. “Henrietta Gibbons. She’s a friend of Jonathon’s—a Girl Guide. We’ve not told her anything we shouldn’t, and you don’t need to strong-arm her into signing the Official Secrets
Act, although I’m sure she’d dearly love to.” When his eyes narrowed in either suspicion or confusion, she went on. “The pair of them are thick as thieves, with plans for sabotaging a Nazi invasion that would make your hair stand on end. But as far as you and I and the country are concerned, they’re harmless.” She smiled thinly. “Now,” she finished, “shall we get back to business, or is it time for me to bat my eyelashes at you again?”

  Olive could have been mistaken, but it looked very much as if Captain Aldridge was blushing. For some reason, that made her impishly happy. With a brusque clearing of his throat, they were back to normal again.

  “Right. I assume you’re on schedule with the first round of pigeons?” He paused for Olive’s nod of confirmation, then went on. “I’ll pick them up Sunday morning, we’ll get them crated up, and they’ll go out from RAF Stradishall around ten in the evening.”

  “I want to see them off,” she said stoutly.

  Watching his lungs expand in preparation for an all-suffering sigh, she cut him off. “Is there a chance you might politely consider my argument, or would you rather just dismiss the idea out of hand?”

  “Have at it,” he said with a magnanimous gesture. But it was ruined when he quipped, “But it’s unlikely your argument will sway me.”

  “How fair-minded of you,” she retorted. “Let me ask you this. Have any of the agents been trained to handle pigeons or been instructed how to care for them?”

  “Not yet, but if—”

  “If this mission goes well, then perhaps you’ll look into it?” she said before sighing and starting over. “Like any animal, these birds will perform at their greatest capability if nurtured and trained. They have been trained,” she said bluntly. “They will be as ready as it is possible for them to be, but they deserve a bit of consideration. Don’t think me overly sentimental. I know the risks. Some will be injured, and some may never return to the loft. But given an opportunity to reduce those risks—to ensure the birds are well rested, to reduce their anxiety at being away from their mates and young, and to assure proper handling as they’re loaded into the crates—I’d be a fool not to request it. And as someone invested in their longevity and the success of this mission, you’d be wise to encourage it.” She crossed her arms and levelled him with a look, primed to parry every objection he laid before her.

  He didn’t answer immediately, which prompted a cautious optimism—even the fact that he was considering her request was more than she would have expected. After an interminable silence, broken only by the drone of an aircraft flying somewhere behind the trees, Aldridge ran a rough hand through his windswept hair, gave vent to a frustrated oath, and settled his steady gaze on her. “I’ll pick you and the pigeons up at eight o’clock at the edge of the wood. You’ll be home quite late, although I expect you’ll have no trouble coming up with an excuse,” he said dryly.

  Her face warmed with a grateful smile, and she stopped just short of throwing her hands around him for an impromptu hug. Instead, she slipped her arm through his and made to tug him along the river path, wondering if she could sweet-talk him a little further. The little thrill that whipped through her with each negotiated success was enough to smooth over the brusque attitude that Aldridge seemed to think was required for efficient dealings. Willing to play the game, she endeavoured to be politely subordinate as he reviewed the expectations and instructions for their own private pigeon service.

  By the time they’d reached the empty plot behind Forrester’s Garage, she’d even convinced him to let her hold on to the borrowed Welbike for a bit longer—in the interest of a more rigorous training regimen for the birds. With that reprieve granted, conversation abruptly stopped, for there was a crowd gathered to welcome the newest members of the village. Three sweet-faced piglets trotted about the space, watched closely by several young children and a rowdy contingent of the Home Guard, who had outfitted the little pen with its short fence and sturdily built troughs for food and water. She smiled at Mr Battlesby, who stood off by himself at the edge of the pen; he did not respond in kind.

  Olive pulled open the gate, thankful she’d had the foresight to wear trousers and boots that morning, and stepped into the pen, careful to set the latch behind her. Her nose twitched, and she flicked a glance to the far corner, where a makeshift barrow was positioned in the shade. She’d enlisted Hen and Jonathon to go around and collect scraps at kitchen doors, and judging by the haul, the whole village was investing in a future bright with bacon.

  Stepping carefully through the muck, she caught the piglets up one by one, intent on giving each a thorough looking over, from their wrinkled little snouts to their twirly pink tails. “Well, that’s easy enough,” she announced when it was done. “The girls both have black spots on their rumps, and this little chap has a marking like a monocle around his right eye.” She was pleased to see that they all looked entirely healthy and even rather adorable. One of the girls was a trifle runty, but she had the sweetest liquid eyes and fuzzy nose. Mrs Crandall’s two small daughters, trussed up in their coats against the chilly breeze, were quite enamoured with the trio, judging by the fuss they made when it was time to move along. Keeping her gaze trained on the piglets as they rooted about in the muck, Olive said briskly, “They’ll need names, of course.”

  Instantly, the peanut gallery of gawkers began calling out possible names, everything from Benji, Marigold, and Tilly to Trotter, Haggis, and Gammon, the latter suggestions raucously put forth by a portly old fellow wearing the armband of the Home Guard and a flat cap of blue and red tartan. Olive almost expected to hear the sharp tap of an umbrella ferrule—and Miss Husselbee’s strident tones calling a halt to the nonsense—but it didn’t come. Instead, there were tears pricking the backs of her eyes, threatening to blur her vision.

  “All right, thank you,” she said quellingly as the competition became as spirited as an auction, with shouts going up from every direction. “When they’re decided, I’ll post their names on the pen,” she promised.

  With nods all around, the men unhitched themselves from the fence and turned to go. Mr Battlesby’s hooded gaze seemed full of suspicion and was aimed directly at Aldridge, but as Olive opened her mouth to speak to him, he turned brusquely away.

  Aldridge, who was looking less starchily official, with his forearms resting against the top fence rail, turned his gaze to follow the man’s ambling retreat. “It might be easier all around if they don’t have names,” he suggested.

  Olive stared at him. “Are we not to talk to them, either, or show them any affection? Is it better that their lives should be miserable simply because they are bound for the dinner table?”

  A hand clapped comradely against Aldridge’s shoulder, and Mr Duerden advised, “Pick your battles, son. This one”—he flicked his head to indicate Olive and shot her a wink—“is willing to die on every hill.”

  Olive’s lips twisted wryly. “He’s no stranger to such battles, Mr Duerden,” she said tartly, spearing Aldridge with a look. “You needn’t worry about him.” She turned back towards the piglets as the men moved off, snickering among themselves. Judging by the general bonhomie of the group, their next stop would be the Fox and Duck.

  When their voices had faded away, he spoke. “Swilly, Finn, and Eske.”

  Olive swivelled to stare once again at Aldridge’s long length, which was folded over the fence. “Pardon?”

  “Swilly, Finn, and Eske,” he repeated. “All three are rivers in County Donegal, Ireland.”

  “My question was really, What of them?”

  The sun had disappeared, swallowed up by scudding clouds that chilled the air and seemed to promise drizzle, if not outright rain, in the hours ahead. In the altered light, every bit of him appeared as if in stark relief—darker, blunter, solid. His eyes, reflecting the sky above, were lit with a fierce intensity and now seemed the colour of shadowed twilight.

  “I’m proposing them as names for the pigs.”

  Olive blinked, letting his suggestio
ns roll over themselves in her head, trying them out even as she wondered if he was having her on. His face gave nothing away, and she wondered what had prompted his thoroughly unexpected outburst. Was it a bit of homesickness? A desperate white flag sent up in hopes of avoiding yet another argument? Or was it an olive branch? There was no way to tell without asking him outright, and even then, his answer might not be truthful. But without a clue, she was determined to settle on the latter.

  She glanced behind her, and her gaze arrowed to where the animals in question were currently prodding their rosy pink snouts at the edges of the tipped barrow, evidently tantalised by the nauseating aroma of scraps.

  “Finn,” she called, feeling absurdly self-conscious. But instantly, one head lifted quizzically—the monocled male, his mouth ringed in some questionable food matter—and she couldn’t help but grin. “Well, I suppose that settles that.” She carefully navigated the muck in the pen and laid a hand on the warm back of the smaller of the two girls. “You can be Swilly, and she’ll be Eske.” She grinned at Aldridge, and his lips curved ever so slightly.

  He said no more on the subject, which meant one more mystery filed in the TOP SECRET folder, which she imagined held all the answers regarding Jameson Aldridge. It should have irked her. She didn’t like deliberate secrecy; she felt it implied an underlying mistrust. But she, too, was going to need to learn to pick her battles.

  “Pigs and pigeons,” he said musingly as they started for home.

  “Don’t worry, Captain Aldridge. I can manage them both quite well.”

  He didn’t dare argue. With an exhausted sigh, she tucked her arm into his and leaned unconsciously into his warmth. Her immediate thought was that it was a very sturdy arm, but she refused to think any more about it.

  “Tell me more about the mission,” she urged.

  With a sigh of his own, he informed her that the upcoming mission would actually be a second attempt of Operation Josephine B. The first had been scrapped due to an equipment malfunction and had ended with a crash landing at home that had injured its six-man Polish team. This time, they’d be sending a team from Baker Street’s RF Section, which was linked to de Gaulle’s Free French. She was quick to remind him that three pigeons would be going along, as well. They’d all be parachuted into France, near Pessac, and tasked with planting explosives and incendiary devices that would disable the transformer station there. As the station controlled a Nazi submarine base, a successful sabotage mission would be a coup for the Allies.