The locket. It was clearly dear to Margaret, but she’d never shown it to Olive. It couldn’t be from Leo—a treasured keepsake from her beloved fiancé would never have been skipped over in all their gossipy chats. Olive brightened, feeling somewhat vindicated. The locket was undoubtedly quite irrelevant, but it was a curiosity, maybe even a clue.
Resolved to quiz her friend about it at the next opportunity that presented itself, Olive rounded the corner and ran smack into Violet Darling. Both reached out to steady themselves, but when the other woman would have pulled away, Olive tightened her grip.
A legitimate suspect had literally fallen into her hands, and Olive didn’t want to let her go. Still, a curious look from Violet prompted her release.
Violet Darling had been absent from the village for nearly ten years. It was difficult to imagine that she’d be prompted to murder someone within twenty-fours of her return. Even if it was Miss Husselbee. Then again, the Sergeant Major had threatened to expose her—but with what? It was precisely the sort of answer that had eluded Olive over the course of her short-lived investigation. To say nothing of the fact that Violet Darling intrigued her. The woman was an enigma: simultaneously fragile and self-possessed, villager and stranger, mysterious and relatable all at once. A chance to talk to her, away from ears perpetually pricked for gossip, was too good to pass up.
Her avid gaze swept over Violet Darling in her trim periwinkle jumper and full navy skirt, a magenta patterned scarf covering her red-gold curls. In contrast, Olive’s worn boots, shabby tweed jacket, and quickly pinned-up hair, likely mussed by the hat, were surely a bit cringeworthy. But now wasn’t the time to quibble. “Miss Violet,” she said brightly. “I was hoping to get a chance to talk to you.”
“I object to you using that godawful honorific. You’ve grown up quite a bit since I left. Why don’t we pretend we’re of an age,” Violet suggested blandly.
“Fair enough,” Olive agreed, turning so that she was now headed in the direction that Violet was going. “I rather think Miss Rose enjoys that little bit of extra fuss, but the two of you are quite different, aren’t you?”
Violet slid her a sloe-eyed glance. “What was your first clue?”
“You were the sister who stole away the man I fancied myself in love with.” The words had just popped out, and now they hung like fog in the air between them. “I suspect Miss Rose didn’t even like him,” Olive finished awkwardly.
After a beat of stunned silence, Violet laughed, a full, throaty sound that seemed to have been stolen from someone else entirely. “I’d forgotten how mouthy you are. In a twelve-year-old, it’s too tedious, but in a twentysomething, it’s rather fun.”
Olive shrugged, relaxing a bit as she let her memory drift back. “I was smitten the first time Emory Hammond roared down Mangrove Lane in his shiny silver coupe, nearly sending me and my bicycle careening onto the verge. That devil-may-care smile of his was dangerously distracting. And my crush only deepened with each subsequent glimpse of it.”
She glanced over to see Violet staring into the distance, perhaps remembering the beginning of her own love affair. But then she blinked suddenly, fumbled in the pocket of her skirt, and pulled out a packet of cigarettes and a trim gold lighter. Her fingers shook ever so slightly as she tussled with the breeze for a reliable flame. Once she’d taken a long drag and puffed it away, she answered, her eyes faraway. “He was very charming. But you’re right. Rose didn’t like him. She thought him a slippery fellow.”
Olive thought back to their chat the night of the Daffodil Dance. Violet had steered her away from the name Hammond, but she’d been too distracted to pursue the topic. Now, hearing her use of the past tense, the reality clicked into place.
“What do you mean, he was? What happened to him?”
Judging by Violet’s raised eyebrows, she’d heard the odd note of accusation shading Olive’s words. “He died,” she said flatly. “It was rather a shock for me, too.”
“Of course. I’m sorry,” Olive said, chagrined. “Was it recently?”
“It was years ago.” She’d crossed one arm over her midsection and propped the other elbow on top, holding the cigarette poised at the edge of her lips, as she stared out over the fields, lost in her own thoughts. “Shall I tell you a secret?”
A thrill of excitement zipped through Olive’s veins at this serendipitous offer. “Only if you want to,” she said, fighting to keep her voice nonchalant.
A moment passed, and several strolling steps along the river, and Olive wondered if she’d changed her mind. There was a pebble in her boot, but she didn’t want to risk the distraction required to get it out.
“We ran away together, but we never married,” Violet said almost carelessly, tapping away the ash from her cigarette.
Olive slowed her steps, startled but carefully considering this new information, trying to figure if it was a clue or simply a point of interest. “That’s why you’re still a Darling.”
Violet’s lips curved in a rueful smile. “I was determined to be a famous author even then, and Emory was insistent that we’d have more fun as ourselves than as a tedious married couple. He had a lot of ideas,” she said, her eyes glazed with memory. “Not all of them worked out the way he’d planned.”
Olive bit her lip, her mind grasping at something just out of reach; then suddenly she understood. “That’s what Miss Husselbee—”
Eyes the colour of stormy seas snapped back to the present, only to be shuttled off again to focus on a more recent memory. “Yes,” she said abruptly, somewhat breathlessly. “Running off with a man is bad enough, but if you don’t actually get married . . .” She shook her head, clicking her tongue against her teeth. “Well, then you’ve set yourself up for a lecture and assorted threats from the village busybody.” Her lips quirked with what might have been pain. “Too many years have passed for it to make any difference now—I’m the village pariah as it is—but Verity lived by a different set of standards, the impossible sort.” The implication that they’d ultimately led to her murder hung between them in the silence.
“So, you weren’t at all concerned that she knew and evidently planned on revealing your secret?”
She turned her head and gazed shrewdly at Olive. “You’re trying to solve her murder, aren’t you?” She threw down her finished cigarette and stepped on it, then viciously ground the little nub into the dust.
Olive’s teeth once again worried at her lip. Given the amount of waffling she was doing, she wasn’t entirely certain how to answer.
Violet went on, “If I sew an A on my chest like Hester Prynne, do you suppose I’ll be eliminated as a suspect?” She was punchy now, and Olive chalked it up to painful memories prompted by an ambush of sorts.
“Please don’t do that,” Olive said feelingly. “You’ll send the village into such a tizzy, we may never recover.” She kicked at a stone, the one in her boot having somehow taken care of itself. “And besides, I don’t believe you did it.”
Me, I do not eliminate a suspect so easily, Poirot’s voice whispered in her ear. Olive roundly shushed it.
This vote of confidence seemed enough for Violet, because she didn’t say any more on the topic, and for a little while, they walked in silence, eventually crossing over the bridge to wander back toward the village. The scatter of pebbles underfoot blended pleasantly with the chirp and titter of birds darting amidst the hedgerow, searching for early fruit, and Olive spent the time deciding how to frame her next question.
“Do you have any idea where the cake came from?”
“The infamous meat and potato cake? None. I saw it there on the table and instantly decided it was going to be the life of the party.” She paused before adding, “Irrefutable evidence that the war has officially reached Pipley.”
She was once again staring out over the countryside, and Olive wondered what she could be thinking of them all, and where she was wishing to be instead. “Was anyone manning the table before you arrived?”
&nbs
p; “There were plenty of women, tittering like hens, but it didn’t appear as if anyone in particular was in charge.”
“And no one took any notice of a tent card with the word Spam on it?”
She shrugged, the movement efficiently indicating her utter lack of interest in village matters. “Perhaps there was more pressing gossip.”
Olive couldn’t argue with that logic. And while she had the distinct feeling further questioning would get her nowhere, she nevertheless tried again. “And after Miss Husselbee ate her slice? What happened to the rest of it?”
Violet looked at her, her eyes shifting focus yet again. “I’ve no idea. I carried the punchbowl into the kitchen when it needed to be refilled and took the opportunity to slip out the back door.” Once again, she pulled out the packet of cigarettes, then promptly said a word in a language Olive didn’t recognise. It sounded very like a curse. “I’ve run out.” She peered at Olive from beneath lowered lids. “I don’t suppose you have any?”
“Sorry, no. I find they make it hard to breathe.”
“For me the opposite is true,” she confided. She crossed her arms and splayed her fidgety fingers over her skin, dug her nails in gently. “The smoke creates a murky little room where I can escape for a moment from the rest of the world. And breathe.”
Staring at her profile, Olive couldn’t help but think of a painted china doll that had cracked ever so slightly, the broken slivers falling inward, so that she could never be repaired. With every movement, those tiny pieces jangled inside her, bitter reminders of her life’s little tragedies.
“I suppose if I felt like that,” Olive said, “I might take up smoking, breathing be damned.” She wondered suddenly if that was the reason Harriet took refuge in her little enamelled box.
“You really shouldn’t. It’s a nasty habit,” Violet said. The corner of her mouth edged up in a sly smile, which prompted an answering one from Olive.
“Why did you never come back?” she asked quietly.
“There was no reason to—and plenty of reasons not to. But fate intervened, disguised as a simple-minded tyrant, and here I am, already mired in intrigue.” Violet laughed humourlessly.
“In fairness, you’ll be playing the much-loved role of Elizabeth Bennet for the foreseeable future.”
The road curved, and in the distance, the red brick and the Tudor striped gables of the Fox and Duck stood out against the azure spring sky. Olive wondered if that was where they were heading.
“A fact that has not endeared me to anyone,” Violet said, her eyes world-weary. “With the possible exception of your stepmother,” she added, staving off Olive’s protest. “I honestly don’t know what possessed me to agree to do it. Likely I was so shocked to be offered something other than the role of scandalous Lydia or flighty Kitty, I went out of my head.” She flicked a sly glance at Olive. “Rose, meanwhile, seems quite content with the role of Mary.”
Conversation lapsed, and the fizzy symphony of bumblebees and dragonfly wings sent a relaxing calm over Olive’s thoughts. She forgot the hat contest, the locket, the missing diary entries, and Aldridge. The sounds of market day were pleasantly muted, and the war seemed very far away.
Violet stooped to pick up a long, limber branch, stripped by weather or wildlife from one of the trees that towered above them. She was holding it as she would a sabre, swishing it through the air, testing its heft. “I rather expected the tall, dark, and broody officer you brought to the dance to be cast as Fitzwilliam Darcy,” she said slyly. “But then, I suppose, you would have wanted to be Lizzy.”
“Darcy was difficult,” Olive said, refusing to rise to the bait, “particularly seeing as the village is left with men better suited to play Mr Bennet or Mr Collins. Harriet couldn’t even convince most of them to do that.”
“Yes, well, Dr Ware was resistant at first, but he’s evidently come round.” Olive had been baffled when Harriet had informed her he’d changed his mind; neither had any idea who’d convinced him. But there was a secret little smile playing about Violet’s lips as they reached the crossroads that fronted the pub. Violet stared at the carved sign hanging over the door, her eyes lit with apparent nostalgia. “Coming in for a drink?” she asked, moving backwards, as if drawn by an invisible string.
“No time. I hadn’t actually planned to walk this far. I was meant to be checking in at the garage.”
“I’m sorry to lead you astray,” Violet said. “But I think you knew exactly what you were doing. Fair warning, Olive Bright. I fully intend to ferret out your secrets when next we meet. All’s fair, you know.” And with a little wave, she pulled the painted green door open and slipped into the dim interior. Olive was left staring after her, wondering if her skills at deception were shortly to be put to the test.
She retraced her steps back to the high street, only to discover that the winning hat was a trim black one decorated with flowers made of pink wool bouclé and jet beads. The judges had clearly voted sensible over sensational. After hoisting the fanciful allotment that had been Harriet’s entry, she propped it back on her head, having decided that wearing it would likely be easier than carrying it. She let herself imagine that the weight of it was helping to focus her thoughts or, at the very least, squishing them together to make room for new ones. As she slowly walked to Forrester’s, she ran her mind back over her recent conversation. Violet had been dismissive and rather flippant over Miss Husselbee’s intentions to ravage her reputation. Had she been bluffing? She’d been uniquely positioned to make the cake appear and disappear, putting it on display just long enough to tempt the Sergeant Major. Then again, judging by her general ennui, anyone could have done the deed right under her nose. Much as Olive liked Violet Darling, it seemed she couldn’t yet eliminate her as a suspect.
She approached the garage from the rear, checking on her porcine charges as she passed. Jonathon, she knew, would be coming by later to fill their troughs, so she needn’t worry about that. Instead, she picked them out by name, her thoughts turning to Aldridge as she admired their quizzical little snouts and spry little bodies. Maybe the business of a pig club wouldn’t be too bad; then again, she’d been volunteered for the task because no one else had wanted it.
She walked slowly around to the front, where a truck had been backed to fill the tanks with petrol. Skirting the hose, which lay like a snake over the gravel, she slipped into the darkened garage, intending to inquire about her bicycle. She could hear raised voices behind the closed office door and so went to the table along the back wall to retrieve their spare accumulator. She didn’t particularly relish lugging it home, but it would be easier than trying to balance it on the Welbike. She set it on the floor beside her, hitched herself onto a stool, and prepared to wait.
The conversation was muffled, although it was clear from the tone of voices that neither man was pleased. She cringed, somewhat dreading the upcoming conversation. George’s father was rather brusque at the best of times, and Poppins’s stint as a stowaway had disgruntled him. Now he seemed downright angry. She swung her legs, the garbled words swimming through her subconscious, until two things happened simultaneously.
At the very moment Lady Camilla appeared, walking briskly across the yard, dubiously eyeing the lorry, a single word slipped through the cracks of the office door, as clear as if it had been spoken directly to her: blackmail.
Olive schooled her features and smiled at the other woman’s approach. Lady Camilla was utterly out of place in the dingy garage, smelling freshly of lavender in a pale yellow dress and navy cardigan. Pearls hung from her ears, set off by sharp cheekbones and an elegant chignon. On her head was a navy blue straw hat, decorated with neatly looped white ribbons tucked amid sprays of daffodils. She was carrying a basket with a tea towel tucked over its contents.
“What a marvellous hat,” Lady Camilla said, her words prompting an immediate hush behind the office door.
“It’s Harriet’s,” Olive said quickly, brushing away a fern frond that was now drooping
over her left eye.
“I’m afraid it’s looking rather thirsty, dear.” She put a tentative hand up to assess the daffodils on her own hat. “I would have loved to have won the prize,” she confided. “I’ve been missing the lemon in my tea for ages. Perhaps I could pop in on the winner and plead my case,” she said mischievously. She looked around at the jumble of tyres, petrol cans, and mechanics’ tools crowded into the space and said, “Picking up?” Olive gestured to the bulky accumulator sitting beside her on the floor, and the older woman smiled knowingly. “Harriet is a stickler for her programmes.” She held up the basket. “I’ve brought along some dinner for George’s father.”
As if on cue, the door to the office opened, emitting a greasy individual in a flat cap, oil-stained dungarees, and a wrinkled grey jacket: Harry Danes. His gaze flicked to each of their hats in turn; then, with a curt nod, he strode out the bay door and bent to grapple with the petrol hose. Mr Forrester stepped through the doorway next and eyed their fancy millinery as he approached.
“Either of those prizewinners?” he asked bluntly, roughly rubbing his hands on a filthy rag. Olive’s nose twitched at the incongruent smell of him: petrol and . . . vanilla? Beside her, Lady Camilla’s hands were clenched on the handle of the basket.
“Unfortunately, the lemon has slipped through both our grasps,” his wife said. “But I’ve brought a couple of ham rolls and a ginger beer,” she said. Her smile was tight as she handed him the basket. “Don’t work too hard, darling.”
Feeling caught in the middle, Olive spoke up quickly. “I’m picking up”—she hoisted the beast of a battery—“and wanted to inquire about my bicycle.”
Mr Forrester swiped stained fingers through the fringe of hair that had fallen onto his forehead, and focused his deep-set blue eyes disconcertingly on her face. “I’ve had a lot of interruptions in the past few days,” he said, flicking a glance at the truck outside that had started with a rumble and was now spitting up gravel as it pulled out of the yard. “I’ll have it finished by Friday.”
Olive Bright, Pigeoneer Page 24