“There was a stack of newspapers in the kitchen, but with everyone off at the dance, she went looking for more. She found some in a tray on Miss Husselbee’s desk—typed pages with a newspaper on top.”
Olive felt the breath go out of her as her eyes shuttered closed.
“I told her it was wrong,” Jonathon insisted miserably, “but she said we weren’t hurting anyone, that Miss Husselbee had wanted us to have them. But then she lost her button, and we worried that the police—”
Olive gripped Jonathon’s upper arms, her hands vibrating with urgency. “Don’t worry about the police, and I’ll return the button. Only tell me, where did you take the scrap?” She refused to believe that Hen was the blackmailer.
“To Forrester’s Garage,” he said, his eyes wide with alarm, the muscles of his face slack with shock. “Why do you want to know?”
Her thoughts instantly shifted back to those moments spent waiting in the darkness of the garage while George’s father argued with Harry Danes. One of them had clearly used the word blackmail. Could they have found the diaries and decided to capitalise on their contents?
If they hadn’t, someone else certainly had.
“I can’t tell you,” she said, hanging the rake on the hook by the door. “But I need to go and see if any of it is still there.” Olive bolted out of the dovecote, with Jonathon hot on her heels.
“Can I go with you?” he pleaded. He was obviously feeling guilty and hoping to make amends.
“Come on.”
She wheeled the motorbike out of the barn, climbed on, scooted forward on the seat, and nodded to Jonathon to climb on behind her as she started the engine. “Hang on tight!” she yelled before gunning them down the drive and onto the lane. The Welbike bounced over a stone in the road, lifting Jonathon off the seat. He tightened his grip on her waist, as Olive worried that she was already too late.
Miss Husselbee had set the stage for disaster, and Hen had unwittingly raised the curtain. Olive’s own deceptions, much too recent, thankfully weren’t at risk, at least from this quarter. But with the diaries now in the hands of an unscrupulous individual, anyone harbouring an older secret might have cause for concern.
They buzzed to a stop beside the pigpen, propped the motorbike against the wall of the garage, and hurried along the back of the building. In the far corner was a modest tumbled heap of a scrap pile, with everything stacked chock-a-block alongside everything else. A pair of tyres leaned against a modest pile of collapsed tin cans, and a short stack of newspapers tied up with string sat atop a rusted tractor seat.
“Looks as if it’s all been cleared out already to make room for more,” Jonathon said, peering at her nervously.
“Damn.” She’d expected this, but still she’d hoped. “We’ll ask Mr Forrester when it was picked up.”
In truth, she’d prefer to steer clear of the man, but the information might prove useful in determining who could have taken the diaries. As the owner of the garage, he was a prime suspect. Particularly as blackmail was a recent concern of his.
* * *
Olive could no longer look at the people she had known her entire life without wondering what they might be capable of—Mssr. Poirot would be proud. Her gaze shifted through the cluster of women, and the few token males, gathered in the village hall for a read-through of Harriet’s dramatic interpretation of Pride and Prejudice. With Harriet still under the weather, Miss Rose had taken charge of getting everyone organised, then carried on, giving notes and directions in between her limited lines as Mary Bennet. In between making notes for her stepmother, Olive couldn’t help but assess all the players as possible murderers and blackmailers.
Dr Ware was fidgety and standoffish, thoroughly in character as Mr Darcy but quite suspicious as far as Olive was concerned. Miss Danes’s pettiness, while irritating, seemed to play out rather well in her role as George Wickham, and Lady Camilla was a marvellously regal Lady Catherine. She remained in character throughout, her gaze settling on each member of the cast with cool appraisal, and Olive couldn’t help but wonder if she was channelling Miss Marple.
Whereas Poirot was ostentatious, peppering all manner of suspects with questions and spontaneously haring off, hot on the trail of a clue, Mrs Christie’s spinster sleuth managed to have all the answers fall almost effortlessly into her lap. There was certainly something to be said for a seemingly innocent bit of busybodying, a casual gossip, or a chatty tea. But Olive was entirely too restless to be satisfied with such a method.
“Margaret. Leo,” Miss Rose called, clapping sharply to interrupt a cosy but unscripted tête-à-tête between the pair. She glared over the rims of her spectacles. “Jane and Bingley are not engaged yet,” she reminded them sternly, prompting a respectful nod from him and a good-humoured sigh from her. Margaret’s worry and tension seemed to have fled, for the moment at least.
“Nothing gets by Rose,” Violet warned. “Particularly nothing untoward. I suspect she’ll be keeping a close eye on the intensity of your gaze when it flashes in my direction,” she said, looking pointedly at Dr Ware.
Miss Rose ignored her, but Olive registered the subtle tightening of her jaw.
“I’m going to suggest to Harriet that Gillian and I switch roles,” Miss Danes informed them, taking advantage of the interruption. “With her face and figure, she’d make a much more convincing man, I think, and the role of Lydia really requires someone more worldly wise.” She smiled at George’s sister, whose black look offered no misunderstanding as to her feelings on the matter.
“No, you are not,” Miss Rose said, quietly emphatic. “The role of George Wickham is much more difficult for a woman to play, which is precisely why Harriet entrusted it to you. If you cannot manage it, we’ll find someone more capable,” she added, eyebrow raised in question.
Momentarily startled, Miss Danes rallied quickly. “I do see what you mean and what Harriet intended. It’s best if I carry on as I am. Such a pivotal role.” She moved away, her eyes alight with importance. Lady Camilla eyed her darkly before bestowing an encouraging smile on her daughter. Olive, for one, was heartily enjoying the rare display of gumption from Miss Rose.
The evening went on in much the same fashion, ad nauseam. After what felt to Olive like an eternity of overacting, distraction, and tactful corrections, it was time for refreshments, which had been graciously provided by Miss Danes, leaving Olive to wonder anew about Miss Husselbee’s black-market allegations and what they might have prompted. Dr Ware darted eagerly away, perhaps on some nefarious business of his own, but Violet caught him at the door and slipped her arm companionably through his as Rose stared rigidly after them. Olive settled in comfortably, fully intending to question the “suspects” remaining.
There was a dodgy moment as they all stood around, staring dubiously at the golden sponge, no doubt thinking back to the dance and the poisoned cake that had led to Miss Husselbee’s death.
“You needn’t worry,” Miss Danes chirped, turning to carve herself a piece. “I’ll go first.” Within seconds, she was chewing and swallowing with gusto as they held their collective breath.
Slinking up beside Olive, Margaret snorted, “A true, manly martyr.”
Olive grinned as the cast crowded around the table, clearly satisfied that their safety was ensured. She and Margaret waited their turn, each of them silently scanning faces, wondering who among them might be capable of blackmail, to say nothing of murder. They’d seated themselves at a nearby table, toting a sultana bun and a teacup each, when Miss Danes spoke up again.
“Death by misadventure,” she tsked. “If Marcellus had ever had cause to meet Verity Husselbee, he’d surely have predicted it.”
“Oh, good Lord,” Margaret muttered, rubbing her temple, as she turned her head just enough to keep from being overheard. Olive grinned behind her cup of tea. Miss Danes was an avid follower of the famous astrologer’s column in the paper. Thus far, the war had gone on seven months longer than he’d predicted, but she continu
ed to hold him in the highest esteem.
“You probably shouldn’t say that, you know,” Olive teased. “What would Leo say?”
“If I look appropriately chastened, he’s quite forgiving,” she said airily. Leaning closer, hiding her words behind her bun, she added, “I’m not in the habit of reading that charlatan’s column, but if his advice could be interpreted in such a way as to suggest blackmail, then Miss Danes would follow along like a dutiful mouse behind the Pied Piper.”
Olive looked at the woman, her face as round and placid as her Victoria sponge. The idea seemed impossible. “Perhaps we can find out where she was when the letter was delivered.” She’d learned nothing useful from Mr Forrester—the salvage had been picked up when it usually was, and he’d not seen anyone lurking about. He’d definitely not been keen on being questioned, which had made her all the more suspicious.
Margaret stood abruptly. “I’ll go ask her.”
Olive blinked. Well, that’s one way. She tugged at Margaret’s sleeve. “Don’t be obvious.”
“Leave it to me,” Margaret said before moving off.
“Misadventure, indeed,” Mrs Spencer said, picking up where Miss Danes had left off. Cast as Mrs Bennet, the woman reminded Olive of a friendly weasel, with her beady eyes and wiry hair, tamped down under a hat adorned with a trio of bluebells. “It was murder, plain and simple.”
“Surely it was an accident,” Gillian protested, her doe-brown eyes appealing.
“Death by foxglove? When so many of us have been trained in identifying it? I think not.” Mrs Spencer squeezed Gillian’s hand sympathetically. “I’m not keen on having a murderer in our midst, either, dear, but we can’t bury our heads in the sand. What if one of us is next?”
The question silenced them all, and Miss Danes was the first to speak up. “We should all read Marcellus’s next column carefully,” she said portentously.
“Oh, shut up, Winifred,” Lady Camilla snapped, her hand going instantly to the nape of her neck.
Miss Danes looked suitably shocked, her cheeks flushing red with embarrassment and her lower lip quivering in anger. Margaret, beside her, tucked in her lips, while her eyes danced with amusement. Olive shot her a quelling glare.
“I apologise,” Lady Camilla said. “You’re entitled to your own opinion, no matter how ignorant and ridiculous it might be.” She walked purposely toward the kitchen, tugging one of the marcasite combs from her chignon as she went. Olive couldn’t help but wonder if the stress of George’s absence was taking its toll. The room was once again stunned into silence as Gillian trailed miserably after her. Those remaining clustered together, expressions agog. Miss Rose, sitting off by herself, appeared to be in a state of indecision, wondering whether to follow the pair.
Olive picked up her tea and the bun she hadn’t yet touched, and moved closer. “Everyone is dealing with the situation differently,” she said quietly, dropping into a chair beside her.
Miss Rose tipped her head down, tangling her fingers in her lap. “Quite.”
There were so many questions buzzing about in Olive’s head, she didn’t know where to begin. Should I start with murder or ease into it? The matter was taken out of her hands.
“I know it’s silly,” Miss Rose began shakily, “but I can’t help but feel that if I hadn’t begged off with a headache, if I’d been manning the punchbowl as usual, I could have somehow prevented that awful accident.” Her voice broke on the final word.
Olive set down her tea on a nearby chair to snake an arm around Miss Rose’s narrow shoulders and give them a bolstering squeeze. “You mustn’t think like that. No one could have predicted such a thing could happen.” She glanced at the librarian and added quietly, “Except the murderer.”
Miss Rose’s head swivelled, and she stared outright. “You agree with Mrs Spencer? That it was murder?” There was a hint of disbelief in her voice. “You’ve been reading quite a lot of Agatha Christie lately,” she said. “Perhaps it’s making you unduly suspicious.”
Olive decided it best not to admit that the books had likely set her thoughts on their current path. But circumstances—not to mention a motley collection of clues—had all but confirmed the possibility. Little had Miss Husselbee known when she’d handed over her library book and irritably quipped, “If you’ve nothing better to do, Miss Bright, why not solve a murder?” that Olive would take to the idea quite so vigorously. Then again, it was possible the Sergeant Major, who’d often scolded Olive’s “rampageous curiosity,” had sensed her need for distraction. Olive loved mental puzzles and had eagerly sought them out, feeling that the best ones demanded not only a measure of careful thinking but a dose of intuition, and even a few wild guesses, as well. She and Mssr. Poirot had that in common. The sense of satisfaction she felt as the pieces clicked into place was utterly addictive, and endeavouring to keep up with the little Belgian had kept Olive’s mind busy during many long, frustrating months. The situation in which she now found herself was quite different: Agatha Christie’s murder mysteries were all neatly confined to the pages of a book, whereas this one touched Pipley, making the solving of it desperately important.
She cleared the emotion from her throat before responding, “If there was no evidence to suggest murder, I’d happily abandon that line of thinking, simply because I don’t want to consider that someone I know might be a killer.”
“I don’t understand.”
Olive leaned closer. Lowering her voice, she said, “Miss Husselbee was one of very few people liable to try a cake made out of Spam, and once she’d had a slice, that cake disappeared. No one seems to know where it went, a fact I find too convenient and entirely suspicious.” She hadn’t actually posed the question, but it was there, nonetheless, hanging between them in the silence, and Olive waited for Rose Darling to answer it.
“I suppose,” she allowed tentatively. Usually so composed, Miss Rose looked as if she was about to fall apart. She needed more prompting.
“Do you have any idea where it came from?”
She seemed startled. “N-no. None at all. My headache was particularly debilitating, so I stayed home and took one of the pills Dr Ware suggested.” She raised a fluttery hand to her temple, as if remembering. “I didn’t set foot in the hall that day.” She’d coloured slightly at the mention of the chemist, but Olive decided this was not the time to pursue the subject of their burgeoning romance.
Olive reached for her bun and took a large bite. She was suddenly struck with a possibility. After chewing quickly and swallowing, she said, “Do you recall anyone borrowing a book that might prove useful in planning a murder?” Miss Rose stared silently, disbelievingly, so Olive quickly clarified the question. “It could be a book on plants or poisons, or some sort of medical tome. Or what about the minutes of the WI meetings? The details given by the Oxford professor in his talk on the medicinal plants scheme could be particularly useful. Aren’t they kept in the library?”
Miss Rose rallied and answered in her usual crisp tone. “Yes, they are, but no one has requested them, and I don’t recall any books of the sort you mention going out recently.”
“I wonder,” Olive thought aloud, “if Hercule Poirot has ever solved a case in which foxglove was found to be the murder weapon.”
The librarian’s face was implacable, and Olive couldn’t tell whether she found the notion ridiculous or inspired. But then her expression changed, and she seemed to come to a decision.
“It’s possible,” she allowed. “Mrs Christie worked in a dispensary during the Great War and was very knowledgeable of medicines and poisons.”
“Do you think you might be able to find out?” The question, tumbling out of her, took Olive by surprise. “I’d love to read through it and see if there are any clues to be had.” She glanced around. “And I’d much prefer if we could keep this between ourselves.”
“Our very own little mystery,” Miss Rose said bemusedly. “You can rely on my discretion.”
“Excellent,” Olive
said, rather pleased with herself. Now she could get on with subtly probing questions about Dr Ware and those mice. “Dr Ware is quite good as Mr Darcy, don’t you think?”
“He is,” Miss Rose agreed, her words clipped.
“I think you would have done equally well as Elizabeth.” Olive then added conspiratorially, “I did suggest it to Harriet. The pair of you are so in tune, I think it would have come across as perfectly authentic.”
It was the exact right thing to say. Miss Rose’s face brightened, her eyes sparkled, and her bony torso seemed to swell with pride. “Yes,” she said breathlessly. “We’ve discovered we have many of the same interests.” She smiled shyly and went on. “A few months ago, we both rode up to London for the same lecture. We went for supper afterwards and became better acquainted. We’re both fascinated by the natural sciences, and despite his considerable experience, he encourages my questions and suggestions. He’s allowed me to—” She broke off abruptly, as if suddenly realising she shouldn’t say any more. And before Olive could press her, she stood and gabbled, “I think I’ll just pop into the kitchen to make sure everything is all right.”
Olive stared after her, wondering what she’d been about to say and suspecting it might be rather important.
Margaret sidled up the moment she’d gone. “I didn’t want to interrupt if you were luring a confession out of her,” she said.
Olive rolled her eyes. “I wasn’t. Were you able to eliminate Miss Danes as your blackmailer?”
“Not exactly,” she admitted. “I told her the cinnamon she’d been requesting had come into the store, and I’d gone round to deliver it at midday.” She smirked. “It hadn’t,” Margaret added as an irrelevant aside. “Well, I could tell right off that she was hiding something. Her eyes went as wide as crab apples, and her cheeks flushed a rather blowsy red.” She paused for breath, and Olive nodded at her to go on. “I told her I’d knocked but no one had answered, and seeing as I was rather keen to frazzle her, I said I’d peeked in the windows, and where had she been. She was frazzled, all right. She turned into a right shrew.” Margaret shook her head, smiling at the memory.
Olive Bright, Pigeoneer Page 28