“Well? What happened then?” demanded Olive.
“She said it was none of my business where she’d been, and I’d best not be looking in her windows, or she’d call Leo and the constable, as well. As if I’d have any interest in looking in that harpy’s windows.” She shuddered.
“She obviously wasn’t at home, which means she could have left the blackmail note. And she certainly could have baked a poison cake, particularly as her garden is dotted with foxglove.” Olive paused, her thoughts changing direction. “It’s possible she received a letter, as well. You said yourself she was hiding something. Perhaps Miss Husselbee peered in her windows before you did and jotted her findings for Mass Observation?”
“I suppose it’s possible,” Margaret allowed. “Although I’d really rather she be the villain. Imagine that sanctimonious face behind prison bars . . .” This was precisely why Margaret was not Watson material.
“We’ll keep investigating,” Olive promised. “We have a bit of time yet before the money’s due.” It was beginning to look as if everyone in the village had a secret, and she was going to have to wade through them all to find the person who was hiding the biggest one of all.
Chapter 16
Saturday, 10th May
“Why do you think Miss Husselbee mentioned your mother?” Jonathon asked, squinting up at her through the tousle of nut-brown hair falling over his forehead as he dug in the dirt. They’d brought the four mission-ready pigeons into the garden to search for snails the night’s rain had lured into easy reach.
“I suspect it was merely a coincidence. She had, after all, found herself at the lodge and was likely confused and disoriented. But I do appreciate your discretion.” She had been poring over the woman’s notebook in her spare minutes and had yet to find a reference to her mother amid the baffling shorthand. Hardly surprising, but even so, it was one mystery she was happy to put to rest.
With regards to all the others, however, she couldn’t help but be exasperated that the notebook had turned out to be a particularly frustrating red herring. While it was true she’d managed to piece together a few shocking titbits, she hadn’t a clue whose conduct had prompted the unfinished Mass Observation diary entry or whose secret might have been worthy of murder. It was entirely likely they were one and the same.
As she sat considering this on a little garden stool, Badger waddled toward a puddle and dipped his head to drink. Jonathon, content with her explanation, had crouched near a cluster of sticks poking out of the ground near his potato plants. As she watched, he tugged them up, one by one, and crowed with triumph when he reached the third.
“Caught the little bugger,” he said, hurrying to show Olive his prize.
She stared at the dirty, wrinkled vegetable he held by the stick stabbed through its centre.
“It’s a potato,” she said.
“Yes, but inside the potato is a wireworm.” So saying, he reached into the tuber’s hollow centre and, with finger and thumb, pinched the creature by its tail and held it up for her to see. “If we’re not careful, they’ll eat through our entire crop of onions, carrots, and potatoes. He’s the second one I’ve caught. The first was Hitler. This is Goebbels.” With a flick of his hand, he sent the wriggling yellow-brown worm spinning through the air to land between Poppins and Fritz. They pulled him apart, prompting a cheer from both Olive and Jonathon.
“Miss Husselbee showed me how to rig an old potato to lure them in,” he said quietly, turning to rebury the tuber trap.
“She would have heartily approved of your choice of names,” Olive said stoutly.
When he was finished checking the rest of his traps and pulling a few scattered weeds, he came to stand beside Olive, who was staring down at the pigeons and the song thrush that had joined them in their snail search. She draped her arm around his shoulders. “They’re ready,” she said quietly but emphatically. “Although I can’t help but be nervous for them.”
“They’ll come home heroes,” Jonathon said confidently. “Carrying messages that will change the course of the war.” His eyes were alight now. “And Captain Aldridge will be thoroughly abashed he ever doubted them.”
Olive scoffed. “Don’t be so sure. I get the feeling he doesn’t trust what he doesn’t understand.” She cut her eyes around at Jonathon. “And he most certainly doesn’t understand pigeons. Or cats. Or me, for that matter.” She smirked. “You see our dilemma.”
“I think you’re being too hard on him,” he insisted.
“Perhaps we ought to have a little wager, Master Maddocks.”
Jonathon nodded agreeably.
“Whoever’s right gets half the other’s next ration of chocolate. What do you think about that?” she said.
“Deal.”
They shook on it, and Olive’s hand came away coated with pungent dark soil. It reminded her instantly of those dead little mice and Dr Ware. She had promised Hen she’d talk to him but had found herself preoccupied with other suspects. Olive couldn’t help but think him entirely harmless, but perhaps a new strategy was in order. Remembering the ease with which Jonathon had ensnared the wireworm, she decided to set a trap of her own.
Dusting her hands on the seat of her trousers, she said hurriedly, “I need to go into Pipley for a bit—my bicycle should be ready by now.”
“I’ll go with you. I need to make the rounds, collecting scraps for the pigs.”
“It seems you’ve got the short end of the stick as far as the pigs are concerned,” she teased.
“I don’t mind. They’re rather fond of me.”
“Yes, well. Don’t lean in, expecting appreciative kisses.” Her lips formed a moue of distaste. “They’re ferociously indiscriminate in their eating habits,” she added with a lift of her brows.
Jonathon merely laughed.
“Let’s get the pigeons back to the loft,” she said. “The cats might be prowling about, and we can’t afford to lose any birds—least of all, these.”
* * *
One glimpse of Finn, Eske, and little Swilly was all it took to have her thoughts shifting to Jameson Aldridge. They ignored her with precisely the same infuriating insouciance. Just thinking of it had her climbing onto her newly repaired bicycle and pumping hard at the pedals on her way to the chemist’s shop. The bare minimum of words had been exchanged with Mr Forrester, all of them laden with suspicion on both sides, and Olive couldn’t help but think sadly of George.
Feeling a queasy sense of déjà vu, Olive propped her bicycle beside the shop window, squared her shoulders, and pushed open the door. The shop smelled reassuringly of eucalyptus, bay rum, and wood polish, but the glass counter was dotted with fingerprints and the display cases were slightly disarranged. When Dr Ware finally appeared from the back room, a reason presented itself. His left forearm was wrapped in a bandage, and his shirtsleeves were rolled up to the elbows, but he was flushed and beaming and looking much more himself.
“You’ve hurt yourself,” she said, her scattered thoughts trying to alight on a good explanation for both the injury and the dead mice.
“It’s nothing to worry over. A small scratch is all.” His hair was rumpled, and there were two red spots at the bridge of his nose, no doubt left by his glasses, which were missing at the moment.
“Well, it must be difficult to keep up with the shop. I’d be happy to help out.” She started to move around the counter.
“No need,” he said, moving forward, warding her off. “That’s very generous, but I can manage quite well.”
“Well, if you’re certain. I’ve just come by, hoping to see the mice.”
“The mice?” He looked genuinely puzzled.
“Henrietta Gibbons told me she’d caught the cutest little field mice for you. I wondered if I could see them.” Olive widened her eyes, trying for limpid naiveté. “I adore the little creatures and never really get a chance to look at them. Our cats are too diligent.” She pouted, then worried she was overdoing and stopped.
Dr Ware d
idn’t move for a long moment, despite looking as if he wanted to bolt. In this little game of cat and mouse, she was most definitely the cat. Aldridge would no doubt approve of the comparison. A sheen of perspiration had appeared on Dr Ware’s forehead, and his Adam’s apple shifted erratically.
His response, when it came, was self-deprecating. “I don’t have them anymore, I’m sorry to say.”
Olive said, “Oh?”
He huffed out a short, tired breath. “I came across a kestrel while out walking. His wing had been caught on something, some sort of wire perhaps. It seems the Home Guard are stringing wire up everywhere lately. He was hobbling about rather helplessly. I’d planned to scrounge some food for him.” He shrugged. “But Henrietta was in the shop that day, picking up for her mother, and I thought it couldn’t hurt to ask her. That girl is indefatigable.” He looked away and ran a slow hand over the crown of his head. “I’m afraid I had to kill them first,” he said apologetically. “The poor fellow never would have caught them if I’d left them alive. The next day I convinced myself we were getting along quite famously, and got rather too close. The brute scratched the dickens out of me,” he finished with a laugh, holding his bandaged arm up as proof.
“Oh,” Olive said again, her tone less limpid this time. “I hope you spared no time getting the wound doused with alcohol. You certainly don’t want to deal with an infection.” At his nod, she went on. “That’s a relief, then. For you, anyway, not so much the mice. Where is the bird now? Perhaps I could have a look at his injury. You could have brought him to the surgery straightaway.”
“No, no. I’m sure he’s quite healed by now. If not, he won’t be there in any case . . .”
He was very likely right, but that left Olive with no good opportunity to pursue her clumsy questioning. Still, she had to try. “That was very noble of you, all things considered. He certainly wasn’t very grateful, was he?”
“I should have known better,” he admitted.
“Harriet was so appreciative that you agreed to play Mr Darcy, and I’ve told her you’re doing splendidly. I hope it hasn’t taken too much time away from your work . . . ?” She let the question trail off, but before he could answer, she pressed on. “I know you don’t like to discuss it, but I’m very curious, more so given that I was forced to postpone my own studies.” The business of busybodying, Olive had discovered, was not for the faint of heart.
Dr Ware rubbed two fingers over the furrows on his forehead. She was clearly making him nervous, but she endeavoured not to feel guilty. Poirot certainly had no qualms in his search for the truth and thought nothing of putting people awkwardly on the spot.
He cleared his throat. “I hope you don’t think me rude, but I’m really not in the habit of discussing my work. It’s rather difficult to explain, particularly in the early stages.”
Propping her elbows on the counter and leaning in conspiratorially, she said, “There’s no one you’ve taken into your confidence?” She tidied the combs in the box beside her. “Miss Rose, perhaps?” His eyes flashed nervously, and Olive turned the screws. “I suspect her brain is rather like your own. A sponge for knowledge, a hotbed of curiosity.” She smiled coyly.
He stepped backwards and stumbled over something on the floor as a blush crested his cheeks and rose even higher. “No, no. That is to say, she has been quite helpful, but I—we—” He heaved a great steadying breath. “I keep my research quite private until I’ve drawn my conclusions. Now, I really must get back to work.”
At that moment, the shop door opened to admit a young woman wearing a dark-green jersey tucked into belted khaki breeches. Her short, curly hair was precisely the same colour as the freckles that dotted her cheeks. She smiled, and Olive wondered if this might be Jonathon’s Land Girl. Eager for the interruption, Dr Ware shifted quickly down the counter.
Knowing she’d been routed, Olive said goodbye and stepped outside. Rather disgruntled with her lack of success, she was pushing her bicycle off when she remembered Margaret’s fib to Winifred Danes. With Dr Ware busy in the shop, perhaps she could peep in the windows at the back and find a legitimate explanation for the dead mice—the kestrel, she was quite certain, had been contrived for her benefit. It would be too depressing to go away without even the slightest little clue. She turned at the corner and backtracked up the alley behind the shop, with her head on a swivel. She didn’t relish the thought of trying to explain herself.
The back of the chemist’s was nondescript, with a dusty stoop and two rather dirty windows. She propped her bicycle, glanced once more up and down the alley, and then peered through the first window, squinting into the relative darkness. Unable to see clearly through the grime, she rubbed her jumper-clad elbow over the glass and tried again.
The north wall was comprised of a long counter fit with a sink. It was crowded with chemical equipment—various flasks and beakers, and other glass apparatuses she couldn’t identify. The remainder of the space was outfitted with a heavy worktable and wooden stools and chairs, and every last square inch of it was covered with buckets and pans and other dubious receptacles. She squinted harder, trying to see what they contained.
Thwarted in her efforts, she moved to the other window, leading with her elbow this time. She was closer to the sink now, and peering in, she realised that every available flask and beaker was similarly put to use. The odd thing was, it was all one great jumble, with no discernible labels or organisation. It would appear to Olive’s amateur eye that Dr Ware had moved past the experimental stage and was producing . . . what, exactly? The better questions were, Why here? Why in secret? Surely this sort of work was better suited to an official laboratory. Unless he was a fifth columnist, working for the enemy. It was too horrid to contemplate. But Miss Husselbee had suspected, perhaps even confirmed, that someone in the village was involved in something evil. If it had been finished, would that diary entry have linked Dr Ware to treasonous acts?
“Most people go around to the front door,” said a voice just behind her. “But you’re not like most people, are you, Olive Bright?”
Olive whirled, her heart jumping to the base of her throat. “Where did you come from?” she accused Violet Darling. The other woman was standing, perfectly at ease, in trousers the colour of shortbread and a jammy-toned wrap. Despite the cigarette patiently smouldering in her right hand, she put Olive in mind of a cosy tea.
“There are so many ways I could answer that question,” she said smoothly, “but I suspect you mean, How did I happen to be walking down this way at the precise moment you were snooping into the back room of the chemist shop?”
“Clever of you,” Olive allowed.
Violet flicked the ash from her cigarette and shook her hair back. “I find that people, with their everyday problems and everyday complaints, can be quite ruinous to the imagination. I much prefer to frequent quiet, deserted—even undesirable—locations when I need a temporary respite from my own mind.”
“I see. And do you plan to tattle to Dr Ware?” Olive instantly wondered if she’d misstepped. Unlike George, Violet Darling surely wouldn’t appreciate such heavy-handed tactics.
“I do think I’d have rather a lot of fun with that. He’s rather dishy.” When Olive’s expression didn’t change, she sighed. “Honestly, I couldn’t care less what you’re doing,” she said seriously, her eyes meeting Olive’s. “If you want to climb in through the window and have a look around, I’ll even keep watch. Maybe I could hoot like an owl if anyone comes.”
“That’s not necessary, but I appreciate the thought.” Her sense of humour, not so much.
Violet shrugged, but when Olive snatched her bicycle and climbed onto the seat, ready to push off, Violet pulled her up short. “Did you at least find what you were looking for?”
Olive’s shoulders slumped in frustration. “I didn’t know what I was looking for.”
Violet’s eyes widened in understanding and sparkled with mischief. “You’re prowling for clues.” Her tone imbued the task
with all the dignity of making mud pies. “If you’d planned to peer through our windows, I can save you the trouble.” She winked. “Rose is out. Walk right through the door,” she said with a magnanimous gesture. “You can have carte blanche.”
“No thank you,” Olive said primly, eager to be off, with the wind cooling her heated cheeks.
“I’m only teasing, darling. Honestly, I’m thrilled you’re searching for suspects. That evens the playing field, as far as I’m concerned.”
“Then I suppose this whole thing hasn’t been a complete failure,” Olive said sourly.
“You’re a clever girl with a desire to see justice done, but the truth always carries a price. Make certain you’re willing to pay it.” With these portentous words delivered, Violet Darling turned and drifted off down the alley, the smoke curling behind her.
Monday, 21 April 1941
Peregrine Hall, Pipley
Hertfordshire
If R.D. had been on her own the first time we’d crossed paths, I would have thought her simply a shy and quiet young lady of passable but plain prettiness. Unfortunately for her, V.D. was forever in her company all those years ago. I’ve never seen two sisters as different as those two—utterly disconcerting. R was content to watch the world go by, whereas V was the sort to imagine that it spun strictly for her. If the former was a titmouse, the latter was a peacock, brazenly seeking attention.
As expected, V’s vainglorious ways came to a rather fitting end. The girl who craved attention got it in spades when she eloped with the wastrel stepson of a prominent local family. We’ve not seen hide nor hair of either of them, but a few months ago, R let slip that her sister had written a string of popular sensational novels under an alternate nom de plume.
When pressed to reveal it, she objected that V would not want the secret divulged. Hardly surprising, given that R is entirely content to moulder away in the quiet confines of a lending library, but ridiculous, nonetheless. Having made a success of herself, V would assuredly want to gloat. I will solve this little mystery with or without R’s help.
Olive Bright, Pigeoneer Page 29