Olive Bright, Pigeoneer

by Stephanie Graves

  She hadn’t decided yet whether to tell Aldridge. This could be the final straw, the nail in the coffin of their little arrangement. Too many complications and coincidences to make it worth the risk. And just like that, her role as pigeoneer and FANY, only recently saved, would be officially over. For now, she’d keep the discovery to herself, stay alert for anything out of the ordinary, and refocus her efforts on finding the killer, not to mention Margaret’s blackmailer. Time was running out. Rather a serendipitous coincidence, she thought wryly, that her FANY training had been postponed.

  She was hiding in the dovecote, alternately distracting herself with the heavy, ominous prose of A Lady Avenged while half-heartedly assessing her birds for a possible future mission, when the rambunctious sounds of Jonathon’s arrival carried in through the caged window. Seconds later, he slipped through the door, tugging the Girl Guide in behind him.

  His eager eyes met Olive’s. She shook her head, silently conveying that none of the pigeons had returned, and he sighed, adding, “I’ve brought Hen along. She wanted to talk to you.”

  Olive stared at the pair of them, mussed hair, pink cheeks, heaving chests. “It must be something important.”

  “It’s about Dr Ware,” Hen said, peering up into the rafters for a fleeting moment before focusing her steady gaze on Olive. “Did you ever find out why he needed those mice?”

  Olive glanced at Jonathon, prompting Hen to admit, “I’ve sworn him to secrecy.”

  You, and everyone else, poor chap. Luckily, he seemed none the worse for wear. He had moved away to check on the hens in the nesting boxes and appeared to be offering a treat of some sort from a stash in his pocket.

  “I tried,” Olive admitted. “I asked him outright, and he made up a story about an injured kestrel.” She shook her head at the man’s pitiable excuse. “So,” she said, lingering over the word, “I did a bit of snooping. No luck, I’m afraid. I’m actually more confused by what I found.”

  “What was it?”

  Olive couldn’t see that it hurt to tell her. “All manner of jars and buckets, crowding every surface of his back room. It was impossible to tell what they contained.” Hen’s eyes were roving, likely in tandem with her thoughts. “Don’t get any ideas, Hen. There’s no Guides badge for burglary. Or interrogation.”

  “True, but someone somewhere might be offering one,” she said thoughtfully, then instantly changed tack. “I’d almost forgotten what I wanted to tell you.”

  Olive was beginning to be concerned that she needed to keep a close eye on the girl, but Hen’s next words put the thought right out of her head.

  “After school, Jonathon and I put Swilly on a lead and were going door-to-door in the village, collecting scraps. When we knocked on Dr Ware’s door, he didn’t answer, but we could hear him moving around, muttering to himself. So, we persisted, and finally, he opened it, and he—”

  “He looked awful,” Jonathon interrupted.

  Hen continued as if he hadn’t spoken. “His left arm was wrapped with a bandage, but the edges looked blotchy and quite swollen. And his face was wan and feverish. I told him I’d earned my first-aid badge ages ago, but he insisted he was quite well.” She cleared her throat and said primly, “I respectfully disagreed.”

  “That’s when he sent us packing and slammed the door behind us,” chimed in Jonathon.

  Olive frowned, frustrated and worried over this information, but utterly baffled as to how to proceed. “Let me think for a moment.”

  Message dutifully delivered, Hen reached into her own pocket and moved to stand beside Jonathon.

  Perhaps there was a simple explanation: there’d been an accident in his little laboratory, and he’d already been to see the doctor. As much as Olive wanted to believe that, she didn’t. She also didn’t want to believe that he was experimenting with dangerous, or possibly even deadly, compounds for nefarious reasons. But what else could it be?

  Her eyes roved, touching on each pigeon in turn as her thoughts shuffled through each clue she’d uncovered and all the little questions that lodged, unanswered, in the corners of her mind.

  As her gaze settled on Jeremy Fisher, a recent blue-bar hatchling, his mother, Wendy, swooped up beside him with a determined flap of feathers. At almost three months old, he was fully grown, but she was always hovering protectively nearby. Whoever had left the biscuit tin was lucky he—or she—hadn’t bothered with Jeremy.

  Wendy herded the younger bird toward the pan of water on the floor and began vigorously washing herself, sending a spray of water up onto his wings. Resigned, Jeremy rolled himself in the water, then shook himself dry as Wendy looked on dotingly. He’d likely be escorted to dinner next.

  Olive’s focus shifted to Billy Bones, a young white-chequered cock, who was currently bowing to Poppins. Oh, goodness. With Fritz off on a mission somewhere in France, Billy clearly thought the time was ripe for romance. With an ostentatious flap of his wings that sent a downy white feather wafting down beside him, he circled Poppins, who wilfully ignored him, and bowed again. “You haven’t a chance,” Olive murmured, shaking her head, quizzically eyeing that feather and willing Billy to look elsewhere.

  Images became juxtaposed in her mind, and her thoughts darted with possibility. These behaviours were familiar, recognisable. The sort that prompted strong emotions and impetuous decisions—the very sort that led to blackmail . . . and murder. Sitting there, amid the cooing and flapping and general bonhomie of birds, with Hen and Jonathon entirely oblivious, Olive felt suddenly certain she’d pieced together at least one little mystery, possibly two, and the situations for both were entirely unexpected. Rather troublingly, an explanation for Dr Ware’s behaviour continued to elude her.

  It was time to take the next step in her search for the truth, which meant confronting everyone she suspected of dodgy behaviour. Basically, she could look forward to a lot of awkward little chats and could expect to be a topic of village gossip for the foreseeable future. Perhaps she’d be the new Sergeant Major. Olive’s lips twisted in a wry smile. So be it.

  She stared down at the paperback she’d taken from Miss Husselbee’s desk drawer: A Lady Avenged. She’d been enjoying her escape to the fictional Travers Hall, with its wide, sloping lawns and mammoth shade trees, where the spirited young governess had fallen in love with the seductively tortured musician who employed her. It reminded Olive vaguely of her days attending school at Brickendonbury Manor—although she’d certainly never harboured feelings for one of her instructors—and was thus rather comforting. But the prospect of finally getting some answers was much more satisfying.

  * * *

  Less than an hour later, having left Jonathon on watch for returning pigeons, Olive stepped inside the chemist’s shop, confirmed there were no other customers, and pushed the door shut behind her, twisting the lock. Dr Ware was working at the counter, and as she turned and stepped slowly toward him with her arms crossed, his face went slack with alarm. He didn’t look nearly as pathetic as Hen had made out, but he definitely wasn’t himself. His bandaged arm was tucked inside a white chemist coat and so concealed from view, but he was chalky white.

  “I realise I have no real right to demand them, Dr Ware, but I’m afraid I need answers.”

  He wilted slightly, but his voice, when he spoke, was firm. “Now, look here—”

  Olive put her hand up to forestall any objections or excuses he might make. She wasn’t in the mood to be lectured or condescended to. “There was no kestrel. I saw you burying those mice in the wood.” His mouth dropped open, but she went ruthlessly on. “When you left, I dug them up. The poor creatures were covered with lesions, and I want to know why.” The thought of Guinevere, lying cold and limp in a biscuit tin, sharpened her tone. The admission, or else the demand, startled him so sufficiently that he sank onto the stool he kept behind the counter.

  She paused while he wiped a shaky hand across his forehead and gathered a few shallow breaths. But when he still didn’t speak, she pressed on.<
br />
  “Obviously, the kestrel was not responsible for whatever has happened to your arm, and I have it on good authority that it’s not healing well. It’s swollen and very likely infected—”

  “But it is,” Dr Ware interrupted, his tone emphatic. “By that I mean it is healing. Quite marvellously, in fact.” It was as if the mysterious weight that had settled so heavily on his shoulders was suddenly, inexplicably lighter. As if he’d only been waiting to be found out.

  Olive refused to be deterred from her course. “I’m glad to hear it, but I’d like to know how you got the injury in the first place.”

  Once again, he seemed to retreat into himself, and Olive was forced to lure him out. “Was it part of your experiment?” she asked shamelessly. His eyes swivelled to stare at her, and she added, “I’m referring to the one that’s prompted you to fill your back room with buckets and bottles.”

  Dr Ware let out a deep, shuddering breath. His right hand tugged away the glasses sliding down his nose. He set them on the counter to rub furiously at his temples.

  Olive hadn’t expected this reaction, and it filled her with dread and prompted an ill-considered outburst. “Please tell me you’re not a traitor.” The moment the words were out of her mouth, Olive regretted them. She was, after all, locked in with him, with countless chemical compounds at his disposal. In a brief moment of hysteria, she imagined herself being poisoned and fed to a kestrel.

  Judging by Dr Ware’s change in expression, she’d been staring at him in uncertain horror. He hurried to reassure her.

  “No, no. Certainly not,” he insisted quite emphatically. He sighed again but slipped his glasses back on, hopped off the stool, and began pacing behind the counter. “I will answer all your questions, and if you’re satisfied with my responses, I would ask that you keep the matter to yourself.” Seeing Olive’s nod, he said quickly, “Perhaps this discussion would be best had over a cup of tea. Why don’t you come into the kitchen, and I’ll put the kettle on. I’ve got a bit of chocolate, as well, which might settle your nerves. They seem rather frayed.”

  A few moments later they were sitting in his tiny little kitchen, on opposite sides of the oilcloth-covered table. She’d finished a square of chocolate and half her cup of tea, and was about to nudge his confession along, when he began.

  “Not so long ago, I worked as a research chemist for a pharmaceutical company. I enjoyed my work tremendously, so much so that I let it consume me. When I was working, I forgot to eat or sleep, and little by little, my health began to fail.” His fingers tapped at the edge of the table, and he didn’t meet her eyes, but he went on. “Intent on making a fresh start, I came to Pipley, hoping that life as a village chemist would be a bit less intense. Within a few months, I felt worlds better, but my mind yearned for the challenging, rewarding work I’d left behind.” Olive had stayed silent, watching his face, his fingers; now he stilled and lifted his head to look at her. “I need to tell you about my sister.”

  He went on. “Molly was the youngest of us. I was the oldest, and there were two sisters in between. She was also my favourite . . . the most inquisitive, the most studious, and the best listener by far. Despite—or, perhaps, because of—these qualities, she never married.” He was reminiscing now, and Olive wondered if he was feverish, but she bided her time. “Our family hails from York, so when I left for university, I didn’t venture home from Oxford very often, and later there was always research to be done . . .” He stopped and swallowed, his lips pressed together and turned down at the corners, and Olive set down her cup and laced her fingers, waiting.

  “She’d got a new kitten, which was terrified of our hulking Irish wolfhound. The little thing clawed Molly’s cheek—just a little scratch, I was told—but it got infected. The bacteria spread to her face and her lungs, and there was nothing to be done. She died of sepsis.” There was a lost, faraway look in his eyes now, and Olive knew she needed to tread carefully.

  “I’m very sorry, Dr Ware,” she said gravely. “But I don’t—”

  “Dr Alexander Fleming,” he continued, as if she hadn’t spoken, “discovered that the penicillium mould inhibits the growth of infectious staphylococci bacteria in nineteen twenty-eight. Ten years before Molly died. But his discovery languished, unusable without further study, until quite recently.” His eyes brightened, and he laid a gentle hand on his bandaged arm. “Several weeks ago, I took the train to London to have dinner with some old colleagues from the Oxford School of Pathology. Over a quite expensive bottle of port, they confessed that they’d been tasked to re-evaluate Fleming’s research, to find the active ingredient in the mould that would allow it to be put into production and used by His Majesty’s forces.”

  He was excited now, but Olive was eager to skip ahead. “Did you volunteer yourself as a test subject?” she asked, glancing at his arm.

  “Yes,” he said emphatically and then immediately followed up that shocking statement. “But the situation is a bit more complicated than that.”

  She gulped down the rest of her tea, hoping it would calm her nerves. She still wasn’t entirely certain Dr Ware was in his right mind. In fact, she probably shouldn’t have accepted a cup of tea, but that didn’t bear thinking about right now. She needed him to explain the implications of dead mice and a back room crowded with buckets. And suddenly it was shatteringly clear. “Oh! You’ve been doing your own research.”

  He nodded approvingly. “I obtained a sample of Penicillium notatum and have since propagated the mould culture in every available bottle and jar.” Now his eyes twinkled as he leaned toward her confidingly. “And I’ve done it—I’ve managed to isolate a fluid extract that will successfully cure infection.”

  It had been a process of trial and error. “The mice,” she said grimly.

  Dr Ware nodded solemnly. “They were martyrs to the cause, I’m afraid.”

  “You haven’t killed anything else, have you?” She didn’t know if she could forgive him Guinevere.

  “Certainly not. I wish it hadn’t been necessary to sacrifice the mice. As soon as I confirmed that the extract was easing their symptoms, I stopped injecting them to keep as much as possible in reserve.”

  Olive nodded, much relieved. “I take it your arm was martyred, as well.”

  “I’m afraid so.” He grinned. “I’m happy to say, I’m recovering quite nicely.”

  “Congratulations, Dr Ware,” she said, her tension giving way to a flutter of wonder now that the mystery was solved. “But I don’t understand the need for such secrecy.”

  “It’s not yet a viable solution, certainly not for the military. All those bottles and jars you saw will yield only the smallest bit of purified antibiotic. I’m keeping it secret so as not to give rise to an untenable situation. There is plenty more work still to be done.”

  “Does Miss Rose know?” Olive asked expectantly.

  Two patches of colour promptly spotted his cheeks as he stood to clear the tea things. “Some of it,” he admitted. “She has a rather scientific mind.”

  Olive merely smiled.

  She washed the tea things, and he escorted her back to the shop. “I’m glad you’re on our side, Dr Ware,” she said, giving his good arm a squeeze.

  Much relieved, she stepped out into the sunshine, fully aware that there were still mysteries to be solved, and not all of them would end quite so satisfactorily. Eventually, she would unmask a killer.

  * * *

  A familiar car was turning out of the gate as she approached Blackcap Lodge. Olive stepped onto the verge on the driver’s side, a fizzy urgency bubbling inside her—he could only have come for one reason.

  The moment he put down the window, she blurted, “Is one of them home again?”

  Aldridge’s demeanour was typically stoic, but faced with her obvious exuberance, his lips hitched up in response. “If Jonathon has mastered the ability to tell them apart, it seems Fritz is back.” He gave her a wry smile. “And,” he continued, forestalling the question he believ
ed to be hovering on Olive’s tongue, “he brought a message.”

  Olive momentarily swept that news aside. “Is he injured?” She was anxious to see for herself, but she also wanted to glean as much information as possible while Aldridge was willing to offer it.

  “Not as far as I could tell, but as you know, I’m no expert. Jonathon didn’t seem concerned.”

  Breathing a sigh of relief, Olive returned to his earlier comment. “If the message is in code, I suppose you don’t yet know what it says.”

  “Believe it or not, I can, occasionally, be of some use,” he said dryly, his mood shaded with resignation.

  “You’ve decoded it already?” she said, clutching the window sill.

  He nodded, his hand leisurely propped on the steering wheel, and she waited, eyes wide, for him to fill her in. He didn’t, and the memory of their last confrontation flowed over her.

  “You’re not going to tell me what it says,” she said flatly. It wasn’t a question; it was a disgruntled realisation. With an understanding nod, she straightened, released her grip on the car door, and turned to stride off.

  His arm shot out the window and caught hold of her.

  Something akin to an electric shock whipped through her, but his words left her no time to analyse it. “They aborted,” he said grimly. “Something about a tension wire above the perimeter wall and sentries on duty inside the power station. And no bicycles on which to make their escape. Not what you’d call a success.”