A Courage Undimmed

Book 3: Olive Bright Mystery

by Stephanie Graves

Genres: World War II; Historical Mysteries

Synopsis

British pigeoneer Olive Bright is proud of the role her racing birds have played in the war effort and has hopes of becoming an agent herself . . . but first there is a baffling murder to solve.

As the weather turns bitterly cold in the dark days of November 1941, fewer pigeons are being conscripted for missions into occupied Europe and Olive fears her covert program may be dropped altogether. In fact, the new CO of the Baker Street intelligence operation at Brickendonbury Manor, Major Blighty, has expressed his doubts regarding her birds—not to mention Olive herself—and assigned her to a far more insignificant role: escort to a visiting officer of the Royal Navy Intelligence Special Branch.

She's none too keen on her assignment or her charge—the aloof and arrogant Lieutenant Commander Ian Fleming—but the last place she expects to accompany him is to a séance. Self-proclaimed medium Velda Dunbar—new to the village of Pipley—has drawn fascination and skepticism after a very public channeling of a doomed seaman aboard the HMS Bartholomew, which she claims has sunk. Fleming remains tight-lipped about his reason for attending her séance, but his arrival with Olive raises eyebrows as she is still maintaining the ruse of dating Captain Jameson Aldridge. When murder occurs before her very eyes, Olive must trust her own instincts and not rule out anyone as a suspect—including the secretive Fleming—for one of them is harbouring a hidden deadly agenda.

Release date: January 24, 2023

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 304

Sample

The flakes of snow melted the moment they struck the windscreen, and the wipers smeared the wetness into oily streaks. Olive groaned in frustration. The moon was bright and nearly full, but clouds scudded maddeningly across it. It was difficult enough to drive at night in good weather, the anaemic beam of the masked headlamps demanding she hunch over the steering wheel, squinting into the oncoming darkness. But in bad weather, it was an ordeal. Add to that the fact that she was shivering with cold, and the car noisy with the sounds of the wind in wild tumult, and the drive was bloody miserable.

“Ma mère était anglaise. Elle est morte avant la guerre.”

She was getting better, she could tell, but French certainly didn’t come naturally to her. Her schoolgirl lessons were long forgotten, apart from a motley collection of words that hung in her memory, like the bracket fungus that encircled the beech trees in Balls Wood. But repeating the same words over and over—all of it an imagined cover story culled from the truth—pulled her thoughts in a direction they preferred not to go. My mother was English. She died before the war. She wasn’t even certain she’d ever need any of it. All the more reason to take a break from her self-imposed practicing.

It had been more than an hour since she’d left the Firs, the Baker Street facility in Whitchurch, Buckinghamshire, dedicated to the development of explosives. The drive over had been comparatively pleasant. The weak autumn sun had given the sky a pearly glow, and the Austin had seemed much cosier with two additional occupants, particularly given their chatty dispositions.

The commanding officer of Station XVII, Major Boom, had been due for a transfer. He’d fractured his leg back in July, the injury a result of a parachute jump standard for all agents enrolled in the special training school and recommended for all officers. Ever since, he’d struggled a bit with the day-to-day operations at Brickendonbury Manor. At the Firs, he could hole up in his office and get back to the work of designing clever—and quite devastating—devices to sabotage the Nazi war machine. Liz was going with him.

Her fellow FANY was eager to be making a fresh start, free of the stigma of a certain indiscretion. Liz was clever, efficient, and a hard worker, and while Olive was sad to see her go, Jamie, she was certain, would be much relieved.

The situation was rather confounded.

By the time Olive had arrived at the manor the previous spring, she’d discovered that Captain Jameson Aldridge was the object not only of her own contrived romantic cover story but of Liz’s very real aspirations, as well. When Jamie had approached Olive on behalf of Baker Street to supply birds for ongoing missions into occupied Europe, he’d made it clear that her role as pigeoneer would be contingent on secrecy. Not even her family could know what she was doing, or who he really was. Off the cuff, a burgeoning romantic entanglement between the pair had seemed a perfect solution: it would justify Jamie’s presence at Blackcap Lodge and in the dovecote and quell village gossip. Unfortunately, things weren’t quite as cut and dried as Olive had imagined. Whereas Liz had been infatuated with the man’s Irish good looks, broad shoulders, and air of competence, Olive had been subjected to the full gamut of his more frustrating qualities, a fact that had, bafflingly, led to a twinge of jealousy in the other FANY.

Suffice it to say that it was best for everyone that Liz was going.

They’d said their goodbyes, and Olive, never one to miss an opportunity to dispatch her birds on a training mission, had released a pair of them into the sky on the lawn of the Firs. With a vigorous flapping, they’d launched themselves straight upwards into the sky and banked in widening circles, their bodies dark against the waning light. Once they’d got their bearings, they’d flown with single-minded intention, eager to reach home before dark.

Olive, in turn, had climbed into the car to trundle the Austin back over the ever-darkening lanes. At first, she’d been content to be out alone in the gloaming, watching birds swoop through the skies and rodents scurry into the hedgerows, collecting a few final titbits for dinner. She’d dutifully practiced her French for a time, peppering in plenty of curses when the grammar eluded her, but then the weather had turned, growing blustery and wet, requiring focused concentration. Visibility extended just beyond the bonnet of the car, and she spent the rest of the journey worried over hitting something—or someone—in the dark.

When, finally, she turned the car onto Morgan’s Walk, she sat back and breathed a gusty sigh of relief. The long line of old-growth trees bordered her favourite approach to Brickendonbury Manor. She’d soon return the Austin, to face the unpleasant task of driving the Welbike home. As much as she loved the freedom afforded by the little motorbike, she’d come to dread the wet, chilly rides.

Perhaps I can get Jamie to drive me home.

Olive was smiling to herself, considering the prospect of convincing him, when something moved in the darkness ahead of her. As her pulse set to thrumming in her throat, she stamped hard on the brake pedal. Two shadows detached themselves from the wide swath of darkness just beyond the reach of the Austin’s headlamps. Olive’s eyes were wide as the car shuddered to a stop, but she tempered her instinctive panic. It was surely just a pair of red deer.

But as she squinted to see past the fog on the windscreen, and the unpleasant weather beyond, peering through the pale light, the truth hit her like a thump to the chest. These shadows were no deer; they were carrying Sten guns. Even amid the swirling flakes of snow, Olive could clearly make out the weapons and the silhouettes of the men who held them with deadly intent. Pointed directly at her.

Shock whipped through her, but quick on its heels came calm calculation. As a FANY working at Station XVII, she was, of necessity, aware of nearly everything that went on, on the manor grounds. That was not to say that she was let in on highly classified intelligence, but merely that it was her job—along with the rest of the FANYs—to ensure that the day-to-day running of things went off without a hitch. And yet she could think of no justifiable explanation for the situation that now confronted her. Particularly given that hers was a familiar face. Though, at the moment, she was bundled quite thoroughly in a knit hat and scarf. It simply didn’t make any sense.

While trainees were schooled in silent killing and hand-to-hand combat, there was no formal weapons training at the manor, although Lieutenant Danny Tierney was known to give the agents a lesson in his own brand of knife fighting. Everything else in that vein was part of the syllabus of the paramilitary training undertaken at Arisaig House in Scotland. Olive had only ever come into contact with guns when she was packing the crates for an upcoming mission.

She squinted into the darkness, trying to make out the men’s features, desperate for a shared flicker of recognition that would calm her racing heart and lower their guns. But it was too dark, and they came on, unchecked.

Olive’s hand hovered over the gearstick. Should she take her chances reversing the Austin back down the lane or go forward, toward the guns? Either way, they were bound to shoot. And then she remembered Major Boom’s parting gift. When he’d tucked it carefully into her hand, she’d thought it sweet but rather absurd, but her feelings for the object changed in the flicker of a heartbeat, the brutishness of a moment. If there was ever a time to use it, it was right this moment.

She glanced at it, sitting innocently on the seat beside her, then snatched it up and levered open the offside door. Crouching behind it, she peered closely at the object in her hand. And then it was done. The quick twist of her fingers seemed to break the awful stillness as a shout hurtled out of the darkness.

“Olive . . . don’t!”

She knew that exasperated voice, and even those words, quite well. It was Jamie. And while the sound warmed the tight twist of cold and fear that had spread through her insides, it was too late to undo what she’d done.

She could hear the ticking now, muffled and ominous, and her eyes squinted hard, a wrinkle of worry furrowing between her brows. She couldn’t see Jamie, but the men stood on the lane before her, their guns lowered, their flat caps pulled low over their eyes as they glanced round in apparent confusion. They were talking rapidly in muted tones, but not in English. It was difficult to keep the jumble of languages straight. Station XVII had trained men from all over Europe—Poland, Czechoslovakia, Norway, France, Belgium.

Her arm, weighted with responsibility, hung heavy at her side, a foreign object.

Then, suddenly, there was a flurry of movement. Men were emerging from the trees all round her.

“You’ve armed it, haven’t you?” Jamie yelled, sounding eerie in the dark.

Olive stared down at the little device in her hand. “A new invention,” Major Boom had said. An easy-to-arm, compact device, packed with a powerful explosive. She glanced up again to see Jamie’s solid bulk barrelling out of the darkness, coming into focus in the dim light of the headlamps, the length of him haloed with freezing mist. He must have seen the answer on her face.

“Get rid of it, damn it!” He’d almost reached her when she turned and lobbed the little handful straight into the sodden darkness that ran along the lane.

Two seconds ticked past. Long enough for Jamie to yell, “Take cover!” Long enough for Olive to trace the shadowy outline of the trees, stunned into immobility and silence. Long enough for Jamie to reach her, push her onto the Austin’s front seat, and throw himself on top of her.

The sound was immense, crashing over them, coursing through their bodies with teeth-rattling vibrations. The heat was quick on its heels, a bonfire, taking flame like magic, and Olive cowered on a wave of shock. Five seconds more, and the damage was done, the moment fizzling in the darkness, little fires burning quite merrily in the aftermath.

She felt Jamie’s deep sigh, his chest pressed against her side, just before he levered himself off her. With his arms propped on either side of her body, he stared down into her flushed face.

“Don’t you dare lecture me, Jamie,” she said quietly, conscious of the fact that just beyond the confines of the Austin, men were waiting, eager for an explanation. Well, she’d bloody well like one, too. “When Major Boom gave that thing to me, he said a moment would come when it would be the only option.” She speared him with a glare. “I decided that having two strange men armed with Sten guns charge me in the dark was that moment.” It was a bit difficult, but she managed to shift enough on the seat to cross her arms over her chest. “Now,” she said sweetly, “perhaps you’d like to tell me what’s going on here?”

“No,” he said shortly. “I wouldn’t.” Before she could even muster her outrage, his gaze flicked toward the Austin’s back window. It seemed a second car had approached and was idling some distance behind them. “Right on time,” he muttered.

As she arched up to look back, someone barked an impatient “Aldridge.” Together, they turned to peer out the front windscreen, no doubt presenting somewhat of a compromising position. When her eyes focused on the looming, overcoated presence of the new CO, she promptly slumped back onto the chilly seat and let her eyes shutter closed.

Scrambling up, Jamie said in an undertone, “Let me do the talking. He doesn’t look at all pleased, and you’re about to have to explain why there’s now a pass-through in the trees lining the drive.”

Olive had yet to cross paths with the CO; she had, in fact, been dreading it. It was clear from glimpses and snippets that he was nothing like Major Boom, and he seemed the sort of disapproving curmudgeon to clash with her more imaginative tendencies. Tall and lanky, he was serious to a fault and sparing with words, often to the point of rudeness. He was evidently a genius, with a sixth sense for machines, and thus precisely the man to take over the running of Station XVII, Baker Street’s school for industrial sabotage.

His code name was Major Blighty. A bit grand, perhaps, as the latter bit had long been the nickname used for Britain itself. But the man was imperious, lording it over them all with a stern word and a tight jaw, and it was his job to lead the charge in blighting the Nazi war machine. She felt his blight in other ways, too. So, really, the code name was perfect.

Olive had yet to see him smile, and she’d heard that he disapproved of women working for the war effort, particularly the FANYs stationed at the manor, who had their “fingers in every pie.”

Her jaw tightened merely thinking of it. Of course they did. Because if they bloody well didn’t, the place would be in shambles, everything misplaced or shunted aside. The FANYs—like women everywhere—did the dirty work and dealt in the details. And the CO would find he didn’t have a bit of choice in the matter.

Olive didn’t like dealing with men of his ilk, but she didn’t shy away from it. Even now, her heartbeat still racing, her lips chapped, her uniform wrinkled, and her pride somewhat chafed, she stiffened, pressed her lips together, and took a steadying breath.

Jamie helped her up and out of the car, so she was tugging at the hem of her tunic when the CO charged up beside the Austin. His gaze, flicking over her, while furious, still managed to be dismissive. Olive bristled. She had just crashed their little party and detonated an explosive, whose residual flames were licking along the branches of several trees, casting a warm glow over the whole awkward proceedings. Not that she’d meant to, but this was precisely the sort of thing that happened when women were deliberately kept in the dark. Jamie nudged her with his elbow, obviously sensing temper, and she focused on breathing the frigid night air in through her nose.

The CO’s thatch-coloured hair glinted atop the deep wrinkles in his forehead, and his cold grey eyes zeroed in on Jamie.

“Don’t tell me she’s one of ours?” he demanded.

“This is Olive Bright, sir, FANY and pigeoneer.” Olive glanced at Jamie, startled by the defensive respect in his voice.

“Hmph.” Olive couldn’t decide whether to take offence before he was speaking again. “What is she doing out here”—his gaze arrowed to the destruction just beyond the road—“meddling in a top-secret operation?” Olive sucked in her breath, ready to leap to her own defence, but once again Jamie’s elbow connected, forestalling her response.

“She was assigned as the driver to take Major Boom to the Toyshop.” Olive nearly snorted. Officially known as MD1, or Ministry of Defence 1, the Firs produced diabolically lethal weapons. Only a man would think to call them toys. “No doubt the road was a bit tricky in the dark with this weather.” He made a show of checking his watch. “I’d assumed she’d returned long ago and gone home. I should have confirmed it.”

“What sort of operation has armed men ambushing cars in the lane?” Olive demanded, before belatedly adding, “Sir.”

“None of your concern,” the CO said shortly. “You are support staff and haven’t clearance for details.” Olive was seething but knew better than to argue. “Where did you get your hands on that explosive device?” he accused.

“It was a gift,” Olive said flatly.

“From?”

“The CO.” If he was going to be rude and abrupt in their dealings, she would be happy to go along.

“I doubt,” he said tightly, “he intended it to be used on his own men.”

“He intended it,” Olive countered blithely, “to be used at my discretion. And I’m afraid with no knowledge of the operation, I was forced to draw my own conclusion, that the men were here on nefarious and unauthorised business. It seemed entirely justified with the information I had. Sir.”

She glanced away from him at the men standing in clusters just beyond the reach of the headlamps, feeling more confused than ever. The focus of training at Station XVII was the sabotage of industry and infrastructure: factories, railroads, canals—anything that might undermine the Germans. While the curriculum included plenty of opportunities for field testing, it was rarely carried out in the dark or on the edge of the grounds, and certainly not with guns. Then again, perhaps all sorts of things were going on without her knowledge.

“It is a skill of mine, Miss Bright, to find the flaw in any system and bring every possible pressure to bear against it.” His unflinching gaze was clearly assessing her potential as such.

Olive was momentarily struck speechless. She had time only to blink at him in disbelief before he went on.

“Return the car. Go home. New day tomorrow.” He turned then and stalked away, calling out, “We’ll begin again.”

Jamie glanced at her. “Run the car up, wait for me, and I’ll drive you home,” he said shortly.

As he hurried after the CO, back toward the shelter of trees, snowflakes melted on Olive’s collar. She shivered, not entirely certain whether the reaction was due to the weather or the warning. She glanced at the sheepish men, who clearly felt responsible for her dressing-down. She smiled distractedly at the pair that held the Sten guns loosely at their sides; they tipped their caps and turned away. But in the dim light of the headlamps, the profile of the shorter, stockier one kindled a flicker of memory.

She knew him; she’d spoken to him. She had, in fact, walked him to the nurses’ station and set his finger in a splint after his opponent had met his intended chin jab head-on. His name was Josef Gabek. He was part of the 1st Czechoslovak Mixed Brigade, most of whom were stationed at Cholmondeley Castle. The injury had made him fiercely angry with himself, but it had all been flare and fizzle—he’d soon been laughing at his own clumsiness. But when Olive had questioned him further, his mouth had shut quite firmly. All she knew was that he was one of a select group of recruits whose members were kept separate and given more focused and intense training, including with explosives she’d never seen before.

Now, as she stared at Warrant Officer Josef Gabek and several of his compatriots lurking amid the trees on the Brickendonbury grounds on a slick and blustery night, the lot of them prepared to ambush an approaching vehicle, one thing was clear. The upper echelons of Baker Street were holding this secret close. Olive glanced back at the second car, its driver now standing waiting just beside it. Waiting for her to clear out and then what? Curiosity teemed inside her.

What is all this?

Knowing she couldn’t linger—and daren’t burn any bridges by stashing the Austin and skulking back to observe—Olive slid into the car, slammed the door, and drove slowly down the drive, the falling snow quickly obscuring any activity that had commenced on the lane behind her.

She was torn between wanting to nurse her pride, tearing over the lanes on the little motorcycle she had on loan from Baker Street, and wanting to hear what sort of explanations or platitudes Jamie would offer. Her curiosity won out. Knowing she’d have a bit of a wait, she went straight to the kitchen, where a single lamp threw a warm glow up to the ceiling. She put the kettle on to boil and, after a time, settled down at the long wooden table to drink her tea and ponder the evening’s discoveries.

Jamie found her there, and she didn’t mince words.

“They’re training for an ambush, aren’t they?”

“Is there tea left in the pot?” Without waiting for a response, he found a cup, poured out the now-lukewarm brew, and dropped into the chair across from her. He took a long swallow, then a deep breath, and finally met her eyes levelly.

“I’ve never yet agreed to Twenty Questions, Olive, and I won’t do it tonight, either. It’s more than my job is worth.” He smiled self-deprecatingly. “You’re determined to buck the system, but you’ll never manage it with Major Blighty in charge. You can’t be in on every secret—for good reason. The fewer people that know a secret, the better chance there is of keeping it.” His hands circled the cup as he stared down into its contents. “There’s not a single reason you need to know what went on out there tonight. If there was, I’d tell you. Trust me.”

Olive slumped over onto the folded arm she’d propped on the table and watched him. She was tired, frazzled, and bloody curious, but he wasn’t to blame for any of it. He looked as run down as she felt. His dark hair was wet and curling at the ends, the grey blue of his eyes looked bruised, and the shadowy stubble that covered the lower half of his face made him look vaguely piratical.

“I miss Major Boom already. I wonder if they need another FANY at the Firs,” she grouched.

Jamie eyed her, his face expressionless, but after a moment, his lips curved smugly. “Too many things tying you here.”

“Such as?”

“The pigeons. They don’t need them at the Firs, and without you here to champion the Bright birds, we’d likely find another pigeoneer.”

Olive grunted. “That’s one thing.”

“Proximity to home—to Jonathon, Harriet, and your father.” He had a point. Dispatched from London to Blackcap Lodge so that his mother might take refuge in a Scottish sanatorium, Jonathon would be torn up if Olive left him behind. Her stepmother, Harriet, had mostly recovered from the sprained ankle that had laid her up in early autumn, but her multiple sclerosis was beginning to take a heavy toll. And her father couldn’t handle everything, including his veterinary surgery and responsibilities in the Home Guard, all alone.

“Two,” she grudgingly admitted.

Jamie set his cup down slowly and gazed at her. “But I just might be the biggest draw of all.”

Olive made to sit up straight, but her hair got caught in the buttons on her sleeve and tumbled out of its pins. She ignored the mass of dark, wavy hair hanging to her shoulders, having no intention of putting it up again.

“What do you mean?”

He spread his hands to indicate the breadth of his argument.

“Feel free to start anywhere,” she said tartly, pulling out the rest of her pins.

“Very few officers would be willing to tolerate the sort of insubordination you dish out on a daily basis. I coddle you.”

Her hands stilled for a moment as she stared at him, but she didn’t object and instead lifted a single eyebrow. He went on.

“You’ve come to depend on me for information. The sort for which you wouldn’t otherwise have clearance.” He took a drink of tea, appearing entirely too self-righteous.

He was right, but she wasn’t in the mood to admit it—not after he’d denied her any details of that evening’s mysterious business. “Is that all?” she said archly.

He shook his head slowly, then leaned forward, smiling wickedly. “Don’t forget, you’re in love with me.”

Olive stilled, blinking rapidly. No husband, no boyfriend. Traveling alone. The words, part of her cover story, murmured in French, were constantly on the edge of her consciousness.

But in the privacy of her bedroom, in the lonely hours before dawn, she’d occasionally wondered if her feelings for Jamie transcended their fictitious liaison. In the months since she’d met him, he’d inspired a gamut of emotions: fury, exasperation, worry, empathy, and something more. Some indefinable thing. But it surely wasn’t love. She felt certain of it. So, what had prompted Jamie to suggest it? Had she been behaving differently?

So absorbed was she in this private assessment that she barely registered when he started speaking again.

“Think of the grief they’ll give you in the village. To say nothing of Harriet, who has informed me that she approves of my steadying influence on you.” Now he raised both brows and stood up from the table, his chair raking loudly across the floor.

Relief made her almost boneless. He was teasing her. He’d not managed to discern her feelings—whatever they might be—and she wasn’t going to bother about Harriet’s misplaced approval.

“I’ll take you home,” he said, urging her up and out of the kitchen.

It was a quarter of an hour later. He’d pulled through the gate of Blackcap Lodge and waited until she’d opened the nearside door before he’d added one more item to the list.

“If you’ve any chance of becoming an agent, the best place you can be is here.”

She’d slipped into the darkness then, heading for the dovecote, wanting to check that her birds’ evening, unlike her own, had been uneventful. After pulling the torch off the hook beside the door, she fanned its beam over the nests where her birds rested with puffed chests and contented coos. Safe and sound. Despite the random peril of her own evening, that phrase seemed to accurately reflect her own role in this war. No matter how certain she was that she was making a difference, she couldn’t help but long to do more, to be viewed as more than an eccentric hanger-on: useful, perhaps, but hardly indispensable. To risk as much as others were, as selflessly and courageously as she could manage.

The other FANYs all aspired to be agents, which meant if they completed the required training and passed the interviews, they’d be dropped by parachute into enemy territory, tasked with spying, sabotage, infiltration, or communication. Little more than a month ago, she’d dis. . .