A Valiant Deceit

Book 2: Olive Bright Mystery

by Stephanie Graves

Genres: World War II; Historical Mysteries

Synopsis

Young pigeoneer Olive Bright has been conscripted, with her racing birds, to aid the fight against the Nazis. It's not the daring role she'd envisioned for herself, but her quiet little English village is not nearly as sheltered as she imagined . . .

Returning to Pipley following her FANY (First Aid Nursing Yeomanry) training, Olive is eager to step up her involvement in the war effort. Her pigeons are being conscripted to aid the Belgian resistance, and it's up to Olive to choose the best birds for the mission. To protect the secrecy of their work, she must also continue the ruse of being romantically involved with her superior, Captain Jameson Aldridge, a task made more challenging by the fact that she really does have feelings for the gruff Irish intelligence officer.

But perhaps the greatest challenge of all comes when an instructor at Station XVII, the top-secret training school housed at Brickendonbury Manor, is found dead in Balls Wood by a troop of Girl Guides. The police quickly rule Lieutenant Jeremy Beckett's death an accident, but based on clues she finds at the scene, Olive begins to suspect he might have been a spy. Involving the reluctant Jamie, she is determined to solve the murder and possibly stop a threat to their intelligence efforts which could put the Belgians—not to mention her pigeons—in grave danger.

Release date: January 25, 2022

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 304

Sample

“I’m beginning to wonder if you have even the tiniest bit of experience with this sort of thing,” Olive said tightly, her clenched fists strategically hidden by the full skirt of her cornflower-blue dress.

“What sort of thing?” Jamie said, oblivious.

In the weeks she’d been gone, she’d forgotten how his unruffled demeanor could spark her irritation. He needed, she decided, a thorough ruffling, and when she had a moment, she would certainly deal with the matter. But right now really wasn’t the time.

“With romance.” Her voice caught on the second word, and she put a hand to her throat, momentarily at a loss. But she quickly rallied, crossing her arms, hugging them tightly against her chest, and ruthlessly jerking herself free of her tetchy mood. Her gaze whirled round the room, taking in the flirty Victory Red smiles and the put-on glamour of the evening, courtesy of wartime ingenuity and, in a few notable cases, the black market.

In the centre of it all, the bride and groom were grinning besottedly at each other, and while Olive was delighted that Margaret and Leo had found that sort of magic in each other, she couldn’t help but feel a little stab of envy. Because here she stood, tethered indefinitely to a make-believe relationship with her superior officer, Captain Jameson Aldridge.

It had only been a few months since he’d shown up at her dovecote to assess her pigeons and her character. Upon inspection, he’d been seemingly unimpressed with both. In the end, he’d grudgingly enlisted her to work for a hush-hush government organisation, one so secret it was known to insiders only as Baker Street. She’d been conscripted for Station XVII, in particular: the special training school for sabotage, housed at nearby Brickendonbury Manor. Olive had had occasion, during the manor’s previous incarnation as the Stratton Park School for Boys, to walk those hallowed halls as its sole female student, and she considered this a serendipitous return.

Jameson Aldridge, however, was another matter entirely. He was brusque to the point of rudeness, distrustful and disapproving, and utterly irritating. In fairness, he’d grown on her a bit in the intervening months, but his dark-haired resemblance to the object of a short-lived love affair, and her own damnable curiosity on that score, had kept things from being strictly comfortable.

Perhaps worse still, ever since Jamie’s appearance, she’d been the envy of the village. From Girl Guides to spinsters, they’d all been taken in by his broad shoulders, commanding presence, and Irish intensity. She’d had cause to be on the receiving end of all that commanding intensity, and it hadn’t been remotely romantic. Or, in most cases, even pleasant.

He leaned closer and tipped his head down slightly so that his lips hovered just above her ear. “I don’t need experience, darling,” he drawled smugly. “I need only to know how to fake it.”

“Is that right, Tupper?” she said, using the nickname his fellow officers had bestowed. As far as she knew, strictly because he’d come from a family of sheep farmers. Her lips curved into a smirk at the irony of it all. “How dreadfully disappointing—and rather surprising, I have to admit.” She raked her gaze assessingly over his solid frame, carefully combed dark hair, and smooth-shaven jaw. He must have stories. Maybe one day she’d prise them out of him, but that didn’t help her right now. “If that’s really your opinion, I daresay you’re quite deserving of an earful from Mrs Battlesby and Mrs Pevensie.”

She was gratified to see him stiffen, although she couldn’t help but resent having to invoke the names of gossipy village ladies. “They’re sure to want an explanation as to why you’ve been content to let your steady girl—the maid of honour, no less—prop up the wall at her best girlfriend’s wedding,” she said dryly, widening her smile.

Jamie’s gaze darted round and finally settled on the pair, who were tucked cosily into a corner spot with a view of the entire hall. As she watched, two purple-veined hands shooed him toward the dance floor, whilst four twinkling eyes brooked no disagreement. Colour crested his ears.

“Clearly, I’m not the only one who thinks you’re making a shoddy job of it,” she said.

His lips compressed, and a little wrinkle appeared at the centre of his chin. Olive had been tempted to name that wrinkle—Horace seemed rather apropos.

“Come on,” he said gruffly, laying his hand against her waist and nudging her forward onto the dance floor.

Just as Olive was finally being swept into his arms, she felt a finger tap against her elbow. Turning, she tipped her gaze down to the sunny, freckled face of Henrietta Gibbons. Inwardly, she sighed; outwardly, she merely smiled, bracing herself for whatever was coming.

“Hello, Hen,” she said as Jamie dropped his hands. “I hope you’re enjoying yourself.” She’d narrowly avoided stressing the wrong word.

The girl beamed. “I’ve already had two slices of cake, and now I’m introducing Miss Featherington round.”

Momentarily confused, Olive shifted her gaze to the woman hovering just beyond Hen, in a green-checked dress and pristine white cardigan. Rumour was she’d been teaching in London, at a girls’ school that had shut down, and now she was staying with her sister-in-law, Betty Henry, while her brother was away with the Royal Navy. Her hands were neatly clasped, her smile was demure, and her complexion pure English rose beneath a set of perfect chestnut victory rolls. She was looking at Jamie, and one glance confirmed that he was looking right back. For once, Horace was nowhere in sight.

Olive waited for Hen to get on with the introductions.

“Miss Featherington is our new Brown Owl—our Guide leader.” She added the clarification for Jamie’s benefit. “She was lucky enough to take over just before our camping trip to Balls Wood next week.”

That was one way of looking at it; another was that her predecessor, Miss Haverford, had made a timely escape to the nervy tedium of a munitions factory before she was forced to endure another tramp through the woods with a giddy group of Girl Guides, all of them eager to cook over a campfire, sleep in tents, and squat over a makeshift privy.

“That is lucky,” Olive agreed, keeping her smile tightly in place.

“This is Olive Bright—just back from FANY training—and her fiancé, Captain Jameson Aldridge.”

Olive reacted instantly, her coy “No-no-no” overlapping Jamie’s startled and rather strident “What?”

“They both work over at Brickendonbury Manor,” Hen went on, her body tilting conspiratorially toward Brown Owl. “Very hush-hush.”

“We are not,” Olive said, giving Hen a hard look, “engaged, as you well know.” To Miss Featherington, she added, “We’re just . . . enjoying each other’s company.” Olive smiled at Jamie, who looked as spooked as if he’d seen a cat—a quirk of his she’d yet to get to the bottom of—and forged on alone. “We’re both busy with war work, and neither of us is thinking of marriage right now.”

“I wouldn’t have even known you were a couple,” Miss Featherington admitted unhelpfully.

“Lucky we had this chat,” Olive said, taking Jamie’s arm in a firm, demonstrative grip. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve finally convinced him to dance, and I’d just assume not lose my chance.” She flashed a final smile before moving off. She really couldn’t contend with Hen and Miss Featherington right now.

Looking rather confused, Jamie nodded and allowed himself to be led away. Thankfully, the record on the gramophone had been switched from a quickstep to the slower-paced “You Go to My Head,” so she pressed close to him and stoppered her irritation.

After a few moments of moving round the floor, Jamie spoke. “Point to you.”

Evidently, their little chat with Miss Featherington hadn’t been a complete waste of time. She’d at least managed to convince Jamie of his less than loverlike attitude where Olive was concerned. Feeling too put upon to look at him, she murmured, “Lucky for you, I’m not keeping a tally.” After a beat she added, “Was it really necessary to react as if I’m some sort of gorgon?”

“Well, aren’t you?” he deadpanned.

She tensed in his arms, her head whipping round so that her face was mere inches from his. When she tipped her head back to meet his eyes, their grey-blue placidity riled her even further.

In the split second before her temper got the better of her, he tightened his grip and shifted slightly. “Steady on, Olive. I meant the good parts. Lesser mortals may not admire them,” he continued offhandedly as they swayed to the plummy tones of Joe Loss, “but they’ve grown on me. More or less.”

“You’re not particularly good with compliments, are you?” she groused.

“That depends. Am I meant to be your commanding officer or your pretend lover?”

She leaned back in his arms, debating how awkward she was willing to let things become. At last, she said simply, “Never mind.”

He shook her slightly. “You’ve got to admit, there are certain similarities. You’re fiercely courageous—albeit at times to the point of stupidity.” He hurried on as she tensed. “And rather eye-catching.”

“I suppose you think you’re clever,” she said, trying not to smile.

He tipped his head in cocky acknowledgement, flashed his dimple, and shifted his hand against her lower back. A shiver ran through her, then quickly fizzled as she was struck yet again by her untenable situation: she was twenty-two years old, and romance was strictly off-limits. Her shoulders slumped.

“Is it all right if I lay my head on your shoulder? You won’t bolt, will you?” she asked, hearing the quaver in her voice and quickly gulping it down.

“I think I can just manage to resist,” he said wryly.

With a long sigh, she closed her eyes and imagined for a moment that she truly was dancing with her fiancé—or, at the very least, with someone who might be likely to kiss her properly at the end of the evening. But if a few fleeting moments in the strong arms of a handsome man were all she could get, it would have to be enough. The fabric of his jacket felt cool against her heated cheek, and his solid bulk was immensely comforting. This war business was rough, and for all intents and purposes, she was living it only vicariously. She could work her fingers to the bone as a pigeoneer and a FANY, sitting pretty in the English countryside, and while it was stressful and exhausting, and sometimes unbearably frustrating, she knew it was nothing compared to the conditions endured by the men and women living in the occupied zones on the Continent and beyond.

She felt his fingers shift and tighten at her waist and let herself relax. But too soon, the song was over, and she was pulling away, not wanting to meet Jamie’s eyes, not wanting to admit that having him hold on to her for those few swaying moments felt uncomfortably comfortable.

“Ladies and gents,” came a jaunty voice from the dais at the end of the room, “it’s time to see the bride and groom off on their honeymoon.”

Jamie took hold of her hand and tugged her through the milling crowds drifting toward the doors of the hall. Olive’s father had loaned the couple his Hillman Minx and offered up a ration of petrol as a wedding gift. The couple was to spend two days in the Cotswolds before it was back to business.

Her friend was standing beside the car, her lavender dress almost glowing in the last remaining rays of late summer light. After clothes had been rationed at the beginning of June, the women of Pipley had stepped up to help outfit the bride. Olive had loaned her mother’s pearls, Violet Darling had offered a glamourous silk shantung wrap the colour of ripe mulberries, and Lady Camilla had gifted Margaret with a pair of familiar marcasite hair combs, at which Olive couldn’t help but look askance.

Even without a perfect, new white gown, Margaret looked radiant and impossibly happy, her complexion dewier than the prizewinning late-summer roses picked from Mrs Spencer’s garden to be gathered into a lush bouquet. Her golden tresses had been released from the pinned arrangement of just moments ago and now hung in a rippling curtain to brush against her collarbones. She’d reapplied her lipstick and touched up her makeup, and it made Olive catch her breath just to look at her. Her new husband couldn’t claim such cinema-star good looks, but Leo had plenty of other qualities to recommend him, and Margaret had eyes only for him. He looked quite distinguished in his formal suit, his pale hair slicked into place with pomade and catching fire in the setting sun—almost like a jazz musician or a continental playboy. She suspected he’d be quite flattered by the comparisons.

A few weeks prior, Leo had started work as the chaplain at nearby Merryweather House. It had been requisitioned as a hospital for some of the most tragically injured of HM Forces, and it was keeping him busy enough that a few of Pipley’s occupants found themselves somewhat adrift. As a nearly minted vicar’s wife, Margaret was the obvious substitute in his absence, but unfortunately, she wasn’t quite ready yet to step into her new role. She’d recently confided to Olive that more than once she’d found herself lunging into shrubbery to spare herself the chatty confidences of one of her future flock.

Now she caught sight of Olive, hurried forward, and enveloped her in a tight hug. “It was all right, wasn’t it?”

“It was perfect,” Olive assured her. “And you looked perfectly lovely. Now, go off and enjoy yourselves.”

Margaret rolled her eyes. “Thank heaven for these two days. I’ve barely seen Leo since he took the posting at Merryweather. Coming back will be so hard. But at least we’ll be together—there’s been no more talk of him joining up, thank the Lord.”

Olive gripped her arms, squeezed. “Don’t think about the war or Pipley or anything at all. Just be together.”

“I promise.” Beaming with happiness, Margaret glanced over Olive’s shoulder to where Jamie was standing amidst the gathered crowd, then met her friend’s eyes, a tiny wrinkle forming between her brows. “Everything all right with you two? You looked a little put out in the hall.”

“We’re figuring things out,” Olive said, pasting on a smile. Not even Margaret knew that she and Jamie were only playing parts, and that her concern was entirely misplaced.

“I suspect you have him wrapped round your little finger,” Margaret teased, her lips twisting with amusement as Leo tugged her gently back toward the car.

A few of the villagers had foraged in their gardens; others had sought out the wildflowers that grew rampant on the verge. All were now delightedly tossing a kaleidoscope of coloured petals into the air as the couple slipped into the auto. And in a moment, with a toot of the horn, they were off down the lane, with the cheers of the village ringing behind them.

Olive stared after them, shielding her eyes against the last flash of the setting sun as twilight began its dreamy descent. There’d been so many changes in the months since she’d ferreted out the murderer among them, and yet so much still remained the same. Like a child, she made a wish in the moment. A wish for something exciting, magical, and wonderful to happen to her. As it escaped into the ether, she felt a tug at her hand and turned, startled to remember that she was still playing a part, not yet free to relax.

“I’ll walk you home,” Jamie said, and to her surprise, he didn’t let go.

As they reached the end of the high street and faced the open countryside, the sun nestled in among the trees, tucked in for the night by the encroaching velvet cover of gathering darkness. Their steps were slow and synchronised, and nary a word was spoken. After her ordeal with a murderer, there had been the weeks of recovery, and when she’d finally started work at Brickendonbury, they’d both been on tenterhooks. And after that, there’d been her training. She’d almost forgotten what it was like to spend time with Jamie. It required only a moment for Olive to conclude that being alone with him was very like being alone. As long as he refrained from chastising. And lecturing. And silent disapproval.

Olive stole a glance at him, relatively certain that the silent disapproval was simmering just below the surface. So long as it remained unvoiced, she was content. Unfortunately, the blissful silence lasted exactly three more steps.

“Did Lady Hailsham get you whipped into shape at Overthorpe Hall?” he inquired.

Olive rolled her eyes. Of course he wanted to talk about her FANY training. “It’s more accurate to say that she tested our willingness to perform the most menial and revolting tasks. The better to prepare us for the demands of our commanding officers.”

“A woman after my own heart,” Jamie said.

Olive didn’t bother with a reply, instead staring out over the late-summer fields. The long, hot days would soon give way to the crispness of fall, and still the war dragged on, seemingly interminable.

“I hope you’re ready to get back to work,” he said, an odd note in his voice. “You’re to have an official assignment.”

Her gaze swept round, her eyebrows dipping suspiciously. “More official than pigeoneer?” she asked dryly, plunging her hands into her pockets. “Does the Official Secrets Act cover it, or will I be required to sign in blood?”

“Very funny.”

“Does the new assignment come with a new CO?” she asked casually. Her attention had been caught by the quick, darting movements of a little hedge sparrow, and she rattled off the words almost without thinking.

“I was under the impression,” he said somewhat woodenly, “that we’d finally found a rhythm of sorts.” She glanced over at him and noted the sudden hardness of his jaw and the whitened scar along its edge.

“We had,” she allowed, stretching the words out, somewhat baffled by his defence of their partnership. “But that was mostly after matters had been resolved. Up to that point, our efforts at cooperation tended to resemble a mule cart.”

“I presume in that analogy I’m meant to be the mule?”

Olive gestured, as if to say he’d drawn that conclusion on his own. But yes.

“How about I give you another analogy?” he said, sounding breathless with exasperation. “What about a grenade with a faulty pin that blows up in your kitbag before your mission’s even begun?”

“I think that’s a bit of an exaggeration,” she said sharply. “If you’re implying that I’m the pin, and faulty.”

“You’ve not exactly been a model recruit. You’re argumentative and insubordinate, careless and bloody reckless. In imagining yourself an amateur sleuth, you almost got yourself killed.”

He hadn’t said deceitful; that was something. Still, the dressing-down grated, and her emotions fizzed up like a firecracker. “Over these past few months, I’ve not imagined anything. I’ve lived every minute as pigeoneer, FANY, village pig keeper, amateur sleuth, dutiful daughter, and pretend girlfriend.” She had turned and was toe-to-toe with him now, her gaze just barely tipped up to look him in the eye. “And quite frankly, my efforts on the last score justify adding ‘bloody good actress’ to the list.”

The colour of his eyes seemed to lighten as she stared angrily into their depths. “You’re right,” he said, quickly sobering. “I’ve been too hard on you. My standards are high, and I expect as much of the men—and women—under my command as I expect of myself.”

Olive’s shoulders slumped slightly; the moral outrage had sputtered out, and she suddenly felt as if she’d let him down. By mutual consent, they started walking again, the sounds of a summer evening in the country steadily building.

After a moment, he went on. “You have had to contend with more than most. The others working at Station XVII are, for all intents and purposes, cut off from the outside world. They don’t have to worry on a daily basis about keeping the secrets of their war work from friends and family members. None of them must contend with village affairs and gossip, not to mention the expected demonstrations of an . . . amorous nature.”

Olive breathed a sigh of relief at having him understand—or at least profess to.

“As to the sleuthing . . .” he said heavily. One eyebrow winged up as he gave her a look of mild reproof. “You know my feelings on that,” he added, slipping his hands into his pockets.

She did. And she didn’t really give a fig. Inspired by the inestimable Hercule Poirot of her favourite mystery novels, she’d delved into the prospect of solving the murder of a local busybody with a zeal bordering on relish. Her efforts had proved successful, not only in outing a murderer, but also in uncovering a savvy black-market scheme, and they hadn’t interfered with anything, except perhaps her own mortal coil. He had no business treating her like a recalcitrant child over the matter. Clearly, it fell to her to reestablish the nature of their relationship. And they were going to need a much better analogy.

With a heartfelt sigh, she began, “When you showed up at my pigeon loft, it was to request my services as a pigeoneer, reporting to you. In an effort to justify our spending time together, I invented a romance.” She kicked at a stone and tamped down her still-fresh exasperation on the topic. “And when I asked to have a larger role in the efforts being undertaken for the war, I was told to sign on as a FANY. Working at Brickendonbury and, again, reporting to you.”

She smiled blandly and waited for him to comment. He didn’t.

“Obviously, you have a certain claim on my time and attention. You can take me for a drive, demand the use of a pair of pigeons, or put me to work filing papers or packing explosives. All completely within your purview. But some aspects of my life are not,” she said emphatically. “That includes my family, my free time, and whatever hobbies strike my fancy. If I want to eat blackberries off the bramble or name a pig that will eventually be butchered or hunt for a murderer when the police have given up, I don’t need your permission, Jamie.” She’d lowered her voice at the end and even slipped her arm through his, trying to smooth over the sting of her words. It wasn’t an easy situation for either of them.

“Maybe not. But as your commanding officer, I’m going to give you a bit of advice.” Stiffening, Olive detached her arm from his and shifted away a bit. He reached for her hand, and she let him take it. “Many aspects of war seem rather thrilling, and it’s quite natural to view courage and heroism with starry-eyed urgency and excitement. But the price of failure is heavy. It’s capture, incarceration, torture, even death.”

“I know that,” Olive protested, trying to shake her hand loose, but he held on stubbornly, so she gritted her teeth and looked up at the stars, little chinks in the armour of impending darkness.

“What I’m trying to say is that those things are also true when a person is fighting a war of their own. In the heat of the moment, wrapped up in discovery and justice and certitude, it’s easy to forget things like caution and common sense.” She frowned, not at all in the mood to be chastised. Again. His next words caught her completely off guard. “I don’t know what I would have done if you’d been killed.”

Her breath caught, just for a moment, and then he spoke again.

“Who would I have found to supply our pigeons?”

His grin flashed, proof he was teasing, but she shot him a withering stare, nonetheless, carefully extracting her hand.

“Seriously, though, Olive. Have a care. I can’t stop you from poking your nose where it doesn’t belong, but I can endeavour to keep you too distracted to allow it.”

Her skin prickled, and her eyes widened. What did he mean? Was it possible he was experiencing the same restless feeling that plagued her? A need for connection and even, to a lesser degree, romance?

His manner changed abruptly from teasing humour to serious intensity. “Olive . . . ,” he said, his voice suddenly husky. Her heartbeat soared, and she felt her body instinctively leaning toward him.

Suddenly, he shied away, taking a step backwards and away. She froze, mortified and uncertain. And then the barest feather touch twitched against her calf. She reacted as if it were a live wire. Jerking her leg away, she whirled and found herself staring down at a shadow. As she blinked, the smudge of darkness materialised into a black cat with a white-tipped tail, poised to begin stropping itself against her.

Closing her eyes, she willed her temper to subside. It wasn’t his fault that her frame of mind had almost had her . . . She didn’t want to think about it.

“For heaven’s sake,” she scoffed, with a glance back at Jamie. “Let’s hope the Germans don’t send feral cats to invade us.” She secretly relished that he had this little quirk. Jamie radiated command and control, but send a cat traipsing across his path, and the man was a pudding.

His gaze flicked to hers, and he tugged on the hem of his jacket, as if to restore a sense of decorum to the situation. He failed utterly. “It’s not feral.” His voice was tight. In response to her raised eyebrow, he nodded toward the break in the hedgerow behind her. A crushed gravel drive was pale in the milky glow of the rising waxing moon. “It surely came from in there.”

Olive suddenly realised where they were standing. She peered round the hedge-fronted wall and stared down the drive to Peregrine Hall, Miss Husselbee’s home until the recent tragedy. She could just make out a van in the forecourt, its doors being folded shut. Just beyond, a rigid and correct individual had turned to walk up the steps and into the darkened hall.

She heard a scuffle behind her on the path, followed by an oath, but didn’t turn, her curiosity kindled by this new discovery. Between their housekeeper, Mrs Battlesby, and her stepmother, Olive was usually kept well apprised of village gossip, and someone new moving into Peregrine Hall was a juicy titbit indeed. Perhaps they’d just arrived.

With the slam of the driver’s-side door, the truck roared to life. It crunched over the gravel and rumbled up the drive toward them, its slitted headlamps arcing through the darkness.

Jamie’s breath hissed out, overlaying the grinding sound of shifting gears. Glancing back, Olive watched the cat dart into the hedgerow while Jamie stared after it with narrowed eyes. She hailed the driver.

“You need summa. . .