Olive Bright, Pigeoneer

Book 1: Olive Bright Mystery

by Stephanie Graves

Genres: World War II; International Crime & Mystery; Traditional Mysteries

Synopsis

Though war rages across mainland Europe and London is strafed by German aircraft, the little village of Pipley in Hertfordshire bustles along much as it always has. Adrift since her best friend, George, joined the Royal Air Force, twenty-two-year-old Olive Bright fills her days by helping at her father's veterinary practice and tending to her beloved racing pigeons. Desperate to do her bit, Olive hopes that the National Pigeon Service will enlist Bright Lofts' expertise, and use their highly trained birds to deliver critical, coded messages for His Majesty's Forces. The strangers who arrive in Pipley are not from the NPS. Instead, Jameson Aldridge and his associate are tied to a covert British intelligence organization known as Baker Street. If Olive wants her pigeons to help the war effort, she must do so in complete secrecy. Tired of living vicariously through the characters of her beloved Agatha Christie novels, Olive readily agrees. But in the midst of her subterfuge, the village of Pipley is dealing with another mystery. Local busybody Miss Husselbee is found dead outside Olive's pigeon loft. Is the murder tied to Olive's new assignment? Or did Miss Husselbee finally succeed in ferreting out a secret shameful enough to kill for? With the gruff, handsome Jameson as an unlikely ally, Olive intends to find out--but homing in on a murderer can be a deadly business...

Release date: December 29, 2020

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 304

Sample

Olive Bright coasted to a stop beside a familiar figure, turned out respectably in the Wedgwood-blue uniform of the British Royal Air Force, her gaze arrowing to the telltale white flash on his cap, which signified he hadn’t yet completed his training. He was waiting just shy of the St Margarets station platform, away from the bustle of activity, but close enough to hear the boarding call. Waiting to tell her goodbye.

Swallowing down emotion and schooling her features, she slid off her bicycle, propped it against the brick wall of the station, and unlatched the wicker carrier basket strapped to its handlebars. When she turned back, her face was suffused with mischief.

“Olive . . .” George was always saying her name that way: a gloss of warning over exasperated finality.

“For luck,” she insisted.

George’s blue eyes met the glassy dark one peering at him from a narrow opening in the wicker. Olive considered his dubiousness rather disheartening, but she wasn’t about to let it bother her today. He and his stolid lack of imagination were so dear to her; it was entirely appropriate that he shouldn’t make this easy. “You know I can’t take her,” he said, his Adam’s apple roving uncertainly.

Even as she smiled at him, she could feel the nervous tension undoing her efforts, threatening to thwart the stiff upper lip that was to have been her last resort. Needing a moment, she rolled her eyes away from him, blinked up into the apricot clouds that crowned a pale lavender sky. It could have been any other spring morning. Except that it wasn’t.

She swallowed past the lump in her throat, her gaze swinging down again to clap solidly on the tall, dark-haired, square-jawed fellow in front of her. He was a perfect melding of his father’s rough masculinity and his mother’s classical features, but he was like neither of them. It would be a long while before he came home again—she refused to even consider the possibility that he might not.

Olive had managed mostly to ignore the sharp nip in the air on her ride to the village, but the chill that swept over her now seeped through her jumper and goosefleshed skin, straight to her bones. She tipped her head down quickly and scuffed her feet over the gravelled road. She’d been fiercely proud when George had joined up, prouder still when he’d graduated from the Elementary Flying Training School. Now he was being shipped off for training in service flying—all the things he’d need to know for piloting an aeroplane in war. It was the last step before he’d earn his sergeant stripes and Royal Air Force wings.

Olive beamed at him, clenching her jaw to hold the smile in place as her eyes ranged over his face, urgently memorising the deep dimple in his left cheek, the snapping blue of his eyes, and the two tiny pale white scars on his temple, which served as markers of a long-ago cautionary tale. The dutiful Watson to her high-handed Sherlock, George had chivalrously let her run herd on him for the better part of their still young lives. After today, she’d no longer have a part in his adventures; he was leaving her behind. And that was intolerable.

Her older brother Lewis had been gone for over a year now, serving as a British liaison officer in Greece. They hadn’t had a letter from him in three months, and Olive couldn’t look at the little framed photograph of him, dashing in cricket whites, posing on the village green, without succumbing to a crushing feeling of helplessness.

Forcibly tamping down the negative emotions, she lifted her chin, even at the risk of exposing the quiver in her lower lip. There’d be time for a good wallow later. Right now, George needed one last knuckling under before he stepped beyond her reach.

“Why can’t you take her?” she demanded.

“This is the real thing, Olive. The War Office, official business. Packing a stowaway”—he eyed the basket with exasperation—“is surely grounds for an unpleasant sort of punishment.”

Olive’s lips twisted with nostalgia. George could always be depended upon to muster a cautious, sensible objection to every impulsive suggestion. Who would temper her wilder impulses while he was gone?

She propped the basket under her arm and released the catch. A rounded grey head poked itself curiously into the conversation, as if to say, “Who would dare object?”

George’s shoulders slumped farther, and Olive grinned encouragingly.

“It’s not as if the RAF is anti-pigeon,” she reminded him. “Quite the opposite. These birds have been carrying messages since the beginning of the war, selflessly doing their bit. Before that it was the Great War, and before that—”

“Save it,” he said dryly.

“Poppins is a racer. She’s trained for this sort of thing,” Olive pressed. “Release her wherever the fancy strikes—the farther away the better—and she’ll fly right home.” She flashed a broad smile. “With no one the wiser.”

He let his gaze roll away, a hint that he was caving. “But Poppins is a civilian,” he said, his tone no longer quite as adamant.

“For now,” Olive countered, her brows lifting defiantly. “She is at His Majesty’s service.” She attempted an awkward curtsy. “You know Dad notified the Pigeon Service committee that our lofts are available for the war effort,” she reminded him. “We simply haven’t received our certification. I’m sure it’s an administrative oversight,” she said crisply.

It was more likely that her father’s imperious manner had raised the committee’s hackles. While he’d jumped at the opportunity to enrol the Bright loft with the Service, envisioning their birds winging top-secret, mission-critical messages across the Channel for Britain, he’d been considerably less enthusiastic about relinquishing control of his loft. He had, in fact, informed the committee of fanciers put in charge of vetting local lofts that if they wanted his racers, then they were going to get him, as well. If he imagined that might sweeten the deal, he was mistaken: it seemed they wanted neither.

Olive was convinced that if the Bright loft had a file at the National Pigeon Service, it was surely marked LAST RESORT, but she was determined to calm any ruffled feathers, so to speak. The war effort needed excellent pigeons, and if the racing sheets were any indication, the birds she’d trained were some of the best.

George hoisted his duffel higher on his shoulder and eyed Poppins distrustfully. “And what, may I ask, did Mr Bright have to say about you absconding with the loft’s champion pigeon and entrusting her to my care?”

Olive’s spine straightened, her chin levelled, and her eyes calmly met his. “He didn’t say a word.”

“You didn’t tell him, did you?”

When she didn’t respond, the barest smile tugged at the corners of his lips. He knew her very well indeed.

And yet, Olive couldn’t help but acknowledge that he was a far cry from the boy who’d tripped along beside her for so many years. His hair, beneath the cap, was slicked back; his jaw shaven smooth; and his eyes were heavy with responsibility. She didn’t want to think about her own eyes and hair; she probably looked a fright, but George didn’t bat an eye.

He had never borne up well against tears, and if she’d chosen to manipulate him with their sudden appearance, he wouldn’t have stood a chance. But they both knew she wouldn’t stoop to such a deceit. Her heart was being ravaged, and tears were coming whether he liked it or not. In what was surely a last-ditch effort to stave them off, he extended his hand for the basket. Sighing with relief, she offered it, then quickly turned her face to the wind, in the hope that it would dry her eyes and cool the achy flush in her face.

“No promises,” he said as she turned back. “It’s entirely possible she’ll get released from the train window as soon as we pull away from the station.”

“Don’t be such a spoilsport,” she admonished, peering in at the bird in the basket. The pale, opalescent colours at her throat shimmered in the darkened space like a sprinkle of fairy dust. In fairness, Olive was willing to concede that this probably wasn’t her most auspicious idea, but it wouldn’t hurt anyone, either. George wasn’t going off to war—not yet. He was headed to an RAF airbase outside of London. If anyone suspected he was harbouring a stowaway, he need only get rid of the evidence. Poppins would handle herself just fine. She was Olive’s best bird, and their last chance to thwart the censors, their last bit of mischief for a very long time.

She bobbed her head, feeling no compunction about sending her along. “Watch over him, Mary Poppins,” she murmured, “and fly home safe.” Olive fastened the basket closed and shifted her attention to George. “She has enough feed and water for a couple days, and there’s paper and a bit of lead in the canister attached to her leg. Send me a joke, preferably inappropriate. A limerick would be even better.” She managed a watery smile as all around them, teary mothers and sweethearts were clinging to their young men in uniform, dreading the moment when they’d have to say their final goodbyes.

George nodded, looking as if he could see right through her brave front. “I’ll miss you, Olive.” His voice was reassuringly steady as he engulfed her in a tight hug, careful to hold the basket clear. Too soon, he pulled away but stood still, staring down at her. Grinning, he made a fist and clipped her lightly on the jaw. “If anything has prepared me for this, it was tagging along in your wake. You’re as domineering as any commanding officer.”

“You’re already a hero, George,” she said crisply before planting a hard kiss high on his cheekbone. “Remember that and don’t go daredeviling about.” Her eyes burned against the tears.

“What’s it to be, then?” he asked with amusement. “Am I a spoilsport or a daredevil?”

“Obviously, it depends on the situation.” She pursed her lips primly, patiently, the way she’d always done when hoping to get her way. “Don’t get cocky,” she added as he hoisted his duffel one final time, the precursor to goodbye. “It affects your aim,” she reminded him.

“I’ll remember that.” He nodded, then shot her a grin as the porter called the all aboard. “You know we would have made a great team,” he said, walking backwards, away from her. “Me at the controls, you as the gunner.”

“The best,” she agreed, a new lump in her throat. If it weren’t for that pesky royal proclamation that forbade women from operating deadly weapons during wartime, they would have been inseparable. The king was evidently inclined to turn a blind eye to everyday life in the country—she’d been firing a rifle since her tenth birthday. She’d shot down her share of falcons, the natural enemy of pigeons, but the Nazis, a much more dangerous predator, had been deemed off-limits for women. No matter if they were crack shots. “Make sure you find someone almost as good,” she instructed, swallowing with difficulty. There wasn’t time to tell him she intended to get as close to manning a gun against the Germans as she possibly could.

“Will do,” he said, putting a hand up in one final goodbye. “Keep an eye on Mom and Dad and Gillian for me, would you?”

Olive nodded solemnly—she could picture them, sitting around the breakfast table, having already said their goodbyes. They were the sort to get on with things. She wasn’t nearly as self-possessed, a fact her mother had considered a particular shortcoming. As he turned and walked the remaining steps to the corner, she kept her gaze riveted on the vulnerable strip of exposed skin at the back of his neck, just above his collar, until he disappeared from view. She locked her knees to resist running after him and turned away, abruptly taking hold of her handlebars.

Barring any unforeseen circumstances, Poppins would likely be back that very afternoon, but Olive had no way of knowing when she’d set eyes on George again. A fist of worry lodged in the centre of her chest.

As she stood, disheartened, her eye caught on a tall, lithe woman exiting the station, her luggage gripped tightly in hand. She moved with a sinuous grace, clad in wide-legged grey trousers and a trim jacket the colour of eggplant, a curlicue pattern of embroidery adorning the shoulders. Her red-gold hair was cut short and stylish under a dark blue beret cap with a rakishly turned brim and a fanciful ribbon flower of cream and gold. Olive’s eyes followed distractedly. There was something familiar about her, but it wasn’t until she’d angled her head at a passing gentleman, revealing the coquettish slant of her eyes and the mischievous pout of her lips, that the mystery was solved.

It seemed Violet Darling had finally come home.

A prick of curious interest pierced the numbness that was rapidly settling over her, but Olive couldn’t be bothered to give it her attention. She was too busy wheeling her bicycle back toward the village, trying not to consider that her best friend had just boarded a train that would shortly be steaming out of the station in the other direction. As her steps carried her down the lane, her vision blurred with tears. She could feel a great gaping void cracking open in her chest, and it was quite clear that if she was going to make it through this war, she was going to need to fill the gap quickly. Luckily, she had a plan.

Olive heard the news stories on the wireless every evening. If the Allies were going to come out on the other side of this war victorious, everyone had to do their bit. For her stepmother, that meant the Women’s Institute and its ceaseless schemes and fundraisers. For her father, she could only hope it meant a relaxed perspective on his beloved pigeons, work as usual as a veterinary surgeon, and the relative safety of the Home Guard. And for Jonathon, their resident evacuee, who had arrived unexpectedly and rooted himself so thoroughly in their lives that they’d be loathe to see him go, it entailed a thriving victory garden, an enviable salvage collection, and ever-changing plans to thwart a German invasion. As for Olive, she held on to a rather desperate hope that her part in the war would defy expectation.

She’d been halfway through her studies at the Royal Veterinary College in London when the school had been evacuated to Berkshire. News from home hadn’t been encouraging: her stepmother Harriet was bravely, if rather distressingly, waging a worsening battle with multiple sclerosis, and her father was struggling to keep up with the demands of his busy animal surgery. So, she’d decided to come home.

As it turned out, he’d been in particular need of someone to rout the steady stream of villagers who’d been spooked into thinking their pets could not weather the war and therefore must be humanely dispatched. She had cajoled, badgered, and bullied as necessary and was relieved to have been mostly successful. There were now two extra cats prowling about the lodge, much to the irritation of the pigeons, but the sight of them never failed to lift Olive’s spirits.

It was these little victories, more than anything else, that had brought the war into sharp and jarring focus and sparked in her a sense of urgency for something just out of reach. She’d been fidgety for months, knitting imperfect grey socks, baking grey bread, and assisting with all manner of tasks under mostly grey skies. All of it had left her feeling helpless, resentful, and vaguely guilty. It hadn’t endeared her to the ladies of the WI, either. She expected they’d be much relieved to see her focusing her efforts elsewhere, particularly as she intended to follow the lead of Winston Churchill’s youngest daughter.

Mary Spencer-Churchill had been interviewed on the wireless the previous evening, talking of her work for the Auxiliary Territorial Service, in which she served on a mixed-gender battery in Hyde Park. When the prime minister had authorised women to help operate the anti-aircraft guns, his daughter had signed up to serve in the ATS that very day. As Olive sat, rapt with attention, curled up on a leather wingback in her father’s study, Miss Churchill had outlined the opportunities for women as spotters, rangefinders, and predictors. They could do absolutely everything, it seemed, except fire the guns. Thoroughly exasperated by such rampant unfairness, Olive was nonetheless willing to overlook it, and she had promptly imagined herself amid the noise and commotion of a gun emplacement in London or farther afield.

Caught up with excitement and patriotic fervour, she’d found she had no one to confide in. Harriet had gone up to bed shortly after dinner; her father had fallen asleep in the chair across from her; and Jonathon had been engrossed in the latest Bigglesworth story, lying on his stomach before their sad little evening fire. Probably for the best: her father would surely have objected to such a spontaneous decision. If she were to convince him, she’d need to plan her argument, being careful to downplay the risks involved while emphasising her aptitude and the need to do her bit. So, she’d switched off the wireless, planted a distracted kiss on her father’s downy head, rumpled Jonathon’s tousled locks, and climbed the stairs, her thoughts fractured and fizzing with the enormity of change on the horizon.

She’d had to bite back the words a moment ago with George—there had been more important things to say, and nothing was settled yet. But it would be; she was determined that it would be.

An unexpected gust had her clapping her free hand over her hat, lest it go tumbling along the river. At the same moment, the train’s whistle sounded as its engine churned into motion, on its determined way to London. Rather than turn around, Olive walked on, resolved to get on with things.

Well aware that war was a study in distraction, she stopped to peer in the window of H. Ware, Chemist, at the much-diminished display of cosmetics, perfume, and other ladies’ toiletry items. She heard the snick of the door opening just beside her. Before she could turn, she was unceremoniously thrust forward and nearly tumbled over her bicycle.

“This is a shop,” a clipped voice informed her, “not a museum, Miss Bright. Kindly move yourself out of the way.”

Olive rallied and turned to find Miss Verity Husselbee glaring daggers. Her silver-chestnut hair was neatly rolled and tucked beneath a forest-green felt hat, her wide-set hazel eyes were slightly squinty beneath downturned brows, and her nostrils were flared with affront. She was outfitted in camel-coloured trousers, a belted tweed jacket, and well-worn boots, a pair of binoculars hanging from her neck, as if she was off to hike the Inner Hebrides instead of simply planning to terrorise a village.

Olive was in no mood for a verbal lashing, particularly an unwarranted one. She glanced pointedly at the CLOSED sign on the door in question before answering glibly, “Given that the shop doesn’t open for another hour, I thought I was safely out of the way. Then again, I hadn’t expected to confound a burglar before breakfast.”

Miss Husselbee snorted her displeasure, looking and sounding rather like her father’s fusty old piebald. “The door,” she said haughtily, “was unlocked. Naturally, I stepped in. I was thinking only of efficiency, a quality, it seems, Dr Ware does not value particularly highly.” She glanced irritably back at the windowed door through which she had sailed a moment ago, then speared Olive with a pointed look. “I wouldn’t trust him if I were you.”

Content to be distracted, Olive promptly propped her bicycle against the building’s inky blue exterior. Miss Husselbee’s nerve was the stuff of legend, and villagers were often to be found whiling away an evening at the pub telling tales—real and imagined—of the woman’s inarguable cheek. Olive’s favourite involved a facetious encounter with Herr Hitler, in which she denounced his moustache as an impotent caterpillar with delusions of grandeur. While the beastly little German’s reach may not yet have extended to Pipley, the village had been waging a quiet war with its very own tweedy autocrat for quite some time.

The only daughter of a long-dead local magistrate and his hawkish wife, Verity Husselbee lived alone at Peregrine Hall on the outskirts of the village, along the banks of the River Lea. She had a strong sense of the proper way to do things and a compulsion to impose her will on others in the interest of the greater good. Naturally, this tendency was not generally well received.

Her habit of wearing binoculars didn’t help the situation. Miss Husselbee claimed she kept them on hand for birdwatching, but the villagers suspected a more nefarious intent. Her seemingly innocent umbrella was resented in equal measure, as she had a habit of tapping its ferrule on the pavement whenever someone’s comment or behaviour prompted even a whiff of disapproval. The rat-a-tat of her approach was as effective as an air-raid siren, causing villagers to whip around corners and dodge into shops in a desperate attempt to steer clear of notice.

Olive had long suspected the bluster was prompted by loneliness. Certain a loft full of avian friends was the answer, she’d taken to accosting the older woman whenever she had a pigeon in tow. Unfortunately, the busybodying had carried on, but Olive liked to think Miss Husselbee took secret pleasure in the camaraderie.

Olive’s mother hadn’t got along with the older woman, but Harriet had forged a special bond with Miss Husselbee. Her stepmother had been walking home from the village on an autumn afternoon and had collapsed some distance from the lodge. Frightened by her suddenly worsened condition, she’d begun to panic. And then she’d heard the approach of a familiar umbrella. As Harriet told the story, Miss Husselbee had promptly taken charge, conscripting a trio of Girl Guides with an empty trek cart to assist. Within moments, Harriet had been tucked carefully into the cart and was being pushed along the lane, accompanied by a retinue of followers, all of them singing cheery songs—Miss Husselbee, evidently, the loudest of them all. Since the rescue, the two women had become fast friends, and Miss Husselbee would often pop in to check on Harriet’s condition, the pigeons, and, to his utter exasperation, the state of Olive’s father’s surgery. Olive had taken to calling her the Sergeant Major, but never to her face.

“Why shouldn’t I trust him?” Olive whispered sotto voce, linking her arm with Miss Husselbee’s, as if the pair of them was thick as thieves.

“All sorts of reasons,” said the older woman, extracting her arm from Olive’s grasp. “And I couldn’t possibly discuss them with you. Loose lips sink ships, Miss Bright, or haven’t you been paying attention?”

“Clearly, Dr Ware is keeping everything shipshape,” Olive said, continuing with the nautical theme, “otherwise he wouldn’t be so tediously secretive.” She offered an exaggerated wink for good measure.

“Don’t be impertinent, young lady,” Miss Husselbee demanded, her frown lines settling in comfortably. “I’m certain Harriet would want you to heed my warning.”

Olive relished her response. “I rather doubt it, given that she’s the reason I’m darkening Dr Ware’s doorstep.”

The umbrella came down with a violent thump. “Sometimes I do believe you’re intentionally dense, Miss Bright.” Her brow folded in on itself, a great big wrinkle of disapproval. Her gaze flicked to Olive’s bicycle. “Pigeons are resting today, hmm?” she said, managing to infuse the question with disapproval.

“As a matter of fact, I’ve just seen Poppins off on the train with George.” Olive didn’t bother to hide her satisfaction, her smile daring the Sergeant Major to question the decision.

A grouchy sound elicited from behind tight lips. “I suppose she’s the best of all of them.” There was the barest hint of curiosity in the words, but it wasn’t truly a question.

“She’s my favourite,” Olive said stoutly.

“If she’s anything like her namesake, she’ll manage.” With a decisive thump of her umbrella, she turned away, adding over her shoulder, “Carry on, Miss Bright. And do let me know when she’s back.”

With Olive’s gaze trailing behind her, the older woman charged off down the lane. Feeling punchy, Olive saluted her retreating form. Such was the nature of her conversations with the Sergeant Major: maddening, with a twist. After a moment, she spun on her heel and rapped smartly at the door before nudging it open a crack. If Dr Ware was already in the shop, recovering from Miss Husselbee’s intrusion, perhaps Olive could engage him in a commiserating chat and casually hint her way around to picking up Harriet’s order early to save herself another trip.

“Hullo, Dr Ware,” she called sunnily.

“Yes, yes. Come in.” His tone was only mildly exasperated.

Not needing any further encouragement, Olive stepped into the neatly compartmentalised shop. As always, her eyes ranged rather giddily over the rows of carefully labelled bottles, jars, and canisters lining the back wall in a colourful assortment of blues and greens, then swept along the glass display cases and paused at the enormous mortar and pestle of Carrera marble and the tall druggist scales, both of which took pride of place on the wooden countertop. A quiet shuffle drew her eye farther back, into the corner of the shop. Dr Ware was sitting at the little desk behind the counter, his spectacles only slightly askew, as he eyed her with weary patience. The table lamp gave his skin a sun-warmed, slightly jaundiced appearance and his eyes an artificial twinkle. In truth, he looked resigned and a trifle dishevelled, his papers gathered haphazardly into unwieldy stacks. She felt a twinge of guilt for interrupting him. He’d worked in the Department of Biochemistry at Oxford years ago, but to her, he was simply the village purveyor of throat lozenges, rose-petal lotion, and chocolate bars, even if they were in short supply these days. By the looks of things, he hadn’t given up his research entirely.

“Good morning, Olive. I see you’ve survived the skirmish.”

Meeting his sardonic gaze, she realised he was referring to her run-in with the Sergeant Major. “And lived to fight another day.”

He rose and came around the desk and along the counter to stand across from her; he was only inches taller, but his broad shoulders seemed to fill the space. She smiled, noting the silk handkerchief in his shirt pocket and the gravy-coloured stain on his collar. His shirtsleeves were rolled to the elbow, exposing forearms covered with pale curly hair; and his hands, propped on the counter, were capped by nails bitten to the quick. “When she stormed out of here, I wondered who’d end up on the receiving end of her ire. I should apologise.” With a sharp shake of his head, he pulled off his spectacles. He spared a moment to rub ruthlessly at his eyes before finally pulling his hand away to offer her a bleary smile.

“Of course you shouldn’t,” Olive insisted, feeling freshly guilty. He looked entirely spent, and the day had barely begun. “You’re not even open yet, and we’ve pushed our way in. You’ve every right to be in a temper. I’m leaving right now so you can get back to your work.” She glanced curiously toward the corner that was glowing in the lamplight.

He glanced backwards. “No need. My concentration is shot in any case.” Distractedly, he plucked the handkerchief from his pocket with the flair of a magician and rubbed its pink silk over the lenses of the spectacles he still held in his hand. He looked much younger without the owlish lenses, his grey eyes sharper, less distracted. It was as if a mole had nudged its way from the ground to stare blinking into the light of day. His age was a mystery, and Olive wondered suddenly whether he was old enough to avoid being called up. Perhaps the Sergeant Major had suspected he might be dodging his responsibility and had tried to press him for answers. Momentarily caught up in a nebulous conspiracy theory of her own making, she didn’t see him slip his glasses back on or tuck away the handkerchief. “She was irritated with me. That’s why she was behaving like a harridan.”

Blinking herself back to reality, Olive ran her fingers over the polished wood trim of the display case, not wanting to be off just yet. “She can be quite insistent on getting her way, and seeing how difficult that is these days, I expect she’s inclined to be more testy than usual.” She flashed him a mischievous glance. “Don’t tell me you were out of wart cream?”

“No, no. Fully stocked,” he said, too distracted to realise the suggestion had been in jest. “It was answers she wanted, not remedies.”

Olive nodded in understanding. “It must be extremely difficult to diagnose suspicious symptoms accurately.” She suppressed a shudder at the very thought of Miss Husselbee’s medical maladies.

He shook his head, somewhat flustered now. “No, no, nothing like that. And I couldn’t possibly discuss other customers.” He smiled awkwardly but took a step back from the counter, shoving his hands in his pockets. She heard the crinkle of paper, and he stilled, a hunted look in his eyes, as if he’d been caught out wearing a hairpiece. He promptly yanked his hands out again and busied himself straightening a box of combs on the counter. Curious now, Olive leaned confidingly closer.

“She did say yo