A Pigeon Among the Cats

Bello is a digital only imprint of Pan Macmillan, established to breathe life into previously published classic books.

At Bello we believe in the timeless power of the imagination, of good story, narrative and entertainment and we want to use digital technology to ensure that many more readers can enjoy these books into the future.

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About the author:
www.panmacmillan.com/author/josephinebell

• Josephine Bell
  
• Chapter One
  
• Chapter Two
  
• Chapter Three
  
• Chapter Four
  
• Chapter Five
  
• Chapter Six
  
• Chapter Seven
  
• Chapter Eight
  
• Chapter Nine
  
• Chapter Ten
  
• Chapter Eleven
  
• Chapter Twelve
  
• Chapter Thirteen
  
• Chapter Fourteen
  
• Chapter Fifteen
  
• Chapter Sixteen
  
• Chapter Seventeen
  
• Chapter Eighteen
  

Josephine Bell was born Doris Bell Collier in Manchester, England. Between 1910 and 1916 she studied at Godolphin School, then trained at Newnham College, Cambridge until 1919. At the University College Hospital in London she was granted M.R.C.S. and L.R.C.P. in 1922, and a M.B.B. S. in 1924.

Bell was a prolific author, writing forty-three novels and numerous uncollected short stories during a forty-five year period.

Many of her short stories appeared in the
London Evening Standard
. Using her pen name she wrote numerous detective novels beginning in 1936, and she was well-known for her medical mysteries. Her early books featured the fictional character Dr. David Wintringham who worked at Research Hospital in London as a junior assistant physician. She helped found the Crime Writers' Association in 1953 and served as chair during 1959–60.

Mrs. Lawler stepped out of the plane at Genoa Airport to breathe deeply the bright warm air of Italy. This was what she had come for; to lose the cold grey blanket settled so firmly over her for more than a month. She had thought she would never get rid of it or be able to wear the summer clothes that had been scarcely touched for the whole of that so-called summer in England. Friends had warned her it would be far too hot in Italy in August: not a bit of it, she told herself half an hour later as she left the airport buildings again, directed by a pleasant fresh-faced young woman, who ticked her name off on a card she held while she explained that the coach was waiting to take them on the first stage of their tour.

Mrs. Lawler moved out into the sunshine again and looked about her. Half a dozen coaches were waiting: the tourist trade at full stretch evidently. Carefully remembering what she had been told, she moved towards one of the monsters of the correct colour and name. ‘Roseanna' was scrawled sideways across the wide stern. The name of her tour company was written below and to the side. ‘Roseanna' was a name Mrs. Lawler was always to remember.

As she moved unhurriedly towards the coach, for she had little hand luggage and knew just enough Italian to help her past the initial difficulties, she found someone at her elbow, panting a little, asking in a very hesitant voice, “Are you for the Queensway tour by any chance?”

“I believe there are two or even three,” Mrs. Lawler said, looking round. “I was told mine is called ‘Roseanna', but there is one for Naples after Rome. The brochure gave one for the Lakes as well.”

As the young woman beside her swung away again, as if to find a less complicated answer, Mrs. Lawler went on, “I am going to Rome and then Florence and Venice. That is by this coach here, ‘Roseanna'.”

But the impatient young woman had gone, so Mrs. Lawler presented her ticket to the coach driver who did not want to see it, but flashed a fine row of teeth at her and waved his hand over the interior of the coach, inviting her to choose a seat.

This she did, directly behind him, which gave her an excellent view through the windscreen as well as out of the side window. How pleasant, she thought, to have all the luggage problems settled for you. As long as it works, she reminded herself. But as the driver jumped down at that moment to receive a load of suitcases for the party among which she saw her own, she abandoned the last shred of responsibility for the time being.

The rest of her fellow travellers arrived in a solid mass directly afterwards. Why so much later than herself, Mrs. Lawler wondered? The loo, too scared to manage on the plane? Not all of them, surely? There had been a queue, which she had herself joined. No, but several with various Italian foods, already nibbling. No children, thank God, in our lot. There had been one or two shouters and winners during the flight.

“May I sit beside you?”

Mrs. Lawler found it was the scatty young woman again, looking at her from the central aisle with a pleading expression.

“Of course. Would you like to be by the window?”

The young woman looked startled.

“No, no, of course not. Don't move. I'll put my coat on the rack. I suppose our luggage has come over?”

“I saw it arrive. I wondered too. I'm not used to having everything done for me. Quite the reverse.”

“Really?”

Mrs. Lawler did not explain further. She foresaw many speeding miles during which life stories would be exchanged. Worse than on board a ship, she thought. There you could at least get up after a short interval and walk about. Here you were committed for several hours at a time.

Before the end of that day Mrs. Lawler found that the seats her partners in travel had chosen that morning were by common, unspoken agreement considered fixed. She was landed with this young woman and would have to make the best of it. While moving, at any rate.

Not that much conversation was needed to begin with, for the road out of Genoa was exciting, spectacular, winding its ingenious, level, breathtaking way through tunnels, across bridges, round corners where the sea flashed blue for a few seconds or the next door dual-carriageway poured out its own quota of cars just before theirs was swallowed up by the same tunnel's mouth.

Mrs. Lawler glanced at the figure beside her. The girl, she had appeared no more at the airport, looked rather older now, but perhaps no more than thirty, was staring straight in front of her, both hands clutching the little rail the driver had put up between his sprung seat and the passengers. She seemed to notice Mrs. Lawler's eye upon her, for she turned slowly and gave her a shy smile.

“Isn't it a wonderful road?” she said.

“The Italians have always been good engineers,” Mrs. Lawler answered. It was insufferably smug and condescending to say such a thing, she knew. Also far less than she felt. The girl turned her face back to the road. She did not speak again.

At Pisa the coach put them off to see the sights: three white masses glittering in the sunshine, milled about by tourists in bright clothes and faced by a long row of incredibly vulgar stalls, displaying towers that leaned on every possible material, from heavy dishes to wooden soup bowls, to artificial silk scarves to toy animals, to flags, to combs, to pipes, to guitars, to hats, to shirts, to leather purses.

Walking off rapidly by herself, with her camera dangling, but without much intention of using it Mrs. Lawler made for the private burial ground and its cloister, avoiding the church, the baptistry and the tower, that she had no wish to climb. In the “campo” she did find all and more than she expected and spent a happy half-hour browsing among the inscriptions ancient and modern upon the tombs she found there.

She was recalled to the coach by the courier who gave her name as Billie. They would stay in Pisa for the night and it was time to go to their hotel to sort themselves out Billie said.

Mrs. Lawler made no objection to this. The day had meant a very early start in England and had been tiring, though she felt she had done nothing. Still, that had been the object of the exercise, her friends had told her.

At dinner that evening Mrs. Lawler sat at a table for four. The others were a father, mother and young daughter all called Banks. They came from the Midlands and had travelled to Gatwick the night before. They were properly whacked, Mrs. Banks said and she for one dreaded the early start they were to make the next day. Mr. Banks said that didn't apply to him, he was used to long hours travelling. Miss Banks did not say anything. She did not eat much, either. She pushed the food about her plate, swung her long straight hair out of her eyes, fiddled with the fringe on a leather shawl she wore half on and half off one shoulder, but apart from these movements seemed to have very little contact with the world about her. Certainly not with Mrs. Lawler, who ate heartily and found herself abandoned while she was still occupied with a large bunch of succulent grapes.

On her way from the dining room she passed her coach companion carrying a cup of coffee from the bar where she had collected it towards a sofa chair in the lounge, where a youngish couple were beckoning to her.

“We shall be sorting ourselves out tomorrow,” Mrs. Lawler told herself, hopefully.

But she was wrong. Though at breakfast she found herself beside a stout elderly woman and her niece, when she climbed into the coach she found the front seat again empty, passed by, avoided, until the thin girl slipped into it again just before Billie took her courier's place, greeted them all and began to explain the plan for the day.

“I hope you had time for breakfast,” Mrs. Lawler said to her companion. “I didn't see you come down.”

“I never have breakfast,” the girl said. She wore her worried look again.

Mrs. Lawler was vaguely alarmed, but she told herself firmly it was none of her business and found nothing much better to say than, “I still don't know your name, I'm afraid. I am Rose Lawler, retired schoolmistress,” she added, in a half joking voice to suggest she no longer wielded authority.

The girl turned to stare at her.

“But you're married,” she protested.

“I was.” Mrs. Lawler was used to this response, not always expressed so immediately nor so openly. “A long time ago,” she explained with patient forbearance. “In the war — he was killed not long afterwards. I had taught before the war, so I taught again. I retired last year. And you?”

“Me?”

“You are married, I see.”

“Oh! Oh, yes. Of course! Gwen, that's my name. Gwen Chilton.”

To Mrs. Lawler's horror her companion fumbled for a handkerchief and dabbed at tears. Or dust, perhaps. Mario, the driver, had wound down the window beside him to cool one large hand, which he hung out of it from time to time. Personally Mrs. Lawler, enjoyed the warm draught, but perhaps …