As Chimney Sweepers Come to Dust (22 page)

I crept to the top of the stairwell, waiting to hear the sound of her voice. I would call out to her and then dart back into my room. It was not a perfect solution, but it might be the only one.

After an hour I was growing desperate. “Desperate”—yes, that was the word. And what was the saying? “ ‘Desperate positions require desperate measures,’ as the cardinal said to the chorus girl.” Daffy had once thrown this out casually, adding that it was in Dickens and that it was over my head.

It wasn’t, of course. It is a fairly well-known fact that
most princes of the church have a love of theater, and it was no great stretch of the imagination to see that His Eminence may well have been offering advice from his own experience on the wearing of rich costume.

At any rate, desperate solutions were called for.

After listening at the door until there was a momentary lull in the voices outside, I crept from my room and down the narrow back stairs.

At the far end of the downstairs hall, in the shadows beside the ancient elevator, and almost at the rear of the building, was a black wall-mounted telephone which, I had been told, was to be used only in family emergencies. Like its counterpart at Buckshaw, there was something ominous about the instrument.

In the gloom, I peered at the grubby yellowed card which was mounted behind a circle of transparent material: GArden 5047.

I repeated it to myself several times as I slipped out the back door. It was only a jig and a jog to the laundry, and behind it, to the goldfish pool. At this hour, there were no smokers making use of the seclusion, so that I had the place to myself.

I sat on the stone rim as I had done before, but my reach was not long enough. I took off my shoes, peeled off my stockings, and waded in.

The water was cold—colder than I should have expected—but it was, after all, October. A couple of sluggish fish shimmied away to shelter in a cluster of stones and plants.

I plunged my arm elbow-deep into the slimy-feeling water, shivering at the thought of its chemical constituency. Due to refraction, it was not easy to judge the exact position of objects on the bottom, but with a bit of fishing I came up with a dripping coin which had a beaver on the back and the head of the king on the front. Five cents.

I dipped again … and again … resulting in a small silver coin with a sailing ship, and a larger one with a creature that I took to be a moose. Ten cents and twenty-five cents, respectively. I gathered a couple more for safety’s sake, put on my stockings and shoes, and made my way furtively round the laundry and through the passageway to the street.

Minutes later, coins in hand, I was marching along the Danforth, headed toward the grocer’s shop, where I had spotted a coin-operated telephone on our walk to the graveyard.

“Back again, dear?” the shopkeeper said. “Come to sing me another song, have you?”

I smiled a pale smile, picked up the handset, and dropped a coin into the slot. It fell through with an odd
ching
sound.

In a flash, the woman was at my elbow.

“Wrong coin,” she said, prying open my fingers and selecting another, which she dropped into the slot.

A raw buzzing noise came from the earpiece.

“That’s it, dear,” she said. “Dial the number. Local call, I hope?”

I grinned, nodded, and stuck my forefinger into the round holes of the dial. It was the first time I had used a
do-it-yourself telephone. At home, we had lifted the receiver, tapped the cradle to get the operator’s attention, and given her our instructions.

With my tongue protruding from my lips, I dialed the number, GArden 5047, and after a maddening series of clicks and clacks, a robotic
burr
-ing began. It must have been the sound of the phone ringing at Miss Bodycote’s.

The shopkeeper was still at my elbow, looking at me with bright, birdlike eyes.

“Could I have a bottle of Orange Crush?” I pleaded, running my spare forefinger round my collar. “I’m feeling rather faint.”

I could imagine the telephone ringing in the hall at the academy, unheard, perhaps, in the noise and bustle of the place.

Burrr … Burrr … Burrr … Burrr
: single, long-spaced rings, quite unlike the brisk, demanding double ring at home.

Come on!
I wanted to shout.
Pick up the blasted thing!

“Here you are, dear,” the woman said, at my elbow again. She had removed the bottle cap, and tiny tendrils of carbon dioxide gas drifted lazily up into the air.

I took an enormous swig, smiled, handed her a coin, and turned my back to her.

“Hello?” a voice said at the other end of the line. “Miss Bodycote’s Female Academy. Whom were you calling, please?”

It was Fitzgibbon: There was no doubt about it.

I almost choked on my drink. Gases were forcing themselves up through my vocal cords as I spoke, giving my
voice an eerie sound, as if the Grim Reaper himself were belching out the name of his intended victim.

“June Bowles,” I gargled in my best gaga grandmother voice. “Miss June Bowles.”

There was an unnerving silence, and then Fitzgibbon said, “Please stay on the line while we locate her.”

“Thank you,” I gurgled.

Jumbo must have been up the Zambezi, judging by the amount of time it took to fetch her, but in reality, it was probably no more than two or three minutes.

The shopkeeper had retreated behind her counter and picked up an enormous clod of knitting at which she dug away like a woman possessed. Every couple of stitches she would look up at me with a reassuring smile and I would grin soppily back.

“Hello?” Jumbo’s voice said, and I pressed the receiver tightly against my ear and turned away.

“It’s de Luce,” I whispered. “Flavia. I need your advice.”

I had cannily concocted my message as I walked from Miss Bodycote’s, and chosen my words carefully. There is no one, anywhere, on the planet who can refuse a request for advice, and I had meant to take full advantage of that fact.

“Of course,” she said instantly, as I knew she would. “You’re calling from the grocer’s on the Danforth, right? Where shall I meet you?”

“In my room—in Edith Cavell. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

“Roger Wilco,” Jumbo said brightly. “It’s simply too, too tantalizing. I can hardly wait.”

I gently replaced the receiver.

“You’re a long way from home by the sound of you,” the woman said. “England, isn’t it?”

I nodded, feeling somehow guilty and idiotic at the same time.

“One of Miss Bodycote’s, I’m guessing,” she said. “We get a few of you in from time to time wanting this and that. What’s your name, dear? It’s always nice to know your regular customers.”

“Flavia,” I said.

“Is that it, then? Just the Flavia? Couldn’t afford a surname?”

“De Luce,” I muttered. “Flavia de Luce.”

The woman looked at me as if I were a phantom.

“De Luce, did you say?” Her eyes widened, then narrowed, the way they do when people are putting two and two together. It was obvious that she had known Harriet, but I didn’t want to hear it. I was still too raw and unprepared to be constantly compared with my late mother—besides the fact that I might have compromised myself by giving away personal information to a complete stranger.

I’m afraid I did something incredibly rude: I put down the bottle of Orange Crush and bolted.

I had taken no more than two or three steps when I saw Miss Fawlthorne walking briskly toward me. Because her attention was taken by a streetcar driver who was using a long pole to reconnect the car to the overhead electrical lines, she had not yet spotted me.

I dodged into the dim depths of an ironmonger’s next
door, and watched from among the ladders and hanging hoses as the head came closer.

“Miss! Oh, miss!” It was the shopkeeper from next door.

“You’ve walked off without your change!”

She had followed me into the ironmonger’s and was beside me in an instant, prying my hand open and pressing into it two coins.

Miss Fawlthorne, thinking at first it was she who was being hailed, came to an abrupt stop in the street. After glancing quickly round in all directions, she had let her gaze follow the grocer and then fall, alas! upon me.

She paced slowly and sarcastically toward me.

“Well?” she asked, her voice hanging as coldly in the air as the Northern Lights.

“Oh, Miss Fawlthorne!” I said. “I’m so happy to see you. I’m feeling ever so much better now, and I thought that perhaps we could continue our discussions. Actually, I had just set out to see if I could find you walking in the cemetery. I’m sorry if I disappointed Miss Fitzgibbon, but fresh air was what I needed more than anything.”

I had said too much. I knew perfectly well that the most effective lies are the briefest.

Miss Fawlthorne looked down at me as if through a microscope, and the longer she looked, the smaller I felt.

“I’m afraid I have an appointment,” she said, glancing suddenly and nervously about.

I let my eyes flicker to where hers had been. A line of cars had stopped behind the stricken streetcar and behind the wheel of one of them was a familiar face.

It was Ryerson Rainsmith. I restrained myself from waving.

“All right,” I said, as if I hadn’t seen him. “I shan’t keep you. I’d better get back. William Palmer and all that.”

And off I marched, pausing to kick a couple of tin bottle caps off the curb and into the road with elaborate nonchalance, as if I hadn’t a care in the world.

Just as well she hadn’t called my bluff, I thought. Jumbo would be waiting.

At the corner, I paused and, pretending to read the street sign, sneaked a look back.

Miss Fawlthorne was sliding into the offside front seat of Rainsmith’s sedan.

I
OPENED THE DOOR
and my heart gave a sickening leap.

Jumbo was sitting on my bed leafing through my notebook. How long had she been here? How much had she read?

I had stopped at the goldfish pool just long enough to toss in the unused coins. I have one or two faults, but thievery from wishing wells is not one of them. I would return the ones I had spent at the first opportunity.

“Very interesting,” she said, turning a page. “Very informative.”

“Interesting?” I asked, angling to get a look over her shoulder. If she’d been reading my notes, I was scuppered.

“This stuff about William Palmer … a bit morbid, though, isn’t it?”

“Miss Fawlthorne assigned it,” I said. “Quite boring, actually.”

“Remarkable research, though. How did you manage to dig up all that information?”

“Oh, I just happened to read a library book about the man not long ago. Quite informative. Some of it stuck in my mind.”

She’d be horrified if she knew the truth.

“Hmmm,” she said, handing back the book. “Now, what did you want to talk about? You said you needed my advice.”

“Yes,” I told her. “Quite frankly, I’m after your job. Not until you graduate, of course, but I have to admit that I’ve set my sights on being head girl at Miss Bodycote’s. I need all the advice I can get.”

Jumbo seemed rather taken aback.

“I think that the best way to go about it is to win as many medals and awards as possible. I’ve got plenty of time, of course, but if I begin early—”

“Hold on,” Jumbo said. “It isn’t all medals, you know.”

“No,” I said, “but it’s a start. Solid academic work—science and so on—and a bag of medals ought to give me a chance. Scarlett told me she won one for washing and ironing.”

“Do you want to spend your days like she did, hanging around with a ticket of leave for the laundry pinned to your blazer?”

“Well, no,” I said, meaning yes. “But I thought you might give me some ideas on what prizes are available. I’m afraid I’m not much good at sports, but I’m rather keen on chemistry and religion.”

Religion was a bald-faced lie, but it paid off.

“Ha!” Jumbo exclaimed. “Well, if it’s theology you fancy, you’ve come to the right place. Miss Bodycote’s Female Academy is so High Church that—”

“Only a kitchen stool is required to scramble up into Heaven,” I finished. “Yes, I heard that somewhere.”

“There’s the Bishop’s Medal for New Testament studies, the Tanner Award for a paper on the Old Testament prophets, the Saint Michael for church history, the Daughters of Mary for proficiency in elementary Greek and Latin, and the Hooker for hermeneutics.”

“Good lord!” I said, and we both laughed.

“No one goes in for them much anymore. The Hooker hasn’t been handed out since Miss Bodycote’s day. But if theology’s your game, washing and ironing won’t give you much of a leg up.”

“No, I suppose not. Have you won any of those?”

Jumbo snorted. “Not on your Nellie. Hockey’s more my line. I want to win something you can drink champagne out of.

“Or at least beer,” she added.

“No silver cup for the Saint Michael?” I asked, with just a hint of jollity.

“Fat chance,” she said. “An inscribed Bible for most of them, and for the Saint Michael, a lump of silver on a string.”

“When was that one last handed out?”

Her face went deliberately blank. Oh! for the power to read minds.

“Two years ago,” she said. “Listen, I have to dash. I promised Kingsbury I’d help restring the nets. Don’t want to keep her waiting too long—it’s a filthy job.”

“Right, then, cheerio,” I said. “Oh, by the way,” I added, “who won it? The Saint Michael, I mean. I thought I might ask her for a few pointers—a bit of coaching.”

Jumbo’s face was suddenly shadowed as if by scudding clouds: a dozen shades in as many agonizing seconds.

“No use,” she said at last. “She’s gone.”

“Was her name Clarissa Brazenose, by any chance?”
I wanted to ask, but I somehow managed to keep from blurting it out.

“Have to dash,” Jumbo said, cutting short the interview.

When she had left the room I took a deep breath. Had I given myself away? Had I been too anxious? Had my little act been credible?

I drifted toward the window, meaning to watch Jumbo emerge onto the hockey field. As I did so, something on the table caught my eye.