The Flavia De Luce Series 1-4 (54 page)

“Bloody hell!” he was saying, in a loud whisper. “Bloody hell, Nialla!”

Nialla said nothing, although I thought I heard a sob.

“Well, we shall have to put a stop to it. That’s plain.”

Put a stop to what? Had she told him she was pregnant? Or was he talking about his quarrel with Mutt Wilmott? Or with Gordon Ingleby?

Before I could overhear another word, the door to the kitchen opened, and the vicar came out into the hall with Mad Meg leaning on his arm, followed by Cynthia and two members of the Ladies’ Auxiliary.

“It’s out of the question,” Cynthia was saying, “quite out of the question. The place is simply reeking with paint fumes. Furthermore, we don’t have—”

“I’m afraid I must overrule you on this occasion, my dear. This poor woman needs somewhere to rest, and we can hardly send her packing back to—”

“A hovel in the woods?” Cynthia asked, a red flush rising in her cheeks.

“Flavia, dear girl,” the vicar said as he spotted me. “Would you mind running ahead to the vicarage? The door is open. If you’ll be kind enough to clear the books off the couch in my study … it doesn’t much matter where you put them. We shall be along directly.”

Nialla appeared suddenly from behind the curtains. “Just a moment, Vicar,” she said. “I’m coming with you.”

I could see that she was holding herself together, but only just.

The vicarage study looked as if Charles Kingsley had just put down his pen and stepped out of the room. The bookcases, floor to ceiling, were jammed cheek-by-jowl with volumes which, to judge by their solemn bindings, could only have been of ecclesiastical interest. A cluttered, overflowing desk covered most of the room’s single window, and a black horsehair sofa—an Everest of dusty books—leaned at a crazy angle on a threadbare Turkish carpet.

No sooner had I shifted the books to the floor than Nialla and the vicar arrived, leading Meg solicitously to the sofa. She seemed dazed, managing only a few vague mutters as Nialla helped her to recline and smoothed her filthy clothing.

A moment later, Dr. Darby’s portly presence filled the doorway. Someone must have run up the high street to fetch him from his surgery.

“Um,” he ventured, as he put down his black medical bag, opened the clasp, and had a good dig round inside. With a noisy rustle, he brought forth a paper bag and extracted a crystal mint, which he popped into his mouth.

With that detail out of the way, he bent over Meg for a closer look.

“Um,” he said again, and reached into the bag for a syringe. He filled the thing from a little bottle of clear liquid, rolled up Meg’s sleeve, and slid the needle into her arm.

Meg made not a sound, but looked up at him with eyes like a sledgehammered horse.

From a tall wardrobe in the corner—as if by magic—the vicar produced a pillow and a brightly colored afghan.

“Afternoon naps.” He smiled, covering her gently, and Meg was snoring even before the last one of us had stepped softly from the room.

“Vicar,” Nialla said abruptly, “I know you’ll think it awful of me, but I have a very great favor to ask.”

“Ask away,” the vicar said, with a worried glance at Cynthia, who was hovering at the far end of the hall.

“I’d be eternally grateful if you could permit me a hot bath. I haven’t had one for so long, I feel like something that lives under a stone.”

“Of course, my dear,” the vicar said. “It’s upstairs at the end of the hall. Help yourself to soap and towels.

“And don’t mind the little yacht,” he added with a smile. “It’s mine.”

As Nialla climbed the stairs, a rubber heel squeaked on waxed floorboards, and Cynthia was gone.

“Cynthia has offered to run you over to Buckshaw,” the vicar said, turning to me, and I knew instantly that he was fibbing. “I expect you’ll be back this evening with your family?”

“Oh, of course,” I said. “They’re all jolly keen on Jack and the Beanstalk.”

With Gladys strapped precariously to the roof, we crept slowly along the lane in the tired, dusty Oxford. Cynthia, like vicar’s wives in general, had a tendency to over-control, steering from side to side in a series of pie crust scallops between the hedges.

Sitting beside her in the front seat, I had a good opportunity to examine her overbite, close-up and in profile. Even with her mouth shut, she showed a remarkable amount of tooth, and I found myself seriously rethinking my rebellion against braces.

“There’s always something, isn’t there?” she said suddenly, her face still on fire from her recent humiliation. “One is forever being rousted out of one’s own house by someone more needy—not that I mind, of course. First, it was the Gypsies. Then, during the war, the evacuees. Then, last year, the Gypsies came again. Denwyn went to them in Gibbet Wood, and invited them personally, each and every one, to attend the Holy Eucharist. Not a single man jack of them ever showed up, of course. Gypsies are savages, essentially, or perhaps Roman Catholics. Not that they don’t have souls—they do, naturally—but one always feels that theirs are so much shadier than one’s own.”

“I wonder how Nialla’s getting on with her bath?” I remarked brightly, as we drove up the avenue of chestnuts to Buckshaw.

Cynthia stared straight ahead, gripping the wheel.

“Nonsense!” Aunt Felicity declared. “We shall go as a family.”

We were in the drawing room, spread as widely apart as was humanly possible.

Father muttered something about stamp albums, and I could see that Daffy was already holding her breath in an attempt to feign a fever.

“You and your girls need to get out more, Haviland. You’re all of you as pale as jellyfish. It will be my treat. I shall have Clarence bring round his car as soon as we’ve eaten.”

“But—” Father managed.

“I shall brook no buts, Haviland.”

Outside, Dogger was weeding at the edge of the terrace. Aunt Felicity rapped sharply on the windowpane to get his attention.

“Yes, miss?” he said, coming to the French doors, straw hat in hand.

“Ring up Clarence and tell him we shall require a taxi for seven at six-thirty.”

“Six-thirty, miss?” Dogger asked, his brow furrowed.

“Of course,” Aunt Felicity said. “He’ll have to make two trips. I expect you and Mrs. Mullet would both have your noses out of joint if you were left behind. Puppet shows are not just for bluebloods, you know.”

“Thank you, miss,” Dogger said.

I tried to catch his eye, but he was gone.

• TWELVE •

Clarence pulled up at the lych-gate at twenty minutes to seven. He came round the taxicab to hold the door open for Aunt Felicity, who had insisted on sitting in the front seat with him in order to, as she put it, “keep a sharp eye out for road hogs.”

She had dressed herself in a sort of comic-opera cape over a voluminous red silk suit that might have been pinched from a Persian harem. Her hat was a collapsed black bag with a peacock’s feather billowing out behind like smoke from the
Flying Scotsman;
on her feet were a pair of medieval slippers in mustard yellow, with long upturned points like a pair of icing bags. When we arrived at the parish hall, Father and Feely got out on the far side of the taxicab.

“Now off you go to fetch the others, Clarence,” Aunt Felicity commanded, “and don’t dawdle.”

Clarence raised a forefinger to the peak of his cap and, with an impertinent shifting of gears, was gone.

Inside the parish hall, we found that the entire front row of chairs had been reserved for us. Aunt Felicity had certainly not skimped on the cost of tickets. She and Father were to sit front and center, with Feely and Daffy on their left. I was on Father’s right, with Dogger and Mrs. Mullet (when they arrived) on our flank.

All was in readiness. The house lights had already been lowered to a level of delicious expectation. Incidental music floated from backstage, and from time to time, the red velvet curtains on the puppet stage gave an enticing twitch.

The entire population of Bishop’s Lacey seemed to be there. Mutt Wilmott, I saw, had taken a seat against the wall near the back. Miss Cool was in the row behind him, listening to Cynthia Richardson, who had her ear, and behind her sat Miss Mountjoy, the niece of the late Dr. Twining, Father’s old schoolmaster. To Miss Mountjoy’s right, from Culverhouse Farm, Dieter Schrantz and Sally Straw, the Land Girl, sat side by side. I gave them a little wave, and both of them grinned.

“
Haroo, mon vieux—
Flavia!”

It was Maximilian Wight, our diminutive neighbor who, after several triumphant world tours as a concert pianist, had settled down at last in our village to teach music. Feely had been one of his pupils, but had begged off her lessons when Max began asking too many intrusive questions about her “paramours.”

Max waved a white glove, and I waved back.

As I scanned the rows of faces, my eyes skidded to a stop on a dark-haired woman in a sage green sweater set. She was no one I had seen before, and must be, I thought, a stranger to Bishop’s Lacey. Perhaps a visiting relative.

The man beside her saw me staring, and gave me a pleasant smile: Inspector Hewitt. It was not so long since I had assisted him in bringing a murderer to justice.

In a flash I was standing before them, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot as I realized I was probably intruding.

“Fancy meeting you here,” the Inspector said. It was not a particularly original comment, but it neatly covered what might have been an awkward moment.

“Antigone,” he told the dark-haired woman, “I’d like you to meet Flavia de Luce.”

I knew for a fact that she was going to say, “Oh, yes, my husband has mentioned you,” and she would say it with that little smirk that tells so much about the amused conversation that had followed.

“I’m so pleased to meet you, Flavia,” she said, putting out the most beautiful hand in the world and giving me a good solid shake, “and to find that you share my love of marionettes.”

If she’d told me to “fetch” I would have done it.

“I love your name,” I managed.

“Do you? My father was Greek and my mother Italian. She was a ballet teacher and he was a fishmonger, so I grew up dancing in the streets of Billingsgate.”

With her dark hair and sea green eyes, she was the image of Botticelli’s
Flora
, whose features adorned the back of a hand mirror at Buckshaw that Father had once given to Harriet.

I wanted to ask “In what far isle is your shrine? that I might worship there,” but I settled for shuffling my feet and a mumbled, “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Hewitt. I hope you and Inspector Hewitt enjoy the show.”

As I slipped into my seat, the vicar strode purposefully to the front of the hall and took up a position in front of the stage. He smiled indulgently, waiting, as Daffy, Mrs. Mullet, and Dogger slid into their seats.

“Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, parishioners of St. Tancred’s and otherwise, thank you for coming. We are honored, this evening, to welcome to our midst, the renowned puppet-showman—if he will allow me to make use of that illustrious nomenclature—Rupert Porson.”

(Applause)

“Although Mr. Porson, or Rupert, if I may, is best known nowadays for his performances on the BBC Television of
The Magic Kingdom
which, as I’m sure all of you know, is the realm of Snoddy the Squirrel …”

(Applause)

“… I am told on good authority that he has traveled widely, presenting his puppet artistry in all of its many forms, and has, on at least one occasion, performed before one of the crowned heads of Europe.”

(Applause)

“But before Jack sells his mother’s cow for a handful of beans—”

“Hssst! Don’t give away the plot, Vicar!”

(Tully Stoker, the proprietor and landlord of the Thirteen Drakes, greeted with hoots of laughter, including his own.)

“… and while the maestro prepares his enchanted strings, the Ladies’ Auxiliary of St. Tancred’s is pleased to present, for your musical entertainment, the Misses Puddock, Lavinia and Aurelia.”

Oh, Lord! Spare us! Please spare us!

We had been saved from having to listen to them during the matinee performance only because their St. Nicholas Tea Room kept them too busy to attend.

The Misses Puddock had a death grip on public events at St. Tancred’s parish hall. No matter if it was a tea put on by the Ladies’ League, a whist drive by the Altar Guild, a white elephant sale by the Ladies’ Auxiliary, or a spring flower show by the Vestry Guild, the Misses Puddock would perform, winter or summer, rain or shine.

Miss Lavinia would seat herself at the upright piano, rummage in her string bag, and fish out at last a tattered piece of sheet music: “Napoleon’s Last Charge.”

After an interminable wait—during which she would thrust her face forward until her nose was touching the music—she would sit back, her spine stiff as a poker, raise her hands above the keyboard, drop them, take a second squint at the music, and then tear into it like a grizzly bear clawing at a salmon in the Pathé newsreels.

When she was finished, her sister, Miss Aurelia, would take up her position, her white-gloved fingertips idly brushing the dusty piano top, and warble (there’s no other word for what she did) “Bendemeer’s Stream.”

Afterwards, the chairman would announce that the Vestry Guild had voted unanimously to present the Misses Puddock with an honorarium: “a purse of appreciation,” as he always put it.

And they’re off!

Miss Lavinia, her eyes riveted to the music, was into “Napoleon’s Last Charge,” and I noticed for the first time that, as she read the music, her lips were moving. I couldn’t help wondering what she was saying. There were no lyrics to the piece—could she be naming the chords? Or praying
?

Mercifully, she took it at a somewhat faster gallop than usual, and the thing was soon over—at least, relatively speaking. I noticed that Feely’s jaw muscles were twitching, and that Max looked as if he were biting down on a stainless-steel humbug.

Now it was Miss Aurelia’s turn. Miss Lavinia pounded out the first few bars as an introduction before her sister joined in: