The Flavia De Luce Series 1-4 (88 page)

“It
is
a hard life, Miss Ophelia,” he said, “at least most of the time.”

His dimpled grin suggested that this was one of the easier moments.

“I’ll ring for Mrs. Mullet,” Feely said, reaching for a velvet pull that hung near the mantelpiece, and which probably hadn’t been used since George the Third was foaming at the mouth. Mrs. M would have kidney failure when the bell in the kitchen went off right above her head.

“What about the dabs?” I asked. It was a term I had picked up from Philip Odell, the private eye on the wireless. “Inspector Hewitt will be dead keen on having a squint at them.”

Feely laughed a laugh like a tinkling silver bell. “You must forgive my little sister, Sergeant,” she said. “I’m afraid she’s been left alone too much.”

Left alone? I almost laughed out loud! What would the sergeant say if I told him about the Inquisition in the Buckshaw cellars? About how Feely and Daffy had trussed me up in a smelly potato sack and flung me onto the stony floor?

“Dabs it is, then,” said the sergeant, opening the clasps and flinging open his kit. “I suppose you’ll be wanting to have a dekko at the chemicals and so forth,” he added, giving me a wink.

If I’d had my way, he’d have been sanctified on the spot:
Saint Detective Sergeant Graves
. Come to think of it, I didn’t even know his given name, but now was not the time to ask.

“This,” he said, extracting the first of two small glass bottles, “is fingerprint powder.”

“Mercury-based, I assume? Fine enough to give good definition to the loops and whorls, and so on?”

This, too, I had learned from Philip Odell. It had stuck in my mind because of its chemical connection.

The sergeant grinned and pulled out the second bottle, this one darker than the first.

“Go on,” he said. “See if you can guess this one.”

Guess
? I thought.
The poor deluded man!

“Graphite-based,” I said. “More coarse than the mercury, but shows up better on certain surfaces.”

“Top marks!” the sergeant said.

I turned away as if to wipe a bit of grit from my eye and stuck out my tongue at Feely.

“But surely these are for dusting?” I protested. “… and not needed for recording prints?”

“Right enough,” the sergeant said. “I just thought you’d be interested in seeing the tools of the trade.”

“Oh, I am indeed,” I said quickly. “Thank you for the thought.”

I did not suppose it would be polite to mention that I had upstairs in my chemical laboratory enough mercury and graphite to supply the needs of the Hinley Constabulary until well into the next century. Great-uncle Tar had been, among many other things, a hoarder.

“Mercury,” I said, touching the bottle. “Fancy that!”

Sergeant Graves was now removing from its protective padding a rectangular sheet of plain glass, followed in quick succession by a bottle of ink and a roller.

Deftly he applied five or six drops of the ink to the surface of the glass, then rolled it smooth until the plate was uniformly covered with the black ooze.

“Now then,” he said, taking my right wrist, and spreading my fingers until they were just hovering above the glass, “relax—let me do the work.”

With no more than a slight pressure, he pushed my fingertips down and into the ink, one at a time, rolling each one from left to right on the ball of my fingertip. Then, moving my hand to a white card, which was marked with ten squares—one for each finger—he made the prints.

“Oh, Sergeant Graves!” Feely said. “You must take mine, too!”

“
Oh, Sergeant Graves! You must take mine, too!
”

I could have swatted her.

“Happy to, Miss Ophelia,” he said, taking up her hand and dropping mine.

“Better ink the glass again,” I said, “otherwise you might make a bad impression.”

The sergeant’s ears went a bit pink, but he soldiered on. In no time at all he had recoated the glass with a fresh film, and was taking up Feely’s hand as if it were some venerable object.

“Did you know that, in the Holy Land, they have the fingerprints of the angel Gabriel?” I asked, trying desperately to regain his attention. “At least they used to. Dr. Robert Richardson and the Earl of Belmore saw them at Nazareth. Remember, Feely?”

For nearly a week—before our recent set-to—Daffy had been reading aloud to us at the breakfast table from an odd volume of the doctor’s
Travels along the Mediterranean and Parts Adjacent
, and some of its many wonders were still fresh in my mind.

“They also showed him the Virgin Mary’s Kitchen, at the Chapel of the Incarnation. They still have the cinders, the fire irons, the cutlery—”

Something in the back room of my brain was thinking about our own fire irons: the Sally Fox and Shoppo firedogs that had once belonged to Harriet.

“That will be quite enough, thank you, Flavia,” Feely said. “You may fetch me a rag to wipe my fingers on.”

“Fetch it yourself,” I flung at her, and stalked from the room.

Compared with my life, Cinderella was a spoiled brat.

EIGHT

Alone at last!

Whenever I’m with other people, part of me shrinks a little. Only when I am alone can I fully enjoy my own company.

In the kitchen garden, I grabbed my faithful old BSA Keep-Fit from the greenhouse. The bicycle had once belonged to Harriet, who had called her
l’Hirondelle
, “the Swallow”: a word that reminded me so much of being forcefed cod-liver oil with a gag-inducing spoon that I had renamed her “Gladys.” Who, for goodness’ sake, wants to ride a bicycle with a name that sounds like a sickroom nurse?

And Gladys was much more down-to-earth than
l’Hirondelle
: an adventurous female with Dunlop tires, three speeds, and a forgiving disposition. She never complained and she never tired, and neither, when I was in her company, did I.

I pedaled southeast from Buckshaw, wobbling slowly along the edge of the ornamental lake. To my left was a somewhat flat expanse called the Visto which had been cleared by Sir George de Luce in the mid-nineteenth century to serve as what he described in his diary as a “coign of vantage”: a grassy green plain across which one was supposed to contemplate the blue enfolding hills.

In recent times, however, the Visto had been allowed to become little more than an overgrown cow pasture: a place where nettles ran riot and the contemplator’s clothing was at risk of being ripped to tatters. It was here that Harriet had kept
Blithe Spirit
, her de Havilland Gypsy Moth, which she had flown regularly up to London to meet her friends.

All that remained now of those happy days were the three iron rings, still rusting somewhere among the weeds, to which
Blithe Spirit
had long ago been tethered.

Once, when I had asked Father how Buckshaw looked from the air, he had gone all tight around the temples.

“Ask your aunt Felicity,” he’d said gruffly. “She’s flown.”

I’d made a mental note to do so.

From the Visto an overgrown path ran south, crossing here and there long-abandoned lawns and hedges, which gave way eventually to copses and scrub. I followed the narrow track, and soon arrived at the Palings.

The Gypsy’s caravan was as I had left it, although the ground bore signs of many “hobnail boots,” as Feely had called them.

Why was I drawn back here? I wondered. Was it because the Gypsy had been under my protection? I had, after all, offered her sanctuary in the Palings and she had accepted. If amends were to be made, I would make them on my own—not because I was made to do so by a sense of shame.

Gry was grazing contentedly near the elders at the far side of the grove. Someone had brought him back to the Palings. They had even thought to bring a bale of fresh hay to the clearing, and he was making short work of it. He looked up at me without curiosity and then went back to his food.

“Who’s a good boy, then?” I asked him, realizing, even as I said it, that these were words to be used in addressing a parrot.

“Good Gry,” I said. “Splendid horse.”

Gry paid not the slightest attention.

Something fastened to one of the tree trunks near the bridge caught my eye: a white wooden panel about six feet from the ground. I walked round the other side for a closer look.

Police Investigation—No Admittance by Order—Hinley Constabulary

The signboard was facing east—away from Buckshaw. Obviously it was meant to deter those hordes of the idly curious who flock to places where blood has been shed like crows to a winter oak.

I was, after all, on my own property. I could hardly be trespassing. Besides, I could always claim that I hadn’t seen the thing.

I put a foot carefully onto one of the caravan’s shafts and, waving my arms for balance like an aerialist, made my way slowly, heel to toe, up the slope to the driving board. To my surprise, the door had been replaced.

I paused to prepare myself—took a deep breath—then opened the door and stepped inside.

The blood had been cleaned up—I saw that at once. The floor was newly scrubbed and the sharp clean smell of Sunlight soap still hung in the air.

It wasn’t dark inside the caravan, but neither was it light. I took a step towards the rear and froze in my tracks.

Someone was lying on the bed!

Suddenly my heart was pounding in a frenzy, and my eyes felt as if they were about to pop out of their sockets. I hardly dared breathe.

In the gloom of the drawn curtains I could see that it was a woman—no, not a woman—a girl. A few years older than me, perhaps. Her hair was raven black, her complexion tawny, and she was wrapped in a shapeless garment of black crepe.

As I stood motionless, staring at her face, her dark eyes opened slowly—and met mine.

With a quick, powerful spring she leapt from the bed, snatching something from a shelf, and I suddenly found myself wedged sharply against the wall, my arm twisted behind my back and a knife at my throat.

“Let go! You’re hurting me!” I managed to squeeze the words out through the pain.

“Who are you? What are you doing here?” she hissed. “Tell me before I slit your gullet.”

I could feel the knife’s blade against my windpipe.

“Flavia de Luce,” I gasped.

Damn it all! I was beginning to cry.

I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror: her arm beneath my chin … my bulging eyes … the knife—the knife!

“That’s a butter knife,” I croaked in desperation.

It was one of those moments that might later seem amusing, but it wasn’t now. I was trembling with fear and anger.

I felt my head jerk as she pulled back to look at the blade, and then I was being pushed away.

“Get out of here,” she said roughly. “Get away—now—before I take the razor to you.”

I didn’t need a second invitation. The girl was obviously mad.

I stumbled towards the door and jumped to the ground. I grabbed Gladys and was halfway to the trees when—

“Wait!”

Her voice echoed in the glade.

“Did you say your name was Flavia? Flavia de Luce?”

I did not reply, but stopped at the edge of the grove, making sure that I kept Gry between us as a makeshift barrier.

“Please,” she said. “Wait. I’m sorry. I didn’t know who you were. They told me you saved Fenella’s life.”

“Fenella?” I managed, my voice shaking, still hollowed out by fear.

“Fenella Faa. You brought the doctor to her … here … last night.”

I must have looked a perfect fool as I stood there with my mouth open like a goldfish. My brain needed time to catch up as the girl flip-flopped suddenly from holding a blade at my throat to being sorry. I was not accustomed to apologies, and this one—probably the first I had ever received in my life—caught me off guard.

“Who are you?” I asked.

“Porcelain,” she said, jumping down from the caravan. “Porcelain Lee—Fenella’s my gram.”

She was coming towards me through the grass, her arms extended in biblical forgiveness.

“Let me hug you,” she said. “I need to thank you.”

I’m afraid I shrank back a little.

“Don’t worry, I won’t bite,” she said, and suddenly she was upon me, her arms enfolding me in a tight embrace, her chin resting sharply on my shoulder.