Flavia de Luce 1 - The Sweetness At The Bottom Of The Pie (36 page)

“Extraordinary!” he said, drawing the word out. “Simply extraordinary!”

A ray of deliciously warm sunlight shone in through the tall casement windows, illuminating from within a beaker of red liquid that was just coming to a boil. I decanted half of the stuff into a china cup and handed it to the Inspector. He stared at it dubiously.

“It's tea,” I said. “Assam from Fortnum and Mason. I hope you don't mind it being warmed-over.”

“Warmed-over is all we drink at the station,” he said. “I settle for no other.”

As he sipped, he wandered slowly round the room, examining the chemical apparatus with professional interest. He took down a jar or two from the shelves and held each one up to the light, then bent down to peer through the eyepiece of my Leitz. I could see that he was having some difficulty in getting to the point.

“Beautiful bit of bone china,” he said at last, raising the cup above his head to read the maker's name on the bottom.

“Quite early Spode,” I said. “Albert Einstein and George Bernard Shaw drank tea from that very cup when they visited Great-Uncle Tarquin—not both at the same time, of course.”

“One wonders what they might have made of one another?” Inspector Hewitt said, glancing at me.

“One wonders,” I said, glancing back.

The Inspector took another sip of his tea. Somehow, he seemed restless, as if there was something he would like to say, but couldn't find a way to begin.

“It's been a difficult case,” he said. “Bizarre, really. The man whose body you found in the garden was a total stranger—or seemed to be. All we knew was that he came from Norway.”

“The snipe,” I said.

“I beg your pardon?”

“The dead jack snipe on our kitchen doorstep. Jack snipe are never found in England until autumn. It had to have been brought from Norway—in a pie. That's how you knew, isn't it?”

The Inspector looked puzzled.

“No,” he said. "Bonepenny was wearing a new pair of shoes stamped with the name of a shoemaker in Stavanger.”

“Oh,” I said.

“From that, we were able to follow his trail quite easily.” As he spoke, Inspector Hewitt's hands drew a map in the air. “Our inquiries here and abroad told us that he'd taken the boat from Stavanger to Newcastle-upon-Tyne, and traveled from there by rail to York, then on to Doddingsley. From Doddingsley he took a taxi to Bishop's Lacey.”

Aha! Precisely as I had surmised.

“Exactly,” I said. “And Pemberton—or should I say, Bob Stanley?—followed him, but stopped short at Doddingsley. He stayed at the Jolly Coachman.”

One of Inspector Hewitt's eyebrows rose up like a cobra. “Oh?” he said, too casually. “How do you know that?”

“I rang up the Jolly Coachman and spoke with Mr. Cleaver.”

“Is that all?”

“They were in it together, just as they were in the murder of Mr. Twining.”

“Stanley denies that,” he said. “Claims he had nothing to do with it. Pure as the driven snow, and all that.”

“But he told me in the Pit Shed that he had killed Bonepenny! Besides that, he more or less admitted that my theory was correct: The suicide of Mr. Twining was a staged illusion.”

"Well, that remains to be seen. We're looking into it, but it's going to take some time, although I must say your father has been most helpful. He's now told us the whole story of what led up to poor Twining's death. I only wish he had decided earlier to be so accommodating. We might have saved…

“I'm sorry,” he said. “I was speculating.”

“My abduction,” I said.

I had to admire how quickly the Inspector changed the subject.

“Getting back to the present,” he said. “Let me see if I've got this right: You think Bonepenny and Stanley were confederates?”

“They were always confederates,” I said. “Bonepenny stole stamps and Stanley sold them abroad to unscrupulous collectors. But somehow they had never managed to dispose of the two Ulster Avengers; those were simply too well known. And with one of them having been stolen from the King, it would have been far too risky for any collector to be caught with them in his collection.”

“Interesting,” the Inspector said. “And?”

“They were planning to blackmail Father, but somewhere along the line, they must have had a falling-out. Bonepenny was coming over from Stavanger to do the deed, and at some point Stanley realized that he could follow him, kill him at Buckshaw, take the stamps, and leave the country. As simple as that. And it would all be blamed on Father. And so it was,” I added, with a reproachful look.

There was an awkward silence.

“Look, Flavia,” he said at last. “I didn't really have much choice, you know. There were no other viable suspects.”

“What about me,” I said. “I was at the scene of the crime.” I waved my hand at the bottles of chemicals that lined the walls. “After all, I know a lot about poisons. I might be considered a very dangerous person.”

“Hmm,” the Inspector said. "An interesting point. And you were on the spot at the time of death. If things hadn't gone exactly as they did, it might well be your neck in the noose.”

I hadn't thought of that. A goose walked over my grave and I shivered.

The Inspector went on. “Arguing against it, however, are your physical size, your lack of any real motive, and the fact that you haven't exactly made yourself scarce. Your average murderer generally gives the police as wide a berth as possible, whereas you… well, ubiquitous is the word that springs to mind. Now then, you were saying?”

“Stanley ambushed Bonepenny in our garden. Bonepenny was a diabetic, and—”

“Ah,” the Inspector said, almost to himself. “Insulin! We didn't think to test for that.”

“No,” I said. “Not insulin: carbon tetrachloride. Bonepenny died from having carbon tetrachloride injected into his brain stem. Stanley bought a bottle of the stuff from Johns, the chemists, in Doddingsley. I saw their label on the bottle when he filled the syringe in the Pit Shed. You've probably already found it under all the rubbish.”

I could tell by his face that they hadn't.

“Then it must have rolled down the pipe,” I said. “There's an old drain that runs down to the river. Some one will have to fish it out.”

Poor Sergeant Graves! I thought.

"Stanley stole the syringe from the kit in Bonepenny's room at the Thirteen Drakes,” I added, without thinking. Damn!

The Inspector pounced. “How do you know what was in Bonepenny's room?” he asked sharply.

“Uh. I'm coming to that,” I said. "In a few minutes.

“Stanley believed you'd never detect any possible traces of carbon tetrachloride in Bonepenny's brain. Jolly good thing you didn't. You might have assumed it came from one of Father's bottles. There are gallons of the stuff in the study.”

Inspector Hewitt pulled out his notebook and scrawled a couple of words, which I assumed were carbon tetrachloride.

“I know it was carbon tet because Bonepenny blew the last whiff of the stuff into my face with his dying breath,” I said, wrinkling my nose and making an appropriate face.

If an Inspector's complexion can be said to go white, Inspector Hewitt's complexion went white.

“You're certain about that?”

“I'm quite competent with the chlorinated hydrocarbons, thank you.”

“Are you telling me that Bonepenny was still alive when you found him?”

“Only just,” I said. “He. uh. passed away almost immediately.”

There was another one of those long, crypt-like silences.

“Here,” I said, “I'll show you how it was done.”

I picked up a yellow lead pencil, gave it a couple of turns in the sharpener, and went to the corner where the articulated skeleton dangled at the end of its wire.

“This was given to my great-uncle, Tarquin, by the naturalist Frank Buckland,” I said, giving the skull an affectionate rub. “I call him Yorick.”

I did not tell the Inspector that Buckland, in his old age, had given his gift in recognition of young Tar's great promise. “To the Bright Future of Science,” Buckland had written on his card.

I brought the sharpened point of the pencil round to the top of the spinal column, shoving it slowly in under the skull as I repeated Pemberton's words in the Pit Shed:

"'Angle in a bit to the side. in through the splenius capitus and semispinalis capitis, puncture the atlantoaxial ligament, and slide the needle over the—’”

“Thank you, Flavia,” the Inspector said abruptly. “That's quite enough. You're quite sure that's what he said?”

“His precise words,” I said. "I had to look them up in Gray's Anatomy. The Children's Encyclopaedia has several plates, but not nearly enough detail.”

Inspector Hewitt rubbed his chin.

“I'm sure Dr. Darby could find the needle mark on the back of Bonepenny's neck,” I added helpfully, "if he knew where to look. He might inspect the sinuses, as well. Carbon tetrachloride is stable in air, and might still be trapped there, since the man was no longer breathing.

“And,” I added, “you might remind him that Bonepenny had a drink at the Thirteen Drakes just before he set out to walk to Buckshaw.”

The Inspector still looked puzzled.

“The effects of carbon tetrachloride are intensified by alcohol,” I explained.

“And,” he asked with a casual smile, "do you have any particular theory about why the stuff might still be in his sinuses? I'm no chemist, but I believe carbon tetrachloride evaporates very rapidly.”

I did have a reason, but it was not one I was willing to share with just anyone, particularly not the police. Bonepenny had been suffering from an extremely nasty head cold: a head cold which, when he breathed the word “Vale" into my face, he had transmitted to me. Thanks buckets, Horace! I thought.

I also suspected that Bonepenny's plugged nasal passages might well have preserved the injected carbon tetrachloride, which is insoluble in water—or in snot, for that matter—which would also have helped inhibit the intake of outside air.

“No,” I said. “But you might suggest that the lab in London carry out the test suggested by the British Pharmacopoeia.”

“Can't say I recall it, offhand,” Inspector Hewitt said.

“It's a very pretty procedure,” I said. “One that checks the limit of free chlorine when iodine is liberated from cadmium iodide. I'm sure they're familiar with it. I'd offer to do it myself, but I don't expect Scotland Yard would be comfortable handing over bits of Bonepenny's brain to an eleven-year-old.”

Inspector Hewitt stared at me for what seemed several aeons.

“All right,” he said at last, “let's have a dekko.”

“At what?” I said, putting on my mask of injured innocence.

“Whatever you've done. Let's have a look at it.”

“But I haven't done anything,” I said. “I—”

"Don't play me for a fool, Flavia. No one who has had the pleasure of your acquaintance would ever believe for an instant that you haven't done your homework.”

I grinned sheepishly. “It's over here,” I said, moving towards a corner table upon which stood a glass tank shrouded with a damp tea towel.

I whisked the cloth away.

“Good Lord!” the Inspector said. “What in the name of—?”

He fairly gaped at the pinkish gray object that floated serenely in the tank.

“It's a nice bit of brain,” I said. “I pinched it from the larder. Mrs. Mullet bought it at Carnforth's yesterday for supper tonight. She's going to be furious.”

“And you've.?” he said, flapping his hand.

"Yes, that's right. I've injected it with two and a half cubic centimeters of carbon tetrachloride. That's how much Bonepenny's syringe held.

“The average human brain weighs three pounds,” I went on, “and that of the male perhaps a little more. I've cut an extra five ounces to allow for it.”

"How did you find that out?” the Inspector asked.

"It's in one of the volumes of Arthur Mee's books. The Children's Encyclopaedia again, I think.”

“And you've tested this. brain, for the presence of carbon tetrachloride?”

“Yes,” I said, “but not until fifteen hours after I injected it. I judged that's how much time elapsed between the stuff being shot into Bonepenny's brain and the autopsy.”

“And?”

“Still easily detectable,” I said. "Child's play. Of course I used p-Aminodimethylaniline. That's rather a new test, but an elegant one. It was written up in The Analyst about five years ago. Pull up a stool and I'll show you.”

“This isn't going to work, you know.” Inspector Hewitt chuckled.

“Not work?” I said. “Of course it will work. I've already done it once.”

“I mean you're not going to dazzle me with lab work and skate conveniently round the stamp. After all, that's what this whole thing is about, isn't it?”

He had me cornered. I had planned on saying nothing about the Ulster Avenger and then quietly handing it over to Father. Who would ever be the wiser?

“Look, I know you have it,” he said. “We paid a visit to Dr. Kissing at Rook's End.”

I tried to look unconvinced.

“And Bob Stanley, your Mr. Pemberton, has told us that you stole it from him.”

Stole it from him? The idea! What cheek!

“It belongs to the King,” I protested. “Bonepenny nicked it from an exhibition in London.”

“Well, whomever it belongs to, it's stolen property, and my duty is to see that it's returned. All I need to know is how it came into your possession.”

Drat the man! I could dodge it no longer. I was going to have to confess my trespasses at the Thirteen Drakes.

“Let's make a deal,” I said.

Inspector Hewitt burst out laughing. “There are times, Miss de Luce,” he said, “when you deserve a brass medal. And there are other times you deserve to be sent to your room with bread and water.”

“And which one of those times is this?” I asked.

Hooo! Better watch your step, Flave.

He waggled his fingers at me. “I'm listening,” he said.

“Well, I've been thinking,” I told him. “Father's life hasn't been exactly pleasant lately. In the first place, you arrive at Buckshaw and before we know it you've charged him with murder.”

“Hang on. hang on,” the Inspector said. “We've already been through this. He was charged with murder because he confessed to it.”