Speaking From Among The Bones (36 page)

“Hold on,” the Inspector said. “Where did you get
that
information?”

“Well, it only stands to reason, doesn’t it?” I countered.

“How much air pressure does the blower produce?” I asked, turning to Feely, whose face was growing more ashen by the minute.

“Three to five inches,” she whispered, looking up from the floor for the first time.

I stared at the Inspector triumphantly.

“Good lord,” he said.

“They probably thought they could pump air into his lungs through the gas mask. A similar thing is done in hospitals and in aircraft every day with oxygen masks. A strange idea, to be sure, but people do peculiar things under pressure. Adam—Mr. Sowerby, I mean—told me what unexpected effects diamonds can have on some people.”

I shot another glance at Feely, but she was not looking at me. She was staring blankly once more at the carpet.

“You’re telling me that Magistrate Ridley-Smith and company did
not
commit the murder, is that it?”

“Yes,” I said. “In fact, quite the contrary—they were trying to save his life by applying artificial respiration—trying to resuscitate him. They knew nothing of Miss Tanty’s scheme, and she knew nothing about the Heart of Lucifer.”

I could see the Inspector mulling this.

“Resuscitate,” he said at last. “Rather a big word, isn’t it?”

He did not add “for a little girl,” but he might as well have.

“It so happens that we were taught artificial respiration in Girl Guides,” I said. I did not feel it necessary to add that I had been sacked from that organization for having an excess of high spirits.

“We were thoroughly instructed in the Silvester, the Schaefer, the Holger-Nielsen, and the Barley-Plowman methods.”

The first three were true enough, but the Barley-Plowman method I had invented on the spot simply to put the man in his place.

“I see,” the Inspector said, and I hoped he was humbled.

“At any rate,” I continued, “the problem is this: At the time he seized the glass tube, Mr. Collicutt was alive. By the time they finally got him connected to the air blower, he was already dead of suffocation from the mask.”

“Was he, indeed?” the Inspector asked.

“He was,” I said. “The blower did not reoxygenate his blood.”

It was going to require the wisdom of Solomon to decide the precise moment of death, and hence the identity of the killer or killers. Was it the ether and the handkerchief, or the gas mask and the wind chest?

In death, split seconds could make the difference between the gallows and a slap on the hand.

“Still, I hope their lifesaving attempts will be found in their favor,” I added. “I’d hate to think I’d helped hang an innocent person.”

“I shouldn’t worry,” the Inspector said. “You can be sure that if there’s anyone who knows how to get round the courts, it’s a magistrate. What are you grinning about?”

It was true. I couldn’t help myself.

“I was just thinking of the look on his face when you ask him how it is that Miss Tanty’s parrot calls him by his first name.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Hello, Quentin!” I squawked, in my best parrot voice.

Now it was the Inspector’s turn to smile.

“I see what you’re getting at,” he said, and another note went into his notebook.

“One last question, if you don’t mind,” he added. “This business of the bleeding saint. It has nothing to do with the case, of course, but I must admit to having a certain personal curiosity. I understand from Mr. Sowerby that you took a sample of the stuff, and that he assisted you in performing a chemical analysis.”

“That is correct,” I said, a little peeved at Adam for blabbing.

“And? May we be favored with the results?”

“Quite conclusive,” I replied. “CH
₄
N
₂
O. I subjected it to the nitric acid test for urea. It’s bat’s urine.”

Everybody in the room except Feely was suddenly nodding wisely, as if they had known it all along.

“Adam had already tasted it and come to the same conclusion.”

Where was Adam? I wondered. It would have been ever so lovely if he’d been here to witness my triumph.

“I’d be happy to turn over my notes if they have any relevance in this case.”

“Indeed,” Inspector Hewitt said, getting up and putting away his notebook. “Well, thank you, Flavia. I believe that will be all, at least for now. I’d appreciate it if you’d take Sergeant Woolmer upstairs to retrieve the bottle in question. Antigone?”

He turned toward his wife and offered his hand as she rose from the chaise longue.

I was stunned! I had presented them the case on a silver platter. Where was the lavish thanks? Where was the praise? Where were the congratulations? The plaudits? The accolades, and so forth?

Where were the trumpets?

But suddenly Antigone was taking my hand, her smile shining like the Mediterranean sun.

“Thank you, Flavia,” she told me. “I’m sure you’ve been of enormous assistance. I’ll ring you up next week and we shall go shopping in Hinley. A girls’ day out—just the two of us.”

It was reward enough. I stood there at the window with a sappy smile on my face, not thinking, until long after I
had watched her leave, long after her husband had driven her away down the avenue of chestnuts and out through the Mulford Gates toward Bishop’s Lacey, to look down at the wreckage of my skirt and sweater.

There was going to be trouble. I could smell it coming.

Just as fear has the taste of copper, so trouble has the smell of lead.

And then, as my thoughts turned to poor Jocelyn Ridley-Smith, I was seized by a sudden idea.

I would beg Antigone to take him with us! Shopping for dresses in Hinley and lunch afterward at the ABC Tea Shop. The three of us would make a feast of buns and clotted cream!

What an adventure for Jocelyn! I was sure we could arrange it. I’d telephone the vicar or even, if necessary, the bishop, just as soon as Father finished with his announcement, whatever it may be.

Daffy and Feely had left without my noticing, and I found myself alone in the drawing room for the first time in ages.

How much longer, I wondered, before strangers would be looking out of our windows and calling the place their own? How much longer before we were tossed out into a cold, uncaring world?

There was a discreet tap—no more than a fingernail on the woodwork—and Dogger entered.

“Pardon me, Miss Flavia,” he said.

“Yes, Dogger? What is it?”

“I wanted to say that I took the liberty of listening at the door. You were superb. Absolutely top-notch.”

“Thank you, Dogger,” I managed, in spite of my eyes brimming suddenly with tears. “That means a lot.”

I could have gone on but I hadn’t the words.

“Colonel de Luce,” he said, “would like to see you in the drawing room in forty-five minutes.”

“Just me?” I asked. I was already dreading another ban on my activities.

“The three of you: Miss Daphne, Miss Ophelia, and yourself.”

“Thank you, Dogger,” I said. I knew better than to beg for details.

I believed I already knew them. But before the dreaded interview, I had a duty to perform.

In silent procession, I would tour the house, perhaps for the last time. I would bid farewell to the rooms that I had loved, and keep clear of the ones I hadn’t. I would begin with Harriet’s boudoir, even though it was technically off-limits. I would touch her combs and brushes and inhale her scent. I would sit for a while in silence. From there I would proceed to the greenhouse and the coach house, where I had spent so many happy hours chattering with Dogger about everything under a thousand suns.

I would walk, for one last time, the portrait gallery, saying good-bye to my grim old ancestors who were framed in solemn rows. I would tell them that a portrait of Flavia de Luce was not destined to hang among them.

And then the kitchen: the dear kitchen which overflowed
with memories of Mrs. Mullet and pilfered supplies. I would sit at the table where Father had talked to me.

From the kitchen, I would proceed up the east staircase to my bedroom, where I would wind up the crank of the old phonograph and put on the Requiem Mass of Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart. I would hear it through.

And finally, my laboratory.

At this point I must end my description.

It is too unbearably sad to go on.

At the appointed hour the three of us came slowly to the drawing room, Feely and Daffy descending from their bedrooms in the west wing, and me, dawdling down the stairs from the east.

I had changed into a clean frock, pulled on my comfortable old cardigan, then touched up my singed face with the powder I had pinched from Feely’s room several weeks ago for an experiment involving poisoned cosmetics. I had painted in new eyebrows and a couple of eyelashes with powdered carbon.

We did not speak, but took up our places in silence, as far as we could get from one another, each in her own far corner of the drawing room, awaiting Father’s arrival.

Feely fiddled with sheet music, flattening the pages with her hand as if they needed it. Daffy fished a book from behind the cushions of the sofa and began reading at the point where it fell open.

Father, at last, came into the room. He stood for a few
moments with his back to us, his hands flat on the chimneypiece, his head bowed.

His hands trembled as he fiddled with his pocket watch.

It was in that instant that I began to love him completely, and in a new and inexplicable way.

I wanted to rush to him, wrap my arms around him, and tell him about the Heart of Lucifer—tell him that there was a chance, however slight, that the stone of the saint would at last bring happiness upon our house.

But I did not, and the reasons are as countless as the grains of the Sahara sands.

“I must tell you,” he said at last, turning round, his voice like the ghost of the March wind, “that I have had a piece of news, and that you must prepare yourselves for a very great shock.”

The three of us were rapt—staring at him like so many stone statues.

“I have agonized for several days over whether to tell you, or whether, at least for now, to keep it to myself. Only this morning have I come to a decision.”

I swallowed.

Good-bye, Buckshaw
, I thought.
The house has been sold. We will soon be driven out—forced to leave its dear old stones and timbers, its dreams and its memories, to the barbarians
.

We had never known any home but Buckshaw. To live anywhere else was simply unthinkable.

What would become of Mrs. Mullet? What would become of Dogger?

And of Feely and of Daffy?

What would become of me?

Father turned and moved slowly to the window. He lifted the curtain and looked out for a moment upon his estate, as if the forces of an overwhelming and invisible army were already gathering in the kitchen garden and advancing across the little lawn.

When he turned again, he looked straight into our eyes, first Feely’s … then Daffy’s … and finally mine, and his voice broke as he said:

“Your mother has been found.”

E
VERY BOOK IS A
pilgrimage, made in the company of congenial traveling companions, most of whom must remain forever invisible to the reader.

Along the way, these kindred souls have provided kindness, conversation, inspiration, food, friendship, love, support, and thoughtfulness.

As always, my fellow travelers have included my editors Bill Massey at Orion Books in London, Kate Miciak at Random House in New York, and Kristin Cochrane at Doubleday Canada. Loren Noveck and Randall Klein at Random House, New York; my literary agent, Denise Bukowski; and John Greenwell of the Bukowski Agency in Toronto have been of immense assistance.

Family, too, have been there to wave flags and shout encouragement at every way station, and I’d like to especially acknowledge Garth and Helga Taylor, Jean Bryson, and Bill and Barbara Bryson, and to remember with affection the shared enthusiasms and joy in life of my late cousin John Bryson.

The late Miss Doris Vella will also be sorely missed. Her remarkable ability to enter wholly into Flavia’s world is unparalleled. Her love and friendship will never be forgotten.

Dr. John Harland and Janet Harland have again volunteered themselves as sounding boards, and have contributed many excellent ideas, as well as functioning as unpaid medical consultants. Any slipups in such specialized matters are, of course, my own.

Special thanks are due to Xi Xi Tabone, who has taken time out from her own busy career to assist in so many thoughtful ways.

And finally, to my wife, Shirley, who has voyaged with me and cheered me along from the very first steps of this journey. Words can never be enough: Only love can settle such an enormous debt.

The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie

The Weed That Strings the Hangman’s Bag

A Red Herring Without Mustard

I Am Half-Sick of Shadows

Speaking from Among the Bones