The Flavia De Luce Series 1-4 (10 page)

“No, this way,” Mary hissed, tugging at my arm. We slipped round the corner and into a narrow corridor. She pulled a set of keys from her pocket and quietly unlocked the last door on the left. We stepped inside.

We were in a room which had not likely changed since Queen Elizabeth visited Bishop’s Lacey in 1592 on one of her summer progresses. My first impressions were of a timbered ceiling, plastered panels, a tiny window with leaded panes standing ajar for air, and broad floorboards that rose and fell like the ocean swell.

Against one wall was a chipped wooden table with an
ABC Railway Guide
(October 1946) shoved under one leg to keep it from teetering. On the tabletop were an unmatched Staffordshire pitcher and ewer in pink and cream, a comb, a brush, and a small black leather case. In a corner near the open window stood a single piece of luggage: a cheap-looking steamer trunk of vulcanized fiber, plastered over with colored stickers. Beside it was a straight chair with a missing spindle. Across the room stood a wooden wardrobe of jumble-sale quality. And the bed.

“This is it,” Mary said. As she locked us in, I turned to look at her closely for the first time. In the gray dishwater light from the sooty windowpanes, she looked older, harder, and more brittle than the raw-handed girl I had just seen in the bright sunlight of the inn yard.

“I expect you’ve never been in a room this small, have you?” she said scornfully. “You lot at Buckshaw fancy the odd visit to Bedlam, don’t you? See the loonies—see how we live in our cages. Throw us a biscuit.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said.

Mary turned her face towards me so that I was receiving the full intensity of her glare. “That sister of yours—that Ophelia—sent you with a message for Ned, and don’t tell me she didn’t. She fancies I’m some kind of slattern, and I’m not.”

And in that instant I decided that I liked Mary, even if she didn’t like me. Anyone who knew the word
slattern
was worth cultivating as a friend.

“Listen,” I said, “there’s no message. What I said to Ned was strictly for cover. You have to help me, Mary. I know you will. There’s been a murder at Buckshaw …”

There! I’d said it!

“… and nobody knows it yet but you and me—except the murderer, of course.”

She looked at me for no more than three seconds and then she asked, “Who is it that’s dead, then?”

“I don’t know. That’s why I’m here. But it makes sense to me that if someone turns up dead in the cucumbers, and even the police don’t know who he is, the most likely place he’d be staying in the neighborhood—
if
he was staying in the neighborhood—is right here at the Thirteen Drakes. Can you bring me the register?”

“Don’t need to bring it to you,” Mary said. “There’s only one guest right now, and that’s Mr. Sanders.”

The more I talked to Mary the more I liked her.

“And this here’s his room,” she added helpfully.

“Where is he from?” I asked.

Her face clouded. “I don’t know, rightly.”

“Has he ever stopped here before?”

“Not so far as I know.”

“Then I need to have a look at the register. Please, Mary! Please! It’s important! The police will soon be here, and then it will be too late.”

“I’ll try …” she said, and, unlocking the door, slipped from the room.

As soon as she was gone, I pulled open the door of the wardrobe. Except for a pair of wooden coat hangers it was empty, and I turned my attention to the steamer trunk, which was covered over with stickers like barnacles clinging to the hull of a ship. These colorful crustaceans, however, had names: Paris, Rome, Stockholm, Amsterdam, Copenhagen, Stavanger—and more.

I tried the hasp, and to my surprise, it popped open. It was unlocked! The two halves, hinged in the middle, swung easily apart, and I found myself face-to-face with Mr. Sanders’s wardrobe: a blue serge suit, two shirts, a pair of brown Oxfords (with blue serge? Even I knew better than that!), and a floppy, theatrical hat that reminded me of photographs I’d seen of G. K. Chesterton in the
Radio Times
.

I pulled out the drawers of the trunk, taking care not to disturb their contents: a pair of hairbrushes (imitation tortoiseshell), a razor (Valet AutoStrop), a tube of shaving cream (Morning Pride Brushless), a toothbrush, toothpaste (thymol: “specially recommended to arrest the germs of dental decay”), nail clippers, a straight comb (xylonite), and a pair of square cuff links (Whitby jet, with a pair of initials inset in silver:
HB
).

HB
? Wasn’t this Mr. Sanders’s room? What could
HB
stand for?

The door flew open and a voice hissed, “What are you doing?”

I nearly flew out of my skin. It was Mary.

“I couldn’t get the register. Dad was—Flavia! You can’t go through a guest’s luggage like that! You’ll get both of us in a pickle. Stop it.”

“Right-ho,” I said as I finished rifling the pockets of the suit. They were empty anyway. “When was the last time you saw Mr. Sanders?”

“Yesterday. Here. At noon.”

“Here? In this room?”

She gulped, and nodded, looking away. “I was changing his sheets when he come up behind me and grabbed me. Put a hand over my mouth so’s I shouldn’t scream. Good job Dad called from the yard just then. Rattled him a bit, it did. Don’t think I didn’t get in a good kick or two. Him and his filthy paws! I’d have scratched his eyes out if I’d had half the chance.”

She looked at me as if she’d said too much; as if a great social gulf had suddenly opened up between us.

“I’d have scratched his eyes out and sucked the holes,” I said.

Her eyes widened in horror.

“John Marston,” I told her. “
The Dutch Courtesan
, 1604.”

There was a pause of approximately two hundred years. Then Mary began to giggle.

“Ooh, you are a one!” she said.

The gap had been bridged.

“Act Two,” I added.

Seconds later the two of us were doubled over, hands covering our mouths, hopping about the room, snorting in unison like a pair of trained seals.

“Feely once read it to us under the blankets with a torch,” I said, and for some reason, this struck both of us as being even more hilarious, and off we went again until we were nearly paralyzed from laughter.

Mary threw her arms round me and gave me a crushing hug. “You’re a corker, Flavia,” she said. “Really you are. Come here—take a gander at this.”

She went to the table, picked up the black leather case, unfastened the strap, and lifted the lid. Nestled inside were two rows of six little glass vials, twelve in all. Eleven were filled with a liquid of a yellowish tinge; the twelfth was a quarter full. Between the rows of vials was a half-round indentation, as if some tubular object were missing.

“What do you make of it?” she whispered, as Tully’s voice thundered vaguely in the distance. “Poisons, you think? A regular Dr. Crippen, our Mr. Sanders?”

I uncorked the partially filled bottle and held it to my nose. It smelled as if someone had dropped vinegar on the back of a sticking plaster: an acrid protein smell, like an alcoholic’s hair burning in the next room.

“Insulin,” I said. “He’s a diabetic.”

Mary gave me a blank look, and I suddenly knew how Archimedes felt when he said “Eureka!” in his bathtub. I grabbed Mary’s arm.

“Does Mr. Sanders have red hair?” I demanded.

“Red as rhubarb. How did you know?”

She stared at me as if I were Madame Zolanda at the church fête, with a turban, a shawl, and a crystal ball.

“A wizard guess,” I said.

eight

“Crikey!” Mary said, fishing under the table and pulling out a round metal wastepaper basket. “I almost forgot this. Dad’d have my hide for a hammock if he found out I didn’t empty this thing. He’s always on about germs, Dad is, even though you wouldn’t think it to look at him. Good job I remembered before—oh, gawd! Just look at this mess, will you.”

She pulled a wry face and held out the basket at arm’s length. I peeked—tentatively—inside. You never know what you’re getting into when you stick your nose in other people’s rubbish.

The bottom of the wastebasket was covered with chunks and flakes of pastry: no container, just bits flung in, as if whoever had been eating it had had enough. It appeared to be the remains of a pie. As I reached in and extracted a piece of it, Mary made a gacking noise and turned her head away.

“Look at this,” I said. “It’s a piece of the crust, see? It’s golden brown here, from the oven, with little crinkles of pastry, like decorations on one side. These other bits are from the bottom crust: They’re whiter and thinner. Not very flaky, is it?

“Still,” I added, “I’m famished. When you haven’t eaten all day, anything looks good.”

I raised the pie and opened my mouth, pretending I was about to gobble it down.

“Flavia!”

I paused with the crumbling cargo halfway to my gaping mouth.

“Huh?”

“Oh, you!” Mary said. “Give it over. I’ll chuck it.”

Something told me this was a Bad Idea. Something else told me that the gutted pie was evidence that should be left untouched for Inspector Hewitt and the two sergeants to discover. I actually considered this for a moment.

“Got any paper?” I asked.

Mary shook her head. I opened the wardrobe and, standing on tiptoe, felt along the top shelf with my hand. As I suspected, a sheet of newspaper had been put in place to serve as a makeshift shelf liner. God bless you, Tully Stoker!

Taking care not to break them, I tipped the larger remnants of the pie slowly out onto the
Daily Mail
and folded it up into a small neat package, which I shoved into my pocket. Mary stood watching me nervously, not saying a word.

“Lab test,” I said, darkly. To tell the truth, I didn’t have any idea yet what I was going to do with this revolting stuff. I’d think of something later, but right now I wanted to show Mary who was in charge.

As I set the wastepaper basket down on the floor, I was startled at a sudden slight movement in its depths, and I don’t mind admitting that my stomach turned a primal handspring. What was in there? Worms? A rat? Impossible: I couldn’t have missed something that big.

I peered cautiously into the container and sure enough, something
was
moving at the bottom of the basket. A feather! And it was moving gently, almost imperceptibly, back and forth with the room’s air currents; stirring like a dead leaf on a tree—in the same way the dead stranger’s red hair had stirred in the morning breeze.

Could it have been only this morning that he died? It seemed an eternity since the unpleasantness in the garden. Unpleasantness? You liar, Flavia!

Mary looked on aghast as I reached into the basket and extracted the feather and the bit of pastry impaled upon its quill end.

“See this?” I said, holding it out towards her. She shrank back in the way Dracula is supposed to do when you threaten him with a cross. “If the feather had fallen on the pastry in the wastepaper basket, it wouldn’t be attached.

“Four-and-twenty blackbirds, baked in a pie,” I recited. “See?”

“You think?” Mary asked, her eyes like saucers.

“Bang on, Sherlock,” I said. “This pie’s filling was bird, and I think I can guess the species.”

I held it out to her again. “What a pretty dish to set before the King,” I said, and this time she grinned at me.

I’d do the same with Inspector Hewitt, I thought, as I pocketed the thing. Yes! I’d solve this case and present it to him wrapped up in gaily colored ribbons.

“No need for you to come out here again,” he’d said to me in the garden, that saucepot. What bloody cheek!

Well, I’d show him a trick or two!

Something told me that Norway was the key. Ned hadn’t been in Norway, and besides, he had sworn he didn’t leave the snipe on our doorstep and I believed him, so he was out of the question—at least for now.

The stranger had come from Norway, and I had heard that straight from the horse’s mouth, so to speak! Ergo (that means “therefore”) the stranger could have brought the snipe with him.

In a pie.

Yes! That made sense! What better way to get a dead bird past an inquisitive H. M. Customs inspector?

Just one more step and we’re home free: If the Inspector can’t be asked how he knew about Norway, and nor can the stranger (obviously, since he is dead), who, then, does that leave?

And I suddenly saw it all, saw it spread out before me at my feet the way one must see from the top of a mountain. The way Harriet must have—

The way an eagle sees his prey.

I hugged myself with pleasure. If the stranger had come from Norway, dropped a dead bird on our doorstep before breakfast, and then appeared in Father’s study after midnight, he must have been staying somewhere not far away. Somewhere within walking distance of Buckshaw. Somewhere such as right here in this very room at the Thirteen Drakes.

Now I knew it for certain: The corpse in the cucumbers
was
Mr. Sanders. There could be no doubt about it.

“Mary!”

It was Tully again, bellowing like a bull calf, and this time, it seemed, he was right outside the door.

“Coming, Dad!” she shouted, grabbing the wastebasket.

“Get out of here,” she whispered. “Wait five minutes and then go down the back stairs—same way as we came up.”

She was gone, and a moment later I heard her explaining to Tully in the hallway that she just wanted to give the wastebasket an extra clean-out, since someone left a mess in it.

“We wouldn’t want somebody to die of germs they picked up at the Thirteen Drakes, would we, Dad?”

She was learning.

While I waited, I took a second look at the steamer trunk. I ran my fingers over the colored labels, trying to imagine where it had been in its travels, and what Mr. Sanders had been doing in each city: Paris, Rome, Stockholm, Amsterdam, Copenhagen, Stavanger. Paris was red, white, and blue, and so was Stavanger.

Was Stavanger in France? I wondered. It didn’t sound French—unless, of course, it was pronounced “stah-vonj-yay” as in Laurence Olivier. I touched the label and it wrinkled beneath my finger, piled up like water ahead of the prow of a ship.