The Flavia De Luce Series 1-4 (147 page)

How did he know these things? I wondered. Although there had been numerous occasions when Dogger’s knowledge of the human body had come in handy, I had thought of it until just recently as being due to his age. Surely someone who has lived as long in the world as Dogger has, someone who has endured a prisoner-of-war camp, couldn’t help but to have acquired a certain amount of practical information.

And yet there was more to it than that. I knew it instinctively and realized with a sudden shiver that part of me had known it all along.

“You’ve done this before, haven’t you?” I had asked as we’d stood together over Phyllis Wyvern’s body.

“Yes,” Dogger had replied.

My mind was teeming. There were so very many things that needed thinking about.

Aunt Felicity, for instance. Her account of her wartime service, however scanty, had reminded me of Uncle Tar’s correspondence with Winston Churchill, much of which still lay unexamined in a desk drawer in my laboratory. All of it was too early, of course, to have a direct bearing upon the matter. Uncle Tar had been dead for more than twenty years, but I had not forgotten that Aunt Felicity and Harriet had spent happy summers with him here at Buckshaw.

It was definitely worth another look.

And then there was Father Christmas. Had he, in spite of the mob, managed to make his way secretly into the house? Had he brought me the glass retorts and test tubes I had asked for—all the lovely flasks and funnels, the beakers and pipettes, packed in straw and nestled in together, crystal cheek almost touching crystal cheek? Were they already upstairs in my laboratory, gleaming in the winter light, awaiting only the touch of my hand to bring them to bubbling life?

Or was the old saint, after all, really no more than the cruel myth Daffy and Feely had made him out to be?

I surely hoped not.

Then suddenly there sprang to my mind a particular proof that starts with the letter
P
, and it wasn’t potassium.

My thoughts were interrupted by the sound of laughter in the next room, and a moment later, Feely and Daffy came in, their arms full of gaily wrapped gifts.

“Father said it was all right,” Daffy told me. “You were out cold for Christmas and we’re both of us dying to see what Aunt Felicity gave you.”

She let fall onto my legs a package wrapped in what looked suspiciously like Easter paper.

“Go ahead—open it.”

My curiously weakened fingers picked at the ribbon, tearing the paper at the corner of the package.

“Give it here,” Feely said. “You’re so clumsy.”

I had already felt through the paper that the package contained something soft, and had written it off. Everyone knows that truly great gifts are always hard to the touch, and I could tell, even without opening it, that Aunt Felicity’s was a dud.

I handed it over without a word.

“Oh, look!” Feely said, with fake enthusiasm, tossing aside the paper. “A bed jacket!”

She held the silk monstrosity up to her chest as if she were modeling it. Cross-stitched all over in a padded diamond pattern, the thing looked like a cast-off life jacket from a Chinese junk.

“The jade will go nicely with your complexion,” Daffy said. “Do you want to try it on?”

I turned my face towards the back of the sofa.

“This next one is from Father,” Feely said. “Shall I open it?”

I reached out and took the small packet from her hands. The label read:

To: Flavia

From: Father

Merry Christmas
.

There was a picture of a little robin redbreast in the snow.

The paper came away easily enough. Inside was a small book.

“What is it?” Daffy demanded.

“
Aniline Dyes in the Printing of the British Postage Stamp: A Chemical History
,” I read aloud.

Dear old Father. I wanted to laugh and I wanted to cry.

I held the book out for Daffy to see, forcing myself to remember how excited I had been when I’d first read that the great Friedrich August Kekulé, one of the fathers of organic chemistry, had originally envisioned the tetravalent carbon atom while coming home from Clapham on top of a horse-drawn omnibus. The voice of the conductor calling out “Clapham Road!” had interrupted his train of thought, and he had forgotten his revelation until four years later.

Kekulé had been associated with printing inks, hadn’t he? Hadn’t his friend Hugo Müller been employed by De La Rue, the printers of British postage stamps?

I put the book aside. I would deal with my jumble of feelings later—when I was alone.

“This is from me,” Feely said. “Open it next. Careful you don’t break it.”

I peeled the paper carefully from the flat, square package, knowing as soon as I touched it that it was a phonograph record.

As indeed it was: Toccata, by Pietro Domenico Paradis, from his Sonata in A, played by the superb Eileen Joyce.

To me, it was the greatest piece of music composed since Adam and Eve were camped out in Eden, a melody that bubbled and danced and skittered about like the happy atoms of sodium or magnesium when they are dropped into a beaker of hydrochloric acid.

Feely had occasionally played the Paradis Toccata at my request, but only when she wasn’t angry, so I hadn’t heard it very often.

“Th-thank you,” I said, almost speechless, and I could tell that Feely was pleased.

“Mine next,” Daffy said. “It isn’t much, but then you don’t deserve much.”

Again a flat thin package, tied with string and a label:
To F. from D
.

It was a steel engraving, glued to a piece of cardboard, of an alchemist at work among his flasks and flagons, his beakers and retorts.

“I cut it out of a book at Foster’s,” Daffy said. “They’ll never miss it. The only books they ever open are the Badminton Library. Hawking, fishing, and hunting and so forth.”

“It’s lovely,” I said. “Beautiful. I’ll ask Dogger to help me frame it.”

“If they find it’s gone missing,” Daffy went on, “I’ll tell them
you
nicked it. After all, what would
I
want with a stinky old alchemist.”

I stuck out my tongue at her.

Next was a package from Mrs. Mullet.

Mittens.

“She said you’re going to need them for your frostbitten fingers.”

“Are my fingers frostbitten?” I asked, spreading them out at arm’s length for examination. “They tingle a bit, but they don’t look any different.”

“Oh, just you wait,” Feely said. “Another twenty-four hours and they’ll begin to turn black, after which they’ll fall off. You’ll need to have hooks fitted, won’t she, Daff? Five little hooks on each hand. Dr. Darby says you’re lucky. They’ve improved hooks by leaps and bounds in the past few years, and you might even be able to—”

“Stop it!” I shrieked. My hands were trembling before my eyes.

My sisters exchanged a look whose meaning I had once known, but now, for the life of me, couldn’t remember.

“Let’s leave her alone,” Daffy said. “She’s not fit company when she’s like this.”

At the door they turned back, as if hinged together at their waists.

“Merry Christmas,” they said in unison, and then they were gone.

I lay for a long time in silence, staring at the ceiling.

Was my life always to be like this? I wondered. Was it going to go, forever, in an instant, from sunshine to shadow? From pandemonium to loneliness? From fierce anger to a fiercer kind of love?

Something was missing. I was sure of it. Something was missing, but I couldn’t for the life of me think what it was.

After a while, I let my legs slide heavily to the floor, then raised myself to a sitting position. Tiny fireworks exploded behind my eyes, the result of spending too many days in a horizontal position. I got shakily to my feet, clutching at the back of the sofa for unaccustomed support.

I stood for a moment, waiting for the faintness to pass; then, wrapping my housecoat tightly around myself and trying desperately to be quiet, I shuffled slowly to the door. If anyone knew I was creeping round the house there were bound to be stern lectures.

But the corridors were empty. The villagers and the film crew had gone.

The foyer rang with its usual dark-varnished silence. Buckshaw had returned to normal.

Coming from somewhere above, a solitary beam of sunshine shone down upon the black-and-white checkerboard tiles, falling precisely along the black line painted so many years ago by Antony and William de Luce to divide Buckshaw into two armed camps.

How sad, I thought. Their hatred had outlived them.

I made my way up the east staircase, one slow step at a time. At the top I stopped to rest, perching for a while on the last step like a bird on a bough.

Only here at the top of the house did I feel myself removed, in a way, from the crushing burden of being a de Luce. Up here, above it all, I was somehow myself.

Simply Flavia.

Flavia Sabina de Luce. Full stop.

After a time, I pulled myself to my feet and made my way unsteadily towards my laboratory. It had been simply ages since I’d been away for so long from my
sanctum sanctorum
.

I took a deep breath … opened the door … and stepped inside, and the smile that spread across my face brought tears to my disbelieving eyes.

“Yaroo!” I shouted, and I didn’t give a beetle’s bottom who heard me.

“Ya-rooo!”

For Shirley

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Again to my editors, Bill Massey, of Orion Books in London, and Kate Miciak, of Random House in New York City. Bill and Kate have been joint—and fearsome—Keepers-of-the-Gate while I’ve been away in 1950. Words can never express my gratitude.

To Kristin Cochrane and Brad Martin, of Doubleday Canada, whose faith in Flavia has never wavered. Kristin has twice stood in for me to accept awards: the kind of debt that can never be repaid.

To my agent, Denise Bukowski, for being there, always prepared, every step of the way. And to Sandra Homer, Elizabeth De Francesca, and John Greenwell of the Bukowski Agency, for scaling the mountains of paperwork, all with good humor.

To my friends John and Janet Harland, for their comments and many valuable suggestions.

To Susan Corcoran, Sharon Propson, and Sharon Klein, of Random House, my peerless publicists, those superheroes of the publishing world who do all the heavy lifting.

To Randall Klein, of Random House, who wears so many hats—all of them perfectly fitted, and to my copy editor, Connie Munro.

To Urban Hofstetter, of Random House, Germany, for his editorship and friendship; to Inge Kunzelmann, who got us on and off trains and planes throughout all of Germany without ever losing her smile; and to Sebastian Rothfuss for his valuable assistance with a most convoluted research question.

To my two charming masters of ceremonies, Margarete von Schwarzkopf in Berlin, Hanover, Frankfurt, and Cologne, and Hendrik Werner in Hanover, who translated with great style and good humor, making me sound as if I knew what I was talking about in German.

To the remarkable Anna Thalbach. It was my great privilege to sit at Anna’s side night after night as she brought Flavia to life before enraptured audiences.

To Axel Schumbrutzki, of the bookshop Hugendubel, and Florian Kröckel of Heimthafen Neukölln, who arranged a memorable evening in a vintage 1930s dance hall in East Berlin. Life is made of memories like this. Thank you, Axel and Florian.

To Klaus Eberitzsch of the bookshop Leuenhagen & Paris, in Hanover, who shares a birthday with me: same day, same year: We are now officially brothers. To Dirk Eberitzsch and Ina Albert, also of Leuenhagen & Paris. Ina and Klaus became the first booksellers ever to rush out into a busy street to hug me as I was still climbing out of a taxicab. Now I know why everyone loves Hanover!

To Mike Altwicker of the bookshop Hansen & Kröger, in Cologne, who not only organized, but got us to and from, a most memorable reading at Castle Bielstein.

To Camille Poshoglian, of Orion Books, master of international scheduling; and to Mike Vella De Fremeaux and Faye Bonnici, of Miller Distributors, Malta.

And finally, as always, with love, to my wife, Shirley, who has spent so many happy hours with me at Buckshaw.

ALSO BY ALAN BRADLEY

The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie

The Weed That Strings the Hangman’s Bag

A Red Herring Without Mustard

A
LAN
B
RADLEY
is the internationally bestselling author of many short stories, children’s stories, newspaper columns, and the memoir
The Shoebox Bible
. His first Flavia de Luce novel,
The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie
, received the Crime Writers’ Association Debut Dagger Award, the Dilys Winn Award, the Arthur Ellis Award, the Agatha Award, the Macavity Award, and the Barry Award, and was nominated for the Anthony Award. His other Flavia de Luce novels are
The Weed That Strings the Hangman’s Bag, A Red Herring Without Mustard
, and
I Am Half-Sick of Shadows
.