The Flavia De Luce Series 1-4 (32 page)

“His whole head seemed to be aglow,” Father had said. “His hair like a disk of beaten copper in the rising sun; like a saint in an illuminated manuscript.”

And then the rest of the truth rushed in upon me like a wave of nausea: It had been Horace Bonepenny up there on the ramparts. Horace Bonepenny of the flaming red hair; Horace Bonepenny the mimic; Horace Bonepenny the magician.

The whole thing had been a skillfully planned illusion!

Miss Mountjoy had been right. He
had
killed her uncle.

He and his confederate, Bob Stanley, must have lured Mr. Twining to the roof of the tower, most likely under the pretense of returning the stolen postage stamp which they had hidden there.

Father had told me of Bonepenny’s extravagant mathematical calculations; his architectural prowlings would have made him as familiar with the tiles of the tower as he was with his own study.

When Mr. Twining had threatened to expose them, they had killed him, probably by bashing his head in with a brick. The fatal blow would have been impossible to detect after such a terrible fall. And then they had staged the suicide—every instant of the thing planned in cold blood. Perhaps they had even rehearsed.

It had been Mr. Twining who fell to the cobbles, but Bonepenny who trod the ramparts in the morning sun and Bonepenny, in a borrowed cap and gown, who had shouted “
Vale!
” to the boys in the Quad. “
Vale!
”—a word that could suggest only suicide.

Having done that, he had ducked down behind the parapet just as Stanley dropped the body through the drainage opening in the roof. To a sun-blinded observer on the ground, it would have appeared that the old man had fallen straight through. It was really nothing more than the Resurrection of Tchang Fu performed on a larger stage, dazzled eyes and all.

How utterly convincing it had been!

And for all these years Father had believed that it was his silence that had caused Mr. Twining to commit suicide, that it was he who was responsible for the old man’s death! What a dreadful burden to bear, and how horrible!

Not for thirty years, not until I found the evidence among the tiles of Anson House, had anyone suspected it was murder. And they had almost got away with it.

I reached out and touched Mr. Twining’s tombstone to steady myself.

“I see you’ve found him,” said someone behind me, and at the sound of his voice my blood ran cold.

I spun round and found myself face-to-face with Frank Pemberton.

twenty-three

Whenever one comes face-to-face with a killer in a novel or in the cinema, his opening words are always dripping with menace, and often from Shakespeare.

“Well, well,” he will generally hiss, “ ‘Journeys end in lovers meeting,’ ” or “ ‘So wise so young, they say, do never live long.’ ”

But Frank Pemberton said nothing of the sort; in fact, quite the contrary:

“Hullo, Flavia,” he said with a lopsided grin. “Fancy meeting you here.”

My arteries were throbbing like stink, and I could already feel the redness rising in my face, which, in spite of the chills, had instantly become as hot as a griddle.

A single thought went racing through my mind: I mustn’t let on … I mustn’t let on. Mustn’t show that I know he’s Bob Stanley.

“Hello,” I said, hoping my voice wasn’t shaking. “How was the shroud tomb?”

I knew instantly that I was fooling no one but myself. He was watching my face the way a cat watches the family canary when they’re alone in the house.

“The shroud tomb? Ah! A confection in white marble,” he said. “Remarkably like an almond marzipan, but larger, of course.”

I decided to play along until I could formulate a plan.

“I expect your publisher was pleased.”

“My publisher? Oh, yes. Old …”

“Quarrington,” I said.

“Yes. Quite. Quarrington. He was ecstatic.”

Pemberton—I still thought of him as Pemberton—put down his knapsack and began to unfasten the leather straps of his portfolio.

“Phew!” he said. “Rather warm, isn’t it?”

He removed his jacket, threw it carelessly across his shoulder, and jerked a thumb at Mr. Twining’s tombstone.

“What’s the great interest?”

“He was my father’s old schoolmaster,” I said.

“Ah!” He sat down and lounged against the base of the stone as casually as if he were Lewis Carroll and I were Alice, picnicking upon the river Isis.

How much did he know? I wondered. I waited for him to make his opening move. I could use the time to think.

Already I was planning my escape. Could I outrun him if I took to my heels? It seemed unlikely. If I went for the river, he’d overtake me before I was halfway across. If I headed for the field towards Malplaquet Farm, I’d be less likely to find help than if I ran for the High Street.

“I understand your father is something of a philatelist,” he said suddenly, looking unconcernedly off towards the farm.

“He collects stamps, yes. How did you know?”

“My publisher—old Quarrington—happened to mention it this morning over at Nether Eaton. He was thinking of asking your father to write a history of some obscure postage stamp, but couldn’t think quite how best to approach him. Couldn’t begin to understand it all … far beyond me … too technical … suggested that perhaps he should have a word with you.”

It was a lie and I detected it at once. As an accomplished fibber myself, I spotted the telltale signs of an untruth before they were halfway out of his mouth: the excessive detail, the offhand delivery, and the wrapping-up of it all in casual chitchat.

“Could be worth a bundle, you know,” he added. “Old Quarrington’s pretty flush since he married into the Norwood millions, but don’t let on I told you. I expect your father wouldn’t say no to a bit of pocket change to buy a New Guinea ha’penny thingummy, would he? It must take a pretty penny to keep up a place like Buckshaw.”

This was piling insult onto injury. The man must take me for a fool.

“Father’s rather busy these days,” I said. “But I’ll mention it to him.”

“Ah, yes, this—sudden death you spoke of … police and all that. Must be a damnable bore.”

Was he going to make a move or were we going to sit here gossiping until dark? Perhaps it would be best if I took the initiative. That way, at least, I’d have the advantage of surprise. But how?

I remembered a piece of sisterly advice, which Feely once gave Daffy and me:

“If ever you’re accosted by a man,” she’d said, “kick him in the Casanovas and run like blue blazes!”

Although it had sounded at the time like a useful bit of intelligence, the only problem was that I didn’t know where the Casanovas were located.

I’d have to think of something else.

I scraped the toe of my shoe in the sand; I would grab a handful and toss it in his eyes before he knew what had hit him. I saw him watching me.

He stood up and dusted the seat of his trousers.

“People sometimes do a thing in haste and later come to regret it,” he said conversationally. Was he referring to Horace Bonepenny or to himself? Or was he warning me not to make a foolish move? “I saw you at the Thirteen Drakes, you know. You were inside the front door looking at the register when my taxi pulled up.”

Curses! I had been spotted after all.

“I have friends who work there,” I said. “Mary and Ned. I sometimes drop in to say hello.”

“And do you always rifle the guests’ rooms?”

I could feel my face going all scarlet even as he said it.

“As I suspected,” he went on. “Look, Flavia, I’ll be frank with you. A business associate had something in his possession that didn’t belong to him. It was mine. Now, I know for a fact that, other than my associate, you and the landlord’s daughter were the only two people who were in that room. I also know that Mary Stoker would have no reason to take this particular object. What am I to think?”

“Are you referring to that old stamp?” I asked.

This was going to be a tightrope act, and I was already putting on my tights. Pemberton relaxed at once.

“You admit it?” he said. “You’re an even smarter girl than I gave you credit for.”

“It was on the floor under the trunk,” I said. “It must have fallen out. I was helping Mary clean up the room. She’d forgotten to do a few things, and her father, you see, can be—”

“I do see. So you stole my stamp and took it home.”

I bit my lip, wrinkled my face a bit, and rubbed my eyes. “I didn’t actually steal it. I thought someone had dropped it. No, that’s not entirely true: I knew that Horace Bonepenny had dropped it, and since he was dead, he wouldn’t have any further need for it. I thought I’d make a present of it to Father and he’d get over being angry with me about the Tiffany vase I smashed. There. Now you know.”

Pemberton whistled. “A Tiffany vase?”

“It was an accident,” I said. “I shouldn’t have been playing tennis in the house.”

“Well,” he said, “that solves the problem, doesn’t it? You hand over my stamp and it’s case closed. Agreed?”

I nodded happily. “I’ll run home and get it.”

Pemberton burst into uncomplimentary laughter and slapped his leg. When he had recovered himself, he said, “You’re very good, you know—for your age. You remind me of myself. Run home and get it indeed!”

“All right, then,” I said. “I’ll tell you where I hid it and you can go and get it yourself. I’ll stay here. On my honor as a Girl Guide!”

I made the Girl Guide three-eared bunny salute with my fingers. I did not tell him that I was technically no longer a member of that organization, and hadn’t been since I was chucked out for manufacturing ferric hydroxide to earn my Domestic Service badge. No one had seemed to care that it was the antidote for arsenic poisoning.

Pemberton glanced at his wristwatch. “It’s getting late,” he said. “No more time for pleasantries.”

Something about his face had changed, as if a curtain had been drawn across it. There was a sudden chill in the air.

He made a lunge for me and grabbed my wrist. I let out a yelp of pain. In a few more seconds, I knew, he’d be twisting my arm behind my back. I gave in at once.

“I hid it in Father’s dressing room at Buckshaw,” I blurted. “There are two clocks in the room: a large one on the chimneypiece and a smaller one on the table beside his bed. The stamp is stuck to the back of the pendulum of the chimneypiece clock.”

And then something dreadful happened—dreadful and, as it would turn out, quite wonderful, rolled together into one: I sneezed.

My head cold had been lingering, nearly forgotten, for most of the day. I had noticed that, in the same way they recede when you’re sleeping, head colds often let up when you’re too preoccupied to pay them attention. Mine was suddenly back with a vengeance.

Forgetting for a moment that the Ulster Avenger was nestled inside it, I went for my handkerchief. Pemberton, startled, must have thought my sudden move was the prelude to my bolting—or perhaps an attack upon his person.

Whatever the case, as I brought the handkerchief up towards my nose, before it was even opened he deflected my hand with a lightning-quick grab, crumpled the cotton into a ball, and rammed it, stamp and all, into my mouth.

“Right, then,” he said. “We’ll see what we shall see.”

He pulled his jacket from his shoulder, spread it out like a matador’s cape, and the last thing I saw as he threw the thing over my head was Mr. Twining’s tombstone, the word “
Vale!
” carved on its base.
I bid you farewell
.

Something tightened round my temples and I guessed that Pemberton was using the straps of his portfolio to lash the jacket firmly in place.

He hoisted me up onto his shoulder and carried me back across the river as easily as a butcher does a side of beef. Before my head could stop spinning he had dumped me heavily back onto my feet.

Gripping the nape of my neck with one hand, he used the other to seize my upper arm in a vise-like grip, shoving me roughly ahead of him along the towpath.

“Just keep putting one foot in front of the other until I tell you to stop.”

I tried to call out for help, but my mouth was jammed chock-full of wet handkerchief. I couldn’t produce anything more than a swinish grunt. I couldn’t even tell him how much he was hurting me.

I suddenly realized that I was more afraid than I had ever been in my life.

As I stumbled along, I prayed that someone would spot us; if they did, they would surely call out, and even with my head bound up in Pemberton’s jacket, I would almost certainly hear them. If I did, I would wrench sharply away from him and make a dash towards the sound of their voice. But to do so prematurely, I knew, risked tumbling headlong into the river and being left there by Pemberton to drown.

“Stop here,” he said suddenly, after I had been frog-marched what I judged to be a hundred yards. “Stand still.”

I obeyed.

I heard him tinkering with something metallic and a moment later, what sounded like a door grating open. The Pit Shed!

“One step up,” he said. “That’s right … now three ahead. And stop.”

Behind us, the door closed like a coffin lid, with a wooden groan.

“Empty your pockets,” Pemberton said.

I had only one: the pocket in my sweater. There was nothing in it but the key to the kitchen door at Buckshaw. Father had always insisted that each of us carry a key at all times in case of some hypothetical emergency, and because he conducted the occasional spot check, I was never without it. As I turned my pocket inside out, I heard the key fall to the wooden floor, then bounce and skitter. A second later there was a faint clink as it landed on concrete.

“Damn,” he said.

Good! The key had fallen into the service pit, I was sure of it. Now Pemberton would have to drag back the boards that covered it, and clamber down into the pit. My hands were still free: I would rip his jacket off my head, run out the door, pull the handkerchief out of my mouth, and scream like old gooseberries as I ran towards the High Street. It was less than a minute away.

I was right. Almost immediately, I heard the unmistakable sound of heavy planks being dragged across the floor. Pemberton grunted as he pulled them away from the mouth of the pit. I’d have to be careful which way I ran: one wrong step and I’d fall into the open hole and break my neck.