The Flavia De Luce Series 1-4 (58 page)

How exciting it was to think that, long after the world had ended, whatever was left of our bodies would be transformed into a dazzling blizzard of diamond dust, blowing out towards eternity in the red glow of a dying sun.

And for Rupert Porson, the process had already begun.

“I doubt very much, Haviland,” Aunt Felicity was saying, “if they’ll go ahead with the service. It seems hardly right in view of what’s happened.”

“The Church of England, Lissy,” Father replied, “like time and tide, waits for no man. Besides, the fellow died in the parish hall—not in the church proper, as it were.”

“Perhaps so,” she said with a sniff. “Still, I shall be put out if all this walking is for nothing.”

But Father was right. As we walked alongside the stone wall that ran like a tightened belt round the banked-up churchyard, I could see the hood of Inspector Hewitt’s blue Vauxhall saloon peeking out discreetly at the end of the lane. The Inspector himself was nowhere in sight as we stepped onto the porch and entered the church.

Morning Prayer was as solemn as a Requiem High Mass. I know that for a fact because we de Luces are Roman Catholics—we are in fact, virtually charter members of the club. We have seen our share of bobbing and ducking. But we regularly attend St. Tancred’s because of its proximity, and because the vicar is one of Father’s great friends.

“Besides,” Father says, “it is one’s bounden duty to trade with local firms.”

This morning, the church was packed to the rafters. Even the balcony beneath the bell tower was filled to overflowing with people from the village who wanted to be as close as possible, without being unseemly, to the Scene of the Crime.

Nialla was nowhere in sight. I noticed that at once. Nor were Mrs. Mullet, or Alf, her husband. If I knew our Mrs. M, she would, at this very moment, be bombarding Nialla with sausages and questions. “Plying and prying,” Daffy called it.

Cynthia was already on her knees, front and center, praying to whatever gods she wanted to bribe before the service began. She was always the first to kneel and always the first to spring to her feet again. I sometimes thought of her as St. Tancred’s spiritual coxswain.

For once, because it would be about someone I had known personally, I was quite looking forward to the sermon. The vicar, I expected, would deliver something inspired by Rupert’s demise—tasteful but instructional. “In the midst of life we are in death,” was my guess.

But when he climbed up into the pulpit at last, the vicar was strangely subdued, and it wasn’t entirely due to the fact that Cynthia was running a white-gloved forefinger along the wooden rack that held scattered copies of the Hymnary and the
Book of Common Prayer
. In fact, the vicar made no reference to the matter at all, until he had finished the sermon.

“In view of the tragic circumstances of last evening,” he said in a hushed and solemn voice, “the police have requested that the parish hall be made available to them until their work is complete. Consequently, our customary refreshments, for this morning only, will be served at the vicarage. Those of you who wish to do so are cordially invited to join us after the service. And now may God the Father, God the Son, and God the Holy Ghost …”

Just like that! No thoughts on “the stranger in our midst,” such as he had delivered when Horace Bonepenny was murdered at Buckshaw. No ruminations on the immortality of the soul … Nothing.

To be perfectly honest, I felt more than a little cheated.

It is never possible, at least at St. Tancred’s, to burst forth from the church into the sunshine like a cork from a bottle. One must always pause at the door to shake hands with the vicar, and to make some obligatory remark about the sermon, the weather, or the crops.

Father chose the sermon, and Daffy and Feely both chose the weather—the swine!—with Daffy commenting on the remarkable clarity of the air and Feely on its warmth. That left me with little choice, and the vicar was already clasping my hand.

“How’s Meg getting on?” I asked. To tell the truth, I’d forgotten all about Mad Meg until that very moment, and the question just popped into my head.

Did the vicar’s face go slightly white, or had I just fancied it?

He looked to the left and then to the right, very quickly. Cynthia was hovering outside among the gravestones, already halfway along the path to the vicarage.

“I’m afraid I can’t tell you,” he said. “You see, she was—”

“Vicar! I have a bone to pick with you, you know!”

It was Bunny Spirling. Bunny was one of the Spirlings of Nautilus Old Hall who, as Father once remarked, had gone to the dogs by way of the horses.

Because Bunny was shaped rather like the capital letter
D
, no one could get past him, and the vicar was now wedged firmly between Bunny’s ample tummy and the Gothic door frame. Aunt Felicity and Dogger, I supposed, were still penned up somewhere inside the vestibule, queuing like crewmen on a sunken submarine for their turn at the escape hatch.

As Bunny proceeded to pick his bone (something about tithing and the shocking disrepair of the padding in the kneeling benches), I saw my opportunity to escape.

“Oh, dear,” I remarked to Father, “it looks as though the vicar has been detained. I’ll run ahead to the vicarage and see if I can make myself useful with the cups and saucers.”

There’s not a father on earth who has it in him to refuse such a charitable child, and I was off like a hare.

“Morning!” I shouted to Cynthia as I flew past.

I vaulted over the stile and ran round to the front of the vicarage. The door stood open, and I could hear voices in the kitchen at the back of the house. The Women’s Institute, I decided: Several of them would have slipped out of the service early to put the kettle on.

I stood in the dim hallway, listening. Time was short, but it would never do to be caught snooping. With one last look down the stretch of polished brown linoleum, I stepped into the vicar’s study and closed the door behind me.

Meg, of course, was long gone, but the afghan with which the vicar had covered her yesterday still lay crumpled on the horsehair sofa, as if Meg had only just tossed it aside, got up, and left the room, leaving in her wake—to put it nicely—a woodsy smell: the smell of damp leaves, dark earth, and something-less-than-perfect personal hygiene.

But before I could put my mind to work, the door was flung open.

“What are you doing in here?”

Needless to say, it was Cynthia. She closed the door craftily behind her.

“Oh, hello, Mrs. Richardson,” I said. “I just looked in to see if Meg was still here. Not that she would be, of course, but I worry about her, you see, and …”

When you’re stumped for words, use your hands. This was a dodge that had never failed me in the past, and I hoped that it would not now.

I snatched at the wadded afghan and began to fold it. As I did so, something dropped with a barely audible plop to the carpet.

“I just thought I’d help tidy up, then see if they can put me to work in the kitchen.

“Drat!” I said, as I let a corner of the afghan escape my fingers. “Oh, sorry, Mrs. Richardson, I’m afraid I’m quite clumsy. We’re so spoiled at Buckshaw, you know.”

Awkwardly, I spread out the afghan on the floor, crouched in front of it, and began folding again. Under cover of its colorful woolen squares—and using my body to block Cynthia’s view—I ran my fingers across the carpet.

I felt it at once: a cold, flat, metallic object. Using my thumb as a clamp, I pressed it firmly into my palm. As long as I kept my hands moving, all would be well. That was the way the sleight-of-hand magicians worked. I could always pocket the thing later.

“Here, give me that,” Cynthia said.

I panicked! She had caught me out after all.

As she stepped into the room, I began a frantic jitterbug, kicking up my legs and throwing my elbows out like pikestaffs.

“Oh!” I said. “That afghan’s making me itchy all over. I have a nasty allergy to wool.”

I began scratching myself furiously: my arms, the back of my hands, my calves … anywhere, just as long as I didn’t let my hands come to rest.

When I got to my neck, I shoved my hand into the top of my dress and let go the object from my palm. I felt it fall inside—and stop at my waist.

“Give me that,” she repeated, snatching the afghan from my hands.

I breathed a sigh of relief as I realized that she hadn’t seen whatever it was I’d retrieved. It was the afghan she wanted, and I held it out cheerily, giving myself several more houndlike scratches for insurance purposes.

“I’ll go help in the kitchen,” I said, moving towards the door.

“Flavia—” Cynthia said, stepping in front of the door and seizing my wrist in one rapid motion.

I looked into her pale blue watery eyes and they did not waver.

But at that instant, there was laughter outside in the hallway as the first parishioners arrived from the church.

“One thing we de Luce girls
are
good at”—I grinned into her face as I slipped round her and out the door—“is making tea!”

I had no more intention of making tea than of signing on as a coal pit donkey.

Still, I made a beeline down the hall and into the kitchen.

“Good morning, Mrs. Roberts! Good morning, Miss Roper! Just checking to see if you have enough cups and saucers?”

“Plenty, thank you, Flavia, dear,” Mrs. Roberts said. She had been doing this since the dawn of time.

“But you can put the eggs in the bottom of the fridge on your way out,” Miss Roper told me. “The egg lady must have left them on the kitchen counter yesterday. Nothing keeps in this weather, not the way it used to, at any rate. And while you’re at it, dear, you can fill that pitcher with lemonade. Mr. Spirling likes a nice glass of lemonade after church, and as he’s always so generous when the collection plate goes round, we wouldn’t want to get into his bad books, would we?”

Before they could devise another task, I flew busily out the kitchen door. Later, when they had a moment—when they were washing up, perhaps—Mrs. Roberts and Miss Roper would remark to one another what a nice girl I was—and how unlike my sisters.

Outside in the churchyard, Father still stood on the cobbled walk, listening patiently to Bunny Spirling, who was telling him, word for word, what he had just said to the vicar. Father nodded from time to time, probably to keep his neck from going to sleep.

I stepped off the path and into the grass, pretending to inspect the inscription on a weathered gravestone that jutted up like a yellowed tooth from a green gum
(Hezekiah Huff 1672–1746, At Peece In Paradice)
. Turning my back on the gossiping stragglers, I extracted the metal object I had dropped down the front of my dress: It was, as I knew it would be, Nialla’s orange cloisonné butterfly compact. It lay cradled in the flat of my hand, gleaming softly in the warm sunlight. Meg must have dropped it while sleeping on the couch in the vicar’s study.

I’d return it to Nialla later, I thought, shoving it into my pocket. She’d be happy to have it back.

As I rejoined the family, I saw that Daffy was perched on the stone wall at the front of the churchyard with her nose stuck in Robert Burton’s
Anatomy of Melancholy
, her latest grand enthusiasm. How she had managed to slip such a fat volume in and out of church I could not even begin to imagine, until I came close enough to spot the neatly made tinfoil cross she had glued to its black cover. Oh, what a fraud she was! Well done, Daff!

Feely stood laughing under an oak, letting her hair fall forward to cover her face, the way she does when she wants to look like Veronica Lake. Basking in her attention, and dressed in a rough wool suit, was a tall, blond Nordic god. It took me a moment to recognize him as Dieter Schrantz, and I realized, not without a sinking feeling, that he was already completely in Feely’s thrall, hanging on her every word like a ball on a rubber string, nodding like a demented woodpecker, and grinning like a fool.

They did not even notice my look of disgust.

Aunt Felicity was talking to an elderly person with a hearing trumpet. It seemed, from their conversation, that they were old friends.

“But one mustn’t arch one’s back and spit!” the old lady was saying, curling her red-nailed fingers into a claw, at which they both cackled obscenely.

Dogger, meanwhile, sat patiently on a bench beneath a yew tree, his eyes closed, a slight smile on his lips, and his face upturned towards the summer sun, looking for all the world like one of those modern brass sculptures called
Sunday
.

No one paid me the slightest attention. I was on my own.

The double doors in the porch of the parish hall were draped with a rope, from which hung a notice:
Police Line—Do Not Cross
.

I didn’t: I walked round the back of the building and went in by one of the exits.

It was pitch dark inside. At the far end of the corridor, I knew, was the door that opened into the auditorium. To my right were the several steps that led up to the stage.

I could hear the rumble of men’s voices, and although I strained my ears to the utmost, I could not make out what they were saying. The black velvet curtains that lined the stage must be absorbing their words.

Unable to make any sense of the murmur, and because I didn’t want to risk being caught eavesdropping, I clattered noisily up the stairs.

“Hullo!” I shouted. “Anyone for tea?”

Inspector Hewitt was standing in a pool of light talking to sergeants Woolmer and Graves. At the sight of me, he broke off at once and came striding across the stage behind the puppet theater.

“You oughtn’t to be in here. Didn’t you see the signs?”

“Sorry,” I said, without answering his question. “I came in the back way.”

“No signs in the rear, Sergeant?” the Inspector asked Graves.

“Sorry, sir,” the sergeant said with a sheepish grin. “I’ll see to it right away.”

“Too late now,” the Inspector said. “The damage is done.”

Sergeant Graves lost the grin and his brow furrowed. “Sorry, sir,” he said. “Entirely my fault.”