by Alan Bradley
Fabian had, of course, given herself away by admitting that she had been at the Beaux Arts Ball, and had witnessed the poisoning of Francesca Rainsmith. Rather a bad slipup on her part. She had been present, but in the character of Clarissa Brazenose. “Fabian” had not been created or enrolled at Miss Bodycote’s until a year ago.
I hadn’t mentioned in my summary her transformation into Fabian. It had puzzled me for a while why Fabian had been forced to appear without her disguise, the night Scarlett had spotted her outside the laundry. I’d speculated that she might have had a bank account from which she could not withdraw funds without appearing in person, but that idea proved to be a bust when I remembered that Scarlett had seen her at night; the banks closed at three o’clock.
As it turned out, the solution was a simple one. The Brazenose sisters have an elderly great-aunt who suffers from a form of senility which they call “hardening of the arteries.” Clarissa sometimes risked sneaking out at night to visit the old lady, who lives, as it turns out, just a block away from Miss Bodycote’s. Miss Fawlthorne is apparently aware of this bending of the rules, but chooses to overlook it.
Poor Mary Jane. She still believes her sister is dead. Will they tell her the truth one day? I don’t know, but one thing’s certain: I won’t.
Le Marchand and Wentworth will, I suppose, haunt me forever: phantoms of Miss Bodycote’s, never seen but ever present. I wonder who they are and what they are doing, and sometimes the very thought of it makes my blood run cold.
I looked at myself in the mirror in which I had been rehearsing my speech to the inspector: a speech which I knew I would never deliver. What I saw staring back at me was a plain, ordinary, somewhat dowdy schoolgirl in black tights, blue blazer, white blouse, and a panama hat.
I was dressed that way because I had been ordered to report to Miss Fawlthorne’s study, and full kit was the rule.
I turned, and marched out the door to meet my fate.
• THIRTY •
“COME IN,” MISS FAWLTHORNE said.
She was seated at her desk behind a pile of papers, among which was my report on William Palmer.
“Please be seated.”
I sat primly on the edge of a chair, my knees together and my hands folded in my lap, leaning forward eagerly, as if I could hardly wait for my next assignment.
“You’ll no doubt be happy to hear that Miss Moate has been arrested,” she said, “and Mrs. Bannerman released.”
I nodded sagely.
“I don’t know what part you have played in these matters, and I’m not sure I want to know. If you have been instrumental in bringing the right person to justice, I congratulate you. I must say that I am relieved to learn that a person from the Morning Star, Wallace Scroop, is being commended for pointing the police to a solution. He was apparently on the scene two years ago, at the time of Francesca Rainsmith’s death, and has never ceased making extensive private inquiries.
“But in doing so, he has dragged the name of Miss Bodycote’s Female Academy into the public press. The headlines are shocking. The chairman and his wife are being questioned. Our board of guardians is a shambles. The work that we do here has been seriously compromised, if not damaged beyond repair.
“Fortunately for us, this Scroop cannot be made to reveal his sources, but I suspect you know nothing about that, do you?”
“No, Miss Fawlthorne,” I said.
“If you and Collingwood had not broken the rules at the outset, this would never have happened.”
I couldn’t believe my ears! Was this woman suggesting that it would be better if Francesca Rainsmith had remained shoved up the chimney for all time, and her killer never brought to justice?
“You must understand that reputation is paramount. There are things which, even though they be wrong, are best kept quiet for the greater good.”
The greater good? Did such a thing exist? And even if it did, who was in charge of deciding what it was?
Not knowing these things was like worshipping a god whose name and home address were a secret.
“I feel that we have failed, Flavia. I have failed and you have failed.”
A slight chill had come upon me. Was it the room? Was it Miss Fawlthorne? Or was my cold returning in full-blown form?
I stifled a sneeze. Miss Fawlthorne waited until I found my handkerchief.
“We have done our best for you, but it has not been enough. You have broken the rules again and again, as if they didn’t matter. I needn’t enumerate; you know what they are.”
I hung my head a little because she was right.
“Consequently,” she said, dragging it out the way people do when they want to deliver an invisible blow, “… we are sending you home.”
I was numb for a moment.
“You will be escorted by Mrs. Bannerman, who has been granted a compassionate leave to compensate for her ordeal. I have cabled your father, and he will be expecting you.”
Now my mind was reeling like a wobbly spinning top that has lost its velocity.
Was this another one of Miss Fawlthorne’s famous punishments?
I knew that I could never know.
But the thought—the very thought!—of Buckshaw was already pouring, like a river that has breached its banks, into my mind and into my heart.
“Thank you, Miss Fawlthorne,” I said.
EPILOGUE
I WAS STANDING AT the bow, the wind whipping my hair and what might have been sea spray wetting my face.
Banished! I thought. Banished again!
Was I doomed, like the Flying Dutchman, to spend all eternity sailing the seas in search of salvation?
I had asked that question of Mrs. Bannerman—in somewhat simpler form—last night in the ship’s lounge.
“Good heavens!” she had said. “You’ve passed with flying colors. Don’t you realize that?”
“I’m an FF,” I said. “Failed to Flourish. Sent home in disgrace like Charlotte Veneering.”
“On the contrary.” She laughed. “Your photograph will be hung in the gallery, like your mother’s. You will become part of the legend.”
“But the rules,” I said. “What about the broken rules? Miss Fawlthorne told me that reputation is paramount.”
“Ah, yes,” she had said, this once-convicted murderess, staring thoughtfully into her pink martini and giving it a stir, “but she also probably mentioned that there are things which, even though they be wrong, are best kept quiet for the greater good.”
I had to admit she had a point there.
“I’m sorry you had to be arrested,” I said. “I’d have spoken up sooner—”
“Shush!” she said. “Not a word of it. I told you I helped the police with their inquiries from time to time. Ambiguous, I know, but I mustn’t say more. If you want to feel sorry for someone, feel sorry for poor little Collingwood. It was she who helped Francesca make her costume, and of course she recognized the red sock. I’m assured that she’ll recover in time, but a couple of little prayers will do no harm.”
And with that she bowed her head and so did I.
I keenly regret that I was unable to use either the spectrophotometer or the electron microscope in solving the case: that in the end it had been the plain old everyday Marsh test that had done the job.
Perhaps there was a lesson there.
There had been no good-byes at Miss Bodycote’s. No little parties, no little gifts. I was there and then I was gone. To the other girls, I would be just one more of those who had vanished. My name would be added to those of Wentworth, Le Marchand, and Brazenose.
My spirit would be summoned in darkened rooms by Ouija boards, and used to frighten little girls who were away from home for the first time.
I smiled at the thought and lifted my head to the breeze.
An unexpected wave dashed cold water into my face, but I didn’t care.
Somewhere ahead of us, to the east, lay England. Somewhere, still over the horizon, lay Buckshaw.
T
o Shirley, with love and gratitude
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
WHENEVER I BUY A book, I usually flip first to the back pages to read the names of those who helped. Contrary to popular belief, no book is written in isolation, and this one is no exception.
My editors, Bill Massey at Orion Books in London, Kate Miciak at Delacorte Books in New York, and Kristin Cochrane at Doubleday Canada, have been the supports that hold up this bridge of words.
My agent, Denise Bukowski, is always there: my literary guardian angel.
Brad Gossen and Russell Eugene “Bud” Gossen have patiently answered my questions about policing Toronto in the 1950s, and Carol Fraser has loaned documents and precious family treasures to help get some of the historical details straight.
Again, Robert Bruce Thompson, whose Illustrated Guide to Home Chemistry Experiments has taught hundreds to do forensics tests without even having to leave the house, has saved me from the pitfalls of poisons, as well as providing a number of excellent suggestions.
Special thanks to Maija Paavilainen, editor in chief of Bazar Kustannus Oy in Helsinki, for inviting me to visit that beautiful city, and to Vilja Perttola for getting me everywhere on time in spite of a hectic schedule.
And finally, as always, to my wife, Shirley, whose love makes it all worthwhile.
Isle of Man, June 28, 2014
BY ALAN BRADLEY
Flavia de Luce Novels
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
The Dead in Their Vaulted Arches
As Chimney Sweepers Come to Dust
Flavia de Luce Stories
The Curious Case of the Copper Corpse
ALAN BRADLEY 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 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, I Am Half-Sick of Shadows, Speaking from Among the Bones, The Dead in Their Vaulted Arches, and As Chimney Sweepers Come to Dust.
