? FIVE ?
AS WE MADE OUR way along the dark passage that led from the back entrance to the Great Hall, the bell clanged again.
“Oh, corn!” Van Arque whispered in the sudden silence that followed. “Now we’re in for it. We’ll be blacked.”
“Blacked?” I said. Collingwood had used this term, but I still had no idea what being “blacked” involved, although I must say it didn’t sound like much fun. I had visions of being painted with boot polish, like the vicar as Othello in the parish play. It seemed rather an extreme punishment for missing a stupid bell.
As if by chance, another bell sounded: this one closer and less loud.
“It’s the doorbell,” Van Arque said.
As sometimes happens when you’re in a pinch, Fate offered up a free spin of the wheel, and I took it.
Rather than following Van Arque, I veered across the hall and opened the door.
There, with his finger still on the electric bell button, stood a tall and excessively slender man. He had the long face and long fingers of a carved medieval saint and the body of a long-distance runner.
A younger, shorter man in a dark blue uniform stood sturdily to one side, his feet apart and his hands clasped—I assumed—behind his back. He might as well have had “ASSISTANT” stamped across his forehead with indelible ink.
“Yes?” I asked, taking the upper hand.
Behind me, Van Arque sucked in a noisy breath at my boldness.
“Miss Fawlthorne,” said the medieval saint. I could tell already that he was a man of few words. Rather like Gary Cooper.
“Ah!” I said. “You must be the police.”
It was, of course, a dim-witted thing to say, and yet at the same time, precisely right.
The tall man nodded, almost reluctantly. “That’s correct,” he said. He was giving nothing away.
“I’m Flavia de Luce,” I said, sticking out my hand. “And you are …?”
“Inspector Gravenhurst.”
“Ah!” I said, as if I had been already half-expecting that to be his name.
He gave me a quick but firm handshake. I could see that he was sizing me up even as our hands went up and down.
“And Sergeant …?” I said, taking a chance. Surely an inspector’s right-hand man would be a sergeant of one kind or another.
“LaBelle,” the sergeant said, not correcting me.
“I shall tell Miss Fawlthorne you wish to see her,” I said.
The inspector nodded, stepping inside and looking round the Great Hall with keen interest, taking in every detail with his penetrating gaze.
I liked this man already.
“By the way,” I said, turning back toward him. “I’m the one who discovered the body.”
This was not precisely true, but it was my only chance of becoming involved in the case. I resisted the powerful urge to tell him that this corpse was not my first: that in fact, cadavers were my calling card.
Modesty, though, prevailed.
The inspector brightened immediately.
“Indeed?” he said, and I liked him even more. Pity, though, that he wasn’t a member of the legendary Royal Canadian Mounted Police. That would have made things perfect, but it wasn’t likely his fault. His height had probably exceeded some idiotic and arbitrary physical requirement.
“Van Arque,” I said, surprised by my own boldness, “run upstairs and tell Miss Fawlthorne the inspector’s here.” I resisted adding, “There’s a good ducks.”
Van Arque’s mouth fell open.
“Van Arque’s a monitress,” I explained to the inspector. “She has first dibs on fetching the head.”
It was the right thing to say. Van Arque squeezed off a proud smile and was off up the stairs like a galloping rocket.
“You’re English,” Inspector Gravenhurst said.
“Yes,” I replied. My accent alone made me stand out among these Canadian girls like a—
“Been over long?” the inspector asked.
“Since last night,” I said. “Well, yesterday, actually.”
How I loved talking to this man! What a breath of fresh air it was to converse with someone who didn’t natter endlessly on and on like a village spinster.
I wanted desperately to tell him about Inspector Hewitt, my great friend back home in Bishop’s Lacey, but there would be time enough for that later. I would find a plausible way of dragging my dear inspector and his goddess wife, Antigone, into the conversation at a more appropriate time.
There was a clatter behind me on the stairs as Van Arque came scuttering quickly down, followed at a much more solemn pace by Miss Fawlthorne.
Blast them! I had barely got started. Well, there was nothing for it now but to play along. I clasped my hands daintily at my waist and went all submissive, staring up attentively at Miss Fawlthorne as if I were a beagle waiting for her to throw the ball.
“Thank you, Flavia. You are dismissed. Take her along to the fourth, Van Arque.”
I couldn’t help myself. I curtsied.
Van Arque tugged at my arm, and I had time only to flash the inspector a fleeting—but dazzling—smile.
“You’ll pay for that, you know,” Van Arque said when we were far enough along the corridor.
“Pay for what?” I asked.
She didn’t reply and on we marched.