? TWENTY-SEVEN ?
GAINING THE UPPER HAND might result in a few moments of pleasure, but it does not bring genuine contentment. I realized this as I stood, suddenly dejected, on the brick walkway between the Rainsmiths’ mansion and the nursing home, my bouquet still clutched firmly in my hand.
How foolish I must have looked.
I might have won the battle, as Mrs. Mullet’s husband, Alf says, but lost the war. Collingwood was still missing, Mrs. Bannerman was in jail, and I was stuck in some godforsaken suburb of Toronto without two fresh ideas to rub together.
I was not hopeful. I hardly dared even think about poor little Collingwood. The very mention of burning her mattress was enough to suggest that her end had been a tragic one. And as for Mrs. Bannerman—well, any dreams I might have had of studying with her had vanished like so much smoke up the chimney.
And it was in that instant—as it so often is—that a major piece of the puzzle fell into place, as if from the sky—as if the Gods of Deduction had tossed it overboard and let it fall at my feet.
I needed to get back to Miss Bodycote’s and the chemistry lab without wasting another minute.
A hissing sound caught my attention. It was coming from somewhere behind the Rainsmiths’ house and to my left.
A hissing in the garden is a sound that cannot be ignored by any human female since the time of Eve, and I was no exception. I moved slowly off the walk and onto the grass, craning my neck in the hope that it would allow me to see without being seen.
A pleasant-looking gentleman in uniform except for his shirtsleeves was playing a hose over a blue car: a car I had last seen picking up Miss Fawlthorne on the Danforth with Ryerson Rainsmith at the wheel.
While I was considering my options, my feet developed a mind of their own and began walking toward the man with the hose.
“Hello?” I heard myself calling out. “Is this the Rainsmith residence?”
The man twisted the nozzle and the spray of water choked to a drizzle. He studied me before answering.
“Miss Bodycote’s?” he said at last, although it was not really a question.
My school uniform was a dead giveaway.
I nodded glumly.
“And your name is …?” he asked.
“De Luce,” I told him. “F for Flavia. You must be Mr. Merton. I was dreadfully sorry to hear about your mother passing away,” I told him. “It’s awful when that happens. My own mother died in April.”
And with that, I handed him the bouquet.
Without a word he accepted the flowers, retrieved his jacket from the stone wall where it had been draped, and beckoned me to follow him into the house.
The interior was dim, and the kitchen, being on the north side of the house, was a room that had never known sunshine.
“Elvina,” he called out, “we have a visitor.”
A slim, dark woman of middle age came out of the pantry, dusting her hands of flour. Her gleaming black hair was held in a tight bun by a black tortoise-shell clasp and her eyes were like newly polished Whitby jet. She was Spanish, perhaps, or Mexican, although her dark dress gave away nothing.
“Flavia de Luce,” he said. “… from the academy.”
And there was something in the way he said it that put me on high alert.
A fugitive look flitted between them.
“Here,” Elvina said, taking the flowers from Merton. “Let me put these in a vase. They’re lovely.”
“Flavia brought them,” he said. “For my mother,” he added. “Most considerate.”
I hadn’t, of course, but I didn’t try to correct him. Credit is credit no matter how you slice it.
“Michaelmas daisies mean ‘Farewell,’ ” Elvina said, “and the chrysanthemums ‘Cheerfulness in Spite of Misfortune.’ You must have put a lot of thought into choosing them.”
I hung my head in bashful acknowledgment.
“We were just about to sit down for tea. Would you like to join us?”
I knew that she was fibbing: Merton was washing the car and she had barely begun baking something.
“Yes, please,” I said.
Merton pulled out a chair as if I were a lady, and we all sat—at least Merton and I did until Elvina boiled the kettle and joined us at the kitchen table.
Beginning a conversation is always difficult with three strangers who have nothing in common. The usual method is to start with the weather and hope for the best.
But I hadn’t the time. I would soon enough be missed at Miss Bodycote’s and a hue and cry sent up. I needed to get back to the lab for a crucial test. There was no time to waste.
“You’ve had a great deal of bereavement,” I said. “Your mother, Mr. Merton—and the first Mrs. Rainsmith.”
It was a bold thing to say, but I had to take a chance.
“A great deal,” Merton said. “A very great deal. This household has had its share of sadnesses.”
“It must have been an awful shock to you when Mrs. Rainsmith drowned,” I said. “I mean, not that it wasn’t to Dr. Rainsmith, but he’s a medical doctor, isn’t he, and trained to cope with death. But poor you …”
I left the thought hanging in air.
Elvina gave me something of a sharp look, but Merton said, “Flavia’s mother died in April.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Elvina said. “Was it unexpected?”
“Yes and no,” I said. “She had been missing for ten years and her body was found in the mountain ice.”
“Oh! You poor lamb!” Elvina said. “You poor, poor lamb.”
And then, as if anxious to change the subject to something less tragic, no matter how little, she said: “It’s not that poor Mrs. Rainsmith’s death was completely unexpected, what with her being so ill before the accident.”
“Ill?” I asked, daring to say no more.
“Gastric trouble,” Elvina said. “Very bad. But she was a trouper. Never let it get in the way of her obligations.”
“Gosh!” I said. “You must have felt awful. It’s always the cook that—”
I cut my words off as if I had just realized what I was saying.
“You have no idea,” Elvina said. “Most people don’t appreciate the cook’s position. Gastric trouble is cook trouble. There’s always someone willing to point the finger.”
“So I suppose, in a way, it was a good thing that she drowned. I know that must sound awful, but—”
Elvina gave off a nervous laugh. It was time to get my feet on firmer ground.
“I know what you mean when you say she was a trouper,” I said. “She presented one of the awards at the Beaux Arts Ball the night she was taken ill, didn’t she?”
“Nothing to do with me!” Elvina said. “Bit of bad lobster at the ball. That’s what Dr. Rainsmith said. I never saw her again, so I wouldn’t know.”
“Never saw her again?” I leapt on her words like a hound on a bone.
“No, never. Dr. Rainsmith brought her home and had invalid soup sent over from the nursing home.”
“Did she eat it?” I asked.
“Must have. The bowls came down empty in the morning and she was off to the cruise on the second day.”