“What to do? There was scarcely time to think. He told Fitzgibbon he was taking his wife home. No, no need to make a fuss. Carry on. He’d see to it.
“Two nights later, they carried out their charade with Dorsey wearing a wedding dress and veil. The gift box, of course, contained her ordinary clothing, and while Ryerson alerted the captain that his wife had fallen overboard, Dorsey was packing the wedding gear in the box and putting on a dark suit, after which she mingled with the other passengers on the deck until they returned to port. No one paid her the slightest attention; no one, remember, because of the veil, had previously seen her face.
“How did I discover this? Well, in the first place, Ryerson’s wife banged her head getting out of the taxi at the pier. Francesca Rainsmith was tiny: Had it been she, it never could have happened. That was what first alerted me. And then the taxi: Why had they taken a taxi instead of having Merton drive them to the ship? As for the rest of it, I got it straight from Dorsey Rainsmith’s mouth.”
I waited for this to sink in.
“Now then: Did they kill Francesca? The answer is no. They foolishly plotted to conceal her death, but as for murder, you will find them not guilty. Francesca died of arsenic poisoning. You will almost certainly still find traces of it in her body.
“What made me suspect arsenic? I’m glad you asked. As you undoubtedly know, arsenic, heated, produces arsine gas. A body permeated with arsenic, wrapped in fabric, such as a flag, over time, will give off fumes that tarnish silver. I subjected a sample of the tarnish from a small silver medallion—which was clutched in the corpse’s hand—to the Marsh test, which confirmed my suspicions. I’ll be happy to turn it over to you so that you can verify my work. Yes, of course I ought to have handed over the medallion when you first arrived. I realize that now. But, like poor Collingwood, I must have been in shock. I hope you won’t think too badly of me.
“And now the flag. Why was the body wrapped in a Union Jack? To absorb the blood, of course, of which there was a great deal. The flag was easily at hand, being stored in a trunk in the hall. It was flown over the academy every twenty-fourth of May, Victoria Day. Mr. Kelly will probably confirm that it was missing last May, and that he had to requisition a new one. No, I haven’t asked him myself, but I have observed that there is presently a quite fresh Union Jack in the trunk: one which can’t have been flown for more than a couple of days.
“Who, then, killed Francesca Rainsmith? The deduction is an easy one. Who held Francesca responsible for the car crash that condemned her friend to a life of torture in a wheelchair? Who has hated Francesca with every moment of her waking life?” (I’ll admit I was being a bit dramatic here). “Who is it that keeps a museum of taxidermy specimens, who has the ways and means to decapitate a dead body? Who had the upper body strength to shove a pitifully little body up the chimney? Having seen the killer run a wheelchair up and down steep banks and ramps with my own eyes, I’m satisfied that we need look no further.
“And why decapitate? To avoid identification if the body were ever found. The skull which is presently in the morgue was formerly on the shelf of the natural history museum, here at Miss Bodycote’s. And as for Francesca Rainsmith’s skull, I expect you will find it on that same shelf in the same position, dyed with tea, in order to age it.
“How do I know that? Why, I smelled it, of course. There is a definite odor of orange Pekoe.
“Have I missed anything? Well, I suppose someone might ask how Francesca Rainsmith’s killer managed to get her severed head from Edith Cavell to the museum, and the replacement skull from the museum back to Edith Cavell, without being spotted on the night of the Beaux Arts Ball, when the place was simply crawling with people. Don’t quote me on this because I’m not absolutely positive, but I suspect it has to do with an oversized tea cozy.
“And now, thank you for your time, Inspector. I am happy to have been of assistance.”
These were the things I might have said to the handsome Inspector Gravenhurst had I been given the opportunity, but of course, I hadn’t. I had made a bargain with Wallace Scroop that he was to get the credit for figuring out the Rainsmiths’ moonlight cruise deception, and I meant to stick to it. I have to admit that I’ve never regretted anything in my life so much as giving up that glory. But choices are choices, and there’s no going back.
I didn’t much mind not being able to tell the inspector that Fabian was Brazenose, but then, it’s not my place to be doing his work for him, is it? Let the police carry out their own investigations. It will keep them on their toes.
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.