TEN
THE ONLY PROBLEM WAS this: I hadn’t the faintest idea where Brookie lived.
I could have made another visit to the telephone closet, I suppose, but in Buckshaw’s foyer I was risking an encounter with Father, or worse—with Daffy or Feely. Besides, it seemed most unlikely that a ne’er-do-well such as Brookie would be listed in the directory.
Rather than risk being caught, I slipped stealthily into the picture gallery, which occupied nearly the entire ground floor of the east wing.
An army of de Luce ancestors gazed down upon me as I passed, in whose faces I recognized, uncomfortably, aspects of my own. I wouldn’t have liked most of them, I thought, and most of them wouldn’t have liked me.
I did a cartwheel just to show them that I didn’t care.
Still, because the old boy deserved it, I gave Uncle Tar’s portrait a brisk Girl Guide salute, even though I’d been drummed out of that organization, quite unfairly I thought, by a woman with no sense of humor whatsoever. “Honestly, Miss Pashley,” I’d have told her, had I been given half a chance, “the ferric hydroxide was only meant to be a joke.”
At the far end of the gallery was a box room which, in Buckshaw’s glory days, had been used for the framing and repair of the portraits and landscapes that made up my family’s art collection.
A couple of deal shelves and the workbench in the room were still littered with dusty tins of paint and varnish whose contents had dried out at about the same time as Queen Victoria, and from which brush handles stuck up here and there like fossilized rats’ tails.
Everyone but me seemed to have forgotten that this room had a most useful feature: a sashed window that could be raised easily from both inside and out—and all the more so since I had taken to lubricating its slides with lard pinched from the pantry.
On the outside wall, directly below the window casing and halfway to the ground, a brick had half crumbled away—its slow decay encouraged somewhat, I’ll admit, by my hacking at it with one of Dogger’s trowels: a perfect foothold for anyone who wished to leave or get back into the house without attracting undue attention.
As I scrambled out the window and climbed to the ground, I almost stepped on Dogger, who was on his knees in the wet grass. He got to his feet, lifted his hat, and replaced it.
“Good afternoon, Miss Flavia.”
“Good afternoon, Dogger.”
“Lovely rain.”
“Quite lovely.”
Dogger glanced up at the golden sky, then went on with his weeding.
The very best people are like that. They don’t entangle you like flypaper.
Gladys’s tires hummed happily as we shot past St. Tancred’s and into the high street. She was enjoying the day as much as I was.
Ahead on my left, a few doors from the Thirteen Drakes, was Reggie Pettibone’s antiques shop. I was making a mental note to pay it a visit later when the door flew open and a spectacled boy came hurtling into the street.
It was Colin Prout.
I swerved to avoid hitting him, and Gladys went into a long shuddering slide.
“Colin!” I shouted as I came to a stop. I had very nearly taken a bad tumble.
But Colin had already crossed the high street and vanished into Bolt Alley, a narrow, reeking passage that led to a lane behind the shops.
Needless to say, I followed, offering up fresh praise for the invention of the Sturmey-Archer three-speed shifter.
Into the lane I sped, but Colin was already disappearing round the corner at the far end. A few seconds more, having taken a roughly circular route, and he would be back in the high street.
I was right. By the time I caught sight of him again, he was cutting into Cow Lane, as if the hounds of Hell were at his heels.
Rather than following, I applied the brakes.
Where Cow Lane ended at the river, I knew, Colin would veer to the left and follow the old towpath that ran behind the Thirteen Drakes. He would not risk going to ground anywhere along the old canal for fear of being boxed in behind the shops.
I turned completely round and went back the way I’d come, making a broad sweeping turn into Shoe Street, where Miss Pickery, the new librarian, lived in the last cottage. I braked, dismounted, and, leaning Gladys against her fence, climbed quickly over the stile and crept into position behind one of the tall poplars that lined the towpath.
Just in time! Here was Colin hurrying towards me, and all the while looking nervously back over his shoulder.
“Hello, Colin,” I said, stepping directly into his path.
Colin stopped as if he had walked into a brick wall, but the shifting of his pale eyes, magnified like oysters by his thick lenses, signaled that he was about to make a break for it.
“The police are looking for you, you know. Do you want me to tell them where you are?”
It was a bald-faced lie: one of my specialties.
“N-n-n-no.”
His face had gone as white as tissue paper, and I thought for a moment he was going to blubber. But before I could tighten the screws, he blurted out: “I never done it, Flavia! Honest! Whatever they think I done, I didn’t.”
In spite of his tangle of words I knew what he meant. “Didn’t do what, Colin? What is it you haven’t done?”
“Nothin’. I ’aven’t done nothin’.”
“Where’s Brookie?” I asked casually. “I need to see him about a pair of fire irons.”
My words had the desired effect. Colin’s arms swung round like the vanes on a weathercock, his fingers pointing north, south, west, east. He finally settled on the latter, indicating that Brookie was to be found somewhere beyond the Thirteen Drakes.
“Last time I seen him ’e was unloading ’is van.”
His van? Could Brookie have a van? Somehow the idea seemed ludicrous—as if the scarecrow from The Wizard of Oz had been spotted behind the wheel of a Bedford lorry—and yet …
“Thanks awfully, Colin,” I told him. “You’re a wonder.”
With a scrub at his eyes and a tug at his hair, he was over the stile and up Shoe Street like a whirling dervish. And then he was gone.
Had I just made a colossal mistake? Perhaps I had, but I could hardly carry out my inquiries with someone like Colin drooling over my shoulder.
Only then did a cold horror of an idea come slithering across my mind. What if—
But no, if there’d been blood on Colin’s clothing, I’d surely have noticed it.
As I walked back to retrieve Gladys, I was taken with a rattling good idea. In all of Bishop’s Lacey there were very few vans, most of which were known to me on sight: the ironmonger’s, the butcher’s, the electrician’s, and so forth. Each one had the name of its owner in prominent letters on the side panels; each was unique and unmistakeable. A quick ride up the high street would account for most of them, and a strange van would stand out like a sore thumb.
And so it did.
A few minutes later I had pedaled a zigzag path throughout the village without any luck. But as I swept round the bend at the east end of the high street, I could hardly believe my eyes.
Parked in front of Willow Villa was a disreputable green van that, although its rusty panels were blank, had Brookie Harewood written all over it.
Willow Villa was aptly named for the fact that it was completely hidden beneath the drooping tassels of a giant tree, which was just as well since the house was painted a hideous shade of orange. It belonged to Tilda Mountjoy, whom I had met under rather unhappy circumstances a few months earlier. Miss Mountjoy was the retired Librarian-in-Chief of the Bishop’s Lacey Free Library where, it was said, even the books had lived in fear of her. Now, with nothing but time on her hands, she had become a freelance holy terror.
Although I was not anxious to renew our acquaintance, there was nothing for it but to open her gate, push my way through the net of dangling fronds, squelch through the mosses underfoot, and beard the dragon in her den.
My excuse? I would tell her that, while out bicycling, I had been overcome with a sudden faintness. Seeing Brookie’s van, I thought that perhaps he would be kind enough to load Gladys into the rear and drive me home. Father, I was sure, would be filled with eternal gratitude, etc., etc., etc.
Under the willow’s branches, lichens flourished on the doorstep and the air was as cool and dank as a mausoleum.
I had already raised the corroded brass knocker, which was in the shape of the Lincoln Imp, when the door flew open and there stood Miss Mountjoy—covered with blood!
I don’t know which of us was the most startled to see the other, but for a peculiar moment we both of us stood perfectly still, staring wide-eyed at each other.
The front of her dress and the sleeves of her gray cardigan were soaked with the stuff, and her face was an open wound. A few fresh drops of scarlet had already plopped to the floor before she lifted a bloody handkerchief and clapped it to her face.
“Nosebleed,” she said. “I get them all the time.”
With her mouth and nose muffled by the stained linen, it sounded as if she had said “I give them all the twine,” but I knew what she meant.
“Gosh, Miss Mountjoy,” I blurted. “Let me help you.”
I seized her arm and before she could protest, steered her towards the kitchen through a dark hallway lined with heavy Tudor sideboards.
“Sit down,” I said, pulling out a chair, and to my surprise, she did.
My experience with nosebleeds was limited but practical. I remembered one of Feely’s birthday parties at which Sheila Foster’s nose had erupted on the croquet lawn and Dogger had stanched it with someone’s handkerchief dipped in a solution of copper sulfate from the greenhouse.
Willow Villa, however, didn’t seem likely to have a supply of Blue Vitriol, as the solution was called, although I knew that, given no more than half a teacup of dilute sulfurie acid, a couple of pennies, and the battery from Gladys’s bicycle lamp, I could whip up enough of the stuff to do the trick. But this was no time for chemistry.