Dogger ignored me. “There was, of course, the tale in the Bhagavad Ghita of the princess who exuded a fishy odor …”
“Yes?” I said, settling back as if to hear a fairy tale. Somewhere in the distance, a harvesting machine clattered away softly at its work, and the sun shone down. What a perfect day it was, I thought. “But wait!” I said. “What if his body were producing trimethylamine?”
This was such an exciting thought that I sprang out of the wheelbarrow.
“It would not be unheard of,” Dogger said, thoughtfully. “Shakespeare might have been thinking of just such a complaint:
“ ‘What have we here? a man or a fish? dead or alive? A fish: he smells like a fish: a very ancient and fish-like smell.’ ”
A chill ran up my spine. Dogger had slipped into the loud and confident voice of an actor who has delivered these lines many and many a time before.
“The Tempest,” he said quietly. “Act two, scene two, if I’m not mistaken. Trinculo, you’ll recall, is speaking of Caliban.”
“Where do you dig up these things?” I asked in admiration.
“On the wireless,” Dogger said. “We listened to it some weeks ago.”
It was true. At Buckshaw, Thursday evenings were devoted to compulsory wireless listening, and we had recently been made to sit through an adaption of The Tempest without fidgeting.
Other than the marvelous sound effects of the storm, I didn’t remember much about the play, but obviously Dogger did.
“Is there a name for this fishy condition?” I asked.
“Not to the best of my knowledge,” he said. “It is exceedingly rare. I believe …”
“Go on,” I said, eagerly.
But when I looked up at Dogger, the light in his eyes had gone out. He sat staring at his hat, which he held clutched in his trembling hands as if he had never seen it before.
“I believe I’ll go to my room now,” he said, getting slowly to his feet.
“It’s all right,” I said. “I think I will, too. A nice nap before dinner will do both of us good.”
But I’m not sure that Dogger heard me. He was already shambling off towards the kitchen door.
When he was gone, I turned my attention to the wooden tea chest he had been nailing shut. In one corner was pasted a paper label, upon which was written in ink: THIS SIDE UP - Contents - Silver Cutlery - de Luce - Buckshaw
Cutlery? Had Dogger packed the Mumpeters in this crate? Mother and Father Mumpeter? Little Grindlestick and her silver sisters?
Is that why he’d been polishing them?
Why on earth would he do such a thing? The Mumpeters were my childhood playthings, and the very thought of anyone— But hadn’t Brookie Harewood been murdered with one of the pieces from this set? What if the police—?
I walked round to the far side of the crate: the side that Dogger had turned away from me as I approached.
As I read the words that were stenciled in awful black letters on the boards, something vile and sour rose up in my throat.
Sotheby’s, New Bond Street, London, W.C., it said.
Father was sending away the family silver to be auctioned.