A Red Herring Without Mustard: A Flavia de Luce Novel

It was my second full confession in as many days.

 

We were sitting in the drawing room—all of us, that is, except Father, who was standing at the window, staring out, as if his life depended on it, across the ornamental lake.

 

He had insisted that we all of us be present, and had summoned Feely and Daffy, both of whom had annoyingly come at once, and were now seated primly side by side on a flowered divan like a couple of toads come to tea.

 

“It is regrettable,” Inspector Hewitt was saying, “that our investigation has been so badly compromised. Crime scenes disturbed … evidence tampered with … crucial information withheld … I hardly know where to begin.”

 

He was talking about me, of course.

 

“I have tried to impress upon Flavia the seriousness of these matters, but with little success. Therefore, I’m afraid I’m going to insist, Colonel de Luce, that until such time as our work is complete, you keep her confined to Buckshaw.”

 

I couldn’t believe my ears! Confined to Buckshaw? Why not have me transported to Australia and be done with it?

 

Well, so much for choir duty and future cinema nights. So much for Father’s decree that we needed to get out more as a family.

 

Father mumbled something and shifted his gaze from the ornamental lake to the distant hills.

 

“That said,” the Inspector went on, “we come to the real reason for our being here.”

 

Real reason? My heart sank as if it already knew something that I did not.

 

The Inspector brought out his notebook. “A statement has been taken from a Miss Ursula Vipond, who says that she witnessed the removal from the river of what she described as …” He opened the notebook and flipped through a couple of pages. “… a glass sphere …”

 

My eyes widened.

 

“… by a child whose name she has reason to believe is Flavia de Luce.”

 

Confound the woman! I knew at once that this busybody could be none other than that troll, Ursula, who haunted Vanetta Harewood’s cottage in Malden Fenwick. I’d listed the odious creature in my notebook, but hadn’t known her surname.

 

She’d been standing hidden among the bushes at the Palings, watching as I pulled Fenella’s crystal ball from the river.

 

“Well?”

 

I could tell by his tone that the Inspector was becoming impatient.

 

“I was going to give it to you straightaway,” I said.

 

“Where is it?” he asked.

 

“In my laboratory. I’ll go get it and—”

 

“No! Stay as you are. Sergeant Graves will see to it.”

 

Surprised, the sergeant broke off gazing at Feely and leapt to his feet.

 

“Just a moment, Sergeant,” she said. “I’ll show you the way.”

 

The traitor! The minx! Even with her little sister under attack, Ophelia could think of nothing but courtship.

 

“Wait,” I said. “The laboratory is locked. I’ll have to go fetch the key.”

 

Before anyone could think to stop me, I had swept past Feely and the sergeant, out the door, and was halfway down the hall.

 

The truth was that the key was in my pocket, but without turning me upside down and shaking me, they had no way of knowing that.

 

Up the stairs I dashed, taking them two at a time, as if all the demons of Hades were at my heels. Into the east wing I fled, and down the long corridor.

 

I fumbled at the lock of the laboratory, but something inside the mechanism seemed to be mucked up, as if—

 

I gave a fierce shove and the door flew open, propelling me almost into the arms of … Porcelain!

 

 

 

 

Alan Bradley's books