TWENTY-SIX
“WHAT ARE YOU DOING here?” I hissed, my heart still pounding like a trip-hammer. “I thought you were in London.”
“I might have been,” Porcelain said, “but something made me come back to apologize.”
“You did that once before,” I said, “and you botched it. I can live without another of your so-called apologies.”
“I know,” she said, “and I’m sorry. I didn’t tell you the truth about Fenella. She wasn’t conscious when I went to the hospital. And she didn’t tell me you’d attacked her. I made all of it up because I wanted to hurt you.”
“But why?”
“I don’t know. I wish I did, but I don’t.”
Suddenly she was in tears, sobbing as if her heart would break. Without thinking, I went to her, put my arms around her, and pulled her head against my shoulder.
“It’s all right,” I said, even though it wasn’t.
But something inside me had undergone a sudden shift, as if my interior furniture had been rearranged unexpectedly, and I knew, with a strange new calmness, that we would sort things out later.
“Wait here until I come back,” I said. “Father’s expecting me downstairs, and I mustn’t keep him waiting.”
Which was true, as far as it went.
As I walked back into the drawing room, Sergeant Graves was still standing quite close to Feely, a look of disappointment on his face.
“I put it in this,” I explained, handing Inspector Hewitt a square cardboard box, “so that there would be the least number of points in contact with the glass surface.”
I did not explain that, because it was precisely the right size, I had pinched the box from Feely’s bedroom, nor did I mention that I had flushed a pound of Yardley’s lavender bath salts down the toilet for want of a better place to put it on short notice.
The Inspector lifted the top flap gingerly and glanced inside.
“You’ll find a ring of faint smudges on the glass,” I said. “Most likely whatever’s left of the fingerprints—”
“Thank you, Flavia,” he said in a flat voice, handing the box to Sergeant Graves.
“… and perhaps a few of mine,” I added.
“Take this straightaway to Sergeant Woolmer, in Hinley,” the Inspector said, ignoring my small joke. “Come back for me later.”
“Yes, sir,” Sergeant Graves said. “Hinley it is.”
“Hold on a minute,” I said. “There’s more.”
I carefully pulled one of Feely’s embroidered handkerchiefs from my pocket.
“This,” I said, “might well be a copy of the silver lobster pick that killed Brookie Harewood. Or perhaps it’s the original. It’s got the de Luce monogram on it. One of the Bull children was digging with it in the Gully. If there are any fingerprints on it besides his and mine, you’ll quite likely find that they match the ones on the crystal ball.”
I looked round the room to watch the reactions on everyone’s faces as I handed the thing over to Inspector Hewitt.
As Mrs. Mullet once said, you could have heard a pin droop.
“Good lord!” Father said, stepping forward and reaching for the thing even as the Inspector was still unwrapping it.
I had almost blurted out that the rest of the family silver was on its way to Sotheby’s, but something made me hold my tongue. What a bitter blow to Father it would have been had I let that slip out.
“Please, Colonel, don’t touch it,” the Inspector said. “I’m afraid this must now be treated as evidence.”
Father stood staring at the silver lobster pick as if he were a snake that had come unexpectedly face-to-face with a mongoose.
Daffy sat bolt upright on the divan, glaring at me with what I took to be hatred in her eyes—as if she held me responsible for all of Father’s misfortunes.
Feely’s hand was at her mouth.
All of these details were frozen on the instant, as if a photographer’s flash had gone off and preserved forever a thin and uncomfortable slice of time. The silence in the room was audible.
“Killed Brookie Harewood?” Inspector Hewitt said at last, turning to me. “This lobster pick? Please explain what you mean by that.”
“It was in his nose,” I said, “when I found his body hanging from the Poseidon fountain. Surely you saw it?”
Now it was the Inspector’s turn to stare in disbelief at the object in his hand.
“You’re quite sure?” he asked.
“Positive,” I said, a little peeved that he should doubt me.
I could see that the Inspector was choosing his words carefully before he spoke.
“We found no lobster pick at the scene of the crime—and none has turned up subsequently.”
No lobster pick at the scene of the crime? What a ludicrous statement! It was like denying the sun in the sky! The thing had been there, plain as day, stuck up Brookie’s nostril like a dart in a corkboard.
If the pick had fallen out through force of gravity, for instance, the police would have found it in the fountain. The fact that they hadn’t could mean only one thing: that someone had removed it. And that someone, most likely, was Brookie’s killer.
Between the time Porcelain and I had walked away from the fountain, and the time that the police arrived—no more than, say, twenty minutes—the killer had crept back, scaled the fountain, and removed the weapon from Brookie’s nose. But why?
The Inspector was still staring at me intently. I could see his cogs turning.
“Surely you don’t think I killed Brookie Harewood?” I gasped.
“As a matter of fact, I don’t,” Inspector Hewitt said, “but something tells me that you know who did.”
I didn’t move a muscle, but inwardly I positively preened!
Fancy that! I thought. Recognition at last!
I could have hugged the man, but I didn’t. He’d have been mortified, and so—but only later, of course—would I.
“I have my suspicions,” I said, fighting to keep my voice from sliding into an upper register.
“Ah,” the Inspector said, “then you must share them with us sometime. Well, thank you all. It has been most illuminating.”
He summoned Sergeant Graves with his eyebrows, and went to the door.
“Oh, and Colonel,” he said, turning back. “You will keep Flavia at home?”
Father did not reply, and for that, I decided on the spot, his name would be inscribed forever in my private book of saints and martyrs.
And then, with a rustle of officialdom, the police were gone.
“Do you think he likes me?” Feely asked, making a beeline for the looking glass on the chimneypiece.
“I should say so,” Daffy replied. “He was all green eyes, like the monster cuttlefish in Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea.”
With no more than a look of perplexity, Father left the room.
Within minutes, I knew, he would be submerged in his stamp collection, alone with whatever squids and cuttlefish inhabited the depths of his mind.
At that moment I remembered Porcelain.