“Hullo,” he said. “What have we here?”
As if I were a waxwork figure in Madame Tussauds.
I went on scribbling nothings in my notebook, resisting the urge to stick my tongue out the corner of my mouth.
“What are you doing?” he asked, coming dangerously close, as if to look at the page. If there’s one thing I despise, it’s a person who snoops over your shoulder.
“Writing down number plates,” I said, snapping my notebook shut.
“Hmmm,” he said, gazing slowly round at the empty landscape. “I shouldn’t imagine you add many to your collection in such an out-of-the-way place.”
In what I hoped was a properly chilling manner I said, “Well, I’ve got yours, haven’t I?”
It was true. GBX1066.
He saw me staring at the Rolls.
“What do you think of the old bus?” he asked. “Phantom II, 1928. The former owner, requiring something to transport a racehorse in comfort, took a hacksaw to her.”
“He must have been mad,” I said. I couldn’t help myself.
“She, actually,” he said. “Yes, she was. Quite mad. Lady Densley.”
“Of Densley’s Biscuits?”
“The very one.”
As I was thinking about how to respond, he produced a silver case from his pocket, flipped it open, and handed me a card.
“My name’s Sowerby,” he said. “Adam Sowerby.”
I glanced at the bit of pasteboard. At least it was tastefully printed in small black type.
Adam Tradescant Sowerby, MA., FRHortS, etc.
Flora-archaeologist
Seeds of Antiquity—Cuttings—Inquiries
Tower Bridge, London E.1 TN Royal 1066
Hmmm, I thought. The same four digits as his number plates. This man has connections.
“You must be Flavia de Luce,” he said, extending a hand. I was about to give back his card when I realized that he intended us to shake.
“The vicar told me I’d likely find you here,” he went on. “I hope you don’t mind my barging in like this, unannounced.”
Of course! This was the vicar’s friend, Mr. Sowerby. Mr. Haskins had asked about him in the crypt.
“Are you related to Sowerby & Sons, our village undertakers?”
“The present incumbent is, I believe, a third cousin. Some of us Sowerbys have chosen Life, and others Death.”
I took his hand and gave it an intelligent shake, looking directly into his cornflower-blue eyes.
“Yes, I’m Flavia de Luce,” I said. “I don’t mind you barging in at all. How may I help you?”
“Denwyn is an old friend,” he said, not letting go of my hand. “He told me that you could very likely answer my questions.”
Denwyn was the vicar’s name, and I mentally blessed him for being so frank.
“I shall do my best,” I replied.
“When you first looked into that chamber behind the stone, what did you see?”
“A hand,” I said. “Rather dried. Clutching a broken bit of glass tubing.”
“Rings?”
“No.”
“Fingernails?”
“Clean. Well manicured. Although his hands and clothing were filthy.”
“Very good. And then you saw?”
“The face. At least, a gas mask covering the face. Golden-blond hair. Dark lines on the throat.”
“Anything else?”
“No. The torch was throwing quite a narrow beam.”
“Excellent! I see that your reputation—which precedes you—is well deserved.”
My reputation? The vicar must have told him about those several earlier cases in which I had been able to point the police in the right direction.
I preened a little, inwardly.
“No dried petals … vegetation … anything of that sort?”
“Not that I noticed.”
Mr. Sowerby gathered himself, as if he were about to ask a tender question. In a hushed voice, he said, “It must have been quite a shock to you. The poor man’s body, I mean.”
“Yes,” I said, and left it at that.
“The police have made quite a hash of the scene—removing the remains and so forth. Anything that may have been of interest to me is now no more than—”
“Dust on the sergeant’s boots,” I suggested brightly.
“Precisely. Now I shall have to go over the ground with a magnifying glass, like Sherlock Holmes.”
“What are you hoping to find?”
“Seeds,” he said. “Remnants of Saint Tancred’s interment. The mourners often tossed fresh flowers into the tomb, you know.”
“But there was nothing in the tomb,” I said. “It was empty. Except for Mr. Collicutt, of course.”
Adam Sowerby gave me a quizzical look. “Empty? Oh, I see what you mean. No, it’s hardly likely to be empty. The crevice where you found Mr. Collicutt is actually a chamber above the tomb proper. Its lid, if you like. Saint Tancred will still be nicely nestled somewhere down below.”
So that was why there had been no bones! My question was answered.
“Then it’s quite likely that you’ll still find seeds and so forth?”
“I should be surprised if we didn’t. It’s just that, in any investigation, one likes to start at the outside and nibble one’s way in.”
I couldn’t have put it better myself.
“And these seeds,” I said. “What shall you do with them?”
“I shall coddle them. I shall put them in a warm place and provide them with the nourishment they need.”
I could tell by the passion in his voice that seeds were to him as poisons were to me.
“And then?” I asked.
“They might well germinate,” he said. “If we’re extraordinarily lucky, one of them will be brought to blossom.”
“Even after five hundred years?”
“A seed is a remarkable vessel,” he told me. “Our one true time machine. Each of them is capable of bringing the past, alive, into the present. Think of that!”
“And then?” I asked. “After they’ve blossomed?”
“I sell them. You’d be surprised what some people will pay to be the sole possessor of an extinct flower.
“Oh, and then there are the academic trumpets, of course. Who can live nowadays without the academic trumpets?”
I had no idea what he was talking about, but the part about the flowers was intriguing enough.
“Would you mind giving me a lift into the village?” I asked suddenly. It was still early in the day and an idea was taking shape.
“Does your father allow you to beg rides from complete strangers?” he asked, but there was a twinkle in his eyes.
“He won’t mind, if you’re a friend of the vicar’s,” I said. “May I put Gladys in the back, Mr. Sowerby?”
“Adam,” he said. “Since we’re both under the vicar’s spell, I expect that it’s all right to call me Adam.”
I climbed up into the front passenger’s seat. There was a prolonged and grinding judder as Adam trod on the clutch and coddled the shifting lever down into first gear, and then we were off.
“Her name is Nancy,” he said, indicating the instrument panel, then, glancing at me, he added, “… after Burns’s poem.”
“I’m afraid I don’t know it,” I said. “My sister Daphne is the bookish one.”
“ ‘Though poor in gear, we’re rich in love,’ ” he quoted. “From ‘The Soldier’s Return.’ ”
“Ah!” I said.