• SEVENTEEN •
BACK HOME AT BUCKSHAW, I hunched over my notebook in the laboratory. I had found by experience that putting things down on paper helped to clear the mind in precisely the same way, as Mrs. Mullet had taught me, that an eggshell clarifies the consommé or the coffee, which, of course, is a simple matter of chemistry. The albumin contained in the eggshell has the property of collecting and binding the rubbish that floats in the dark liquid, which can then be removed and discarded in a single reeking clot: a perfect description of the writing process.
I glanced up at Esmeralda, who was perched on a cast-iron laboratory stand, cocking her head to keep an eye on the two eggs she had laid in my bed: two eggs which I was now steaming in a covered glass flask. If she was saddened by the sight of her offspring being boiled alive, Esmeralda did not show it.
“Stiff upper lip—or beak,” I told her, but she was more interested in the bubbling water than in my false sympathy. Chickens are much less emotional than humans.
Steamed Eggs Deluxe de Luce, I called my invention.
Mrs. Mullet’s ghastly hard-boiled eggs, with their green circle around the yolk, looking for all the world like the planet Saturn with its rings poisoned—the very thought of the things gives me the hoolibobs—had forced me to find a chemical solution to the problem.
An eggshell, I reasoned, is composed chiefly of calcium carbonate, CaCO3, which, although it does not itself boil until it reaches a very high temperature, begins to decompose nevertheless at 100 degrees Celsius, the boiling point of water.
Steamed, covered, for ten minutes, the crystalline structure of the calcium carbonate is weakened. After another ten minutes or so in cold water, the egg can then be given a light tap on a hard surface and rolled lightly under the hand along its equator until the shell shatters into crystals and can be peeled away almost in a single piece as easily as skinning a tangerine. The white is firm without being rubbery, and the yolk a perfect daffodil yellow.
Farewell hard-boiled eggs. Hail Steamed Eggs Deluxe de Luce!
It was a perfect solution for anyone who hates struggling with the shells of boiled eggs, or who bites their fingernails. I would write a cookbook and become famous. Flavia Cooks! I would call it, and I would become known as The Egg Lady.
“Better Living Through Chemistry,” as the people at DuPont are forever telling us in their adverts in the Picture Post.
I picked up my pencil.
The Heart of Lucifer, I wrote, then crossed it out. On second thought, I tore out the page and held it to the flame of a Bunsen burner, then washed the black ashes down the sink. Much as I was aching to set down in writing the story of that priceless stone, I realized that I didn’t dare. It was not safe nor was it wise to commit certain things to paper. Diaries and notebooks could always be read by prying eyes. It had been known to happen.
For now I would confine myself to people.
ADAM TRADESCANT SOWERBY, I wrote on a new page, and underlined it. This was going to be difficult. I had such tangled feelings toward the man.
—admits he’s a private investigator, but who is employing him? And how much does he know?
It was odd, wasn’t it, that he had asked me no questions about my own findings. He seemed not in the least curious about anything I might have discovered.
I drew a line, leaving more space for Adam Sowerby. I would come back to him later.
—Miss Tanty fancies herself an amateur detective. Fortunately, she believes that Adam and I are, also.
As Chairman of Altar Guild, has unquestioned access to the church at all hours. Admitted to being furious with Mr. Collicutt about not picking her up for her appointment, but hardly reason enough to kill him. Other motives? Musical ones, perhaps? She had cried out at the sight of dripping blood in the church, “Forgive me, O Lord”—then tried to convince me that it was staged. What did she need to be forgiven for? (NB: Pry it out of Feely.)
Which reminded me—I had still not analyzed the red residue on my hair ribbon. I reached into my pocket.
It was empty.
I leapt up from the bench and dug desperately in both pockets. The ribbon was gone.
Surely it had been there this morning while I was talking to Mrs. Mullet. Or had it? I had certainly thought about beginning my chemical analysis, but had I actually touched the ribbon with my hand? Probably not.
Had I lost it on the riverbank while talking to Adam? Or somewhere in Miss Tanty’s house?
“Bugger!” I said.
I might have dropped it anywhere: in the crypt, in the churchyard, in the tunnel, on the road to Nether-Wolsey, or in the butcher’s shop of that peculiar village. Or could it have fallen out of my pocket at Bogmore Hall? Was it still lying somewhere in those dusty corridors—or even in the prison cell of Jocelyn Ridley-Smith’s room—waiting to betray the fact that I had been there? Perhaps it had already been found by his father, the magistrate—or by the servant. What was the man’s name? Benson?
No matter. I needed to get on with my notes before I forgot the details.
Mad Meg—quite harmless. At least I believe she is. Although she was the first to spot the falling blood, she didn’t seem at all surprised. In fact, she immediately began quoting the Book of Revelation—as if she had come there especially to announce the miracle.
Marmaduke Parr—Without even knowing the man, I can tell that he is one of those persons Father would call “an ecclesiastical chameleon.” Altogether a nasty piece of furniture. Why is he so determined to stop the exhumation of Saint Tancred? Or is it really the bishop who wishes to do so? Or the chancellor?
Which brings us to:
Magistrate Ridley-Smith—I’ve never clapped eyes on the man but I already dislike him intensely, if only for the fact that he keeps his poor son, Jocelyn, captive like a princess in a tower.