It was true. I couldn’t help myself.
“I was just thinking of the look on his face when you ask him how it is that Miss Tanty’s parrot calls him by his first name.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Hello, Quentin!” I squawked, in my best parrot voice.
Now it was the Inspector’s turn to smile.
“I see what you’re getting at,” he said, and another note went into his notebook.
“One last question, if you don’t mind,” he added. “This business of the bleeding saint. It has nothing to do with the case, of course, but I must admit to having a certain personal curiosity. I understand from Mr. Sowerby that you took a sample of the stuff, and that he assisted you in performing a chemical analysis.”
“That is correct,” I said, a little peeved at Adam for blabbing.
“And? May we be favored with the results?”
“Quite conclusive,” I replied. “CH4N2O. I subjected it to the nitric acid test for urea. It’s bat’s urine.”
Everybody in the room except Feely was suddenly nodding wisely, as if they had known it all along.
“Adam had already tasted it and come to the same conclusion.”
Where was Adam? I wondered. It would have been ever so lovely if he’d been here to witness my triumph.
“I’d be happy to turn over my notes if they have any relevance in this case.”
“Indeed,” Inspector Hewitt said, getting up and putting away his notebook. “Well, thank you, Flavia. I believe that will be all, at least for now. I’d appreciate it if you’d take Sergeant Woolmer upstairs to retrieve the bottle in question. Antigone?”
He turned toward his wife and offered his hand as she rose from the chaise longue.
I was stunned! I had presented them the case on a silver platter. Where was the lavish thanks? Where was the praise? Where were the congratulations? The plaudits? The accolades, and so forth?
Where were the trumpets?
But suddenly Antigone was taking my hand, her smile shining like the Mediterranean sun.
“Thank you, Flavia,” she told me. “I’m sure you’ve been of enormous assistance. I’ll ring you up next week and we shall go shopping in Hinley. A girls’ day out—just the two of us.”
It was reward enough. I stood there at the window with a sappy smile on my face, not thinking, until long after I had watched her leave, long after her husband had driven her away down the avenue of chestnuts and out through the Mulford Gates toward Bishop’s Lacey, to look down at the wreckage of my skirt and sweater.
There was going to be trouble. I could smell it coming.
Just as fear has the taste of copper, so trouble has the smell of lead.
And then, as my thoughts turned to poor Jocelyn Ridley-Smith, I was seized by a sudden idea.
I would beg Antigone to take him with us! Shopping for dresses in Hinley and lunch afterward at the ABC Tea Shop. The three of us would make a feast of buns and clotted cream!
What an adventure for Jocelyn! I was sure we could arrange it. I’d telephone the vicar or even, if necessary, the bishop, just as soon as Father finished with his announcement, whatever it may be.
Daffy and Feely had left without my noticing, and I found myself alone in the drawing room for the first time in ages.
How much longer, I wondered, before strangers would be looking out of our windows and calling the place their own? How much longer before we were tossed out into a cold, uncaring world?
There was a discreet tap—no more than a fingernail on the woodwork—and Dogger entered.
“Pardon me, Miss Flavia,” he said.
“Yes, Dogger? What is it?”
“I wanted to say that I took the liberty of listening at the door. You were superb. Absolutely top-notch.”
“Thank you, Dogger,” I managed, in spite of my eyes brimming suddenly with tears. “That means a lot.”
I could have gone on but I hadn’t the words.
“Colonel de Luce,” he said, “would like to see you in the drawing room in forty-five minutes.”
“Just me?” I asked. I was already dreading another ban on my activities.
“The three of you: Miss Daphne, Miss Ophelia, and yourself.”
“Thank you, Dogger,” I said. I knew better than to beg for details.
I believed I already knew them. But before the dreaded interview, I had a duty to perform.
In silent procession, I would tour the house, perhaps for the last time. I would bid farewell to the rooms that I had loved, and keep clear of the ones I hadn’t. I would begin with Harriet’s boudoir, even though it was technically off-limits. I would touch her combs and brushes and inhale her scent. I would sit for a while in silence. From there I would proceed to the greenhouse and the coach house, where I had spent so many happy hours chattering with Dogger about everything under a thousand suns.
I would walk, for one last time, the portrait gallery, saying good-bye to my grim old ancestors who were framed in solemn rows. I would tell them that a portrait of Flavia de Luce was not destined to hang among them.
And then the kitchen: the dear kitchen which overflowed with memories of Mrs. Mullet and pilfered supplies. I would sit at the table where Father had talked to me.
From the kitchen, I would proceed up the east staircase to my bedroom, where I would wind up the crank of the old phonograph and put on the Requiem Mass of Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart. I would hear it through.
And finally, my laboratory.
At this point I must end my description.
It is too unbearably sad to go on.