The Inspector stood with his chin cupped in his hand, a forefinger extending along his cheekbone. In the crypt’s dim light he looked rather like John Mills, I thought, although I’d never tell him so to his face.
The ghastly remains of Mr. Collicutt were illuminated every few seconds by the blinding flashes of Sergeant Woolmer’s camera.
“Who discovered the body?” the Inspector asked, which seemed to me a reasonable place to begin.
“Er … Flavia here,” the vicar told him, placing a protective hand on my shoulder. “That is, Miss de Luce.”
“I might have known,” the Inspector said.
Then the miracle happened. As the vicar glanced uneasily at the remains of Mr. Collicutt, the Inspector slowly closed and reopened his right eye so that only I could see it.
He had winked at me! Inspector Hewitt had winked at me!
Somewhere, church bells rang. Somewhere cannons boomed. Somewhere fireworks exploded crazily in a darkened sky.
But I did not hear them: My ears were too stopped up with the roaring of my own blood.
Inspector Hewitt had actually winked at me!
But wait—
Now he was rubbing at his eye, pulling down his lower eyelid, examining something—a bit of grit, perhaps—on his fingertip.
Curses!
It was nothing more than a bit of crypt dust, or perhaps a particle of some ancient citizen of Bishop’s Lacey—even one of my own ancestors.
I gave him a look of professional concern and handed him my handkerchief.
“Thank you,” he said. “I have my own.
“Now then,” he went on, as if nothing had happened, “describe to me, from the beginning, what took place—from the time that you arrived at the church this morning.”
And so I did: I told him about the van in the churchyard, the vicar and Marmaduke Parr in the porch, Mr. Haskins in the tower, George Battle and Norman and Tommy and the other workman in the crypt. I told him about the levering out of the stone, and of my peering behind it. The only detail I withheld was the wooden chest over which I had found Mr. Haskins hovering.
After all, I had to leave something for the poor man to discover for himself.
“Thank you,” the Inspector said when I had finished. “If there’s anything else, I shall send someone to Buckshaw.”
Even just a few months ago, I should have spat and stalked off at such an abrupt dismissal. But things had changed. I’d come to know, even if only a little, the Inspector’s wife, Antigone, and their personal little tragedies.
“Right, then,” I said. “Cheerio!”
I thought that I had pitched it just right.
Gladys was waiting in the weeds, and she gave a small squeak of delight as I grabbed her handlebars and pointed her toward the road.
It was still barely breakfast time as we splashed our way home, me whistling “Land of Hope and Glory,” and Gladys happily clanking out the beat with her rattling chain.
• FIVE •
IT WASN’T UNTIL I was nearly home—not, in fact, until I was sweeping past the great stone griffins that guarded the Mulford Gates—that I realized I had overlooked two very important things. The first was that business of the bat, and how it had managed to get into the church. The second was this: If the tomb in the crypt was occupied by the remains of Mr. Collicutt, where on earth, then, were the bones of Saint Tancred?
As Buckshaw loomed up at the end of the long avenue of chestnut trees, I realized with a shock that I was thoroughly soaked. The morning mist had slowly and almost imperceptibly, as the English mist loves to do, transformed itself into a downright drizzle. I’d left my mackintosh in the church tower and now my cardigan, my blouse, my skirt, and my socks were stuck to my body like saturated bath sponges.
Gladys, too, was caked with mud and other bits of road debris.
“We need a bath, old girl,” I told her, as we crunched across the sweep of gravel at the front door.
Father, Daffy, and Feely, I knew, would still be at breakfast. Wheeling Gladys through the foyer was out of the question because of the mud, and the kitchen entrance, at least at this time of day, was under the very nose of Mrs. Mullet.
I put a finger to my lips and, rolling Gladys silently round the corner and along the east side of the house, propped her directly below one of my bedroom windows.
“Wait here. I’ll scout out the territory,” I whispered.
I whipped back round to the front and crept silently into the foyer.
I needn’t have worried. The usual breakfast-time hush hung over the dining room. Father would be poring over the latest philatelic journal, and Daffy would by now have her nose in The Monk, which Carl Pendracka had given her for Christmas. I couldn’t help thinking he must have some ulterior motive.
Was he trying to gain her support for the begging of Feely’s hand? Or could it be that Daffy was his second choice? At thirteen, Daffy was far too young for courtship, but Americans have far more patience than we British, who, after six years of war, want the earth and want it now, at least according to Clarence Mundy, who operated the only taxicab in Bishop’s Lacey. Clarence had confided this bit of information as he drove Mrs. Mullet and me over to Hinley to replace a copper cooker which I had ruined with a chemical experiment involving the preservation of frog skins.
“War brides!” he’d said. “That’s all the Americans think about nowadays is making off with a war bride. If they keep on the way they’re going, why, there won’t be nothing left for the home-born working lad.”
“It’s the bomb,” Mrs. Mullet had replied. “That’s what my Alf says. Everybody’s afraid of ’em since they’ve got the bomb.”
“Arrr,” Clarence had grumbled before falling into silence.
I tiptoed up the staircase to the east wing, where my laboratory and bedroom were located. All of the bedrooms at Buckshaw were vast, windblown wastelands which were more suited to the mooring of airships than to the dreaming of sweet dreams, and mine was more remote and desolate than most.
This part of the house had been largely abandoned: Its unheated immensity, its sprung floors, its blank, blind windows, its billowing wallpaper, its smell of mildew, and its eternal drafts made it the perfect place to be left alone. I dwelt there by choice in privacy and peace.
I stripped the sheets from my bed, and with the addition of a couple of old afghans, quickly fashioned a makeshift rope with a large loop in one end.
Throwing open the sash, I lowered the loop until I was able to lasso Gladys’s handlebars.
“Easy, now … easy!” I whispered as I hauled her slowly up the outside wall and dragged her in at the window.
In less time than you could say “cyanide,” Gladys was leaning against the end of my bed, filthy of fender and still a little giddy from her ascent, but happy to be home and indoors.
I wound up the gramophone, dug out from the pile under my bed a recording of “Whistle While You Work,” and dropped the needle into the scratchy grooves.
With a bucket of water fetched from the laboratory, I partially filled the tin hip bath and swabbed Gladys down with a loofah. I used my toothbrush to get into the tight places.
Although she was quite ticklish, Gladys tried to pretend that she wasn’t. It is not a weakness that one likes to advertise. I still shuddered at the memory of being tickled by Feely and Daffy until I was foaming at the mouth.
“Steady on,” I said. “It’s only hog bristles.”
I polished her briskly with my flannel nightgown until she fairly gleamed.
“La la lah la la la la,” I sang along, even managing to whistle a bit of harmony.
I was the eighth dwarf.
Sneaky.
With the dirty work done, I breathed on Gladys’s plated parts, gave them an extra polish, and stepped back to admire my handiwork.
“You’ll do,” I said.
I rinsed the sheets in a bucket of clean water, wrung them out, and strung them up to dry in a series of long loops from the picture frame of Joseph Priestley to the chandelier.
After a quick sponge bath in the sink, I put on clean clothing, brushed my hair and my teeth, and went down for breakfast.