The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie

by Alan Bradley

  What an imbecile I had been!

  Another peek out the window showed me that Mrs. Fairweather was gone and Cow Lane was now empty. I left the book lying open on the table, slipped out the door, and made my way round the back of the Pit Shed to the river.

  A hundred years ago the river Efon had been part of a canal system, although there was now little left of it but the towpath. At the foot of Cow Lane were a few rotting remnants of the pilings which had once lined the embankment, but as it flowed towards the church, the river's waters had swollen from their decaying confines to widen in places into broad pools, one of which was at the center of the low marshy area behind the church of St. Tancred.

  I scrambled over the rotted lych-gate into the churchyard, where the old tombstones leaned crazily like floating buoys in an ocean of grass so long I had to wade through it as if I were a bather waist-deep at the seaside.

  The earliest graves, and those of the wealthiest former parishioners, were closest to the church, while back here along the fieldstone wall were those of more recent interments.

  There was also a vertical stratum. Five hundred years of constant use had given the churchyard the appearance of a risen loaf: a fat loaf of freshly baked green bread, puffed up considerably above the level of the surrounding ground. I gave a delicious shiver at the thought of the yeasty remains that lay beneath my feet.

  For a while I browsed aimlessly among the tombstones, reading off the family names that one often heard mentioned in Bishop's Lacey: Coombs, Nesbit, Barker, Hoare, and Carmichael. Here, with a lamb carved on his stone, was little William, the infant son of Tully Stoker, who, had he lived, would by now have been a man of thirty, and older brother to Mary. Little William had died aged five months and four days “of a croup,” it said, in the spring of 1919, the year before Mr. Twining had leaped from the clock tower at Greyminster. There was a good chance, then, that the Doctor, too, was buried somewhere nearby.

  For a moment I thought I had found him: a black stone with a pointed pyramidal top had the name Twining crudely cut upon it. But this Twining, on closer inspection, turned out to be an Adolphus who had been lost at sea in 1809. His stone was so remarkably preserved that I couldn't resist the urge to run my fingers over its cool polished surface.

  "Sleep well, Adolphus," I said. "Wherever you are."

  Mr. Twining's tombstone, I knew—assuming he had one, and I found it difficult to believe otherwise—would not be one of the weathered sandstone specimens which leaned like jagged brown teeth, nor would it be one of those vast pillared monuments with drooping chains and funereal wrought-iron fences that marked the plots of Bishop Lacey's wealthiest and most aristocratic families (including any number of departed de Luces).

  I put my hands on my hips and stood waist-deep in the weeds at the churchyard's perimeter. On the other side of the stone wall was the towpath, and beyond that, the river. It was somewhere back here that Miss Mountjoy had vanished after she had fled the church, immediately after the Vicar had asked us to pray for the repose of Horace Bonepenny's soul. But where had she been going?

  Over the lych-gate I climbed once more, and onto the towpath.

  Now I could clearly see the stepping-stones that lay spotted among streamers of waterweed, just beneath the surface of the slow-flowing river. These wound across the widening pool to a low muddy bank on the far side, above and beyond which ran a bramble hedge bordering a field which belonged to Malplaquet Farm.

  I took off my shoes and socks and stepped off onto the first stone. The water was colder than I had expected. My nose was still running slightly and my eyes watering, and the thought crossed my mind that I'd probably die of pneumonia in a day or two and, before you could say “knife,” become a permanent resident of St. Tancred's churchyard.

  Waving my arms like semaphore signals, I made my way carefully across the water and flat-footed it through the mud of the bank. By grasping a handful of long weeds I was able to pull myself up onto the embankment, a dike of packed earth that rose up between the river and the adjoining field.

  I sat down to catch my breath and wipe the muck from my feet with a hank of the wild grass which grew in knots along the hedge. Somewhere close by a yellowhammer was singing “a little bit of bread and no cheese.” It suddenly went silent. I listened, but all I could hear was the distant hum of the countryside: a bagpipe drone of far-off farm machinery.

  With my shoes and socks back on, I dusted myself off and began walking along the hedgerow, which seemed at first to be an impenetrable tangle of thorns and brambles. Then, just as I was about to turn and retrace my steps, I found it—a narrow cutting in the thicket, no more than a thinning, really. I pushed myself through and came out on the other side of the hedge.

  A few yards back, in the direction of the church, something stuck up out of the grass. I approached it cautiously, the hair at the nape of my neck prickling in Neanderthal alarm.

  It was a tombstone, and crudely carved upon it was the name Grenville Twining.

  On the tilted base of the stone was a single word: Vale!

  Vale!—the word Mr. Twining had shouted from the top of the tower! The word Horace Bonepenny had breathed into my face as he expired.

  Realization swept over me like a wave: Bonepenny's dying mind had wanted only to confess to Mr. Twining's murder, and fate had granted him only one word with which to do so. In hearing his confession, I had become the only living person who could link the two deaths. Except, perhaps, for Bob Stanley. My Mr. Pemberton.

  At the thought, a cold shiver ran down my spine.

  There were no dates given on Mr. Twining's tombstone, almost as if whoever had buried him here had wanted to obliterate his history. Daffy had read us tales in which suicides were buried outside the churchyard or at a crossroads, but I had scarcely believed these to be any more than ecclesiastical old wives' tales. Still, I couldn't help wondering if, like Dracula, Mr. Twining was lying beneath my feet wrapped tightly in his Master's cape?

  But the gown I had found hidden on the tower roof at Anson House—which was now reposing with the police—had not belonged to Mr. Twining. Father had made it clear that Mr. Twining was wearing his gown when he fell. So, too, had Toby Lonsdale, as he told The Hinley Chronicle.

  Could they both be wrong? Father had admitted, after all, that the sun might have dazzled his eyes. What else had he told me?

  I remembered his exact words as he described Mr. Twining standing on the parapet:

  "His whole head seemed to be aglow," Father had said. "His hair like a disk of beaten copper in the rising sun; like a saint in an illuminated manuscript."

  And then the rest of the truth rushed in upon me like a wave of nausea: It had been Horace Bonepenny up there on the ramparts. Horace Bonepenny of the flaming red hair; Horace Bonepenny the mimic; Horace Bonepenny the magician.

  The whole thing had been a skillfully planned illusion!

  Miss Mountjoy had been right. He had killed her uncle.

  He and his confederate, Bob Stanley, must have lured Mr. Twining to the roof of the tower, most likely under the pretense of returning the stolen postage stamp which they had hidden there.

  Father had told me of Bonepenny's extravagant mathematical calculations; his architectural prowlings would have made him as familiar with the tiles of the tower as he was with his own study.

  When Mr. Twining had threatened to expose them, they had killed him, probably by bashing his head in with a brick. The fatal blow would have been impossible to detect after such a terrible fall. And then they had staged the suicide—every instant of the thing planned in cold blood. Perhaps they had even rehearsed.

  It had been Mr. Twining who fell to the cobbles, but Bonepenny who trod the ramparts in the morning sun and Bonepenny, in a borrowed cap and gown, who had shouted “Vale!" to the boys in the Quad. "Vale!"—a word that could suggest only suicide.

  Having done that, he had ducked down behind the parapet just as Stanley dropped the body through the drainage opening in the
roof. To a sun-blinded observer on the ground, it would have appeared that the old man had fallen straight through. It was really nothing more than the Resurrection of Tchang Fu performed on a larger stage, dazzled eyes and all.

  How utterly convincing it had been!

  And for all these years Father had believed that it was his silence that had caused Mr. Twining to commit suicide, that it was he who was responsible for the old man's death! What a dreadful burden to bear, and how horrible!

  Not for thirty years, not until I found the evidence among the tiles of Anson House, had anyone suspected it was murder. And they had almost got away with it.

  I reached out and touched Mr. Twining's tombstone to steady myself.

  "I see you've found him," said someone behind me, and at the sound of his voice my blood ran cold.

  I spun round and found myself face-to-face with Frank Pemberton.

  twenty-three

  WHENEVER ONE COMES FACE-TO-FACE WITH A KILLER in a novel or in the cinema, his opening words are always dripping with menace, and often from Shakespeare.

  "Well, well," he will generally hiss, "'Journeys end in lovers meeting,'" or "'So wise so young, they say, do never live long.'"

  But Frank Pemberton said nothing of the sort; in fact, quite the contrary:

  "Hullo, Flavia," he said with a lopsided grin. "Fancy meeting you here."

  My arteries were throbbing like stink, and I could already feel the redness rising in my face, which, in spite of the chills, had instantly become as hot as a griddle.

  A single thought went racing through my mind: I mustn't let on… I mustn't let on. Mustn't show that I know he's Bob Stanley.

  "Hello," I said, hoping my voice wasn't shaking. "How was the shroud tomb?"

  I knew instantly that I was fooling no one but myself. He was watching my face the way a cat watches the family canary when they're alone in the house.

  "The shroud tomb? Ah! A confection in white marble," he said. "Remarkably like an almond marzipan, but larger, of course."

  I decided to play along until I could formulate a plan.

  "I expect your publisher was pleased."

  "My publisher? Oh, yes. Old."

  "Quarrington," I said.

  "Yes. Quite. Quarrington. He was ecstatic."

  Pemberton—I still thought of him as Pemberton—put down his knapsack and began to unfasten the leather straps of his portfolio.

  "Phew!" he said. "Rather warm, isn't it?"

  He removed his jacket, threw it carelessly across his shoulder, and jerked a thumb at Mr. Twining's tombstone.

  "What's the great interest?"

  "He was my father's old schoolmaster," I said.

  "Ah!" He sat down and lounged against the base of the stone as casually as if he were Lewis Carroll and I were Alice, picnicking upon the river Isis.

  How much did he know? I wondered. I waited for him to make his opening move. I could use the time to think.

  Already I was planning my escape. Could I outrun him if I took to my heels? It seemed unlikely. If I went for the river, he'd overtake me before I was halfway across. If I headed for the field towards Malplaquet Farm, I'd be less likely to find help than if I ran for the High Street.

  "I understand your father is something of a philatelist," he said suddenly, looking unconcernedly off towards the farm.

  "He collects stamps, yes. How did you know?"

  "My publisher—old Quarrington—happened to mention it this morning over at Nether Eaton. He was thinking of asking your father to write a history of some obscure postage stamp, but couldn't think quite how best to approach him. Couldn't begin to understand it all. far beyond me. too technical. suggested that perhaps he should have a word with you."

  It was a lie and I detected it at once. As an accomplished fibber myself, I spotted the telltale signs of an untruth before they were halfway out of his mouth: the excessive detail, the offhand delivery, and the wrapping-up of it all in casual chitchat.

  "Could be worth a bundle, you know," he added. "Old Quarrington's pretty flush since he married into the Norwood millions, but don't let on I told you. I expect your father wouldn't say no to a bit of pocket change to buy a New Guinea ha'penny thingummy, would he? It must take a pretty penny to keep up a place like Buckshaw."

  This was piling insult onto injury. The man must take me for a fool.

  "Father's rather busy these days," I said. "But I'll mention it to him."

  "Ah, yes, this—sudden death you spoke of.police and all that. Must be a damnable bore."

  Was he going to make a move or were we going to sit here gossiping until dark? Perhaps it would be best if I took the initiative. That way, at least, I'd have the advantage of surprise. But how?

  I remembered a piece of sisterly advice, which Feely once gave Daffy and me:

  "If ever you're accosted by a man," she'd said, "kick him in the Casanovas and run like blue blazes!"

  Although it had sounded at the time like a useful bit of intelligence, the only problem was that I didn't know where the Casanovas were located.

  I'd have to think of something else.

  I scraped the toe of my shoe in the sand; I would grab a handful and toss it in his eyes before he knew what had hit him. I saw him watching me.

  He stood up and dusted the seat of his trousers.

  "People sometimes do a thing in haste and later come to regret it," he said conversationally. Was he referring to Horace Bonepenny or to himself? Or was he warning me not to make a foolish move? "I saw you at the Thirteen Drakes, you know. You were inside the front door looking at the register when my taxi pulled up."

  Curses! I had been spotted after all.

  "I have friends who work there," I said. "Mary and Ned. I sometimes drop in to say hello."

  "And do you always rifle the guests' rooms?"

  I could feel my face going all scarlet even as he said it.

  "As I suspected," he went on. "Look, Flavia, I'll be frank with you. A business associate had something in his possession that didn't belong to him. It was mine. Now, I know for a fact that, other than my associate, you and the landlord's daughter were the only two people who were in that room. I also know that Mary Stoker would have no reason to take this particular object. What am I to think?"

  "Are you referring to that old stamp?" I asked.

  This was going to be a tightrope act, and I was already putting on my tights. Pemberton relaxed at once.

  "You admit it?" he said. "You're an even smarter girl than I gave you credit for."

  "It was on the floor under the trunk," I said. "It must have fallen out. I was helping Mary clean up the room. She'd forgotten to do a few things, and her father, you see, can be—"

  "I do see. So you stole my stamp and took it home."

  I bit my lip, wrinkled my face a bit, and rubbed my eyes. “I didn't actually steal it. I thought someone had dropped it. No, that's not entirely true: I knew that Horace Bonepenny had dropped it, and since he was dead, he wouldn't have any further need for it. I thought I'd make a present of it to Father and he'd get over being angry with me about the Tiffany vase I smashed. There. Now you know.”

  Pemberton whistled. “A Tiffany vase?”

  "It was an accident," I said. "I shouldn't have been playing tennis in the house."

  "Well," he said, "that solves the problem, doesn't it? You hand over my stamp and it's case closed. Agreed?"

  I nodded happily. “I'll run home and get it.”

  Pemberton burst into uncomplimentary laughter and slapped his leg. When he had recovered himself, he said, “You're very good, you know—for your age. You remind me of myself. Run home and get it indeed!”

  "All right, then," I said. "I'll tell you where I hid it and you can go and get it yourself. I'll stay here. On my honor as a Girl Guide!"

  I made the Girl Guide three-eared bunny salute with my fingers. I did not tell him that I was technically no longer a member of that organization, and hadn't been since I was chucked out for manu
facturing ferric hydroxide to earn my Domestic Service badge. No one had seemed to care that it was the antidote for arsenic poisoning.

  Pemberton glanced at his wristwatch. “It's getting late,” he said. “No more time for pleasantries.”

  Something about his face had changed, as if a curtain had been drawn across it. There was a sudden chill in the air.

  He made a lunge for me and grabbed my wrist. I let out a yelp of pain. In a few more seconds, I knew, he'd be twisting my arm behind my back. I gave in at once.

  "I hid it in Father's dressing room at Buckshaw," I blurted. "There are two clocks in the room: a large one on the chimneypiece and a smaller one on the table beside his bed. The stamp is stuck to the back of the pendulum of the chimneypiece clock."

  And then something dreadful happened—dreadful and, as it would turn out, quite wonderful, rolled together into one: I sneezed.

  My head cold had been lingering, nearly forgotten, for most of the day. I had noticed that, in the same way they recede when you're sleeping, head colds often let up when you're too preoccupied to pay them attention. Mine was suddenly back with a vengeance.

  Forgetting for a moment that the Ulster Avenger was nestled inside it, I went for my handkerchief. Pemberton, startled, must have thought my sudden move was the prelude to my bolting—or perhaps an attack upon his person.

  Whatever the case, as I brought the handkerchief up towards my nose, before it was even opened he deflected my hand with a lightning-quick grab, crumpled the cotton into a ball, and rammed it, stamp and all, into my mouth.

  "Right, then," he said. "We'll see what we shall see."

  He pulled his jacket from his shoulder, spread it out like a matador's cape, and the last thing I saw as he threw the thing over my head was Mr. Twining's tombstone, the word “Vale!" carved on its base. I bid you farewell.

  Something tightened round my temples and I guessed that Pemberton was using the straps of his portfolio to lash the jacket firmly in place.

  He hoisted me up onto his shoulder and carried me back across the river as easily as a butcher does a side of beef. Before my head could stop spinning he had dumped me heavily back onto my feet.