by Alan Bradley
“Shhh!” she said, covering her own mouth as she faked a small additional cough. “Druce is watching us. She reads lips.”
Much as I wanted to brag about my own achievements in that department, I made a quick decision to keep a few tricks up my sleeve. It is sometimes better to let science be thought magic.
Two tables away, the large girl who had elbowed her neighbor in the ribs—this must be Druce—was staring openly.
She was the only person in the hall looking at us. Everyone else was studiously looking away, as Anglicans invariably do when faced with group embarrassment. It was a trait I had noticed even as a child, which, as nearly as I could puzzle out, was somehow connected with the famous ostrich-and-sand reaction. Roman Catholics, by contrast, would have been clambering over one another for a front-row seat.
“Let’s get out of here,” Van Arque said. “I need some fresh air. Come on. We’ve got a few minutes before the next bell.”
As we pushed back our chairs, I turned deliberately toward Druce and, as if I were talking to Van Arque, clearly pronounced the word “flap-dragon.”
It was my favorite word from Shakespeare: not as long as “Honorificabilitudinitatibus,” which preceded it in Love’s Labour’s Lost, but enough of a workout to let Druce know that when it came to lip-reading, she was not dealing with someone who was wet behind the ears.
“You’re sure you haven’t got a cigarette?”
We were leaning against the stone rim of a neglected goldfish pool in a small courtyard behind the laundry.
“No,” I said. “I told you. I don’t smoke. It’s a filthy habit.”
“Sez who?” Van Arque demanded, squinting like Popeye and taking up a boxer’s stance—squeezing her biceps to make them bulge. I knew she was joking.
“Never mind,” she said. “Here comes Fabian. She’s always good for a fag. Fabian! Over here!”
Fabian was a tall blonde who looked as if she came from Finland: a pale, cool Nordic type, who wore rather too much face powder, as if she had a lot of spots to hide. I wondered if she, like me, was exiled from her homeland.
“How much?” Fabian asked, holding out a single cigarette. She didn’t even need to be asked.
“A nickel for two,” Van Arque said.
“Three for a dime,” Fabian countered, and the deal was done.
“It’s highway robbery, that’s what it is,” Van Arque said, lighting up when Fabian was gone. “She’s only been here a year and she’s already as rich as Croesus. She pays seventeen cents for a pack and makes three hundred percent profit. It isn’t fair.”
Nickels? Dimes? I knew that cents were roughly equivalent to pence, but beyond that, Canadian currency was a veiled mystery.
Why had I ever been sent away from the land of the sixpence—the land of half-crowns, ha’pennies, florins, farthings, and shillings, the land of decent coinage, where everything made sense?
How could I possibly learn to survive in such a pagan place, where trams were streetcars, vans and lorries were trucks, pavements were sidewalks, jumpers were sweaters, petrol was gasoline, aluminium was aluminum, sweets were candy, a full stop was a period, and cheerio was good-bye?
A towering wave of homesickness broke over me: a wave even greater than the Atlantic gales through which I had safely sailed; greater than anything I could ever have possibly imagined.
I put a hand against the stone wall to steady myself.
“Are you all right?” Van Arque asked anxiously.
“Yes,” I said weakly. And then again, more strongly, “Yes.”
It was only the thought of this curious creature who stood so casually beside me, smoking, that gave me strength. If Van Arque could go from choking to joking and smoking in the wink of an eye, then surely so could I.
“Morning, ladies,” said a voice behind me, making me jump. I whirled round to find what I took at first to be a weasel in a shabby trench coat: a thin young man with an alarmingly pale, pinched face and an unconvincing mustache.
“Students, I take it?” he asked. “A couple of Miss Bodycote’s beauties?”
“Go away,” Van Arque said, pulling a nickel-plated whistle from her pocket, “before I call the police.”
“Hey, take it easy. Don’t do that,” he said, dredging a damp leather wallet from the depths of the wreckage that was his raincoat. He flipped it open and held out what appeared to be some kind of official identity card.
“Wallace Scroop,” he said, offering it. “The Morning Star. Mind if I ask you a few questions?”
“We’re not allowed to speak to reporters,” Van Arque said.
“Listen,” he went on, ignoring her. “I’ve heard this place is haunted. It’s an old convent, you know … ghostly footsteps in the night—all that sort of thing. I thought it would make an interesting story. You might even get your pictures in the paper.”
“There are no such things as ghosts—or haven’t you heard, Mr. Scroop? Any footsteps in the night at Miss Bodycote’s are caused by too much lemonade at the school carnival—not by phantoms. Now please go away.”
“If I did,” Scroop said, “my editor would wring me out like a dishcloth. Come on, girls, have a heart. Let’s be honest. What do you know about the body that was carted off to the morgue last night? Someone you know, maybe? Listen, I could make it worth your while.”
I glanced at Van Arque, but she didn’t seem surprised at the news. Without further warning, she jammed the whistle between her lips and blew a long, ear-piercing blast. For a fraction of a second, Wallace Scroop looked as stunned as if she had slapped his face. And then, with a couple of surprisingly coarse words, he was gone.
“Creep,” Van Arque shot after him, but he was already too far away to have heard her.
Somewhere indoors, a bell began to ring.
“Curses!” Van Arque muttered. “Wouldn’t you just know it?”
She tossed the cigarette down and ground it out beneath her heel. “Come on,” she said. “We’ve got to go. They’ve put you in the fourth form—at least for the time being. As I said, Miss Fawlthorne told me to oversee you until she gets round to the formalities. She’s got rather a lot on her plate at the moment—or so she says.”
“I should say she has!” I volunteered, wondering if Van Arque’s had been one of the cherub faces floating in the darkness. “Did you see what happened in Edith Cavell last night?”
I hated myself as soon as I had said it. I am not ordinarily a gossip, but some inside force was suddenly making me spit out information like a clockwork ticket dispenser.
Was I automatically sucking up to Van Arque because of my inferior position as a new girl? I surely hoped not.
“No,” she said. “But I heard about it. That’s for darn sure!”
I said nothing. I have learned to use silence as a jimmy to pry information free. Or did I keep my mouth buttoned because I was still nauseated from that tidal wave of homesickness? I shall never know.
But whatever the reason, I held my tongue.
And it paid off. Van Arque couldn’t resist demonstrating her superior knowledge.
“The guff has it that Miss Fawlthorne found you standing over a dead body in Edith Cavell, and Collingwood in hysterics. I told you—you’re notorious. Now hurry up before they skin us and use our guts for snowshoes.”
• FIVE •
AS WE MADE OUR way along the dark passage that led from the back entrance to the Great Hall, the bell clanged again.
“Oh, corn!” Van Arque whispered in the sudden silence that followed. “Now we’re in for it. We’ll be blacked.”
“Blacked?” I said. Collingwood had used this term, but I still had no idea what being “blacked” involved, although I must say it didn’t sound like much fun. I had visions of being painted with boot polish, like the vicar as Othello in the parish play. It seemed rather an extreme punishment for missing a stupid bell.
As if by chance, another bell sounded: this one closer and less loud.
“It’s the
doorbell,” Van Arque said.
As sometimes happens when you’re in a pinch, Fate offered up a free spin of the wheel, and I took it.
Rather than following Van Arque, I veered across the hall and opened the door.
There, with his finger still on the electric bell button, stood a tall and excessively slender man. He had the long face and long fingers of a carved medieval saint and the body of a long-distance runner.
A younger, shorter man in a dark blue uniform stood sturdily to one side, his feet apart and his hands clasped—I assumed—behind his back. He might as well have had “ASSISTANT” stamped across his forehead with indelible ink.
“Yes?” I asked, taking the upper hand.
Behind me, Van Arque sucked in a noisy breath at my boldness.
“Miss Fawlthorne,” said the medieval saint. I could tell already that he was a man of few words. Rather like Gary Cooper.
“Ah!” I said. “You must be the police.”
It was, of course, a dim-witted thing to say, and yet at the same time, precisely right.
The tall man nodded, almost reluctantly. “That’s correct,” he said. He was giving nothing away.
“I’m Flavia de Luce,” I said, sticking out my hand. “And you are …?”
“Inspector Gravenhurst.”
“Ah!” I said, as if I had been already half-expecting that to be his name.
He gave me a quick but firm handshake. I could see that he was sizing me up even as our hands went up and down.
“And Sergeant …?” I said, taking a chance. Surely an inspector’s right-hand man would be a sergeant of one kind or another.
“LaBelle,” the sergeant said, not correcting me.
“I shall tell Miss Fawlthorne you wish to see her,” I said.
The inspector nodded, stepping inside and looking round the Great Hall with keen interest, taking in every detail with his penetrating gaze.
I liked this man already.
“By the way,” I said, turning back toward him. “I’m the one who discovered the body.”
This was not precisely true, but it was my only chance of becoming involved in the case. I resisted the powerful urge to tell him that this corpse was not my first: that in fact, cadavers were my calling card.
Modesty, though, prevailed.
The inspector brightened immediately.
“Indeed?” he said, and I liked him even more. Pity, though, that he wasn’t a member of the legendary Royal Canadian Mounted Police. That would have made things perfect, but it wasn’t likely his fault. His height had probably exceeded some idiotic and arbitrary physical requirement.
“Van Arque,” I said, surprised by my own boldness, “run upstairs and tell Miss Fawlthorne the inspector’s here.” I resisted adding, “There’s a good ducks.”
Van Arque’s mouth fell open.
“Van Arque’s a monitress,” I explained to the inspector. “She has first dibs on fetching the head.”
It was the right thing to say. Van Arque squeezed off a proud smile and was off up the stairs like a galloping rocket.
“You’re English,” Inspector Gravenhurst said.
“Yes,” I replied. My accent alone made me stand out among these Canadian girls like a—
“Been over long?” the inspector asked.
“Since last night,” I said. “Well, yesterday, actually.”
How I loved talking to this man! What a breath of fresh air it was to converse with someone who didn’t natter endlessly on and on like a village spinster.
I wanted desperately to tell him about Inspector Hewitt, my great friend back home in Bishop’s Lacey, but there would be time enough for that later. I would find a plausible way of dragging my dear inspector and his goddess wife, Antigone, into the conversation at a more appropriate time.
There was a clatter behind me on the stairs as Van Arque came scuttering quickly down, followed at a much more solemn pace by Miss Fawlthorne.
Blast them! I had barely got started. Well, there was nothing for it now but to play along. I clasped my hands daintily at my waist and went all submissive, staring up attentively at Miss Fawlthorne as if I were a beagle waiting for her to throw the ball.
“Thank you, Flavia. You are dismissed. Take her along to the fourth, Van Arque.”
I couldn’t help myself. I curtsied.
Van Arque tugged at my arm, and I had time only to flash the inspector a fleeting—but dazzling—smile.
“You’ll pay for that, you know,” Van Arque said when we were far enough along the corridor.
“Pay for what?” I asked.
She didn’t reply and on we marched.
* * *
“I’ve brought the new girl, Mrs. Bannerman.”
Van Arque paused, holding open the door.
I nearly swooned as the teacher turned round: She was, of course, the sweet-faced pixie! The elflike creature who looked as if she would be more at home perched on a foxglove leaf, sipping dewdrops from a fairy thimble.
“Come in, Flavia,” she said. “We’ve been expecting you.”
Flavia? Did the murderess (acquitted) Mildred Bannerman know my name?
I’m afraid that, for the first time ever in my life, although I may have been speechless, my heart was singing.
“Come in, Flavia,” she repeated, and I entered in a zombie trance.
Needless to say, I was the center of attention, which I loathe being. The girls all stared at me openly and I made a point of staring just as openly back. I was as curious about them as they were about me.
Who, for instance, was this girl with the needle-sharp nose and the hole in her stocking? And who the plump one with the pleasant face and fingernails bitten to the elbows? Who was the girl staring so intently at me from the farthest corner of the room? If I didn’t know better, I’d have sworn she had some ancient grievance.
And who was the girl that, in the middle of a room bubbling with curiosity, was so studiously ignoring me? I made special note of this one, recording her details in my mental notebook: small mouth, small nose, and hooded eyes; long black hair and a general air of self-importance, as if she were a wealthy tourist shopping in a bazaar swarming with ragged beggars.
After marking up what I took to be an attendance sheet, Mrs. Bannerman left the room to take a chemistry class with the fifth form, and was replaced by the gray-haired woman I had spotted at breakfast. I was right—she was the French mistress.
The girls all stood as she entered the room, and I went along with it.
For the next hour, Miss Dupont—I found out later whom she was—twittered away at the class, asking what seemed to be useless questions and nodding wisely at the useless answers. I didn’t understand a word of their palaver but, because she addressed each girl by name, the time wasn’t entirely wasted.
“Flav-ee-ah,” she said at last, mispronouncing my name and then rattling off a string of gibberish. I studied my fingernails, pretending I hadn’t heard.
“Elle est très timide,” she remarked to the class, and everyone laughed except me.
I felt like a chump.
What a jolly good idea it had been for my ancestors to forsake France in the days of William the Conqueror, I thought; otherwise, I, too, should have been brought up speaking through my nose.
And what utterly useless rot these girls were made to rehearse!
“The niece of my gardener has given me a blue handkerchief. Who has left Grandmother’s best photographic album in the garden in the rain?” (What a silly-sounding word “pluie” was: like the outcome of too many hot beans on toast.) “Run for the doctor, Marie—Madame has suffered a gastric explosion.”
I only know these things because Van Arque told me later what had actually been said.
Pitiful!
I won’t bother with the rest of that morning, except to say that it was uncomfortable. As I have said, I hate being the center of attention, and yet at the same time I can’t tolerate being ignored.
How I longed for a
brisk knock at the door, and for someone to announce that Inspector Gravenhurst wished to consult with me.
Not that he would put it that way, of course. No, he would be much more discreet than that.
“Inspector Gravenhurst presents his compliments,” they would say, “and begs that Miss de Luce favor him with her assistance.” No, “her valuable assistance.”
Or “invaluable assistance.”
Were things still done that way in Canada? Somehow I doubted it. Even in England nowadays, in my experience, the police were more likely to send you off to fetch them a cup of char or, when they finally came to their senses, to wring you dry as a dishrag before collaring all the credit for themselves.
Life wasn’t fair. It simply wasn’t fair, and I meant to make a note of it.
Before I left home, Aunt Felicity had presented me with a small leather notebook and a miniature propelling pencil, the latter cleverly concealed in a gold crucifix which I wore round my neck.
“Even a barbarian will think twice before meddling with that,” she had said.
The crucifix itself was altogether quite remarkable, modeled, Aunt Felicity told me, on the idea of the Trinity, three-in-one: Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.
And so it also contained, besides the pencil, a small but powerful magnifying glass that swung out from inside the cross, and a surprisingly complete set of lock picks.
“For quiet Sundays,” she had said, giving me what I would have sworn was a glacially slow, lizardlike wink.
It wasn’t until after dinner that the call actually came. I was walking with Van Arque toward the hockey field when the police sergeant, LaBelle, appeared as if from nowhere. Had he been lying in wait behind the laundry?
“The inspector wants to see you,” he said, his words reeking of cigarette smoke.
Just like that. No niceties.
I gave Van Arque a helpless shrug and followed the sergeant indoors.
“Big place you’ve got here,” he said as we climbed the stairs to Miss Fawlthorne’s study. “Roomy but gloomy.”
And he was right. Miss Bodycote’s Female Academy was a shadowed maze: a place in which daylight never strayed far from the windows. It was a place designed not to be lived in, but to be prayed in; a place whose narrow zigzag corridors were meant, perhaps, to confound the Devil.