As Chimney Sweepers Come to Dust

by Alan Bradley

  “Miss Dawes?” I interrupted. “You’ve lost me.”

  “Dorsey Dawes. Dorsey Rainsmith, now. She was on the board of guardians at the time.”

  “Interesting,” I said. “Go on.”

  “Well, they helped Mrs. Rainsmith away from the table and out of the room. That was the last I saw of her. You could have knocked me over with a feather when I heard a couple of days later that she had drowned. The whole school felt like that. We were in shock.”

  “I suppose you don’t know where they took her when they left the table?”

  “Oh, but I do. They took her to Edith Cavell. Moatey insisted.”

  “Edith Cavell? Why on earth—?”

  “Because it was Moatey’s room at the time. They were renovating hers, and she had moved into Edith Cavell for the summer to get away from the paint fumes.”

  “And whose room had it been before that?” I asked.

  “Mine,” Fabian said.

  Somewhere in the universe something went “click,” and then another … and another. Like footsteps on the tiles of time.

  I wanted to shout out “Tombola!” or “Bingo!” or whatever they call it on this side of the pond, but I restrained myself.

  Already there wasn’t glory enough to go around and I didn’t want to dilute it any further.

  “Hmmm,” I said instead. This was the moment I had been waiting for.

  “And the chairman,” I said. “Did you see him again? That night, I mean?”

  “Of course. He and Dorsey—Miss—sorry—Doctor Dawes—came back and danced for hours.”

  “With whom?” I demanded, perhaps too quickly.

  “With everyone. He danced with students—democracy again—with faculty—”

  “With Miss Moate?”

  “Of course not! Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “Where was she by this time?”

  “I don’t know. She was around somewhere, I expect. I remember helping her roll up the paper garlands at the end of the night.”

  “And the chairman—dancing. Didn’t he seem worried about his wife?”

  “Didn’t seem to be. ‘Upset tummy’ was the word that went around. After all, he is a doctor, and ought to know. Besides, it was his duty to dance with all the girls.”

  “Yes,” I said. “I know: democratic principles. Did he dance with you?”

  “Yes. Twice, in fact.”

  “Why?”

  “How do I know, you idiot? Because I was the most beautiful girl in the room. Because he liked the smell of my Chanel. Because he likes tall girls. What a ridiculous question!”

  I saw that I had struck pay dirt, but I kept a poker face.

  “What did you talk about?”

  “Oh, for god’s sake, de Luce … how do you expect me to remember that? It was years ago.”

  “I’d have remembered,” I said. “I don’t often dance with a doctor. Or a man, for that matter.”

  “What are you getting at?”

  “Nothing,” I said. “It was just a thought. What did you talk about?”

  “The weather. The heat. He said I waltzed well. He complimented me on my corsage.”

  “Did he bid you farewell?” I asked.

  “What do you mean?” Fabian demanded.

  “Did he wish you well in your new life?”

  “Whatever are you talking about, de Luce? Are you insane?”

  “Not entirely,” I said. “I thought he might at least have congratulated you on winning the Saint Michael Award … Clarissa.”

  • TWENTY-NINE •

  I REACHED OUT AND ran my finger slowly down her cheek. It came away covered with pale powder. Underneath, her exposed skin was the same swarthy shade as that of her sister, Mary Jane.

  “Makeup, hair color, and hairstyle can fool a lot of people,” I said, “but the underlying facial structure can never really be changed—not in the long run, anyway, and not to the professional eye.”

  This was a fact I had learned from Dogger one rainy afternoon in the greenhouse as we pored over photographs of criminals in the back issues of The Police Gazette he had turned out from under the stairs. We had assumed (incorrectly, as it turned out) that they had belonged to Uncle Tar.

  Nevertheless, Clarissa Brazenose’s transformation into Fabian had been remarkable, a triumph of the actor’s makeup box. Even now, with the light stain on my fingertip, there was only an inch of the real Clarissa showing through.

  “You’ve managed to fool even your own sister,” I said. “You ought to be proud. You ought also to be ashamed. Poor kid, being made to think you were dead these past two years. She still doesn’t know, does she? And perhaps never will.”

  Fabian stared at me, not quite defiantly. I had to give her credit.

  “How did you manage?” I asked. “The makeup, of course, which you were taught to apply professionally. And you must have worn wigs, changed your posture, re-learned how to walk. I compliment you on a most remarkable performance.”

  I reached out as if to touch her hair.

  She backed slowly away out of reach.

  “I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about,” Fabian said, as of course she would. She had been trained to deny even to the death.

  And was I, at bottom, any different?

  The truth of the matter was that I hadn’t the heart to expose her. If I revealed the fact that Fabian was Clarissa Brazenose, then, even though I had won, she had lost. All of her efforts, and those who had trained her, would be for naught.

  The point of it all was this: Did I have the generosity to let her get away with it? Could I let her win? Throw the match, so to speak?

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I must have been mistaken.”

  And before she could stop me, I ran out of the laboratory.

  I did not need more entanglements.

  It was only when I got back to Edith Cavell that I realized I had not completed my experiment. I would return later to clean up.

  When Fabian was gone.

  Sleep was impossible. I tossed and turned, sweated and swore. By daylight I was a bad-tempered haystack, but I didn’t care. I had made up my mind what I was going to do. I would do it and hang the consequences.

  Rosedale at dawn was a very different place. The weather had turned cold overnight and left the world brittle. In some of the lower spots, patches of low fog lurked among the hedges, as if the atmosphere there had curdled. Dark trees overhung the frosty grass, and the air was as sharp as knives.

  I walked quickly, swinging my arms to generate a bit of heat. A school blazer and white blouse were hardly meant to replace a parka, and by the time I got to the Rainsmiths’, my nose was running and I was beginning to sneeze.

  I was not a pretty picture.

  Smoke was rising from the kitchen chimney as I made my way round the back of the house.

  I tapped lightly at the door and Elvina opened it almost at once.

  “I’m sorry to bother you,” I said, “but I should like to speak with Dr. Rainsmith. It’s urgent.”

  “Urgent, is it?” she asked, beckoning me to come inside. “So urgent that you can’t have a cup of hot tea and a buttered scone? You look as if you’ve fallen off a dog-sled.”

  “I’m all right,” I said, resenting both the remark and the way I looked. “Is Dr. Rainsmith at home?”

  “Which one?” she asked.

  “The chairman,” I said. “Ryerson.”

  Some people are shy about using the forename of an older person, but I am not one of them.

  “I’m afraid he’s not, dear. He’s off to a conference in Hamilton. Won’t be home until tonight. Is it something that can wait?”

  “No,” I told her, perhaps unwisely. “It’s a matter of life and death.”

  Unshaken (and it was only later that I realized that she probably dealt with matters of life and death daily, as others deal with dust) she replied, “Is it something I can help with—or Mr. Merton? He ought to be back from the train any minute now.�
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  “No,” I said. “It’s personal.”

  The look on her face told me that she was recalling our earlier conversation.

  “Honestly, I’m fine,” I said, touching her hand. It was the least I could do.

  It was only then that I noticed that Dorsey Rainsmith was standing in the doorway. She had followed me in from the garden with a wicker basket full of flowers. I must have passed her without seeing her. Perhaps she had been bent over with her secateurs.

  Was it just my imagination or had Elvina given a little jump? Had Dorsey Rainsmith taken us both by surprise?

  “Well,” she said, “what is it?”

  I had no more than a second to make up my mind. Did I stay or did I go? I thought of Alf Mullet’s many talks on military tactics which I had dozed through behind fascinated eyes. “Confrontation is a cannon,” he had said. “It’s a powerful weapon, but it gives away your position.”

  “It’s about Francesca Rainsmith,” I said.

  No going back now. I had fired my shot and could only wait for the consequences.

  “You’d better come in,” Dorsey said, placing the basket of flowers on the kitchen sink and leading the way through into another room which turned out to be her study. The walls were lined with medical reference books that I’d have given my eye teeth to read, but this was hardly the time or place.

  She took a chair at the desk without asking me to sit, then swiveled round to face me.

  “I’m very busy,” she said.

  “Good,” I said. “So am I. Let’s get on with it. Francesca Rainsmith.”

  “What about her?” Dorsey said. “She died in tragic circumstances, and I’d prefer you to respect my husband’s privacy, and mine.”

  “She died of arsenic poisoning at the Beaux Arts Ball,” I said. “A few days later, in a wedding dress and veil, you impersonated her on a moonlight cruise.”

  “Quite preposterous,” she said.

  “Yes, it is,” I replied. “Inspector Gravenhurst will find it even more so.”

  I paused to let her guilt get to work. “He’ll find the results of the autopsy particularly interesting, especially in view of the fact that you’ve been in charge of the body since it was discovered.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “I mean good morning, Dr. Rainsmith,” I said, and turned toward the door, an effect that was largely spoiled by my being convulsed with a sneeze.

  “Flavia—wait.”

  Reluctantly, I turned to face her again.

  “Dr. Rainsmith and I—Ryerson, I mean. We’re on your side, you know. Pheasant sandwiches.”

  She bared her teeth in a ghastly grin that was meant to be friendly but which, to me, looked more like a corpse in a comic book.

  I said nothing. I was not going to let on that I recognized the phrase.

  “Pheasant sandwiches,” she said again, smiling horribly … plaintively.

  Again I gave her a barn-door stare.

  “Listen,” she said. “What do you want?”

  “The truth,” I said, and I must admit that those two words, as brief as they were, were as sweet in my mouth as milk and honey. “First of all, Collingwood. What have you done with her?”

  “She’s been sent home to her parents. She suffered a bad shock at Miss Bodycote’s, then contracted rheumatic fever. We brought her here for a while, but she’s now been released.”

  That much, I thought, was probably true.

  “And Francesca Rainsmith?”

  Dorsey Rainsmith got to her feet and locked the door.

  Was I terrified?

  Well, yes.

  “I wish you’d wait until Ryerson comes home,” she said. “I’m sure he could make it quite—”

  “He won’t be home until late tonight,” I said. “He’s away at a conference.”

  “Oh, of course he is—I’d forgotten.”

  “So it’s just you and me,” I said. I resisted the urge to add “Sweetheart,” like Humphrey Bogart.

  “Talk,” I told her, and she did.

  I could hardly wait to tell Inspector Gravenhurst.

  “So you see,” I said, pacing up and down the room, “believing she was suffering from no more than indigestion, they took Francesca to Edith Cavell. A good sleep would do her good. They left her there and went downstairs, where it was said that they danced for hours.

  “Toward the end of the evening, when they finally got back to Edith Cavell, they found Francesca dead on the floor. Her throat had been cut. They were appalled. They panicked. After all, it had been implied that they had much more in common than medicine, if you see what I mean.

  “He needed to return to the ball to keep up appearances, Ryerson decided. He made his excuses, left instructions that his wife was not to be disturbed, and drove Dr. Dawes home. He’d deal with things himself. It was while driving back that he came up with a plan. He remembered that Francesca had wanted to go on a midnight cruise: to renew their vows. He’d already booked the tickets. There mustn’t be a breath of scandal, he decided: not about him and Miss Dawes and certainly not about Miss Bodycote’s Female Academy.

  “When he finally got back to Miss Bodycote’s, although it was quite late, there was still laughter in the ballroom. He went quietly up to Edith Cavell, and found … nothing! Francesca’s body was gone. Not a sign of her. The room was untouched. Wiped clean.

  “What to do? There was scarcely time to think. He told Fitzgibbon he was taking his wife home. No, no need to make a fuss. Carry on. He’d see to it.

  “Two nights later, they carried out their charade with Dorsey wearing a wedding dress and veil. The gift box, of course, contained her ordinary clothing, and while Ryerson alerted the captain that his wife had fallen overboard, Dorsey was packing the wedding gear in the box and putting on a dark suit, after which she mingled with the other passengers on the deck until they returned to port. No one paid her the slightest attention; no one, remember, because of the veil, had previously seen her face.

  “How did I discover this? Well, in the first place, Ryerson’s wife banged her head getting out of the taxi at the pier. Francesca Rainsmith was tiny: Had it been she, it never could have happened. That was what first alerted me. And then the taxi: Why had they taken a taxi instead of having Merton drive them to the ship? As for the rest of it, I got it straight from Dorsey Rainsmith’s mouth.”

  I waited for this to sink in.

  “Now then: Did they kill Francesca? The answer is no. They foolishly plotted to conceal her death, but as for murder, you will find them not guilty. Francesca died of arsenic poisoning. You will almost certainly still find traces of it in her body.

  “What made me suspect arsenic? I’m glad you asked. As you undoubtedly know, arsenic, heated, produces arsine gas. A body permeated with arsenic, wrapped in fabric, such as a flag, over time, will give off fumes that tarnish silver. I subjected a sample of the tarnish from a small silver medallion—which was clutched in the corpse’s hand—to the Marsh test, which confirmed my suspicions. I’ll be happy to turn it over to you so that you can verify my work. Yes, of course I ought to have handed over the medallion when you first arrived. I realize that now. But, like poor Collingwood, I must have been in shock. I hope you won’t think too badly of me.

  “And now the flag. Why was the body wrapped in a Union Jack? To absorb the blood, of course, of which there was a great deal. The flag was easily at hand, being stored in a trunk in the hall. It was flown over the academy every twenty-fourth of May, Victoria Day. Mr. Kelly will probably confirm that it was missing last May, and that he had to requisition a new one. No, I haven’t asked him myself, but I have observed that there is presently a quite fresh Union Jack in the trunk: one which can’t have been flown for more than a couple of days.

  “Who, then, killed Francesca Rainsmith? The deduction is an easy one. Who held Francesca responsible for the car crash that condemned her friend to a life of torture in a wheelchair? Who has hated Francesca with every moment of her
waking life?” (I’ll admit I was being a bit dramatic here). “Who is it that keeps a museum of taxidermy specimens, who has the ways and means to decapitate a dead body? Who had the upper body strength to shove a pitifully little body up the chimney? Having seen the killer run a wheelchair up and down steep banks and ramps with my own eyes, I’m satisfied that we need look no further.

  “And why decapitate? To avoid identification if the body were ever found. The skull which is presently in the morgue was formerly on the shelf of the natural history museum, here at Miss Bodycote’s. And as for Francesca Rainsmith’s skull, I expect you will find it on that same shelf in the same position, dyed with tea, in order to age it.

  “How do I know that? Why, I smelled it, of course. There is a definite odor of orange Pekoe.

  “Have I missed anything? Well, I suppose someone might ask how Francesca Rainsmith’s killer managed to get her severed head from Edith Cavell to the museum, and the replacement skull from the museum back to Edith Cavell, without being spotted on the night of the Beaux Arts Ball, when the place was simply crawling with people. Don’t quote me on this because I’m not absolutely positive, but I suspect it has to do with an oversized tea cozy.

  “And now, thank you for your time, Inspector. I am happy to have been of assistance.”

  These were the things I might have said to the handsome Inspector Gravenhurst had I been given the opportunity, but of course, I hadn’t. I had made a bargain with Wallace Scroop that he was to get the credit for figuring out the Rainsmiths’ moonlight cruise deception, and I meant to stick to it. I have to admit that I’ve never regretted anything in my life so much as giving up that glory. But choices are choices, and there’s no going back.

  I didn’t much mind not being able to tell the inspector that Fabian was Brazenose, but then, it’s not my place to be doing his work for him, is it? Let the police carry out their own investigations. It will keep them on their toes.