by Alan Bradley
There had been a time when, after first reading up on these horrors, I had refused to drink so much as a drop of milk without first taking it to my chemical laboratory and pasteurizing it personally, then examining it closely under the microscope for rogue bacilli.
Nowadays, of course, since the discovery of penicillin in 1928 by Alexander Fleming, no one dies of consumption except in the cinema, where its onset is invariably signaled by tragic glances, sprayed-on perspiration, soot rubbed below the eyes, dramatic coughing, and spitting of fake blood always—conveniently—into spotlessly white handkerchiefs.
My fascinating train of thought was interrupted by the arrival of our drinks.
“Cheers!” Daffy said quietly, raising her glass to each of us in turn. She was showing off—not giving a thought to the seriousness of the situation. Even if taste and decency are chucked out the window, there is one rule that remains: keeping a long face in the presence of death.
I shot her a wet-blanket look.
“Sorry,” she said, surprisingly humbled.
In the silence that followed, I let my mind drift across the room, out the door, across the road, and through the churchyard to the riverbank.
Who was the dead man, and how had he come to drown? Had it been an accident, or—
“I want to go home,” Feely said suddenly. “I’m not feeling well. I’ve had enough.”
Oddly enough, I knew exactly what she meant. It wasn’t just the finding of a corpse on the river. As I have said, Father’s death had told terribly upon her, and the continued postponements of her wedding date, and the resulting battles, even more.
Poor Feely, I thought. Her life had been a will-o’-the-wisp, with true happiness always just beyond her grasp.
I had an idea, but it would keep until after we had eaten. I touched her arm as a kind of “message received” signal.
Was the look that she returned a grateful one? With Feely, one could never know.
Dogger, as I knew he would, ordered the ploughman’s lunch, Feely a small salad, and Daffy a small dish of steamed carrots.
“I’m sorry,” she said, “but I simply can’t face meat.”
I plumped for plain old chutney, cheese, and pickled onions, a favorite dish, which I had secretly named “The Embalmer’s Breakfast.” It was as like a chemical lab as you could get when away from home.
We ate in silence. The things that Dogger and I might have talked about were not suitable for my sisters’ ears, while the topics I might have discussed with them were unfit for his.
As we were finishing our meal, the door of the public bar next door burst open, and a loud, breathless voice announced: “Somebody’s drowned! They’ve fished a dead ’un out of the river!”
A general hubbub arose at once as chairs and boots grated noisily on the floor. Before you could say “Ninepins!” the place had emptied, and the only sound was that of a few retreating voices.
“Come,” I said, tugging at Feely’s arm. It was time to put my plan into execution.
“I’m not going back there,” she said. “I don’t feel well. I want to go home.”
“I know,” I told her, not loosening my grip. “But think—what’s across the road?”
“A drowned body,” she answered, shuddering.
“Besides that.” She looked up at me dumbly.
“A church!” I said. “And where there’s a church, there’s an organ. No smoke without fire, and so forth. Come on, let’s go. My ears are parched. I need a bit of Bach.”
Something dawned on Feely’s face. It wasn’t exactly happiness, but it would do.
As she got to her feet, I took her forefinger and led her toward the door. It was the first time I had willingly touched my sister’s hand since I was nine months old and learning to walk.
Outside, the June weather was glorious, and we both had to shield our eyes against the summer sun.
We crossed the road and approached the church along the gravel path.
ST.-MILDRED’S-IN-THE-MARSH, it said on the weathered signboard, and I gave a shiver of pleasure. The ghost of Canon Whitbread might, even at this moment, be peeping round one of those old, weather-blasted tombstones, looking over my shoulder.
As I stared up at the square tower, I had the distinct feeling that someone was watching us, but in a moment it had passed. Churches can do that to you.
In the porch, Feely made a beeline up the curving stone steps to the organ loft, and I took a pew at the front on the center aisle.
There is nowhere you can feel the presence of the dead more than in the damp dimness of an empty church. If you listen, you can hear them breathing. I know that makes no sense, because the dead don’t breathe—at least in an earthly way. But you can hear them nonetheless.
I turned up the volume on my almost supernatural hearing. This was a trait I had inherited from my dead mother, Harriet, which, although generally a pain in the ear, sometimes came in handy.
But if the dead were whispering today, they were not addressing me. Perhaps the lady victims of Canon Whitbread were gathering round the Communion rail for a jolly good chin-wag. Wasn’t it, after all, the very spot where they had been poisoned?
I stared at the altar with new interest. Was there a slight shimmering of the air? If so, it was nothing you could put your finger on. A thermal of warm air, perhaps, set into motion by the outside temperature: a silent gust from one of the underfloor heating ducts.
It was either moving air or ancient holiness, and if I had to make a bet, I’d put my money on a cold draft.
After a few hollow knocks and the rustle of paper somewhere at the back of the church, the organ began to speak. I recognized the melody at once: Johann Sebastian Bach’s The Art of Fugue.
It began with the note of a single pipe, which sounded at first like a dry bone singing itself to sleep in a crypt somewhere in the night. But it wasn’t long before the other bones joined in—Bach’s playful organ notes rising and flitting about high up among the rafters and hammer beams like a squadron of deliriously happy bats. An apt comparison, if I do say so myself, since the word fugue means flight.
Oh, it was delicious!
I sighed, took a deep breath, and closed my eyes.
Old Johann Sebastian, I decided, must have had a mind like mine, capable of being everywhere at once.
I have always found organ music to be great fertilizer for thoughts. With Bach in my ears and no distractions, my mind accelerated like a greyhound let off the leash.
Who was the dead Orlando, and who was the woman in the bath chair? What was the relationship between them? Why had she reacted so vigorously when I told her he was dead?
More important, what was the meaning of the numbers I had found in the corpse’s pocket?
My eyes popped open at the thought, and were drawn immediately to the numbers posted on the hymn boards above the pulpit and the lectern. These were, of course, the hymns which were to be sung at the next service—or had already been sung at the last one.
Three only were listed: Hymns 289, 172, and 584.
I swiveled round and plucked a copy of Hymns Ancient and Modern (Ancient and Laundered, as Daffy calls it) from the rack on the back of my pew.
I thumbed my way to Hymn 289:
Days and moments quickly flying
Blend the living with the dead;
Soon will you and I be lying
Each within his narrow bed.
How I adore hymns! They have a sense of perspective that’s all too often missing in everyday life.
Not much correspondence, though, with the numbers in the corpse’s pocket. I called to mind the wrinkled bit of paper: 54, 6, 7, 8, 9, it had said.
Well, the 8 and the 9 of the first hymn number were the same but it wasn’t enough. Two numbers out of six wins nothing on the lottery, and it didn’t here, either.
I turned to Hymn 172:
Praise to the Holiest in the height
And in the depths be praise
This was more like
it. I couldn’t help but think of the dead Orlando, whom I had dredged from the depths, although I doubt if he was doing much praising about his predicament.
But for this hymn, only the 7 tallied. Worse odds than the previous one.
What if the numbers referred to Hymns 54, 67, and 89?
My thumbs became a blur.
Hymn 54 seemed promising:
When shades of night around us close
And weary limbs in sleep repose…
But from there, it quickly wandered off into pity, guilt, and misery.
I flipped to Hymn 67.
The third verse had blood and water, and the fourth something about landing on the eternal shore.
I sighed and went on to 89.
Which was about Moses, fasting. Not particularly promising.
But then I remembered: Hymns Ancient and Modern wasn’t the only flounder in the sea. No, indeed! The church, for as long as I could remember, had been tinkering with the hymnal and the prayer book so much as to make your head spin. Sunday morning services were like a steeplechase as we fanned pages in the next jump to get to the proper place.
And then, of course, there was The English Hymnal. That in itself was an entirely different kettle of fish.
Were all these fishy thoughts a kind of blasphemy? I decided not: Wasn’t the fish, after all, as much a symbol of Christianity as the cross?
I twisted round again in my seat—actually got onto my knees on the pew—so that, facing backward, I could dig more deeply—I was going to say “fish,” but I won’t—in the book rack behind me.
And yes, as I somehow knew it would be, not far from my searching fingertips was a rather tattered copy of The English Hymnal.
This was larger—fatter—than Hymns A & M, due of course to the fact that it contained not only the words of the hymns with their titles in Greek and Latin, but also the music, as well as footnotes.
This was an industrial-sized hymnbook, intended for experts.
I turned to Hymn 54:
Ye clouds of darkness, hosts of night,
That breed confusion and affright
Begone!
Et cetera.
Could it have been a warning? That seemed unlikely.
I paged ahead to number 67:
Now is the healing time decreed.
Healing, perhaps, but disappointing.
Now only Hymn 89 was left.
My fingers were already feeling defeated.
But wait—here it was:
Soul of Jesus, make me whole,
Meek and contrite make my soul;
Thou most stainless Soul Divine,
Cleanse this sordid soul of mine.
I gave an involuntary shiver. Could this be a personal message from the universe to Flavia de Luce?
Was it like one of those oracles where you stuck your finger into the pages of the Bible at random and read out the text from wherever it landed?
I had seen Feely do this once—but only once.
“What shall I wear when Dieter takes me to the cinema on Saturday night?” she had asked, but when the Bible had replied: “My flesh is clothed with worms and clods” (Job 7:5), she had let out an unearthly shriek and canceled her date.
The hymn went on to talk about curses and ransoms, but not until the later verses. In my opinion, no one sending an encrypted threat would make use of any but the opening words. Otherwise, it would be too obscure. The intended victim would become bored and give it up before getting to the message.
I could see that the hymnbook idea was a washout, and I returned it to its rack.
Beside the two hymnals was a third book, thick and black, loose and battered from much use.
Not expecting much, I picked it up.
The Holy Bible—King James Version. It was as heavy as a brick.
Acting upon a sudden impulse, I shoved my forefinger in among its pages.
Her princes within her are roaring lions; her judges are evening wolves; they gnaw not the bones till the morrow.
Zephaniah, chapter 3, verse 3.
So much for oracles, I thought.
But, believe it or not, at that very instant, an idea came flying out of nowhere and landed on my head, like a pigeon on Lord Nelson’s statue.
I turned to the front of the Bible, praying desperately for a table of contents.
Yes! Here it was—just as you would expect—at the beginning.
Genesis…Exodus…Leviticus…
A cold hand touched my bare arm. I leapt at least two feet into the air, and my pounding heart cowered behind my kidneys.
“I thought I’d find you here,” said a voice at my ear, and I spun round in a state that was close to terror.
It was the woman from the riverbank. Once again, she had rolled up behind me in utter silence.
With my back turned to the altar, and the music from the organ, I had not seen or heard her bath chair coming. She must have entered the church through the transept.
“We got off on the wrong foot out there,” she said, jerking a thumb toward the churchyard. “My fault entirely. You were only trying to help poor Orlando. I should have realized that at once.”
She must have seen my astonishment. Could this be the same person who, not all that long ago, had been tearing out her hair on the riverbank?
“You must have been longing to slap my face, mustn’t you? Oh, go ahead, admit it. I shouldn’t have blamed you if you had.”
I gave her one of those grim fishhooks-in-the-corners-of-the-mouth smiles, and turned my attention back to the open Bible.
Genesis…Exodus…Leviticus…
“Tell me you forgive me,” she said, giving my arm a tug. “The vicar and the constable advised me to come into the church and compose myself. Which is what I am attempting to do. But you must help me.”
I tried to ignore her, but it was not easy.
“Here,” she said, shoving a hand in my face. “Shake. I’m Poppy Mandrill. And who, pray tell, are you?”
“Titania Bottom,” I replied, as I sometimes do when I’m annoyed.
The woman threw back her head and laughed—a surprisingly rich, warm, throaty laugh that flew up and joined the flitting notes of the organ.
“Come off it,” she said. “I’ve directed enough Shakespeare in my time to know when my leg’s being pulled.”
She tapped her right knee—or at least, where her right knee ought to have been, but wasn’t. I noticed for the first time that she was lacking a leg. Until now, the blanket in her lap had hidden the missing member.
“I—I’m sorry,” I said, feeling like a chump.
“Don’t be,” she replied. “I’m not. It’s curiously liberating, in a way. Oh, don’t give me that look of pitying skepticism. I’m sick and tired of people looking at me like that. They don’t know what to make of me. I may be lacking a leg but there’s nothing wrong with my brain.”
I had to admit to myself, grudgingly, that there was something in this woman I admired. I made a sudden decision and thrust out my hand.
“Flavia de Luce,” I said, looking her in the eye as I gave her a firm old handshake to make up for my insolence.
“Tell me about Orlando,” I went on, while our palms were still touching. “I feel so sorry for him.”
She studied my face closely.
“And besides, I’m curious,” I added.
“Fair enough,” she said. “I believe you. Orlando was my…protégé.”
An interesting word, that. I knew that it came from a French word meaning to protect. Feely’s organ teacher, Mr. Collicutt, always referred to her as his protégé. At least, he always did before he was murdered.
But if Mr. Collicutt ever fancied he was protecting Feely from anything, he must have had the brains of a trilobite. My sister was born with the defensive instincts of a tiger shark.
No, there was another sense to the word, meaning a student, or pupil. That must be it.
“You were his teacher?” I asked.
Miss Mand
rill sized me up before answering.
“In a sense, yes,” she said at last.
I had learned some years ago by observing my friend Inspector Hewitt, of the Hinley Constabulary, that the best way to elicit further information is by keeping one’s mouth firmly shut.
I said nothing—and by Jehoshaphat, it worked!
“Orlando was a very talented actor,” she explained. “He might have become the greatest of our age—or of any other—had he lived. Another Gielgud—who knows? Perhaps even greater than Gielgud. He had the sensitivity and the steel combined: that precious alloy so lacking in so many of today’s footlight trotters.
“All he lacked was opportunity, and now even that seems to have been snatched away from him.”
By whom? I wondered grammatically. By Fate?
Or was Miss Mandrill suggesting that something much more sinister had taken place?
I thrust my face slightly forward to indicate intense interest.
“Well,” she continued, giving her head a shake, “wherever he is now, he will be laughing at his own tragedy. That’s how it’s done, you know. That is the secret of true greatness.”
She’s right, I thought. I don’t know how many times I’ve laughed aloud at the very thought of my own not inconsiderable talents.
I smiled modestly.
“And where do you suppose he is?” I asked, sneaking the question in under the wire, so to speak.
“Orlando?” She spoke his name with a little laugh. “Oh, he’ll be perching on the edge of some mauve-tinged cloud, wiggling his toes, sipping a glass of absinthe, and chummying up to one of our more outré dead novelists. Ronald Firbank, or one of that lot.”
“Not Shakespeare?” I asked, surprised.
“Shakespeare?” Miss Mandrill repeated, making a prune mouth. “Good lord, no! Orlando detested Shakespeare. ‘High-blown muck,’ he used to say. ‘The lot of it. Like an explosion in a pigsty.’ ”
I couldn’t help sucking in my breath. Good thing Daffy isn’t here, I thought. She would have pulverized the woman for even repeating such sacrilege.