The Grave's a Fine and Private Place: A Flavia De Luce Novel

by Alan Bradley

  “I’m afraid I can’t do that.” I lowered my voice. “You see, I have reason to believe that the police themselves may be involved.”

  Did I actually think that? Or was my mind doing acrobatics?

  “I see,” the inspector said. “Tell me a bit more.”

  “Do you remember the Canon Whitbread affair several years ago?”

  “Yes.”

  He was being noncommittal.

  “He was hanged for the murder of three of his parishioners. Cyanide,” I said.

  “Yes?” he asked.

  “He was innocent,” I said. “He didn’t do it.”

  “He confessed, as I recall,” Inspector Hewitt pointed out. “They had no choice but to hang him, did they?”

  I laughed, perhaps a little too loudly. The inspector was pulling my leg—making a joke—and I wanted to show him it hadn’t gone over my head.

  This little witticism was a remarkably good sign. Police inspectors do not make jokes with those they do not view as equals. At least, I hope they don’t.

  “Begin at the beginning and go on until you come to the end, Flavia. Then stop.”

  And so I did. I told the inspector how I had entangled my hand with Orlando’s dead body in the river; of how Dogger and I had fished him out and laid him on the bank.

  I even confessed to finding the rumpled piece of paper in the dead man’s pocket.

  “Interfering with a dead body at the scene of a crime can be a criminal offense, Flavia,” he said, not in an accusing way, but matter-of-factly, as if he were examining his fingernails.

  “I thought he might still be alive,” I protested, rather lamely.

  “And you’d bring him back to life by rifling his pockets?” Inspector Hewitt asked. “A most novel method of artificial respiration, and one I’ve not heard mentioned before.”

  I did not tell him about my interviews with Claire Tetlock and Greta Palmer. It was not necessary. They had told me things in confidence, and I mustn’t violate their trust. He would find out all he needed to know about Orlando during his own investigation.

  “The point is,” I continued, “Canon Whitbread didn’t poison those three old ladies. His son, Orlando, did. They had been gossiping about him. He was a paraldehyde addict. I could still smell it on his body.”

  “I see,” Inspector Hewitt said. I pictured him making notes.

  “And who killed Orlando?” he asked, as I had hoped and prayed he would.

  “Nightingale, the undertaker. He tried to kill me, too. He overcame me with ether and sealed me in a coffin to die.”

  “Good lord,” Inspector Hewitt said, and my heart soared. “Are you all right now?”

  I realized, even as I spoke, that the tears were welling up. I hadn’t realized until now how close I’d come. I began to shake like a December leaf.

  I could hear the legs of the inspector’s chair grating on his office floor.

  “Stay where you are,” he said. “Don’t talk to anyone. Don’t go outside. I shall be there as soon as I can manage.”

  “Thank you,” I whispered.

  “Oh, and Flavia…”

  “Yes?” I barely managed to whisper.

  “Well done,” he said.

  —

  Precisely eighty-nine minutes later—I had Dogger time it with his watch—Inspector Hewitt’s blue Vauxhall pulled up and parked beside the Rolls in the forecourt of the Oak and Pheasant. Two minutes later, the three of us, with me wrapped in a blanket and sipping a cup of hot Oxo, faced one another across a table in the privacy of the saloon bar.

  “You must tell me everything,” the inspector said. “Even those things you might not wish to.”

  I looked at Dogger. Dogger nodded solemnly, and I began to speak.

  It all came pouring out. Our chemical experiment with the diatoms, our visit to Scull Cottage, Poppy Mandrill, all of it. Even Constable Otter.

  “Constable Otter is very ambitious,” I said. “He keeps insisting Orlando’s death was a drowning accident. I think he’s covering up: protecting someone—or himself.

  “The constable was involved in the arrest and trial of Canon Whitbread, who’s buried under the altar, by the way, in spite of being a convicted murderer. I don’t have the means of finding out why, which is partly why I rang you up, Inspector.”

  “I see,” he said. “But, if such should prove to be the case, I must place both of you under a pledge of secrecy. This could have grave implications at the highest levels. Very grave implications.”

  “I promise,” I said, and Dogger nodded assent.

  “You see, Inspector, Canon Whitbread was…framed, I believe, is the word you use. A number of people knowingly gave false evidence against him. One of these was Constable Otter. A great many falsehoods were put about and allowed to spread. Orlando’s train trip to London, for instance. Why? I can’t begin to understand it all, but I have good reason to believe that blackmail was involved—as well as a certain amount of hanky-panky. Orlando had threatened to involve the police in certain letters he had received—which can be interpreted in more ways than one. But I must leave such delicate matters to you, Inspector.”

  Greta chose that moment to come bustling into the room and my heart almost stopped. I simply didn’t have it in me to tell the inspector that she herself had met Orlando’s train. She would need to make that—and other equine matters—part of her own confession.

  “Would anyone like a bite to eat?” she asked, putting her hand on my shoulder. “This little girl’s looking peaky.”

  I could have killed her!

  “No, thank you, Mrs. Palmer,” Dogger replied. “A quiet place to talk is all we require.”

  Good old Dogger.

  “Very well, then,” she said, seemingly reluctant to let go of me. She drew in a great deep breath as if coming to some decision, then said: “But when you’re finished here, Inspector, I should like to have a word with you myself. In private.”

  I gave her an encouraging smile, in spite of her recent remark. I was grateful that it would be she who would explain to him that business of the brass stallion and the copper mare. When it comes to poetry, I’m way out of my depth.

  The inspector watched her leave, and then said, “Tell me more about Orlando Whitbread. I assume you’ve compiled quite an impressive dossier on him.”

  Now here was a man who knew how to give credit where credit’s due. I tried, by lowering my eyes, to look properly humble.

  I took the crumpled bit of paper and its matching mate from my jumper and placed them on the table.

  “This was in Orlando’s pocket,” I said. “The numbers refer to the book of Timothy: ‘But they that will be rich, fall into temptation, and a snare—’ ”

  “ ‘—and into many foolish and hurtful lusts which drown men in destruction and perdition,’ ” Inspector Hewitt finished for me.

  With no more than a quick inspection of the paper scraps themselves, he extracted a glassine envelope from an inner pocket and slid them neatly into it.

  “As you have suggested,” the inspector said, “he was being blackmailed.”

  “Yes,” I replied. “I believe he murdered the Three Graces in revenge and to silence their gossip, although I suspect his fears were greatly magnified by his use of paraldehyde.”

  “What makes you think that?” the inspector asked.

  “Hob Nightingale saw him talking to himself on the riverbank. People assumed he was rehearsing some theatrical role, but to my mind, Inspector, he was having hallucinations. Paraldehyde, especially in large quantities, has strange effects upon the human brain, of which religious visions and hallucinations are an excellent example. He might even have fancied himself to be some heavenly avenger.”

  The inspector looked me in the eye and hauled out his Biro.

  “Go on,” he said.

  “Paraldehyde addiction may result in delirium tremens and delusions. In severe cases, it may result in complete moral deterioration.”

  I le
t my words hang in the air.

  “I see,” Inspector Hewitt said.

  “It’s in Medical Jurisprudence. I can show it to you, if you wish.”

  “Thank you, Flavia,” he said. “I take your point.

  “Back to your dossier,” he added, almost absentmindedly.

  “Well, Orlando was an extraordinarily gifted actor,” I said. “He was planning to re-create one of Poppy Mandrill’s greatest stage successes, with himself in the starring role.”

  One of Inspector Hewitt’s eyebrows went slowly up, like a hawk rising on the wind.

  “I see,” he said.

  “In some ways,” I went on, “he was like a child. Wanted to run away with the circus. Which is why his father was so protective of him.”

  “To the extent of going to the gallows in his place?”

  “The canon was a martyr,” I said. “Someone will have to make amends.”

  As the inspector made another note, I glanced over at Dogger. If eyes alone could signal approval, that was the message he was sending.

  “In spite of his addiction, Orlando had many friends. Everybody loved Orlando.”

  Inspector Hewitt made a note. “Just so,” he said. “But he obviously also had several enemies.”

  “The Three Graces?” I asked. “Well, yes.”

  “I recall the case,” he said. “Something of a landmark. So you believe it was Orlando who poisoned the Communion wine?”

  “Yes. Dogger told me that we must keep an eye out for the Invisible Ones. And who is more invisible than the rector’s son at a vicarage? Especially one who lives scarcely a mile away in a tumbledown boathouse.”

  Dogger was sitting with his hands folded, listening. He was leaving things to me.

  “Orlando allowed his own father to be hanged for the crime. It was all too fatally easy. He was supposed to have been in London at the time.”

  “Hmmm,” Inspector Hewitt said.

  “Since then he’d been enormously wracked by guilt. So much so recently that, several nights ago, he returned to the very spot where he had ditched the poisoned chalice, and swallowed cyanide. It was to be an act of repentance. Very dramatic. In keeping with his talents.”

  I saw a certain light come into the inspector’s eyes.

  “Unfortunately, he was spotted,” I went on. “Someone saw him and clubbed him, not realizing the poor creature had already poisoned himself.”

  “And so,” Inspector Hewitt said, “we come to Mr. Nightingale.”

  This was the moment I had been waiting for, and I meant to relish it.

  “Well, you see, Inspector,” I said, “when I saw that highly polished coffin in his workshop, I knew that he was in trouble. The finish was too hard. He had not conducted a funeral for a very long time—two years, in fact.

  “As you know, the French polished finishes involving shellac and methylated spirits take a remarkably long time to dry, which is why they are so seldom used. Coffins tend to be required on short notice, and there’s no time for fine finishes. That coffin, Inspector, had been in his workshop for simply ages. I wondered why.”

  “Whoa! Let’s back up a little,” Inspector Hewitt said. “But I see what you’re getting at. You believe that it was Nightingale who killed Orlando Whitbread.”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “And his motive?”

  “Money. Undertakers are the only ones who profit from every death. Mr. Nightingale has had no income since the deaths of the Three Graces two years ago. Except, of course, for Canon Whitbread’s burial, which was paid for by His Majesty’s Prisons—which seems suggestive in itself, don’t you think?”

  “That’s quite a leap, Flavia,” he pointed out.

  “Yes,” I agreed, “—but I’m quite a leaper.”

  “I can vouch for that, Inspector.” Dogger’s face gave away nothing.

  “Of course, the undertaker is another of the Invisible Ones,” I said. “No one thinks anything of it to find them in the church or the churchyard. Oh, dear, what’s going to become of poor little Hob?”

  “We shall cross that bridge when we come to it,” Inspector Hewitt said. “But tell me this: Did Nightingale say anything to you before his attack? Before he overcame you and put you in the coffin?”

  “Nothing,” I told him. “I didn’t even see him. He came at me out of nowhere.”

  “For no particular reason?” the inspector pressed. “Entirely unprovoked?”

  “Except that he must have known I was on to him.”

  “Yes, there might be something in that,” Inspector Hewitt said, closing his notebook.

  How maddening this man could be!

  “Well, then,” he said, getting to his feet. “I shall have to leave you now. I have certain—ah—inquiries to make.”

  Which meant arranging with the local authorities to have Nightingale—and possibly Constable Otter—clapped in irons.

  “Crikey!” I exclaimed, clapping my hand to my head. “Where is Mr. Nightingale?”

  “I should be surprised if he’s not having a nice cup of tea with Mr. Dieter and Miss Ophelia,” Dogger answered. “They offered to keep an eye on him until Inspector Hewitt arrived. I don’t expect he’ll give them any trouble.”

  When the inspector had gone, Dogger and I sat for a time in silence at the table. As an old clock ticked slowly and companionably on the mantel, I suddenly understood—really understood—the meaning of time.

  “Dogger,” I said, “I want to go home.”

  “As you wish, Miss Flavia,” he said. “Buckshaw is at its most convivial in the summer months.”

  I nodded in agreement as I allowed the dear old place to come flooding back into my consciousness for the first time in ages. The estate was now entirely mine to do with as I pleased: I could keep it, or sell it, or give it away. Aunt Felicity be blowed!

  There had been recent indications that all the long years of legal wrangling would soon be coming to an end. The fortunes of Buckshaw would be entering into a new age.

  The last pieces of the puzzle had suddenly fallen into place while I was lying only partly conscious in Nightingale’s abominable coffin. Were they the remnants of a dream? A fantasy? A vision of the future?

  I would probably never know how inspiration came to me, but it was no less real for all that.

  “Dogger,” I said. “We’re going to have a brass plate made and mounted on the gates. Very discreet, of course. Very tasteful.”

  With Feely soon to be married, it made perfect sense. Of course it did! And hadn’t Daffy just demonstrated her unsuspected genius at solving difficult puzzles?

  My heart began to hum like a spinning top as I added names to the register: Aunt Felicity, of course; Mildred Bannerman, the once-convicted murderess and former teacher at Miss Bodycote’s Female Academy; my old friend and would-be associate Adam Tradescant Sowerby, the florarchaeologist; and, yes, even my obnoxious little cousin Undine, whose weird enthusiasms and uncanny persistence could, in time and in the right hands, be put to good use.

  “A brass plate, Miss Flavia?” Dogger asked.

  “Yes,” I said, drawing a rainbow in the air with my spread fingers. “And on it we shall have these words: Arthur W. Dogger & Associates—Discreet Investigations.”

  “Hmmm,” Dogger said. “It does roll off the tongue, doesn’t it, Miss Flavia? Discreet is such an elegant touch.”

  To Shirley, my inspiration

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  AT THE END OF any long journey, the traveler cannot help but look back and remember with great affection all those who, somewhere along the way, have helped to lighten the load. Quite often—and quite surprisingly—these kindred souls do not realize either the timeliness or the importance of their assistance. Although they have sometimes even forgotten their contributions, the grateful author has not: They have become as much a part of the finished book as its pages and binding.

  All thanks, then, to Eileen Roberts, of St. Hilda’s College, Oxford, for her friendship, and for the man
y stimulating conversations about the rivers in our midst, and the role they play in detective fiction. Eileen’s delight about everything from residential trapezes to toxicity has so often been the necessary tinder to my flame.

  And to Doug Bell, whose generosity and patient companionship is embedded invisibly throughout this book.

  To friends Doreen and Geoff Dixon, for putting into my hands so many rare and fascinating books—and always at precisely the moment when they were most needed. It’s beyond synchronicity: It’s downright spooky! Doreen and Geoff have also very kindly, and so frequently, taken me places I needed to go. Driving with them in the rain to discover junk shops and overgrown churchyards is simply delicious: like wine to the wicked.

  Special thanks to Marie-Andrée Lamontagne of the Montréal International Blue Metropolis Festival, and grateful acknowledgments to the Canada Council for the Arts, the Embassy of Canada in Rome, and the Délégation du Québec à Rome for making it possible for me to meet so many Flavia fans in Italy.

  To Beatrice Orlandini for being herself: a beautiful and most charming shepherd.

  And to Marella Paramatti, of the Festivaletteratura di Mantova, and interviewer Chiara Codecà; and to Laura Grandi and Luisa Rovetti, of Grandi & Associati, in Milan: a thousand thank-yous would never be enough.

  To the memory of my cousin, the late Bill Bryson, and his wife, Barb, for providing important photographs and documents, and for bringing me home again through time to my childhood.

  To Denise Bukowski and Stacy Small, of the Bukowski Agency, Toronto, for handling all the really important matters with such efficient grace and good humor.

  Once again, to Roger K. Bunting, Professor Emeritus, Department of Chemistry, Illinois State University, whose wise counsel has saved me from excessive chemical mischief.

  My chemically inclined readers will have spotted at once that I have taken certain liberties with the Levine-Bodansky method, by which the presence of paraldehyde is detected in biological fluids. I can plead only that great simplification is sometimes necessary, even with the most fascinating procedures.

  And finally, as always, to my wife, Shirley, who has allowed Flavia to occupy our days, our nights, and our home for nearly ten years. If anyone deserves a medal, it is Shirley, and so I hereby award her the first and only Companion of Valor, First Class, for love and patience and tolerance far, far beyond the vows of marriage.