Speaking From Among the Bones

by Alan Bradley

  I could have gone on but I hadn’t the words.

  “Colonel de Luce,” he said, “would like to see you in the drawing room in forty-five minutes.”

  “Just me?” I asked. I was already dreading another ban on my activities.

  “The three of you: Miss Daphne, Miss Ophelia, and yourself.”

  “Thank you, Dogger,” I said. I knew better than to beg for details.

  I believed I already knew them. But before the dreaded interview, I had a duty to perform.

  In silent procession, I would tour the house, perhaps for the last time. I would bid farewell to the rooms that I had loved, and keep clear of the ones I hadn’t. I would begin with Harriet’s boudoir, even though it was technically off-limits. I would touch her combs and brushes and inhale her scent. I would sit for a while in silence. From there I would proceed to the greenhouse and the coach house where I had spent so many happy hours chattering with Dogger about everything under a thousand suns.

  I would walk, for one last time, the portrait gallery, saying good-bye to my grim old ancestors who were framed in solemn rows. I would tell them that a portrait of Flavia de Luce was not destined to hang among them.

  And then the kitchen: the dear kitchen which overflowed with memories of Mrs. Mullet and pilfered supplies. I would sit at the table where Father had talked to me.

  From the kitchen, I would proceed up the east staircase to my bedroom, where I would wind up the crank of the old phonograph and put on the Requiem Mass of Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart. I would hear it through.

  And finally, my laboratory.

  At this point I must end my description.

  It is too unbearably sad to go on.

  At the appointed hour the three of us came slowly to the drawing room, Feely and Daffy descending from their bedrooms in the west wing, and me, dawdling down the stairs from the east.

  I had changed into a clean frock, pulled on my comfortable old cardigan, then touched up my singed face with the powder I had pinched from Feely’s room several weeks ago for an experiment involving poisoned cosmetics. I had painted in new eyebrows and a couple of eyelashes with powdered carbon.

  We did not speak, but took up our places in silence, as far as we could get from one another, each in her own far corner of the drawing room, awaiting Father’s arrival.

  Feely fiddled with sheet music, flattening the pages with her hand as if they needed it. Daffy fished a book from behind the cushions of the sofa and began reading at the point where it fell open.

  Father, at last, came into the room. He stood for a few moments with his back to us, his hands flat on the chimneypiece, his head bowed.

  His hands trembled as he fiddled with his pocket watch.

  It was in that instant that I began to love him completely, and in a new and inexplicable way.

  I wanted to rush to him, wrap my arms around him, and tell him about the Heart of Lucifer—tell him that there was a chance, however slight, that the stone of the saint would at last bring happiness upon our house.

  But I did not, and the reasons are as countless as the grains of the Sahara sands.

  “I must tell you,” he said at last, turning round, his voice like the ghost of the March wind, “that I have had a piece of news, and that you must prepare yourselves for a very great shock.”

  The three of us were rapt—staring at him like so many stone statues.

  “I have agonized for several days over whether to tell it you, or whether, at least for now, to keep it to myself. Only this morning have I come to a decision.”

  I swallowed.

  Good-bye, Buckshaw, I thought. The house has been sold. We will soon be driven out—forced to leave its dear old stones and timbers, its dreams and its memories, to the barbarians.

  We had never known any home but Buckshaw. To live anywhere else was simply unthinkable.

  What would become of Mrs. Mullet? What would become of Dogger?

  And of Feely and of Daffy?

  What would become of me?

  Father turned and moved slowly to the window. He lifted the curtain and looked out for a moment upon his estate, as if the forces of an overwhelming and invisible army were already gathering in the kitchen garden and advancing across the little lawn.

  When he turned again, he looked straight into our eyes, first Feely’s … then Daffy’s … and finally mine, and his voice broke as he said:

  “Your mother has been found.”

  Acknowledgments

  Every book is a pilgrimage, made in the company of congenial traveling companions, most of whom must remain forever invisible to the reader.

  Along the way, these kindred souls have provided kindness, conversation, inspiration, food, friendship, love, support, and thoughtfulness.

  As always, my fellow travelers have included my editors Bill Massey at Orion Books in London, Kate Miciak at Random House in New York, and Kristin Cochrane at Doubleday Canada. Loren Noveck and Randall Klein at Random House, New York; my literary agent, Denise Bukowski; and John Greenwell of the Bukowski Agency in Toronto have been of immense assistance.

  Family too have been there to wave flags and shout encouragement at every way-station, and I’d like to especially acknowledge Garth and Helga Taylor, Jean Bryson, Bill and Barbara Bryson, and to remember with affection the shared enthusiasms and joy in life of my late cousin John Bryson.

  The late Miss Doris Vella will also be sorely missed. Her remarkable ability to enter wholly into Flavia’s world is unparalleled. Her love and friendship will never be forgotten.

  Dr. John Harland and Janet Harland have again volunteered themselves as sounding boards, and have contributed many excellent ideas, as well as functioning as unpaid medical consultants. Any slip-ups in such specialized matters are, of course, my own.

  Special thanks are due to Xi Xi Tabone, who has taken time out from her own busy career to assist in so many thoughtful ways.

  And finally, to my wife, Shirley, who has voyaged with me and cheered me along from the very first steps of this journey. Words can never be enough: Only love can settle such an enormous debt.

  About the Author

  [to come]