A Red Herring Without Mustard: A Flavia de Luce Novel

It was at the Palings, in the days of the early numbered Georges, that the river Efon had been diverted temporarily to form the ornamental lake and feed the fountains whose remnants dotted the lawns and terraces at Buckshaw. At the time of its construction, this marvel of subterranean hydraulic engineering had caused no end of hard feelings between my family and the local landowners, so that one of my ancestors, Lucius de Luce, had subsequently become known as “Leaking de Luce” to half the countryside. In his portrait, which still hangs in our picture gallery at Buckshaw, he seems rather bored, overlooking the northwest corner of his lake, with its folly, its fountains, and the—now long gone—Grecian temple. Lucius is resting the bony knuckles of one hand on a table, upon which are laid out a compass, a pocket watch, an egg, and a piece of gadgetry meant for surveyors, called a theodolite. In a wooden cage is a canary with its beak open. It is either singing or crying for help.

My cheerful musings were interrupted by a barking cough.

“Pull up,” the Gypsy said, snatching the reins from my hands. Her brief nap must have done her some good, I thought. In spite of the cough, there was now more color in her dusky cheeks and her eyes seemed to burn more brightly than ever.

With a clucking noise to Gry and a quick ease that showed her familiarity with the place, she steered the caravan off the narrow road, under a leafy overhang, and onto the little bridge. Moments later, we had come to a stop in the middle of the glade.

The Gypsy climbed heavily down from her seat and began unfastening Gry’s harness. As she saw to her old horse, I took the opportunity to glory in my surroundings.

Patches of poppies and nettles grew here and there, illuminated by the downward slanting bars of the afternoon sun. Never had the grass seemed so green.

Gry had noticed it, too, and was already grazing contentedly upon the long blades.

The caravan gave a sudden lurch, and there was a sound as though someone had stumbled.

I jumped down and raced round the other side.

It was evident at once that I had misread the Gypsy’s condition. She had crumbled to the ground, and was hanging on for dear life to the spokes of one of the tall wooden wheels. As I reached her side, she began to cough again, more horribly than ever.

“You’re exhausted,” I said. “You ought to be lying down.”

She mumbled something and closed her eyes.

In a flash I had climbed up onto the wagon’s shafts and opened the door.

But whatever I had been expecting, it wasn’t this.

Inside, the caravan was a fairy tale on wheels. Although I had no time for more than a quick glance round, I noticed an exquisite cast-iron stove in the Queen Anne style, and above it a rack of blue-willow chinaware. Hot water and tea, I thought—essentials in all emergencies. Lace curtains hung at the windows, to provide first-aid bandages if needed, and a pair of silver paraffin lamps with red glass chimneys swung gently from their mounts for steady light, a bit of heat, and a flame for the sterilizing of needles. My training as a Girl Guide, however brief, had not been entirely in vain. At the rear, a pair of carved wooden panels stood half-open, revealing a roomy bunk bed that occupied nearly the whole width of the caravan.

Back outside, I helped the Gypsy to her feet, throwing one of her arms across my shoulder.

“I’ve folded the steps down,” I told her. “I’ll help you to your bed.”

Somehow, I managed to shepherd her to the front of the caravan where, by pushing and pulling, and by placing her hands upon the required holds, I was at last able to get her settled. During most of these operations, she seemed scarcely aware of her surroundings, or of me. But once tucked safely into her bunk, she appeared to revive somewhat.

“I’m going for the doctor,” I said. Since I’d left Gladys parked against the back of the parish hall at the fete, I realized I’d have to hoof it later, from Buckshaw back into the village.

“No, don’t do that,” she said, taking a firm grip on my hand. “Make a nice cup of tea, and leave me be. A good sleep is all I need.”

She must have seen the skeptical look on my face.

“Fetch the medicine,” she said. “I’ll have just a taste. The spoon’s with the tea things.”

First things first, I thought, locating the utensil among a clutter of battered silverware, and pouring it full of the treacly looking cough syrup.

“Open up, little birdie,” I said with a grin. It was the formula Mrs. Mullet used to humor me into swallowing those detestable tonics and oils with which Father insisted his daughters be dosed. With her eyes fixed firmly on mine (was it my imagination, or did they warm a little?), the Gypsy opened her mouth dutifully and allowed me to insert the brimming spoon.

“Swallow, swallow, fly away,” I said, pronouncing the closing words of the ritual, and turning my attention to the charming little stove. I hated to admit my ignorance: I hadn’t the faintest idea how to light the thing. You might as well ask me to stoke up the boilers on the Queen Elizabeth.

“Not here,” the Gypsy said, spotting my hesitation. “Outside. Make a fire.”

At the bottom of the steps, I paused for a quick look round the grove.

Elder bushes, as I have said, were growing everywhere. I tugged at a couple of branches, trying to tear them loose, but it was not an easy task.

Too full of life, I thought; too springy. After something of a tug-of-war, and only by jumping vigorously on a couple of the lower branches, was I able to tear them free at last.

Five minutes later, at the center of the glade, I had gathered enough twigs and branches to have the makings of a decent campfire.

Hopefully, while muttering the Girl Guide’s Prayer (“Burn, blast you!”), I lit one of the matches I had found in