'Arthur was killed when a factory chimney collapsed on him in 1924, and Margriet died of shock when they brought her the news. After her death, my sister and I found that she had willed us Peter the Great--and there was nothing for it but to open the St. Nicholas Tea Room. Twenty-five years ago, that was, and as you can see, we're still here.
'He's a very temperamental old samovar, you know,' she went on, moving as if to caress his silver surface, but thinking better of it. 'Of course, he's an awful old fraud. Oh, he spits boiling water and blows out fuses on occasion, but underneath it all he has a heart of gold--or at least, of silver.'
'He's quite magnificent,' I said.
'And doesn't he know it! Well, well, here I am talking about him as if he were a cat. When Grace was with us, she used to call him 'the Tyrant.' Imagine that! 'The Tyrant wants his polishing,' she'd say. 'The Tyrant wants his electrical contacts cleaned.''
'Grace?' I asked.
'Grace Tennyson. Or Ingleby, as she is now.'
'Grace Ingleby used to work here?'
'Oh, yes! Until she left to marry Gordon, she was our star waitress. You wouldn't think it to look at her, but she was as strong as an ox. You don't often see that in such a tiny bit of a thing.
'And she wasn't the slightest bit intimidated by Peter and his moods. Spark and spit as he may, Grace was never afraid to roll up her sleeves and have a good rummage round his innards.'
'She sounds very clever,' I said.
'She was all of that.' Miss Puddock laughed. 'All of that and more. And no wonder! One of our customers once told us--an RAF Squadron Leader, I think he was--and in confidence, of course--that Grace had the highest IQ he'd ever seen in 'the fairer sex,' as he put it: that if the people in Special Operations hadn't whisked her off to do top secret work, she might well have spent the rest of the war installing wireless sets in Spitfires.'
'Top secret work?' I gasped. The thought of Grace Ingleby doing anything other than cringing in her dovecote tower, like a captive maiden waiting to be rescued by Sir Lancelot, was almost laughable.
'Of course, she would never breathe a word about it.' Miss Puddock lowered her voice, in the way that people often do when they talk about the war. 'They're not allowed to, you know. But then, we seldom see her nowadays. Since that tragedy with her little boy--'
'Robin,' I said.
'Yes. Since then, she keeps to herself. I'm afraid she's not at all the same laughing girl who used to put Peter the Great in his place.'
'Was Gordon a member of Special Operations, too?' I asked.
'Gordon?' She laughed. 'Good lord, no. Gordon's 'a farmer born and a farmer he shall die,' as Shakespeare wrote, or was it Harry Lauder, or George Formby, or someone like that? My memory's gone all wormholes, and so will yours, in time.'
I couldn't think what to say, and I saw at once she thought she'd offended me.
'But not for many a year, dear. No, I'm quite sure
'Have you seen Mrs. Ingleby recently?' I asked.
'Not since Saturday night at the parish hall. Of course I had no opportunity to chat, what with our little musicale on my mind. The rest of the evening was a nightmare, wasn't it: the death of that poor man--the puppet that was carved with Robin's face? I don't know what Gordon was thinking, bringing Grace there when she's so fragile. But then, he had no way of knowing, did he?'
'No,' I said. 'I don't suppose he did.'
By the time I set out for Buckshaw, it was well past lunchtime. Fortunately, Miss Puddock had wrapped a couple of buttered scones in paper and insisted upon tucking them into my pocket. I nibbled at them absently as I pedaled along the road, lost in thought.
At the end of the high street, the road made a gentle angle to the southwest as it skirted the southern perimeter of St. Tancred's churchyard.
If I hadn't glanced to my right, I mightn't have seen it: the Austin van, with 'Porson's Puppets' in gold letters on its panels, parked at the side of the parish hall. Gladys's tires skidded in the dust as I applied her hand brakes and swerved into the churchyard.
As I pulled up, Nialla was stowing odds and ends in the van's interior.
'You've got it running!' I shouted. She gave me the kind of look that you might give to a bit of dog dirt in your porridge, and went on with her packing.
'It's me, Flavia,' I said. 'Have you forgotten me already?'
'Piss off, you little traitor,' she snapped. 'Leave me alone.'
For an instant, I thought I was back at Buckshaw, talking to Feely. It was the kind of dismissal I've lived through a thousand times--and survived, I thought. I decided to stand my ground.
'Why? What have I done to you?'
'Oh, come off it, Flavia. You know as well as I do. You told the police I was at Buckshaw. They thought I was hiding out, or running away, or whatever you want to call it.'
'I did no such thing!' I protested. 'I haven't laid eyes on a policeman since I saw you in the coach house.'
'But you were the only one who knew I was there.'
As it always did when I was angry, my mind burned with crystal clarity.
'I knew you were there, Dogger knew you were there, and so did Mrs. Mullet, to name but three.'
