A Red Herring Without Mustard: A Flavia de Luce Novel

Only at that instant, as I spoke, did the full force—the full aptness—of Fenella’s words come crashing into my consciousness: “Told her there was something buried in her past; told her it wanted digging out—wanted setting right.” I had actually copied these words into my notebook without understanding their meaning.

She couldn’t possibly have learned of the Bull baby’s supposed abduction until later —she had been gone from the Gully before the bungled baptism began.

Mrs. Bull, to reinforce her lie, must have been forced to follow through by filing a false report with the police. Tom, because of his shady associations, must have managed to keep well in the background. Hadn’t Mrs. Mullet let slip that he’d had his troubles with the law?

How I wished I could ask the Inspector to confirm my conjecture—especially the part about Tom Bull—but I knew he wouldn’t—couldn’t—tell me. Perhaps some other time …

At any rate, Fenella had almost certainly been tracked down and questioned by the authorities during their investigation of the missing child—tracked down, questioned, and cleared. That much seemed obvious.

So that when Mrs. Bull had wandered unexpectedly into her tent just last week at the fete, it must have seemed as if Fate had sent her there for justice.

“There’s something buried in your past. Something that wants digging out … wants setting right,” Fenella had told her, but it was not the baby she meant—it was Mrs. Bull’s accusation of kidnapping!

“Revenge is my specialty,” Fenella had said.

Revenge indeed!

But not without cost.

Surely the woman had recognized Fenella’s caravan at the fete? Whatever could have possessed her to enter the tent?

I could think of only one reason: guilt.

Perhaps, in her own mind, Mrs. Bull’s lie to her husband and the police was beginning to come unraveled— perhaps in some odd way she believed that a fresh confrontation would deflect any growing suspicion, on Tom’s part, of her own guilt.

What was it Dr. Darby had told me? “People can behave very strangely in times of great stress.”

“Well?” the Inspector said, interrupting my thoughts. He was waiting for me to go on.

“Well, Mrs. Bull, of course, assumed that Fenella had looked into the crystal ball and seen the drowning. She must have gone home straightaway and told her husband that the Gypsy who had taken their baby was again camped at the Palings. Tom went to the caravan that very night and tried to kill her.

“He still believes his wife’s lie, most likely,” I added. “Even though the baby’s body has since been found, I’ll bet he’s still blaming it on the Gypsies.”

I glanced over at Sergeant Graves for confirmation, but his face was a study in stone.

“How can you be so sure he was at the caravan?” Inspector Hewitt asked, turning to a new page of his notebook.

“Because Colin Prout saw him there. And as if that weren’t enough, there was that whole business about the smell of fish,” I said. “I think you’ll find that Tom Bull has a disease that causes his body to exude a fishy odor. Dogger says that a number of such cases have been recorded.”

Inspector Hewitt’s eyebrows went up slightly, but he said nothing.

“That’s why, as it’s grown worse, he’s kept to his house for the past year or more. Mrs. Bull put about the story that he’d gone away, but he’d all the while been right here in Bishop’s Lacey, working after dark. He’s a foundryman, you know, and probably quite handy at melting down scrap iron and molding it into antiques.”

“Yes,” Inspector Hewitt said, surprising me. “It’s no secret that he was once employed at Sampson’s works, in East Finching.”

“And still is,” I suggested. “At least after dark.”

Inspector Hewitt closed his notebook and got to his feet.

“I’m very pleased to tell you, Colonel, that your firedogs will soon be restored. We found them in the coach house where Harewood kept his antiques.”

I was right! The Sally Fox and Shoppo at Brookie’s had been Harriet’s! Having replaced them with reproductions, Brookie was just waiting for a chance to sell the originals in London.

“There are others involved in what proved to be a very sophisticated ring of thieves and forgers. I trust that, in due time, you’ll read about it in the newspapers.”

“But what about Miss Mountjoy?” I blurted it out. I felt quite sorry for poor Tilda Mountjoy.

“She may well face charges as an accessory,” the Inspector said. “It’s up to the Chief Constable. I don’t envy him his task.”

“Poor Colin,” I said. “He hasn’t had an easy life, has he?”

“There may be mitigating circumstances,” Inspector Hewitt said. “Beyond that, I can say nothing.”

“I knew for certain he was mixed up in it when I found the rope.”

I regretted it as soon as the words were out of my mouth.

“Rope? What rope?”