A Red Herring Without Mustard: A Flavia de Luce Novel

“The rope that fell through the grating at the Poseidon fountain.”

“Woolmer? Graves? What do we know about this?”

“Nothing, sir,” they said in unison.

“Then perhaps you will favor us by taking yourselves to the fountain immediately and rectifying the oversight.”

“Yes, sir,” they said, and marched, red-faced, from the drawing room.

The Inspector again focused his fierce attention on me. “The rope,” he said. “Tell me about the rope.”

“There had to be one,” I explained. “Brookie was far too heavy to be hoisted onto the fountain by anyone but the strongest man. Or a Boy Scout with a rope.”

“Thank you,” Inspector Hewitt said. “That will do. I’m quite sure we can fill in the blanks.”

“Besides,” I added, “the rubbed spot on the trident showed quite clearly where the rope had polished away the tarnish.”

“Thank you. I believe we’ve already noted that.”

Well, then, I thought, you’ve no one to blame but yourselves if you didn’t think of looking for the rope that caused it. Colin is a Boy Scout, for heaven’s sake. There were times when officialdom was beyond even me.

“One last point,” the Inspector said, rubbing his nose. “Perhaps you’d be good enough to clear up one small question that has rather eluded me.”

“I’ll do my best, Inspector,” I said.

“Why on earth did Colin hang Brookie from the fountain? Why not leave him where he was?”

“They had struggled for the lobster pick inside the base of the fountain. When Colin let go of the thing suddenly, Brookie’s own force caused him to stab himself in the nostril. It was an accident, of course.”

Although this was the way Colin had told it to me, I must confess to gilding the lily more than a little for the Inspector’s benefit. I no more believed Colin’s version of the story than I believed that dray horses can fly. Brookie’s death, in my estimation, was Colin’s revenge for years of abuse. It was murder, pure and simple.

But who was I to judge? I had no intention of adding so much as another ounce to the burden of Colin’s troubles.

“Brookie fell backwards down the stone steps into the chamber. That’s probably what actually killed him.”

Oh Lord, forgive me this one charitable little fib!

“Colin fetched a length of rope from the tunnel and hauled him up onto Poseidon’s trident. He had to tie Brookie’s wrists together so that the arms wouldn’t slip out of the coat later. He didn’t want to risk the body falling.”

Inspector Hewitt gave me a look I can only describe as skeptical.

“Brookie,” I went on, “had told Colin about the Hobblers’ belief that Heaven was right there above our heads. You see, he wanted to give Brookie a head start.”

“Good lord!” Father said.

Inspector Hewitt scratched his nose. “Hmmm,” he said. “Seems rather far-fetched.”

“Not so far-fetched at all, Inspector,” I said. “That’s precisely the way Colin explained it to me. I’m sure that when Dr. Darby and the vicar allow you to question him further …”

The Inspector nodded in a sad way, as if he’d rather suspected it all along.

“Thank you, Flavia,” he said, getting to his feet and closing his notebook. “And thank you, Colonel de Luce. You’ve been more than generous in helping us get to the bottom of this matter.” He walked to the drawing-room door.

“Oh, and Flavia,” he said rather shyly, turning back. “I almost forgot. I came here today somewhat as a message bearer. My wife, Antigone, would be delighted if you’d come for tea next Wednesday … if you’re free, of course.”

Antigone? Tea? And then it sank in.

Oh, frabjous day! Callooh! Callay! That glorious goddess, Antigone, was summoning me, Flavia Sabina de Luce, to her vine-covered cottage!

“Thank you, Inspector,” I said primly. “I shall consult my calendar and see if I can set aside some time.”

Up the stairs I flew. I couldn’t wait to tell Porcelain!

I should have guessed that she’d be gone.

She had torn a blank page from my notebook and fastened it to one of my pillows with a safety pin.

Thanks for everything. Look me up in London sometime.

Your friend, Porcelain

Just that, and nothing more.

At first I was seized with sadness. In spite of our ups and downs, I had never met anyone quite like Porcelain Lee. I had already begun to miss her.

I find it difficult to write about the portrait of Harriet.