A Red Herring Without Mustard: A Flavia de Luce Novel

What right did Feely have to insert herself, without so much as a by-your-leave, between me and the man who had come to Buckshaw expressly to take my fingerprints? It was unforgiveable!

Still, I mustn’t forget that I’d had more than one daydream in which the chipper little sergeant married my older sister and lived in a flower-choked cottage where I would be able to drop in for afternoon tea and happy professional chats about criminal poisoners.

Sergeant Graves had finally recovered enough of his wits to say “Yes,” and bumble his way into the foyer.

“Would you like a cup of tea and a biscuit, Sergeant?” Feely asked, managing to suggest in her tone that the poor dear was overworked, dog-tired, and malnourished.

“I am quite thirsty, come to think of it,” he managed with a bashful grin. “And hungry,” he added.

Feely stepped back and ushered him towards the drawing room.

I followed like a neglected hound.

“You may set up your gear here,” Feely told him, indicating a Regency table that stood near a window. “How dreadfully trying the life of a police officer must be. All firearms and criminals and hobnail boots.”

Sergeant Graves had the good grace not to slug her. In fact, he seemed to be enjoying himself.

“It is a hard life, Miss Ophelia,” he said, “at least most of the time.”

His dimpled grin suggested that this was one of the easier moments.

“I’ll ring for Mrs. Mullet,” Feely said, reaching for a velvet pull that hung near the mantelpiece, and which probably hadn’t been used since George the Third was foaming at the mouth. Mrs. M would have kidney failure when the bell in the kitchen went off right above her head.

“What about the dabs?” I asked. It was a term I had picked up from Philip Odell, the private eye on the wireless. “Inspector Hewitt will be dead keen on having a squint at them.”

Feely laughed a laugh like a tinkling silver bell. “You must forgive my little sister, Sergeant,” she said. “I’m afraid she’s been left alone too much.”

Left alone? I almost laughed out loud! What would the sergeant say if I told him about the Inquisition in the Buckshaw cellars? About how Feely and Daffy had trussed me up in a smelly potato sack and flung me onto the stony floor?

“Dabs it is, then,” said the sergeant, opening the clasps and flinging open his kit. “I suppose you’ll be wanting to have a dekko at the chemicals and so forth,” he added, giving me a wink.

If I’d had my way, he’d have been sanctified on the spot: Saint Detective Sergeant Graves. Come to think of it, I didn’t even know his given name, but now was not the time to ask.

“This,” he said, extracting the first of two small glass bottles, “is fingerprint powder.”

“Mercury-based, I assume? Fine enough to give good definition to the loops and whorls, and so on?”

This, too, I had learned from Philip Odell. It had stuck in my mind because of its chemical connection.

The sergeant grinned and pulled out the second bottle, this one darker than the first.

“Go on,” he said. “See if you can guess this one.”

Guess? I thought. The poor deluded man!

“Graphite-based,” I said. “More coarse than the mercury, but shows up better on certain surfaces.”

“Top marks!” the sergeant said.

I turned away as if to wipe a bit of grit from my eye and stuck out my tongue at Feely.

“But surely these are for dusting?” I protested. “… and not needed for recording prints?”

“Right enough,” the sergeant said. “I just thought you’d be interested in seeing the tools of the trade.”

“Oh, I am indeed,” I said quickly. “Thank you for the thought.”

I did not suppose it would be polite to mention that I had upstairs in my chemical laboratory enough mercury and graphite to supply the needs of the Hinley Constabulary until well into the next century. Great-uncle Tar had been, among many other things, a hoarder.

“Mercury,” I said, touching the bottle. “Fancy that!”

Sergeant Graves was now removing from its protective padding a rectangular sheet of plain glass, followed in quick succession by a bottle of ink and a roller.

Deftly he applied five or six drops of the ink to the surface of the glass, then rolled it smooth until the plate was uniformly covered with the black ooze.

“Now then,” he said, taking my right wrist, and spreading my fingers until they were just hovering above the glass, “relax—let me do the work.”

With no more than a slight pressure, he pushed my fingertips down and into the ink, one at a time, rolling each one from left to right on the ball of my fingertip. Then, moving my hand to a white card, which was marked with ten squares—one for each finger—he made the prints.

“Oh, Sergeant Graves!” Feely said. “You must take mine, too!”

“Oh, Sergeant Graves! You must take mine, too!”

I could have swatted her.

“Happy to, Miss Ophelia,” he said, taking up her hand and dropping mine.