A Red Herring Without Mustard: A Flavia de Luce Novel

Porcelain stopped with a vanilla cream halfway to her mouth.

“Go ahead,” I told her. “I was teasing.”

Actually I wasn’t, but there was no point in upsetting the girl.

Meaning to close the drapes, I went to the window, where I paused to have a quick look outside. There was no one in sight.

Beyond the lawns, I could see one corner of the Visto, and to the south—Poseidon! I’d completely forgotten that I could see the fountain from my bedroom window.

Was it possible that—? I rubbed my eyes and looked again.

Yes! There he was—Brookie Harewood, from this distance, no more than a dark doll hanging from the sea god’s trident. I could easily slip back for another look before the police turned up. And if they did arrive while I was at the scene, I’d tell them that I’d been waiting for them; keeping an eye on Brookie, making sure that nothing was touched. And so forth.

“You look exhausted,” I said, turning to Porcelain.

Her eyelids were already flickering as I drew the drapes.

“Sleep tight,” I said, but I don’t think she heard me.

The doorbell rang as I came down the stairs. Rats! Just when I thought I was alone. I counted to ten and opened the door—just as the bell rang again.

Inspector Hewitt was standing there, his finger still on the button, a slightly embarrassed look on his face, as if he were a small boy who’d been caught playing Knock-Knock-Run.

They certainly don’t believe in letting the grass grow under their feet, I thought. It had been less than ten minutes since I’d spoken to Constable Linnet.

The Inspector seemed a little taken aback to see me at the door.

“Ah,” he said. “The ubiquitous Flavia de Luce.”

“Good afternoon, Inspector,” I said, in a butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-her-heart voice. “Won’t you come in?”

“Thank you, no,” he replied. “I understand there’s been another … incident.”

“An incident,” I said, falling into the game. “It’s Brookie Harewood, I’m afraid. The quickest way to the Trafalgar Lawn is through here,” I added, pointing towards the east. “Follow me and I’ll show you.”

“Hold on,” Inspector Hewitt said. “You’ll do no such thing. I want you to keep completely out of this. Do you understand, Flavia?”

“It is our property, Inspector,” I said, just to remind him that he was talking to a de Luce.

“Yes, and it’s my investigation. So much as one of your fingerprints at the scene and I’ll have you up on charges. Do you understand?”

What insolence! It didn’t deserve an answer. I could have said “My fingerprints are already at the scene, Inspector,” but I didn’t. I spun on my heel and slammed the door in his face.

Inside, I quickly clapped my ear to the panel and listened for all I was worth.

Although it sounded like a dry chuckle, the sound I heard must really have been a little cry of dismay from the Inspector at having so foolishly lost the services of a first-rate mind.

Damn and blast the man! He’d regret his high-handed manner. Oh yes he would—he’d regret it!

Up the stairs I flew to my chemical laboratory. I unlocked the heavy door, stepped into the room, and almost instantly relaxed as a deep feeling of peace came over me.

There was something special about the place: The way in which the light fell so softly through the tall leaded casement windows, the warm brass glow of the Leitz microscope that had once belonged to Uncle Tar and was now so satisfyingly mine, the crisp—almost eager—shine of the laboratory’s glassware, the cabinets filled with neatly labeled bottles of chemicals (including some quite remarkable poisons), and the rows upon rows of books— all of these lent to the room something I can only describe as a sense of sanctuary.

I took one of the tall laboratory stools and lifted it onto a counter near the windows. Then, from the bottom drawer of the desk—which, because it contained his diaries and documents, I still thought of as being Uncle Tar’s—I removed a pair of German binoculars. Their lenses, I had learned from one of the books in his library, had been made from a special sand found only in the Thuringian Forest near the village of Martinroda, in Germany, which, because of its aluminum oxide content, produced an image of remarkable clarity. Which was precisely what I needed!

With the binoculars hung round my neck, I used a chair to climb up onto the countertop, then scaled the stool, where I teetered uneasily atop my improvised observation tower, my head almost touching the ceiling.

Using one hand to steady myself against the window frame, and the binoculars pressed to my eyes with the other, I used whatever fingers were left to turn the focusing knob.

As the hedges surrounding the Trafalgar Lawn sprang into sharp detail, I realized that the view from the laboratory, and from this angle, should be much better than the one I’d had from my bedroom window.

Yes—there was Poseidon, gazing out upon his invisible ocean, oblivious to the dark bundle dangling from his trident. But now I had a good view of the entire fountain.

With distance collapsed by the powerful lenses, I could also see Inspector Hewitt as he came into view from behind the fountain, raised a hand to shield his eyes from the sun, and stood gazing up at Brookie’s body. He pursed his lips and I could almost hear in my mind the little whistle that escaped him.

I wondered if he knew he was being watched.