A Red Herring Without Mustard: A Flavia de Luce Novel

“How very kind of her,” I said. “I must remember to send her a card.”

I’d send her a card, all right. It would be the Ace of Spades, and I’d mail it anonymously from somewhere other than Bishop’s Lacey. Philip Odell, the detective on the wireless, had once investigated such a case, and it had been a cracking good story—one of his best adventures.

“And your dress!” Father went on. “What have you done to your dress?”

My dress? Hadn’t Miss Mountjoy described to him fully what she’d seen?

Hold on!—perhaps she hadn’t after all. Perhaps Father was still unaware of what had taken place at the coach house.

God bless you, Miss Mountjoy! I thought. May you live forever in the company of those saints and martyrs who refused to tell them where the church plate was buried.

But wasn’t Father going to remark upon my cuts and abrasions?

Apparently not.

And it was at that moment, I think, it began to dawn upon me—truly dawn upon me—that there were things that were never mentioned in polite company no matter what; that blue blood was heavier than red; that manners and appearances and the stiff upper lip were all of them more important, even, than life itself.

“Flavia,” Father repeated, fighting to keep from wringing his hands, “I asked you a question. What have you done to your dress?”

I looked down at myself as if noticing the damage for the first time.

“My dress?” I said, smoothing it down and making sure he had a good view of my bloodied wrist and knees. “Oh, I’m sorry, Father. It’s nothing. I had a bit of a prang with my bicycle. Jolly bad luck, but still—I’ll rinse it out at once and mend it myself. It’ll be a piece of cake.”

My acute hearing detected the sound of a coarse snicker in the hallway.

But I’d like to believe that what I saw in Father’s eyes was pride.

TWELVE

PORCELAIN WAS SLEEPING THE sleep of the dead. I had worried in vain.

I stood looking down at her as she lay on my bed in much the same position as when I had left her. The dark swatches under her eyes seemed to have lightened, and her breathing was almost imperceptible.

Two seconds later there was a flurry of furious motion and I was pinned to the bed with Porcelain’s thumbs pressing into my windpipe.

“Fiend!” I thought she hissed.

I struggled to get free but I couldn’t move. Bright stars were bursting in my brain as I clawed at her hands. I wasn’t getting enough oxygen. I tried to pull away.

But I was no match for her. She was bigger and stronger than me, and already I could feel myself becoming languid and uncaring. How easy it would be to give in …

But no!

I stopped trying to fight her hands and instead took hold of her nose with my thumb and forefinger. With my last remaining strength I gave it a most vicious twist.

“Flavia!”

She seemed suddenly surprised to see me—as if we were old friends who had met unexpectedly in front of a lovely Vermeer in the National Gallery.

Her hands withdrew themselves from my throat, but still I couldn’t seem to breathe. I rolled off the bed and onto the floor, seized with a fit of coughing.

“What are you doing?” she demanded, looking round in puzzlement.

“What are you doing?” I croaked. “You’ve crushed my windpipe!”

“Oh, God!” she said. “How awful. I’m sorry, Flavia—really I am. I was dreaming I was in Fenella’s caravan and there was some horrid … beast! … standing over me. I think it was—”

“Yes?”

She looked away from me. “I … I’m sorry. I can’t tell you.”

“I’ll keep it to myself. I promise.”

“No, it’s no good. I mustn’t.”

“All right, then,” I said. “Don’t. In fact, I forbid you to tell me.”

“Flavia—”

“No,” I said, and I meant it. “I don’t want to know. Let’s talk about something else.”

I knew that if I bided my time, whatever it was that Porcelain was withholding would come spilling out like minced pork from Mrs. Mullet’s meat grinder.

Which reminded me that I hadn’t eaten for ages.

“Are you hungry?” I asked.