hours—they had us set up in our own posh flat in Bloomsbury.”
“She must have remarkable powers,” I said.
Porcelain’s body went slack. “Had,” she said flatly. “She died a month later. A V1 rocket in the street outside the Air Ministry. Six years ago. In June.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, and I was. At last we had something in common, Porcelain and I, even if it was no more than a mother who had died too young and left us to grow up on our own.
How I longed to tell her about Harriet—but somehow I could not. The grief in the room belonged to Porcelain, and I realized, almost at once, that it would be selfish to rob her of it in any way.
I set about cleaning up the shattered glass from the test tube she had dropped.
“Here,” she said. “I should be doing that.”
“It’s all right,” I told her. “I’m used to it.”
It was one of those made-up excuses that I generally despise, but how could I tell her the truth: that I was unwilling to share with anyone the picking up of the pieces.
Was this a fleeting glimpse of being a woman? I wondered.
I hoped it was … and also that it was not.
We were sitting on my bed, Porcelain with her back against the head, and I cross-legged at the foot.
“I expect you’ll be wanting to visit your gram,” I said.
Porcelain shrugged, and I think I understood her.
“The police don’t know you’re here yet. I suppose we’d better tell them.”
“I suppose.”
“Let’s leave it till the morning,” I told her. “I’m too tired to think.”
And it was true: My eyelids felt as if they had been hung with lead sinkers. I was simply too exhausted to deal with the problems at hand. The greatest of these would be to keep secret Porcelain’s presence in the house. The last thing I needed was to look on helplessly as Father drove away the granddaughter of Fenella and Johnny Faa.
Fenella was in hospital in Hinley and, for all I knew, she might be dead by now. If I was to get to the bottom of the attack upon her at the Palings—and, I suspected, the murder of Brookie Harewood—I would have to attract as little attention as possible.
It was only a matter of time before Inspector Hewitt would be at the door, demanding details about how I had discovered Brookie’s body. I needed time to review which facts I would tell him and which I would not. Or did I?
My mind was a whirl.
Next thing I knew it was morning, and sunlight was pouring in through the windows.
THIRTEEN
I ROLLED OVER AND blinked. I had been sprawled across the bottom of the bed, my head twisted painfully against the footboard. At the top of the bed, Porcelain was tucked in with my blanket pulled over her shoulders, her head on my pillow, sleeping away for all she was worth like some Oriental princess.
For a moment I felt my resentment rising, but when I remembered the tale she had told me last night, I let the resentment melt into pity.
I glanced at the clock and saw, to my horror, that I had overslept. I was late for breakfast. Father insisted that dishes at the table arrive and be taken away with military precision.
Taking great care not to awaken Porcelain, I made a quick change of clothing, took a swipe at my hair with a brush, and crept down to breakfast.
Father, as usual, was immersed in the latest number of
As I slipped into my chair, Feely fixed me with the cold and stony stare she had perfected by watching Queen Mary in the newsreels.
“You have a pimple on your face,” I said matter-of-factly as I poured milk on my Weetabix.
She pretended she didn’t hear me, but less than a minute later I was gratified to see her hand rise automatically to her cheek and begin its exploration. It was like watching a crab crawl slowly across the seabed in one of the full-colored short subjects at the cinema:
“Careful, Feely!” I said. “It’s going to explode.”
Daffy looked up from her book—the copy of
I made a note to steal it later.
“What does it mean where it says ‘a red herring without mustard’?” I asked, pointing.
Daffy loved the slightest opportunity to show off her superior knowledge.
I had already reviewed in my mind what I knew about mustard, which was precious little. I knew, for instance,
