A Red Herring Without Mustard: A Flavia de Luce Novel

I brought Gladys to a skidding stop.

“Porcelain?” I called. “Is that you?”

There was no answer.

“Porcelain? It’s me, Flavia.”

What a foolish thing to say. Porcelain had hidden in the hedgerow because it was me. But why?

Although I couldn’t see her, she was probably close enough to touch. I could feel her eyes upon me.

“Porcelain? What is it? What’s the matter?”

The eerie silence lengthened. It was like one of those parlor seances when you’re waiting for the dial on the Ouija board to move.

“All right,” I said at last, “take your time. I’m sitting down and I’m not moving until you come out.”

There was another long wait, and then the bushes rustled and Porcelain stepped out into the lane. The look on her face suggested that she was on her way to the guillotine.

“What’s the matter?” I asked. “What’s happened?”

As I took a step towards her, she moved away, keeping a safe distance between us.

“The police took me to see Fenella,” she said shakily. “In the hospital.”

Oh, no! I thought. She’s died of her injuries. Let it not be true.

“I’m sorry,” I said, taking another step. Porcelain fell back, raising her hands as if to fend me off.

“Sorry?” she said in a strange voice. “What for? No!—Stay where you are!”

“Sorry for whatever’s happened to Fenella. I did everything I could to help her.”

“For God’s sake, Flavia,” Porcelain screamed, “stop it! You bloody well tried to kill her, and you know you did. And now you want to kill me!”

Her words hit me like a body blow, knocking the wind completely out of me. I couldn’t breathe; my head was spinning, my mind was spinning, and there was a sound in my head like a swarm of locusts.

“I—”

But it was no good—I couldn’t speak.

“Fenella told me all about it. You and your family have hated us for years. Your father drove Fenella and Johnny Faa off your estate and that’s why Johnny died. You took her back to their old camping place so that you could finish the job, and you very nearly did, didn’t you?”

“That’s insane,” I managed. “Why would I want to—”

“You were the only one that knew she was camped there.”

“Look, Porcelain,” I said. “I know you’re upset. I understand that. But if I wanted to kill Fenella, why would I bother going for Dr. Darby? Wouldn’t I simply let her die?”

“I—I don’t know. You’re confusing me now. Maybe you wanted an excuse—just in case you hadn’t killed her.”

“If I’d wanted to kill her, I’d have killed her,” I said, exasperated. “I’d have kept at it until I was finished. I wouldn’t have botched it. Do you understand?”

Her eyes widened, but I could see that I had made my point.

“And as for being the only one around that night, what about Brookie Harewood? He was roaming around at Buckshaw—I even caught him in our drawing room. Do you think I killed him, too? Do you think someone who weighs less than five stone murdered Brookie—who probably weighs thirteen—and hung him up like a bit of washing from Poseidon’s trident?”

“Well …”

“Oh, come off it, Porcelain! I don’t think Fenella saw her attacker. If she had, she wouldn’t have blamed it on me. She’s badly injured and she’s confused. She’s letting her mind fill in the blanks.”

She stood there in the lane staring at me as if I were the cobra in a snake charmer’s basket, and had suddenly begun to speak.

“Come on,” I said, getting Gladys ready to go. “Hop on. We’ll go back to Buckshaw and find some grub.”

“No,” she said. “I’m going back to the caravan.”

“It isn’t safe,” I said. Perhaps by presenting the nasty facts without varnish I could change her mind. “Whoever bashed in Fenella’s skull and stuck a lobster pick up Brookie’s nostril is still wandering about. Come on.”

“No,” she said. “I told you, I’m going back to the caravan.”

“Why? Are you afraid of me?”

Her answer came a little too quickly for my liking.

“Yes,” she said. “I am.”

“All right, then,” I said softly. “Be a fool. See if I care.”

I put a foot on a pedal and prepared to push off.