were as slender and delicate as those of the ballet dancers in the paintings of Degas. Above it, on the wall, was fastened a monstrous dark-framed looking glass, too large by far for the dainty legs that stood beneath. The effect was rather Humpty Dumpty–ish: like an obscenely oversized head on a body with leprechaun legs.
I used Feely’s hairbrush to prop open the Bible on the dresser top. From the tire repair kit, I extracted a tin of magnesium silicate hydroxide, better known as French chalk. The stuff was meant to keep a freshly patched inner tube from sticking to the inside of the rubber tire, but this was not the application I had in mind.
I dipped one of Feely’s camel-hair makeup brushes into the French chalk and, with one last glance at the Bible for reference, wrote a short message across the mirror’s surface in bold letters:
That done, I pulled a handkerchief from my pocket and gently dusted away the words that I had written. I blew the excess chalk from where it had fallen on the dresser top, and wiped up the few traces that had drifted to the floor.
It was done! The rest of my plan was guaranteed.
It would unfold itself through the inexorable laws of chemistry, without my having to lift a finger.
When Feely next parked herself in front of the mirror and leaned in for a closer look at her ugly hide, the moisture of her warm breath would make visible the words that I had written on the glass. Their message would spring boldly into view:
Feely would be terror-stricken. She would run to look up the passage in the Bible. Actually, she might not: Since it had to do with personal grooming, she might already have the verse off by heart. But if she did have to search it out, this is what she would find:
As if the boils weren’t bad enough, “emerods” were hemorrhoids, the perfect added touch, I thought.
And if I knew my sister, she wouldn’t be able to resist reading the rest of the verse:
Feely would toss up her marmalade!
Having seen the message materialize before her very eyes, she’d believe it to be a telegram from God, and—by the Old Harry!—would
I could see it now: She’d fling herself down and grovel on the carpet, begging forgiveness for the rotten way she’d treated her little sister.
Later, she would appear at the dinner table, haunted, haggard, and shocked into silence.
I chortled as I skipped down the staircase. I could barely wait.
At the bottom, in the foyer, stood Inspector Hewitt.
FIFTEEN
THE INSPECTOR DID NOT look happy.
Dogger, who had only just let him in, closed the door silently, and vanished in the way he does.
“You should think about opening an auxiliary police station here at Buckshaw,” I said affably, trying to cheer him up. “It would certainly save on petrol.”
The Inspector was not amused.
“Let’s have a chat,” he said, and I had the impression that he was not entirely attempting to put me at my ease.
“Of course. I am at your disposal.”
I was capable of being gracious when I felt like it.
“About your discovery at the fountain—” he began.
“Brookie Harewood, you mean? Yes, that was awful, wasn’t it.”
The Inspector seemed startled.
Damn! Ten seconds into the game and I had already made a serious misstep.
“You know him, then?”
“Oh, everyone knows Brookie,” I said, recovering quickly. “He’s one of the village characters. At least—he was.”
“Someone
“I’ve seen him about. Here and there, you know. In the village. That sort of thing.”
I was sewing an invisible seam between truth and untruth, a skill of which I was especially proud. One of the tricks of the trade when doing this is to volunteer fresh information before your questioner has time to ask another. So I went on:
“I had returned to the Palings, you see, because I was worried about Gry. Gry is the name of the Gypsy woman’s horse. I wanted to make sure he had food.”
