But luck was on my side. My hearty shove proved stronger than the hands that were holding it closed, and I was propelled into the shop’s interior a little faster than I should have liked.
“Oh, thank you,” I said. “I thought you might be closed. It’s about a gift, you see, and—”
“We
He looked like an umbrella handle that had been carved into the shape of a parrot: beaked nose, white hair as tight and curly as a powdered wig, and red circles on each cheek as if he had just rouged them. His face was powder white and his lips too red for words.
He seemed to stand precariously on his tiny feet, swaying so alarmingly backwards and forwards that I had the feeling he was about to topple from his perch.
“We’re closed,” he repeated. “You must come back another time.”
“Mr. Pettibone?” I asked, sticking out a hand. “I’m Flavia de Luce, from Buckshaw.”
He didn’t have much choice.
“Pleased to meet you, I’m sure,” he said, taking two of my fingers in his miniature fist and giving them a faint squeeze. “But we’re closed.”
“It’s my father, you see,” I went on breathlessly. “Today’s his birthday, and we wanted to—my sisters and I, that is—surprise him. He’s expressed a great interest in something you have in your shop, and we’d hoped to—I’m sorry I’m so late, Mr. Pettibone, but I was folding bandages at the St. John’s Ambulance …”
I allowed my lower lip to tremble very slightly.
“And what is this … er … object?”
“A table,” I blurted. It was the first thing that came to mind, and a jolly good thing I’d thought of it. There must be dozens of tables in a place like this, and I’d be able to have a good old snoop round while searching for the right one.
“Could you … er … describe it?”
“Yes,” I said. “Of course. It has four legs and—a top.”
I could see that he was unconvinced.
“It’s for stamps, you see. Father’s a philatelist, and he needs something he can spread his work on … under a lamp. His eyes are not quite what they used to be, and my sisters and I—”
He was edging me towards the door.
“Oh—just a minute. I think that’s it,” I said, pointing to a rather sorry bit of furniture that was huddled in the gloom beneath an ormolu clock with plump-bellied pewter horses. By moving to touch it, I was six or eight feet deeper into the shop.
“Oh, no, this one’s too dark. I thought it was mahogany. No—wait! It’s this one over here.”
I had plunged well towards the back of the shop and into the shadows. With Pettibone bearing down upon me like a wolf upon the fold, I realized that I was now cut off from the door and freedom.
“What are you playing at?” he said, making a sudden grab for my arm. I leapt out of his reach.
Suddenly the situation had turned dangerous. But why? Was there something in the shop Pettibone didn’t want me to see? Did he suspect that I was on to his shady antiques dealings?
Whatever the cause of his aggressiveness, I needed to act quickly.
To my right, standing about a foot out from the wall, was a massive wardrobe. I slid behind it.
For a while, at least, I was safe. He was too big to squeeze behind the thing. I might not be able to come out, but I’d have a moment to plan my next move.
But then Pettibone was back with a broom. He shoved the bristles into my ribs—and pushed. I stood my ground.
Now he turned the broom around and began prodding at me furiously with the handle, like a man who has trapped a rat behind the kitchen cupboard.
“Ouch!” I cried out. “Stop! Stop it! You’re hurting me!”
Actually, he wasn’t, but I couldn’t let him know that. I was able to slip far enough along the wall that I was beyond reach of his broom.
As he came round the wardrobe to have a try from the other side, I slithered back to the far end.
But I knew I was trapped. This game of cat and mouse could go on all day.
Now the wardrobe had begun to move, its china casters squealing. Pettibone had put his shoulder to a corner and was shifting the thing out from the wall.
“Oh!” I shrieked. “You’re crushing me!”
The wall of wood stopped moving and there was a brief pause in his attack, during which I could hear him breathing heavily.
“Reginald!”
The voice—a woman’s—cut through the shop like a falling icicle. I heard him mutter something.
“Reginald, come up here at once! Do you hear me?”
“Hello upstairs!” I shouted. “It’s Flavia de Luce.”
