The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie

It was going to rain—and soon.

But before I could scramble to my feet it came pouring down in buckets, one of those sudden brief but ferocious storms of early June that smashes flowers and plays havoc with drains. I tried to find a dry, sheltered spot in the precise center of the open cupola where I would be most sheltered from the pelting rain—not that it made much difference, what with the cold wind that had suddenly sprung up out of nowhere. I wrapped my arms round myself for warmth. I'd have to wait it out, I thought.

'Hullo! Are you all right?'

A man was standing at the far edge of the lake, looking across at me on the island. Through the sheets of falling rain, I could see no more than dabs of damp color, which gave him the appearance of someone in an Impressionist painting. But before I could reply, he had rolled up his trouser legs and removed his shoes, and was swiftly wading barefoot towards me. As he steadied himself with his long walking staff, he reminded me of Saint Christopher carrying the Christ Child piggyback across the river, although as he drew closer, I could see that the object on his shoulders was actually a canvas knapsack.

He was dressed in a baggy walking suit and wore a hat with a wide, floppy brim: a bit like Leslie Howard, the film star, I thought. He was fiftyish, I guessed, about Father's age but dapper in spite of it.

With a waterproof artist's sketchbook in one hand, he was the very image of the strolling artist-illustrator: Olde England, and all that.

'Are you all right?' he repeated, and I realized I hadn't answered him the first time.

'Perfectly well, thank you,' I said, babbling a bit too much to make up for my possible rudeness. 'I was caught in the rain, you see.'

'I do see,' he said. 'You're saturated.'

'Not so much saturated as drenched,' I corrected him. When it came to chemistry, I was a stickler.

He opened his knapsack and pulled out a waterproof walking cape, the sort of thing worn by hikers in the Hebrides. He wrapped it round my shoulders and I was immediately warm.

'You needn't. but thank you,' I said.

We stood there together in the falling rain, not speaking, each of us gazing off across the lake, listening to the clatter of the downpour.

After a time he said, “Since we're to be marooned on an island together, I suppose there could be no harm in us exchanging names.”

I tried to place his accent: Oxford with a touch of something else. Scandinavian, perhaps?

'I'm Flavia,' I said. 'Flavia de Luce.'

'My name's Pemberton, Frank Pemberton. Pleased to meet you, Flavia.'

Pemberton? Wasn't this the man who had arrived at the Thirteen Drakes just as I was making my escape from Tully Stoker? I wanted that visit kept quiet, so I said nothing.

We exchanged a soggy handshake, and then drew apart as strangers often do after they've touched.

The rain went on. After a bit he said, “Actually, I knew who you were.”

'Did you?'

'Mmm. To anyone who takes a serious interest in English country houses, de Luce is quite a well-known name. Your family is, after all, listed in Who's Who.'

'Do you take a serious interest in English country houses, Mr. Pemberton?”

He laughed. “A professional interest, I'm afraid. In fact I'm writing a book on the subject. I thought I would call it Pemberton's Stately Homes: A Stroll Through Time. Has rather an impressive ring, don't you think?”

'I expect it depends upon whom you're trying to impress,' I said, 'but it does, yes. rather, I mean.'

'My home base is in London, of course, but I've been tramping through this part of the country for quite some time, scribbling in my notebooks. I'd rather hoped to have a look round the estate and interview your father. In fact, that's why I'm here.”

'I don't think that will be possible, Mr. Pemberton,' I said. 'You see, there's been a sudden death at Buckshaw, and Father is. assisting the police with their inquiries.'

Without thinking, I had pulled the phrase from remembered serials on the wireless, and, until I said it, not realized its import.

'Good Lord!' he said. 'A sudden death? Not one of the family, I hope.'

'No,' I said. 'A complete stranger. But since he was found in the garden at Buckshaw, you see, Father is bound to—'

At that moment it stopped raining as suddenly as it had begun. The sun came out to play in rainbows on the grass, and somewhere on the island, a cuckoo sang, precisely as it does at the end of the storm in Beethoven's Pastoral Symphony. I swear it did.

'I understand perfectly,' he said. 'I wouldn't dream of intruding. Should Colonel de Luce wish to be in contact at a later date, I'm at the Thirteen Drakes, in Bishop's Lacey. I'm sure Mr. Stoker would be happy to convey a message.'

I removed the cape and handed it to him.

'Thank you,' I said. 'I'd best be getting back.'

We waded back across the lake together like a couple of bathers holidaying at the seaside.

'It was a pleasure meeting you, Flavia,' he said. 'In time, I trust we shall become fast friends.'