The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie

'You rifled his luggage?' Dr. Kissing asked, without looking away from the magnifying glass. 'Phew! The Constabulary will hardly caper in delight upon the village green when they hear of that. nor will you, I'll wager.'

'I didn't exactly rifle his luggage,' I said. 'He had hidden the stamps under a travel sticker on the outside of a trunk.'

'With which, of course, you just happened to be idly fiddling when out they tumbled into your hands.'

'Yes,' I said. 'That's precisely how it happened.'

'Tell me,' he said suddenly, swinging round to look me in the eye, 'does your father know you're here?'

'No,' I said. 'Father's been charged with the murder. He's under arrest in Hinley.'

'Good Lord! Did he do it?'

'No, but everyone seems to think he did. For a while, even I thought so myself.'

'Ah,' he said. 'And what do you think now?'

'I don't know,' I said. 'Sometimes I think one thing and sometimes another. Everything's such a muddle.'

'Everything is always a muddle just before it settles in. Tell me this, Flavia: What is it that interests you above all else in the universe? What is your one great passion?'

'Chemistry,' I said in less than half a heartbeat.

'Well done!' said Dr. Kissing. 'I've put that same question to an army of Hottentots in my time, and they always prattle on about this and that. Babble and gush, that's all it is. You, by contrast, have put it in a word.'

The wicker creaked horribly as he half twisted round in his chair to face me. For an awful moment I thought his spine had crumbled.

'Sodium nitrite,' he said. 'Doubtless you are acquainted with sodium nitrite.'

Acquainted with it? Sodium nitrite was the antidote for cyanide poisoning, and I knew it in all its various reactions as well as I know my own name. But how had he known to choose it as an example? Was he psychic?

'Close your eyes,' Dr. Kissing said. 'Imagine you are holding in your hand a test tube half-filled with a thirty percent solution of hydrochloric acid. To it, you add a small amount of sodium nitrite. What do you observe?'

'I don't need to close my eyes,' I said. 'It becomes orange . orange and turbid.'

'Excellent! The color of these wayward postage stamps, is it not? And then?'

'Given time, twenty or thirty minutes perhaps, it clears.'

'It clears. I rest my case.'

As if a great weight had been lifted from my shoulders, I grinned a stupid grin.

'You must have been a wizard teacher, sir,' I said.

'Yes, so I was. in my day.

'And now you've brought my little treasure home to me,' he said, glancing at the stamps again.

This was something I hadn't counted upon; something I hadn't really thought through. I had meant only to discover if the owner of the Ulster Avenger was still alive. After that, I would hand it over to Father, who would surrender it to the police, who would, in due course, see that it was restored to its rightful owner. Dr. Kissing spotted my hesitation at once.

'Let me pose another question,' he said. 'What if you had come here today and found that I'd hopped the twig, as it were; flown off to my eternal reward?'

'You mean died, sir?'

'That's the word I was fishing for: died. Yes.'

'I suppose I should have given your stamp to Father.'

'To keep?'

'He'd know what to do with it.'

'I should think that the best person to decide that is the stamp's owner, wouldn't you agree?'

I knew that the answer was “yes” but I couldn't say it. I knew that, more than anything, I wanted to present the stamp to Father, even though it wasn't mine to give. At the same time, I wanted to give both stamps to Inspector Hewitt. But why?

Dr. Kissing lighted another cigarette and gazed out the window. At length, he plucked one of the stamps from the folder and handed me the other.

'This is AA,' he said. 'It is not mine; it don't belong to me, as the old song says. Your father may do with it as he wishes. It is not my place to decide.”

I took the Ulster Avenger from him and wrapped it carefully in my handkerchief.

'On the other hand, the exquisite little TL is mine. Mine own, without the shadow of a doubt.”

'I expect you'll be happy to be sticking it back into your album, sir,' I said with resignation, slipping its mate into my pocket.

'My album?' He gave a croaking laugh that ended in a cough. 'My albums are, as dear, dead Dowson put it, gone with the wind.'