I knew instantly that I was fooling no one but myself. He was watching my face the way a cat watches the family canary when they're alone in the house.
'The shroud tomb? Ah! A confection in white marble,' he said. 'Remarkably like an almond marzipan, but larger, of course.'
I decided to play along until I could formulate a plan.
'I expect your publisher was pleased.'
'My publisher? Oh, yes. Old.'
'Quarrington,' I said.
'Yes. Quite. Quarrington. He was ecstatic.'
Pemberton—I still thought of him as Pemberton—put down his knapsack and began to unfasten the leather straps of his portfolio.
'Phew!' he said. 'Rather warm, isn't it?'
He removed his jacket, threw it carelessly across his shoulder, and jerked a thumb at Mr. Twining's tombstone.
'What's the great interest?'
'He was my father's old schoolmaster,' I said.
'Ah!' He sat down and lounged against the base of the stone as casually as if he were Lewis Carroll and I were Alice, picnicking upon the river Isis.
How much did he know? I wondered. I waited for him to make his opening move. I could use the time to think.
Already I was planning my escape. Could I outrun him if I took to my heels? It seemed unlikely. If I went for the river, he'd overtake me before I was halfway across. If I headed for the field towards Malplaquet Farm, I'd be less likely to find help than if I ran for the High Street.
'I understand your father is something of a philatelist,' he said suddenly, looking unconcernedly off towards the farm.
'He collects stamps, yes. How did you know?'
'My publisher—old Quarrington—happened to mention it this morning over at Nether Eaton. He was thinking of asking your father to write a history of some obscure postage stamp, but couldn't think quite how best to approach him. Couldn't begin to understand it all. far beyond me. too technical. suggested that perhaps he should have a word with you.'
It was a lie and I detected it at once. As an accomplished fibber myself, I spotted the telltale signs of an untruth before they were halfway out of his mouth: the excessive detail, the offhand delivery, and the wrapping-up of it all in casual chitchat.
'Could be worth a bundle, you know,' he added. 'Old Quarrington's pretty flush since he married into the Norwood millions, but don't let on I told you. I expect your father wouldn't say no to a bit of pocket change to buy a New Guinea ha'penny thingummy, would he? It must take a pretty penny to keep up a place like Buckshaw.'
This was piling insult onto injury. The man must take me for a fool.
'Father's rather busy these days,' I said. 'But I'll mention it to him.'
'Ah, yes, this—sudden death you spoke of.police and all that. Must be a damnable bore.'
Was he going to make a move or were we going to sit here gossiping until dark? Perhaps it would be best if I took the initiative. That way, at least, I'd have the advantage of surprise. But how?
I remembered a piece of sisterly advice, which Feely once gave Daffy and me:
'If ever you're accosted by a man,' she'd said, 'kick him in the Casanovas and run like blue blazes!'
Although it had sounded at the time like a useful bit of intelligence, the only problem was that I didn't know where the Casanovas were located.
I'd have to think of something else.
I scraped the toe of my shoe in the sand; I would grab a handful and toss it in his eyes before he knew what had hit him. I saw him watching me.
He stood up and dusted the seat of his trousers.
'People sometimes do a thing in haste and later come to regret it,' he said conversationally. Was he referring to Horace Bonepenny or to himself? Or was he warning me not to make a foolish move? 'I saw you at the Thirteen Drakes, you know. You were inside the front door looking at the register when my taxi pulled up.'
Curses! I had been spotted after all.
'I have friends who work there,' I said. 'Mary and Ned. I sometimes drop in to say hello.'
'And do you always rifle the guests' rooms?'
I could feel my face going all scarlet even as he said it.
'As I suspected,' he went on. 'Look, Flavia, I'll be frank with you. A business associate had something in his possession that didn't belong to him. It was mine. Now, I know for a fact that, other than my associate, you and the landlord's daughter were the only two people who were in that room. I also know that Mary Stoker would have no reason to take this particular object. What am I to think?'
'Are you referring to that old stamp?' I asked.
This was going to be a tightrope act, and I was already putting on my tights. Pemberton relaxed at once.
