As Chimney Sweepers Come to Dust (Flavia de Luce #7)(18)

It was the right thing to say. Van Arque squeezed off a proud smile and was off up the stairs like a galloping rocket.

“You’re English,” Inspector Gravenhurst said.

“Yes,” I replied. My accent alone made me stand out among these Canadian girls like a—

“Been over long?” the inspector asked.

“Since last night,” I said. “Well, yesterday, actually.”

How I loved talking to this man! What a breath of fresh air it was to converse with someone who didn’t natter endlessly on and on like a village spinster.

I wanted desperately to tell him about Inspector Hewitt, my great friend back home in Bishop’s Lacey, but there would be time enough for that later. I would find a plausible way of dragging my dear inspector and his goddess wife, Antigone, into the conversation at a more appropriate time.

There was a clatter behind me on the stairs as Van Arque came scuttering quickly down, followed at a much more solemn pace by Miss Fawlthorne.

Blast them! I had barely got started. Well, there was nothing for it now but to play along. I clasped my hands daintily at my waist and went all submissive, staring up attentively at Miss Fawlthorne as if I were a beagle waiting for her to throw the ball.

“Thank you, Flavia. You are dismissed. Take her along to the fourth, Van Arque.”

I couldn’t help myself. I curtsied.

Van Arque tugged at my arm, and I had time only to flash the inspector a fleeting—but dazzling—smile.

“You’ll pay for that, you know,” Van Arque said when we were far enough along the corridor.

“Pay for what?” I asked.

She didn’t reply and on we marched.

*

“I’ve brought the new girl, Mrs. Bannerman.”

Van Arque paused, holding open the door.

I nearly swooned as the teacher turned round: She was, of course, the sweet-faced pixie! The elflike creature who looked as if she would be more at home perched on a foxglove leaf, sipping dewdrops from a fairy thimble.

“Come in, Flavia,” she said. “We’ve been expecting you.”

Flavia? Did the murderess (acquitted) Mildred Bannerman know my name?

I’m afraid that, for the first time ever in my life, although I may have been speechless, my heart was singing.

“Come in, Flavia,” she repeated, and I entered in a zombie trance.

Needless to say, I was the center of attention, which I loathe being. The girls all stared at me openly and I made a point of staring just as openly back. I was as curious about them as they were about me.

Who, for instance, was this girl with the needle-sharp nose and the hole in her stocking? And who the plump one with the pleasant face and fingernails bitten to the elbows? Who was the girl staring so intently at me from the farthest corner of the room? If I didn’t know better, I’d have sworn she had some ancient grievance.

And who was the girl that, in the middle of a room bubbling with curiosity, was so studiously ignoring me? I made special note of this one, recording her details in my mental notebook: small mouth, small nose, and hooded eyes; long black hair and a general air of self-importance, as if she were a wealthy tourist shopping in a bazaar swarming with ragged beggars.

After marking up what I took to be an attendance sheet, Mrs. Bannerman left the room to take a chemistry class with the fifth form, and was replaced by the gray-haired woman I had spotted at breakfast. I was right—she was the French mistress.

The girls all stood as she entered the room, and I went along with it.

For the next hour, Miss Dupont—I found out later whom she was—twittered away at the class, asking what seemed to be useless questions and nodding wisely at the useless answers. I didn’t understand a word of their palaver but, because she addressed each girl by name, the time wasn’t entirely wasted.

“Flav-ee-ah,” she said at last, mispronouncing my name and then rattling off a string of gibberish. I studied my fingernails, pretending I hadn’t heard.

“Elle est très timide,” she remarked to the class, and everyone laughed except me.

I felt like a chump.

What a jolly good idea it had been for my ancestors to forsake France in the days of William the Conqueror, I thought; otherwise, I, too, should have been brought up speaking through my nose.

And what utterly useless rot these girls were made to rehearse!

“The niece of my gardener has given me a blue handkerchief. Who has left Grandmother’s best photographic album in the garden in the rain?” (What a silly-sounding word “pluie” was: like the outcome of too many hot beans on toast.) “Run for the doctor, Marie—Madame has suffered a gastric explosion.”

I only know these things because Van Arque told me later what had actually been said.

Pitiful!

I won’t bother with the rest of that morning, except to say that it was uncomfortable. As I have said, I hate being the center of attention, and yet at the same time I can’t tolerate being ignored.

How I longed for a brisk knock at the door, and for someone to announce that Inspector Gravenhurst wished to consult with me.

Not that he would put it that way, of course. No, he would be much more discreet than that.

“Inspector Gravenhurst presents his compliments,” they would say, “and begs that Miss de Luce favor him with her assistance.” No, “her valuable assistance.”