As Chimney Sweepers Come to Dust (Flavia de Luce #7)(37)
I marched off to the south until I saw a Danforth Avenue street sign, at which point I turned my face toward the west.
It is a remarkable fact, and one not often commented upon, how hard it is to walk upon pavement after a lifetime of village streets and country lanes. Before I had gone a mile I made a pretext of stopping at what appeared to be a greengrocer’s shop for a bottle of ginger beer.
“Your money’s no good here, dear,” the elderly woman behind the counter said after examining and handing me back my shilling. “Tell you what—I’ll give you a bottle of cold pop just for the pleasure of hearing you talk. You have such a lovely accent. Go ahead, say something.”
I did not like thinking of myself as having an accent: It was everyone else who had one.
“Thank you,” I said. But I knew, even as I spoke, that “thank you” was not enough to pay for a drink.
“No, something decent,” she said. “Give us a song—or some poe-try.”
Other than a couple of comic verses about chemistry, which didn’t seem appropriate to the occasion, the only poem that I could remember was one I had heard a couple of little girls chanting as they skipped rope in Cow Lane, back home in Bishop’s Lacey, which seemed now like a remembered scene from a previous life.
I launched into it before shame could make me change my mind, and bolt. Striking a demure pose with my hands clasped at my waist, I began:
“Poor Little Leo
Was sunk by a torpedo
They brought him back in a Union Jack
From over the bounding sea-o.
Poor little Leo
He lost his life in Rio
They brought him back in a Union Jack
From over the bounding sea-o.”
“That’s lovely, dear,” the woman said, reaching into a cooling cabinet and handing over a frosty bottle of Orange Crush. “I had a nephew Leo once. He wasn’t sunk by a torpedo, but he did move to Florida. What do you think about that?”
I smiled because it seemed the proper thing to do.
I was already on the street, strolling quickly away, when the words of the stupid rhyme came flooding back into my head: “They brought him back in a Union Jack …”
Why did they seem so familiar? It took a moment for the penny to drop.
Brought him back in a Union Jack—just like the body that had fallen out of the chimney!
Could there possibly be a connection?
Was someone—some unknown killer—murdering his victims according to the skipping rhymes of schoolchildren, in the way that Miss Christie has written about?
Daffy had told me about the mysteries based upon nursery rhymes, railway guides, and so forth, but was it even remotely possible that a Canadian killer had decided to copy those methods?
The very thought of it both excited and chilled me. On the one hand, I might well have part of the solution already in hand, but on the other, the killer could still be at large, and not far away.
I’m afraid I wasn’t getting far with reflecting upon my disobedience. Miss Fawlthorne would almost certainly quiz me when I got back to the academy, and I’d need to have some kind of acceptable penitence prepared. But a body in the chimney isn’t something that falls into your lap every day, and I needed now to give it my undivided attention. All the nitpicking at Miss Bodycote’s had been so distracting that the flag-wrapped corpse had been forced to climb into the backseat, as it were.
By now I was crossing a tall limestone bridge or viaduct, which crossed a broad valley. I hauled myself up by the elbows on the rail and peered over the side at the muddy brown water that seeped sluggishly along far below. It was a long way down, and the very thought of it made my stomach feel ticklish.
I walked on, unwilling or unable to turn round and go back to captivity.
Captivity! Yes, that was it—I was the tiger caged in a zoo, longing to be returned home to its jungle. Perhaps I could escape, as tigers were occasionally reported to do in the newspapers.
In fact, I was already out, wasn’t I?
? TWELVE ?
PERHAPS I SHOULD MAKE a break for it. I could be well on my way to England before they even realized I was missing.
But other than the few useless coins in my pocket I had no money.
Perhaps I could ask a stranger for directions to the police station and throw myself, as a refugee, upon the mercy of Inspector Gravenhurst.
Or would he be obliged by law to take me into custody? The police station, however fascinating it might be, would be far less comfortable than Miss Bodycote’s, what with the drunken prisoners in the clink, the noise, the swearing, and so forth.
I still needed to find a quiet place to sit down and think this through.
I had now reached the far side of the viaduct and was walking along a broad and busy city street.
And just like that, as if by some Heavensent miracle, a churchyard appeared as if out of nowhere, and I made for it at once. It was not quite as good as being whisked back to Bishop’s Lacey, but for now, it would do.
No sooner was I safely among the gravestones than a great feeling of warmth and calm contentment came sweeping over me.
Life among the dead.
This was where I was meant to be!
What a revelation! And what a place to have it!
I could succeed at whatever I chose. I could, for instance, become an undertaker. Or a pathologist. A detective, a grave digger, a tombstone maker, or even the world’s greatest murderer.