As Chimney Sweepers Come to Dust (Flavia de Luce #7)(50)

“Collingwood,” she whispered. “She’s not doing well, poor child. I don’t expect she’ll be much trouble, though. She’s sleeping the clock away at the moment.”

As she spoke, Fitzgibbon was turning down the sheets of another bed at the far end of the room.

From a small glass cupboard between the windows, she selected a tentlike cotton nightgown that might have been worn by Wendy in Peter Pan.

“Put that on and climb in,” she said, “and I’ll see to you directly.”

Like a magician producing a rabbit from a hat, she pulled a second ring of keys from somewhere about her person and, turning away, went to another glass cupboard that was tucked away in an alcove.

By the time she returned, I had flattened myself and pulled the sheet up to my chin.

“Temperature first,” she said, and a clinical thermometer appeared in her hand. I noticed that it was one of the type invented in the seventeenth century at Padua by Sanctorio Santorius, but not perfected until 1867 by Sir Thomas Allbutt in Leeds: a clever device based upon the uniform expansion of mercury from a reservoir into a narrow, calibrated glass tube.

“Open up,” she told me. “This will tell me if you’ve got a temperature.”

I nodded dumbly as she shoved the thing under my tongue. I gave a little moan and rolled my eyes to look up at her appealingly.

So far, things were going precisely according to plan.

“Sorry,” she said. “I know it’s unpleasant, but we need eight minutes to get an accurate reading. Don’t move … don’t bite down on it. I’ll be right back.”

She crossed the room and went behind the curtain that hid Collingwood’s bed. My acute sense of hearing told me she was fussing with the pillows and pouring water from a pitcher into a glass.

I whipped the thermometer out of my mouth and began rubbing it fiercely with the corner of the bedsheet pinched tightly between thumb and forefinger.

One of the many happy things about physics is that it works anywhere in the world. No matter whether you’re in Bishop’s Lacey or Bombay, friction is friction.

The red column of mercury was already beginning to climb—but not quickly enough. I could still see Fitzgibbon’s legs below Collingwood’s curtain, but I wouldn’t have much time left.

Hold on, I thought. With its more abundant free fibers, my cotton gown might have a higher coefficient of friction than the linen bedsheet.

I put my hem to work.

That was better! As I rubbed frantically, the red column was rising like billy-ho. It was already above 100 degrees on the Fahrenheit scale. I kept up the rubbing until I saw Fitzgibbon’s feet begin moving toward the end of Collingwood’s bed.

I quickly shoved the instrument back under my tongue and gave another little moan to encourage Fitzgibbon to take a rapid reading.

As she came into view from behind the curtain, I tossed restlessly.

“Easy,” she said. “Don’t bite down, remember? We don’t want to lose you to mercury poisoning, do we?”

I should say we didn’t!

Mercury poisoning was one of the most ghastly poisonings in the catalog of chemistry: the hellish burning, the itching, the swelling, the shedding of skin, the strangulation, the endless stream of saliva like a cow with pasture bloat, and, finally, the loss of bodily functions.

“No,” I whispered weakly.

Fitzgibbon pulled the thermometer from my mouth and glanced at it. I could see her eyes widen.

“Mmm,” she said. “A bit higher than I’d like.”

I have observed that, unless it’s normal, they never tell you what your actual temperature is. They’d rather leave it to your fevered imagination than tell the truth. Even dear old Dr. Darby back home in Bishop’s Lacey had been evasive when I fell off the roof after my spectacular and widely tut-tutted Christmas fireworks display.

I rolled away and groaned as Fitzgibbon reached out to feel my forehead.

“I’ll have the doctor look at you when he comes by later,” she said. “For now I’ll give you an aspirin for your fever. Try to have a little sleep. It’s remarkable what a little sleep can do.”

I nodded and closed my eyes. The sooner I could get her out of the room the better. At least the doctor wasn’t coming until later, by which time I would have done what I had come to do, and would be well on the way to the most miraculous recovery in medical history.

Was it wrong to be so deceitful? Well, yes, it probably was. But if God hadn’t wanted me to be the way I am, He would have arranged to have me born a haddock instead of Flavia de Luce—wouldn’t He?

As soon as Fitzgibbon was out of the room, I counted to twenty-three, then leaped out of bed and dashed to Collingwood’s bedside. If I were caught out, I would pretend that I was delirious.

Collingwood’s face was as white as the pillow, her long hair spread out round her in waves as if she were a mermaid underwater.

“Collingwood!” I whispered in her ear. “It’s me, de Luce. Wake up.”

She didn’t stir.

“Collingwood!”

Louder this time. Although the infirmary was somewhat off the beaten track, I didn’t want to attract the attention of anyone who just happened to be passing.

“Collingwood!”

I pressed my thumbnail into her upper lip, a consciousness test I had learned the hard way at a Girl Guides summer camp.