As Chimney Sweepers Come to Dust (Flavia de Luce #7)(56)

Just as well she hadn’t called my bluff, I thought. Jumbo would be waiting.

At the corner, I paused and, pretending to read the street sign, sneaked a look back.

Miss Fawlthorne was sliding into the offside front seat of Rainsmith’s sedan.





? EIGHTEEN ?

I OPENED THE DOOR and my heart gave a sickening leap.

Jumbo was sitting on my bed leafing through my notebook. How long had she been here? How much had she read?

I had stopped at the goldfish pool just long enough to toss in the unused coins. I have one or two faults, but thievery from wishing wells is not one of them. I would return the ones I had spent at the first opportunity.

“Very interesting,” she said, turning a page. “Very informative.”

“Interesting?” I asked, angling to get a look over her shoulder. If she’d been reading my notes, I was scuppered.

“This stuff about William Palmer … a bit morbid, though, isn’t it?”

“Miss Fawlthorne assigned it,” I said. “Quite boring, actually.”

“Remarkable research, though. How did you manage to dig up all that information?”

“Oh, I just happened to read a library book about the man not long ago. Quite informative. Some of it stuck in my mind.”

She’d be horrified if she knew the truth.

“Hmmm,” she said, handing back the book. “Now, what did you want to talk about? You said you needed my advice.”

“Yes,” I told her. “Quite frankly, I’m after your job. Not until you graduate, of course, but I have to admit that I’ve set my sights on being head girl at Miss Bodycote’s. I need all the advice I can get.”

Jumbo seemed rather taken aback.

“I think that the best way to go about it is to win as many medals and awards as possible. I’ve got plenty of time, of course, but if I begin early—”

“Hold on,” Jumbo said. “It isn’t all medals, you know.”

“No,” I said, “but it’s a start. Solid academic work—science and so on—and a bag of medals ought to give me a chance. Scarlett told me she won one for washing and ironing.”

“Do you want to spend your days like she did, hanging around with a ticket of leave for the laundry pinned to your blazer?”

“Well, no,” I said, meaning yes. “But I thought you might give me some ideas on what prizes are available. I’m afraid I’m not much good at sports, but I’m rather keen on chemistry and religion.”

Religion was a bald-faced lie, but it paid off.

“Ha!” Jumbo exclaimed. “Well, if it’s theology you fancy, you’ve come to the right place. Miss Bodycote’s Female Academy is so High Church that—”

“Only a kitchen stool is required to scramble up into Heaven,” I finished. “Yes, I heard that somewhere.”

“There’s the Bishop’s Medal for New Testament studies, the Tanner Award for a paper on the Old Testament prophets, the Saint Michael for church history, the Daughters of Mary for proficiency in elementary Greek and Latin, and the Hooker for hermeneutics.”

“Good lord!” I said, and we both laughed.

“No one goes in for them much anymore. The Hooker hasn’t been handed out since Miss Bodycote’s day. But if theology’s your game, washing and ironing won’t give you much of a leg up.”

“No, I suppose not. Have you won any of those?”

Jumbo snorted. “Not on your Nellie. Hockey’s more my line. I want to win something you can drink champagne out of.

“Or at least beer,” she added.

“No silver cup for the Saint Michael?” I asked, with just a hint of jollity.

“Fat chance,” she said. “An inscribed Bible for most of them, and for the Saint Michael, a lump of silver on a string.”

“When was that one last handed out?”

Her face went deliberately blank. Oh! for the power to read minds.

“Two years ago,” she said. “Listen, I have to dash. I promised Kingsbury I’d help restring the nets. Don’t want to keep her waiting too long—it’s a filthy job.”

“Right, then, cheerio,” I said. “Oh, by the way,” I added, “who won it? The Saint Michael, I mean. I thought I might ask her for a few pointers—a bit of coaching.”

Jumbo’s face was suddenly shadowed as if by scudding clouds: a dozen shades in as many agonizing seconds.

“No use,” she said at last. “She’s gone.”

“Was her name Clarissa Brazenose, by any chance?” I wanted to ask, but I somehow managed to keep from blurting it out.

“Have to dash,” Jumbo said, cutting short the interview.

When she had left the room I took a deep breath. Had I given myself away? Had I been too anxious? Had my little act been credible?

I drifted toward the window, meaning to watch Jumbo emerge onto the hockey field. As I did so, something on the table caught my eye.

A letter. A letter with a British stamp—addressed to me.

The handwriting was unmistakable.

I tore it open and yanked the folded sheets from the envelope.

But something stopped my hand.

This was not a letter to be read in an airless room. It needed to be taken into the open air and read under an open sky. It needed to be savored, its every word read again and again, committed to memory, and tucked away somewhere close to my heart.