As Chimney Sweepers Come to Dust (Flavia de Luce #7)(70)

Charlotte Veneering was a pale, weepy slug in the third form who had, as they put it, “failed to flourish” at Miss Bodycote’s Female Academy, and was being sent home at the request of her parents. Being an “FF,” as it was called, was the equivalent, so far as the other girls were concerned, to being drummed out of the regiment, and the sad subject was usually whisked away under cover of darkness to whatever FF—feeble future—awaited them.

“Thank you, Fitzgibbon,” Miss Fawlthorne said. “Put them in St. Ursula. I’ll be there right away.”

St. Ursula was the chilly little reception chamber barely inside the front door where nuns had once been permitted—but only under special circumstances—brief glimpses of their families.

With a quick nod, Fitzgibbon was gone. Miss Fawlthorne got slowly to her feet.

“A pillar of strength,” she said again, and I realized she was still talking about Dorsey Rainsmith.

“Have you finished your report on William Palmer?” she asked suddenly. “I haven’t forgotten it, you know.”

“No, Miss Fawlthorne,” I said. I hadn’t the heart—or any other of the required guts, for that matter—to tell her that, with the exception of the few notes through which Jumbo had snooped, I hadn’t even begun.

“Well, time is running out,” she said, almost reflectively. “You might wish to work on it until I return. You may sit at my desk.”

“Yes, Miss Fawlthorne,” I said, ever obedient.

I waited until her footsteps were fading in the hall before I got up and resettled myself in her swivel chair.

Now, then, into which drawer had she shoved the papers?

Ah, yes … here they were. Second drawer from the bottom. I spread them on the desktop. Pink paper, black headlines. Yesterday’s edition.

THE MORNING STAR …

FOUR STAR SPECIAL

WHOSE HEAD?

By Wallace Scroop,

Morning Star Crime Reporter.

AUTOPSY SHOCKER.

There was a photograph of the said Scroop standing alone on the many steps of what might have been a courthouse, notebook in hand, pencil poised.

The Morning Star has learned that the human remains recently found in a chimney at Miss Bodycote’s Female Academy in East York have yet to be identified. An autopsy has revealed that while the body is that of a woman aged 14–45, the detached head is that of a mummified male, possibly from ancient Egypt. “We’re at a loss,” said pathologist Dr. Dorsey Rainsmith. “These findings are most unusual and most unexpected.” Dr. Rainsmith went on to say that anthropologists at the Royal Ontario Museum had been consulted. “So far, they’re as baffled as we are,” she admitted. Officials contacted at the ROM have declined to be interviewed further. “It’s still a police matter,” said one public relations staffer, who requested that his name not be published.

There was more: much more, but all of it repetitive with little additional information. The only real facts were those contained in the first couple of sentences, spun, like candy floss, into endless threads of speculation, and I couldn’t help noticing that the story was as much about the Morning Star as it was about anything else.

Were they withholding anything?

I knew that certain details likely to be known only to the killer—and who would believe for an instant that the body in the chimney was not a murder victim?—were often held back from the public.

If there was more to be known, the only way I was going to find it out was from (a) Dorsey Rainsmith, (b) the police, in the form of Inspector Gravenhurst, or (c) Wallace Scroop.

The choice was an easy one. I reached for the telephone directory.

Ah, yes … here it was: the Morning Star. ADelaide 1666.

Miss Fawlthorne was not likely to be back in the next few minutes. It was now or never.

I dialed the number, which was picked up almost immediately by a surprisingly bright-sounding young woman.

“Newsroom, please,” I said, trying to make my voice sound as if I did this every day.

“Who’s calling?” she asked.

“Gloria Chatterton,” I said. “I wish to speak with Wallace Scroop.”

There was a pause, during which I knew she was making up her mind whether to put me through or not.

“Oh, Sister Mary Xavier,” I said, half covering the telephone’s mouthpiece, “could I ask you to close the chapel door, please? I’m speaking to the Morning Star and don’t want to disturb the High Mass. Thank you, Sister. It’s very kind of you, I’m sure.”

“I’m putting you through,” the operator said. “Hold the line, please.”

She must have been Catholic. I had to pinch myself to keep from exploding.

“Newsroom,” said a suitably gruff voice.

“Wallace Scroop,” I said sharply, cutting the niceties. “He’s expecting my call.”

There was a hollow bang at the other end as the phone was put down and I was left to listen to what sounded like the pounding of a platoon of typewriters.

This was living! My blood was electric!

“Scroop,” his voice said.

“We met at Miss Bodycote’s,” I said, plunging in with no preliminaries. “I have some information for you.”

“Who is this?” he demanded. “I need a name.”