As Chimney Sweepers Come to Dust (Flavia de Luce #7)(79)

Time enough to think about those things later. I had suddenly become aware of my hands, which meant only one thing: It was time to say my farewells and make a graceful—or at least dignified—exit.

Dogger had once told me, “Your hands know when it’s time to go.”

And he had been right. The hands are the canaries in one’s own personal coal mine: They need to be watched carefully and obeyed. A fidget demands attention, and a full-blown not-knowing-what-to-do-with-them means “Vamoose!”

I gave Marge and Sal a grateful smile and headed for the door.

“Oh, by the way,” Marge called out, “better get Fitzgibbon to put something on that finger. I think you’ve cut yourself.”





? TWENTY-FIVE ?

“NEWSROOM,” I WHISPERED INTO the telephone transmitter. “Wallace Scroop.”

I was in the shadows of the back hall, hoping my uniform would make me invisible against the dark paneling. It was still early, after breakfast but well before classes, and the sudden departure of Mrs. Bannerman seemed to have cast an invisible pall over Miss Bodycote’s.

There was an eerie silence: an absence of joy and youthful voices. The air was a weighted vacuum.

“Scroop.” Wallace’s voice came clearly through the receiver.

“It’s me again,” I said. “I need a favor.”

“What’s in it for the Morning Star?” he asked. “More to the point, what’s in it for Wallace Scroop?”

He caught me by surprise. I had not expected to negotiate, had not thought it through before placing the call.

I had to make a snap decision, and I did. It was one of the most difficult things I have ever been made to do in my life.

“Everything,” I said.

And I meant it.

“All right,” he said, when we had agreed on the terms, “tell me what you need.”

“The details of Francesca Rainsmith’s death. She drowned on a midnight cruise two years ago. I am told by a reliable informant that it was in all the papers. You must have them in the files. I need everything I can get, especially eyewitness accounts, the captain and crew, passengers, and so forth.”

“That’s a tall order, isn’t it, little lady?”

“I’m not a little lady and it’s not as tall as what you’re asking me to do for you.”

“Touché, José,” he said. “But there’s no need to disturb the morgue—that’s what we call the files, by the way. Yours truly was on the scene and it’s etched into my brain in hot lead.”

“Go ahead,” I said. “I’m listening.”

“Gentleman and lady show up in taxi at harbor two minutes before sailing. Both in wedding duds: tux, tails, boiled shirt, cuff links, bow tie; white dress, veil, lots of lace, bouquet. Tips the purser—tells him it’s their anniversary.”

“Were they carrying anything?” I asked.

“He was. Big gift box. Fancy wrappings, blue ribbons.”

“And her?”

“Just the bouquet.”

Somewhere above me, a floorboard creaked. Someone was on the stairs.

“Hold on,” I whispered. “I’ll be back in a jiff.”

I put down the handset and tiptoed to the bottom of the stairs. By craning my neck I could see to the landing and above.

I put my foot on the bottom step and began upward, making more noise than I needed to by shuffling my shoes.

And then I stopped. If someone had been listening, they had beetled off.

I went back to the telephone.

“Sorry,” I told him, whispering. “Go on. About the Rainsmiths …?”

“They danced. Danced their hooves off till the wee hours. Everyone dog-tired. Drinks. Nobody paying attention. He appears in the wheelhouse, frantic. Out of his mind. Wife’s fallen overboard. Tipsy—must’ve lost her balance. Maybe the bang on the head.”

“Hold on,” I said. “What bang on the head?”

“Oh, yeah. I forgot to tell you. She conked her head on the door frame getting out of the taxi. There was gore galore. Purser offered to call a doctor. Wouldn’t hear of it. Rainsmith said he was a doctor. Just a scalp wound. Scalp wounds bleed a lot, you know. Nothing serious. He would patch her up.”

“And did he?”

“Must have. Like I said, they danced like there was no tomorrow.”

“Did anybody have a look at her?”

“Not much. It was dark, remember.”

“Dark? I thought it was a moonlight cruise.”

“Bit of a washout there. Cloudy night, cold for June. Rainy squalls, choppy. Not many dancing on deck. Only the foolhardy and the lovesick few.”

“And afterwards?”

“Rainsmith was a broken man. Had to be helped off the boat.”

“What about the box?”

“Never had a chance to give it to her. Very touching story. DROWNING VICTIM DUCKS FINAL GIFT. Tasteless, maybe—but it won me a press award.”

“Congratulations,” I said.

“Look, kid. I’ve got to scram. There’s been a bank robbery downtown, and they’re screaming for Scroop. And listen, don’t forget our deal.”

“I won’t,” I said, but he had already rung off, leaving me alone again.