As Chimney Sweepers Come to Dust (Flavia de Luce #7)(86)

“You’ve had a great deal of bereavement,” I said. “Your mother, Mr. Merton—and the first Mrs. Rainsmith.”

It was a bold thing to say, but I had to take a chance.

“A great deal,” Merton said. “A very great deal. This household has had its share of sadnesses.”

“It must have been an awful shock to you when Mrs. Rainsmith drowned,” I said. “I mean, not that it wasn’t to Dr. Rainsmith, but he’s a medical doctor, isn’t he, and trained to cope with death. But poor you …”

I left the thought hanging in air.

Elvina gave me something of a sharp look, but Merton said, “Flavia’s mother died in April.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Elvina said. “Was it unexpected?”

“Yes and no,” I said. “She had been missing for ten years and her body was found in the mountain ice.”

“Oh! You poor lamb!” Elvina said. “You poor, poor lamb.”

And then, as if anxious to change the subject to something less tragic, no matter how little, she said: “It’s not that poor Mrs. Rainsmith’s death was completely unexpected, what with her being so ill before the accident.”

“Ill?” I asked, daring to say no more.

“Gastric trouble,” Elvina said. “Very bad. But she was a trouper. Never let it get in the way of her obligations.”

“Gosh!” I said. “You must have felt awful. It’s always the cook that—”

I cut my words off as if I had just realized what I was saying.

“You have no idea,” Elvina said. “Most people don’t appreciate the cook’s position. Gastric trouble is cook trouble. There’s always someone willing to point the finger.”

“So I suppose, in a way, it was a good thing that she drowned. I know that must sound awful, but—”

Elvina gave off a nervous laugh. It was time to get my feet on firmer ground.

“I know what you mean when you say she was a trouper,” I said. “She presented one of the awards at the Beaux Arts Ball the night she was taken ill, didn’t she?”

“Nothing to do with me!” Elvina said. “Bit of bad lobster at the ball. That’s what Dr. Rainsmith said. I never saw her again, so I wouldn’t know.”

“Never saw her again?” I leapt on her words like a hound on a bone.

“No, never. Dr. Rainsmith brought her home and had invalid soup sent over from the nursing home.”

“Did she eat it?” I asked.

“Must have. The bowls came down empty in the morning and she was off to the cruise on the second day.”

My veins were throbbing like plucked harp strings.

“Dr. Rainsmith must have been devastated,” I said. “Even though Miss Fawlthorne says that the second Mrs. Rainsmith was a great comfort.”

“I expect she was,” Elvina said, not looking at me. “Yes, I expect she was.”

There fell a great silence, and we all of us sat thinking our own thoughts, each of us cradling our teacups in our hands as if it were a family trait we shared.

For the first time in many weeks I felt at home. I could have stayed here forever in this cozy kitchen. I could have kissed the table and hugged the chairs, but of course I didn’t. Instead I offered up a little prayer of thanks to the Michaelmas daisies, and to Saint Michael himself who had brought me here.

“Can I run you home?” Merton asked. “I expect you’ll be wanting to get back, and it’s a long walk.”

How could I tell him that in my heart I was already at home—and that a ride to anywhere else would take me farther from it? That by departing I would be in some way diminished?

“Thank you, Mr. Merton,” I said. “I’d be much obliged.”

The streetlights were coming on as we drove along the Danforth.

“May I ask you a question?” I said.

“Of course, miss,” Merton said.

“What was Francesca Rainsmith wearing the night of the Beaux Arts Ball?”

Merton smiled, and then he laughed aloud. “A Cinderella costume,” he said. “Tattered gingham dress, apron, hair in a bandanna, Charlie Chaplin boots with red socks sticking out. She was ever so proud of the getup. One of the girls helped her make it. No more than a girl herself, Miss Francesca was. We miss her.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I wish I’d had the chance to meet her.”

We drove in silence for a while.

“How are you finding it?” Merton asked. “Miss Bodycote’s Female Academy, I mean?”

“Frankly, Mr. Merton,” I said. “Just between you and me and the gatepost—it’s a bugger.”

And I think by the look on his face that he knew what I meant.

Miss Fawlthorne was, as I knew she would be, livid.

In its proper sense, the word “livid” is used to describe someone who is black in the face from strangulation, and I wasn’t far off. Her countenance was ghastly.

“Where have you been?” she demanded, her voice trembling.

“I went for a walk,” I said, which was true, as far as it went.

“The whole academy has been turned out looking for you—do you realize that?”

Of course I didn’t. I had only just come in the door.