As Chimney Sweepers Come to Dust (Flavia de Luce #7)(91)

The point of it all was this: Did I have the generosity to let her get away with it? Could I let her win? Throw the match, so to speak?

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I must have been mistaken.”

And before she could stop me, I ran out of the laboratory.

I did not need more entanglements.

It was only when I got back to Edith Cavell that I realized I had not completed my experiment. I would return later to clean up.

When Fabian was gone.

Sleep was impossible. I tossed and turned, sweated and swore. By daylight I was a bad-tempered haystack, but I didn’t care. I had made up my mind what I was going to do. I would do it and hang the consequences.

Rosedale at dawn was a very different place. The weather had turned cold overnight and left the world brittle. In some of the lower spots, patches of low fog lurked among the hedges, as if the atmosphere there had curdled. Dark trees overhung the frosty grass, and the air was as sharp as knives.

I walked quickly, swinging my arms to generate a bit of heat. A school blazer and white blouse were hardly meant to replace a parka, and by the time I got to the Rainsmiths’, my nose was running and I was beginning to sneeze.

I was not a pretty picture.

Smoke was rising from the kitchen chimney as I made my way round the back of the house.

I tapped lightly at the door and Elvina opened it almost at once.

“I’m sorry to bother you,” I said, “but I should like to speak with Dr. Rainsmith. It’s urgent.”

“Urgent, is it?” she asked, beckoning me to come inside. “So urgent that you can’t have a cup of hot tea and a buttered scone? You look as if you’ve fallen off a dog-sled.”

“I’m all right,” I said, resenting both the remark and the way I looked. “Is Dr. Rainsmith at home?”

“Which one?” she asked.

“The chairman,” I said. “Ryerson.”

Some people are shy about using the forename of an older person, but I am not one of them.

“I’m afraid he’s not, dear. He’s off to a conference in Hamilton. Won’t be home until tonight. Is it something that can wait?”

“No,” I told her, perhaps unwisely. “It’s a matter of life and death.”

Unshaken (and it was only later that I realized that she probably dealt with matters of life and death daily, as others deal with dust) she replied, “Is it something I can help with—or Mr. Merton? He ought to be back from the train any minute now.”

“No,” I said. “It’s personal.”

The look on her face told me that she was recalling our earlier conversation.

“Honestly, I’m fine,” I said, touching her hand. It was the least I could do.

It was only then that I noticed that Dorsey Rainsmith was standing in the doorway. She had followed me in from the garden with a wicker basket full of flowers. I must have passed her without seeing her. Perhaps she had been bent over with her secateurs.

Was it just my imagination or had Elvina given a little jump? Had Dorsey Rainsmith taken us both by surprise?

“Well,” she said, “what is it?”

I had no more than a second to make up my mind. Did I stay or did I go? I thought of Alf Mullet’s many talks on military tactics which I had dozed through behind fascinated eyes. “Confrontation is a cannon,” he had said. “It’s a powerful weapon, but it gives away your position.”

“It’s about Francesca Rainsmith,” I said.

No going back now. I had fired my shot and could only wait for the consequences.

“You’d better come in,” Dorsey said, placing the basket of flowers on the kitchen sink and leading the way through into another room which turned out to be her study. The walls were lined with medical reference books that I’d have given my eye teeth to read, but this was hardly the time or place.

She took a chair at the desk without asking me to sit, then swiveled round to face me.

“I’m very busy,” she said.

“Good,” I said. “So am I. Let’s get on with it. Francesca Rainsmith.”

“What about her?” Dorsey said. “She died in tragic circumstances, and I’d prefer you to respect my husband’s privacy, and mine.”

“She died of arsenic poisoning at the Beaux Arts Ball,” I said. “A few days later, in a wedding dress and veil, you impersonated her on a moonlight cruise.”

“Quite preposterous,” she said.

“Yes, it is,” I replied. “Inspector Gravenhurst will find it even more so.”

I paused to let her guilt get to work. “He’ll find the results of the autopsy particularly interesting, especially in view of the fact that you’ve been in charge of the body since it was discovered.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I mean good morning, Dr. Rainsmith,” I said, and turned toward the door, an effect that was largely spoiled by my being convulsed with a sneeze.

“Flavia—wait.”

Reluctantly, I turned to face her again.

“Dr. Rainsmith and I—Ryerson, I mean. We’re on your side, you know. Pheasant sandwiches.”

She bared her teeth in a ghastly grin that was meant to be friendly but which, to me, looked more like a corpse in a comic book.