As Chimney Sweepers Come to Dust (Flavia de Luce #7)(92)

I said nothing. I was not going to let on that I recognized the phrase.

“Pheasant sandwiches,” she said again, smiling horribly … plaintively.

Again I gave her a barn-door stare.

“Listen,” she said. “What do you want?”

“The truth,” I said, and I must admit that those two words, as brief as they were, were as sweet in my mouth as milk and honey. “First of all, Collingwood. What have you done with her?”

“She’s been sent home to her parents. She suffered a bad shock at Miss Bodycote’s, then contracted rheumatic fever. We brought her here for a while, but she’s now been released.”

That much, I thought, was probably true.

“And Francesca Rainsmith?”

Dorsey Rainsmith got to her feet and locked the door.

Was I terrified?

Well, yes.

“I wish you’d wait until Ryerson comes home,” she said. “I’m sure he could make it quite—”

“He won’t be home until late tonight,” I said. “He’s away at a conference.”

“Oh, of course he is—I’d forgotten.”

“So it’s just you and me,” I said. I resisted the urge to add “Sweetheart,” like Humphrey Bogart.

“Talk,” I told her, and she did.

I could hardly wait to tell Inspector Gravenhurst.

“So you see,” I said, pacing up and down the room, “believing she was suffering from no more than indigestion, they took Francesca to Edith Cavell. A good sleep would do her good. They left her there and went downstairs, where it was said that they danced for hours.

“Toward the end of the evening, when they finally got back to Edith Cavell, they found Francesca dead on the floor. Her throat had been cut. They were appalled. They panicked. After all, it had been implied that they had much more in common than medicine, if you see what I mean.

“He needed to return to the ball to keep up appearances, Ryerson decided. He made his excuses, left instructions that his wife was not to be disturbed, and drove Dr. Dawes home. He’d deal with things himself. It was while driving back that he came up with a plan. He remembered that Francesca had wanted to go on a midnight cruise: to renew their vows. He’d already booked the tickets. There mustn’t be a breath of scandal, he decided: not about him and Miss Dawes and certainly not about Miss Bodycote’s Female Academy.

“When he finally got back to Miss Bodycote’s, although it was quite late, there was still laughter in the ballroom. He went quietly up to Edith Cavell, and found … nothing! Francesca’s body was gone. Not a sign of her. The room was untouched. Wiped clean.

“What to do? There was scarcely time to think. He told Fitzgibbon he was taking his wife home. No, no need to make a fuss. Carry on. He’d see to it.

“Two nights later, they carried out their charade with Dorsey wearing a wedding dress and veil. The gift box, of course, contained her ordinary clothing, and while Ryerson alerted the captain that his wife had fallen overboard, Dorsey was packing the wedding gear in the box and putting on a dark suit, after which she mingled with the other passengers on the deck until they returned to port. No one paid her the slightest attention; no one, remember, because of the veil, had previously seen her face.

“How did I discover this? Well, in the first place, Ryerson’s wife banged her head getting out of the taxi at the pier. Francesca Rainsmith was tiny: Had it been she, it never could have happened. That was what first alerted me. And then the taxi: Why had they taken a taxi instead of having Merton drive them to the ship? As for the rest of it, I got it straight from Dorsey Rainsmith’s mouth.”

I waited for this to sink in.

“Now then: Did they kill Francesca? The answer is no. They foolishly plotted to conceal her death, but as for murder, you will find them not guilty. Francesca died of arsenic poisoning. You will almost certainly still find traces of it in her body.

“What made me suspect arsenic? I’m glad you asked. As you undoubtedly know, arsenic, heated, produces arsine gas. A body permeated with arsenic, wrapped in fabric, such as a flag, over time, will give off fumes that tarnish silver. I subjected a sample of the tarnish from a small silver medallion—which was clutched in the corpse’s hand—to the Marsh test, which confirmed my suspicions. I’ll be happy to turn it over to you so that you can verify my work. Yes, of course I ought to have handed over the medallion when you first arrived. I realize that now. But, like poor Collingwood, I must have been in shock. I hope you won’t think too badly of me.

“And now the flag. Why was the body wrapped in a Union Jack? To absorb the blood, of course, of which there was a great deal. The flag was easily at hand, being stored in a trunk in the hall. It was flown over the academy every twenty-fourth of May, Victoria Day. Mr. Kelly will probably confirm that it was missing last May, and that he had to requisition a new one. No, I haven’t asked him myself, but I have observed that there is presently a quite fresh Union Jack in the trunk: one which can’t have been flown for more than a couple of days.

“Who, then, killed Francesca Rainsmith? The deduction is an easy one. Who held Francesca responsible for the car crash that condemned her friend to a life of torture in a wheelchair? Who has hated Francesca with every moment of her waking life?” (I’ll admit I was being a bit dramatic here). “Who is it that keeps a museum of taxidermy specimens, who has the ways and means to decapitate a dead body? Who had the upper body strength to shove a pitifully little body up the chimney? Having seen the killer run a wheelchair up and down steep banks and ramps with my own eyes, I’m satisfied that we need look no further.