As Chimney Sweepers Come to Dust (Flavia de Luce #7)(93)

“And why decapitate? To avoid identification if the body were ever found. The skull which is presently in the morgue was formerly on the shelf of the natural history museum, here at Miss Bodycote’s. And as for Francesca Rainsmith’s skull, I expect you will find it on that same shelf in the same position, dyed with tea, in order to age it.

“How do I know that? Why, I smelled it, of course. There is a definite odor of orange Pekoe.

“Have I missed anything? Well, I suppose someone might ask how Francesca Rainsmith’s killer managed to get her severed head from Edith Cavell to the museum, and the replacement skull from the museum back to Edith Cavell, without being spotted on the night of the Beaux Arts Ball, when the place was simply crawling with people. Don’t quote me on this because I’m not absolutely positive, but I suspect it has to do with an oversized tea cozy.

“And now, thank you for your time, Inspector. I am happy to have been of assistance.”

These were the things I might have said to the handsome Inspector Gravenhurst had I been given the opportunity, but of course, I hadn’t. I had made a bargain with Wallace Scroop that he was to get the credit for figuring out the Rainsmiths’ moonlight cruise deception, and I meant to stick to it. I have to admit that I’ve never regretted anything in my life so much as giving up that glory. But choices are choices, and there’s no going back.

I didn’t much mind not being able to tell the inspector that Fabian was Brazenose, but then, it’s not my place to be doing his work for him, is it? Let the police carry out their own investigations. It will keep them on their toes.

Fabian had, of course, given herself away by admitting that she had been at the Beaux Arts Ball, and had witnessed the poisoning of Francesca Rainsmith. Rather a bad slipup on her part. She had been present, but in the character of Clarissa Brazenose. “Fabian” had not been created or enrolled at Miss Bodycote’s until a year ago.

I hadn’t mentioned in my summary her transformation into Fabian. It had puzzled me for a while why Fabian had been forced to appear without her disguise, the night Scarlett had spotted her outside the laundry. I’d speculated that she might have had a bank account from which she could not withdraw funds without appearing in person, but that idea proved to be a bust when I remembered that Scarlett had seen her at night; the banks closed at three o’clock.

As it turned out, the solution was a simple one. The Brazenose sisters have an elderly great-aunt who suffers from a form of senility which they call “hardening of the arteries.” Clarissa sometimes risked sneaking out at night to visit the old lady, who lives, as it turns out, just a block away from Miss Bodycote’s. Miss Fawlthorne is apparently aware of this bending of the rules, but chooses to overlook it.

Poor Mary Jane. She still believes her sister is dead. Will they tell her the truth one day? I don’t know, but one thing’s certain: I won’t.

Le Marchand and Wentworth will, I suppose, haunt me forever: phantoms of Miss Bodycote’s, never seen but ever present. I wonder who they are and what they are doing, and sometimes the very thought of it makes my blood run cold.

I looked at myself in the mirror in which I had been rehearsing my speech to the inspector: a speech which I knew I would never deliver. What I saw staring back at me was a plain, ordinary, somewhat dowdy schoolgirl in black tights, blue blazer, white blouse, and a panama hat.

I was dressed that way because I had been ordered to report to Miss Fawlthorne’s study, and full kit was the rule.

I turned, and marched out the door to meet my fate.





? THIRTY ?

“COME IN,” MISS FAWLTHORNE said.

She was seated at her desk behind a pile of papers, among which was my report on William Palmer.

“Please be seated.”

I sat primly on the edge of a chair, my knees together and my hands folded in my lap, leaning forward eagerly, as if I could hardly wait for my next assignment.

“You’ll no doubt be happy to hear that Miss Moate has been arrested,” she said, “and Mrs. Bannerman released.”

I nodded sagely.

“I don’t know what part you have played in these matters, and I’m not sure I want to know. If you have been instrumental in bringing the right person to justice, I congratulate you. I must say that I am relieved to learn that a person from the Morning Star, Wallace Scroop, is being commended for pointing the police to a solution. He was apparently on the scene two years ago, at the time of Francesca Rainsmith’s death, and has never ceased making extensive private inquiries.

“But in doing so, he has dragged the name of Miss Bodycote’s Female Academy into the public press. The headlines are shocking. The chairman and his wife are being questioned. Our board of guardians is a shambles. The work that we do here has been seriously compromised, if not damaged beyond repair.

“Fortunately for us, this Scroop cannot be made to reveal his sources, but I suspect you know nothing about that, do you?”

“No, Miss Fawlthorne,” I said.

“If you and Collingwood had not broken the rules at the outset, this would never have happened.”

I couldn’t believe my ears! Was this woman suggesting that it would be better if Francesca Rainsmith had remained shoved up the chimney for all time, and her killer never brought to justice?

“You must understand that reputation is paramount. There are things which, even though they be wrong, are best kept quiet for the greater good.”