As Chimney Sweepers Come to Dust (Flavia de Luce #7)(94)

The greater good? Did such a thing exist? And even if it did, who was in charge of deciding what it was?

Not knowing these things was like worshipping a god whose name and home address were a secret.

“I feel that we have failed, Flavia. I have failed and you have failed.”

A slight chill had come upon me. Was it the room? Was it Miss Fawlthorne? Or was my cold returning in full-blown form?

I stifled a sneeze. Miss Fawlthorne waited until I found my handkerchief.

“We have done our best for you, but it has not been enough. You have broken the rules again and again, as if they didn’t matter. I needn’t enumerate; you know what they are.”

I hung my head a little because she was right.

“Consequently,” she said, dragging it out the way people do when they want to deliver an invisible blow, “… we are sending you home.”

I was numb for a moment.

“You will be escorted by Mrs. Bannerman, who has been granted a compassionate leave to compensate for her ordeal. I have cabled your father, and he will be expecting you.”

Now my mind was reeling like a wobbly spinning top that has lost its velocity.

Was this another one of Miss Fawlthorne’s famous punishments?

I knew that I could never know.

But the thought—the very thought!—of Buckshaw was already pouring, like a river that has breached its banks, into my mind and into my heart.

“Thank you, Miss Fawlthorne,” I said.





EPILOGUE


I WAS STANDING AT the bow, the wind whipping my hair and what might have been sea spray wetting my face.

Banished! I thought. Banished again!

Was I doomed, like the Flying Dutchman, to spend all eternity sailing the seas in search of salvation?

I had asked that question of Mrs. Bannerman—in somewhat simpler form—last night in the ship’s lounge.

“Good heavens!” she had said. “You’ve passed with flying colors. Don’t you realize that?”

“I’m an FF,” I said. “Failed to Flourish. Sent home in disgrace like Charlotte Veneering.”

“On the contrary.” She laughed. “Your photograph will be hung in the gallery, like your mother’s. You will become part of the legend.”

“But the rules,” I said. “What about the broken rules? Miss Fawlthorne told me that reputation is paramount.”

“Ah, yes,” she had said, this once-convicted murderess, staring thoughtfully into her pink martini and giving it a stir, “but she also probably mentioned that there are things which, even though they be wrong, are best kept quiet for the greater good.”

I had to admit she had a point there.

“I’m sorry you had to be arrested,” I said. “I’d have spoken up sooner—”

“Shush!” she said. “Not a word of it. I told you I helped the police with their inquiries from time to time. Ambiguous, I know, but I mustn’t say more. If you want to feel sorry for someone, feel sorry for poor little Collingwood. It was she who helped Francesca make her costume, and of course she recognized the red sock. I’m assured that she’ll recover in time, but a couple of little prayers will do no harm.”

And with that she bowed her head and so did I.

I keenly regret that I was unable to use either the spectrophotometer or the electron microscope in solving the case: that in the end it had been the plain old everyday Marsh test that had done the job.

Perhaps there was a lesson there.

There had been no good-byes at Miss Bodycote’s. No little parties, no little gifts. I was there and then I was gone. To the other girls, I would be just one more of those who had vanished. My name would be added to those of Wentworth, Le Marchand, and Brazenose.

My spirit would be summoned in darkened rooms by Ouija boards, and used to frighten little girls who were away from home for the first time.

I smiled at the thought and lifted my head to the breeze.

An unexpected wave dashed cold water into my face, but I didn’t care.

Somewhere ahead of us, to the east, lay England. Somewhere, still over the horizon, lay Buckshaw.