A Red Herring Without Mustard

The business end of the thing, I recalled, ended in two little tines that stuck out like the horns on a snail’s head. These prongs, which had been designed to pry the pink meat from the cracks and crevices of a boiled lobster, were now lodged firmly somewhere deep in Brookie Harewood’s brain.

Death by family silver, I thought, before I could turn off that part of my mind.

A little moan from below reminded me that Porcelain was still there.

Her face was nearly as white as Brookie’s, and I saw that she was trembling.

“For God’s sake, Flavia,” she said in a quavering voice, “come down—let’s get out of here. I think I’m going to throw up.”

“It’s Brookie Harewood,” I said, and I think I offered up a silent prayer for the repose of the poacher’s soul.

Protect him, O Lord, and let heaven be bountifully supplied with trout streams.

The thought of trout reminded me of Colin Prout. I’d almost forgotten the boy. Would Colin breathe a sigh of relief when he heard that his tormentor was dead? Or would he grieve?

Brookie’s mother would be in the same quandary. And so, I realized, would almost everyone in Bishop’s Lacey.

I put one foot on Poseidon’s knee and hauled myself up by his muscular elbow. I was now slightly above Brookie and looking down at something that had caught my eye. In the notch between two of the trident’s prongs was a shiny spot the size of a sixpence, as if someone had given the bronze a bit of a polish with a rag.

I memorized the shape of the thing, then began to climb down slowly, taking great care not to touch Brookie’s body.

“Come on,” I said to Porcelain, giving her arm a shake. “Let’s get out of here before they think one of us did it.”

I did not tell her that the back of Brookie’s skull was a bloody mess.

We paused for a moment behind one of the rose hedges which, at this time of year, were in their second bloom. From the direction of the kitchen garden came the sound of Dogger scraping old soil from flowerpots with a trowel. Mrs. Mullet, I knew, had probably gone for the day.

“Stay here,” I whispered, “while I scout things out.”

Porcelain seemed barely to have heard me. White with fright and fatigue, she stood stock-still among the roses like one of Buckshaw’s statues, over which someone, as a joke, had flung an old black dress.

I flitted, invisibly I hoped, across the grass and the graveled drive to the kitchen door. Flattening myself against it, I pressed my ear to the heavy wood.

As I’ve said, I had inherited from Harriet an almost freakish sense of hearing. Any clatter of pots and pans or the hum of conversation would be instantly audible. Mrs. Mullet talked constantly to herself as she worked, and even though I guessed she had gone for the day, one could never be too careful. If Feely and Daffy were planning another ambush, surely their giggles and their tittering would give them away.

But I could hear nothing.

I opened the door and stepped into an empty kitchen.

My first priority was to get Porcelain into the house and stick her safely away in a place where her presence would be unsuspected. That done, I would call the police.

The telephone at Buckshaw was kept out of sight in a small cupboard in the narrow passageway that connected the foyer with the kitchen. As I have said, Father loathed “the instrument,” and all of us at Buckshaw were forbidden to use the thing.

As I tiptoed along the passage, I heard the unmistakeable sound of shoe leather on tiles. It was Father, most likely. Daffy and Feely’s shoes were more feminine, and made a softer, more shuffling sound.

I ducked into the telephone cubicle and quietly pulled the door shut. I would sit on the little Oriental bench in the darkness and wait it out.

In the foyer, the footsteps slowed—and stopped. I held my breath.

After what seemed like two and a half eternities, they moved away, towards the west wing and Father’s study, I thought.

At that instant—right at my elbow!—the telephone rang … then rang again.

A few moments later, the footsteps returned, advancing towards the foyer. I picked up the receiver and pressed it tightly against my chest. If the ringing stopped suddenly, Father would think that the caller had rung off.

“Hello? Hello?” I could hear a tinny voice saying to my breastbone. “Are you there?”

Outside, in the foyer, the footsteps stopped—and then retreated.

“Are you there? Hello? Hello?” the muffled voice was now shouting, rather irately.

I put the receiver to my ear and whispered into the mouthpiece. “Hello? Flavia de Luce speaking.”

“Constable Linnet here, at Bishop’s Lacey. Inspector Hewitt has been attempting to get in touch with you.”

“Oh, Constable Linnet,” I breathed in my best Olivia de Havilland voice. “I was just about to ring you. I’m so glad you called. The most awful thing has just happened at Buckshaw!”

That chore done, I beat a rapid retreat to the rosebushes.