A Red Herring Without Mustard

“Put you here—in the hospital. Please, Fenella, I need to know.”

I hadn’t meant to call her by her given name—it just slipped out. It was that kind of moment. Daffy had once told me that knowing and using someone’s name gave you power over them.

There was no doubt that, at least for now, I had power over this poor injured creature, even if it was only the power to withhold a cigarette.

“Please, Fenella!” I pleaded.

If this was power, I wanted no part of it. It felt dreadful.

Without taking her eyes from mine, she moved her head slowly from side to side.

“No,” she whispered at last, replying to my question.

No? It was not the answer I was expecting. If Fenella didn’t think I had attacked her, then Porcelain had lied!

“Who was it, then?” I demanded in a voice so rough that it surprised even me. Had that savage snarl issued from my throat?

“Who was it? Tell me who did this to you!”

For some inexplicable reason, I wanted to seize her and shake the answer out of her. This was a kind of anger I had never known before.

Fenella was terrified. I could see it in her fuddled eyes.

“The Red Bull,” she said, accenting each of the two words. “It was … the Red Bull.”

The Red Bull? That made no sense at all.

“What’s going on here?”

The voice came from the doorway. I spun round and found myself face-to-face with a nursing sister. It wasn’t just the white uniform and stockings that made her seem so intimating: The blue cape with its red lining and piping had turned her into a human Union Jack.

“Flavia?”

The familiar voice took me by surprise.

It was Flossie Foster, the sister of Feely’s friend Sheila!

“Flossie? Is it really you?”

I’d forgotten that Flossie had gone in for nursing. It was one of those trifles that had been mentioned at the dinner table by Feely, somewhere between the salad and the sausage rolls, and put out of mind before the plates were cleared away.

“Of course it’s me, you goose. What on earth are you doing here?”

“I … ah … came to visit a friend,” I said, making a sweeping gesture towards Fenella.

“But visiting hours aren’t until this afternoon. If Matron catches you, she’ll have your toes on toast.”

“Listen, Flossie,” I said. “I need a favor. I need a cigarette, and I need it quickly.”

“Ha!” said Flossie, “I should have known! Feely’s little sister is a tobacco fiend!”

“It’s not like that at all,” I said. “Please, Flossie—I’ll promise you anything.”

Flossie reached into her pocket and pulled out a packet of Du Mauriers and a monogrammed cloisonné lighter.

“Now light it,” I told her.

Surprisingly, she did as she was told, although a little furtively.

“We only smoke in the nursing sisters’ tea room,” she said, handing me the cigarette. “And only when Matron’s not around.”

“It’s not for me,” I said, pointing to Fenella. “Give it to her.”

Flossie stared at me. “You must be mad,” she said.

“Go ahead, give it to her … or I’ll tell Matron what you had in the hip flask at the vicar’s garden party.”

I was only teasing, but before I could shoot her a grin, Flossie had inserted the cigarette between Fenella’s dry lips.

“You’re a beast,” she said. “An absolutely horrid little beast!”

I could tell she wanted to slap me, as I gave her a triumphant smirk.

But instead, we both of us broke off to look at Fenella. Her eyes were closed, and smoke was rising from her mouth in a series of puffs, like smoke signals from an Apache campfire. They might well have been spelling out the word “b-l-i-s-s.”

It was at that very moment that Matron barged into the room.

In her elaborate cocked hat and starched white bib, she looked like Napoleon—only much larger.

She sized up the situation at a glance.

“Nurse Foster, I’ll see you in my office.”

“No, wait,” I heard myself saying. “I can explain.”

“Then do so.”

“The nurse just stepped in to tell us that smoking is forbidden. It’s nothing to do with her.”

“Indeed!”

“I heard you coming,” I said, “and stuck my cigarette into that poor woman’s mouth. It was stupid of me. I’m sorry.”

I snatched what was left of the cigarette from Fenella’s lips and shoved it between my own. I took a deep drag and then exhaled, holding the thing between my second and third fingers in the Continental manner, as I had seen Charles Boyer do in the cinema, and all the while fighting down the urge to choke.

“Then how do you explain this?” Matron asked, picking up Flossie’s lighter from Fenella’s blanket, and holding it out accusingly towards me.

“It’s mine,” I said. “The F is for Flavia. Flavia de Luce. That’s me.”

I thought I detected a nearly imperceptible squint—or was it more of a wince?

“Of the Buckshaw de Luces?”

“Yes,” I said. “It was a gift from Father. He believes that the occasional cigarette fortifies one’s lungs against vapors from the drains.”

The Matron didn’t exactly gape, but she did stare at me as if I had suddenly sprouted a beak and tail feathers.

Then suddenly, and without warning, she pressed the lighter into my hands and wiped her fingers on her skirt.