The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie

This point was proven when Feely stole my diary, pried open the brass lock with a can opener from the kitchen, and read aloud from it while standing at the top of the great staircase dressed in clothing she had stolen from a neighbor's scarecrow.

These thoughts were in my mind as I approached the door of Father's study. I paused, unsure of myself. Did I really want to do this?

I knocked uncertainly on the door. There was a long silence before Father's voice said, “Come.”

I twisted the knob and stepped into the room. At a table by the window, Father looked up for a moment from his magnifying lens, and then went on with his examination of a magenta stamp.

"May I speak?" I asked, aware, even as I said it, that it was an odd thing to be saying, and yet it seemed precisely the right choice of words.

Father put down the glass, removed his spectacles, and rubbed his eyes. He looked tired.

I reached into my pocket and pulled out the piece of blue writing paper into which I had folded the Ulster Avenger. I stepped forward like a supplicant, put the paper on his desk, and stepped back again.

Father opened it.

"Good Lord!" he said. "It's AA."

He put his spectacles back on and picked up his jeweler's loupe to peer at the stamp.

Now, I thought, comes my reward. I found myself focused on his lips, waiting for them to move.

"Where did you get this?" he said at last, in that soft voice of his that fixes its hearer like a butterfly on a pin.

"I found it," I said.

Father's gaze was military—unrelenting.

"Bonepenny must have dropped it," I said. "It's for you."

Father studied my face the way an astronomer studies a supernova.

"This is very decent of you, Flavia," he said at last, with some great effort.

And he handed me the Ulster Avenger.

"You must return it at once to its rightful owner."

"King George?"

Father nodded, somewhat sadly, I thought. “I don't know how you came to have this in your possession and I don't want to know. You've come this far on your own and now you must see it through.”

"Inspector Hewitt wants me to hand it over to him." Father shook his head. "Most kind of him," he said, "but also most official. No, Flavia, old AA here has been through many hands in its day, a few of them high and many low. You must see to it that your hands are the most worthy of them all."

"But how does one go about writing to the King?"

"I'm sure you'll find a way," Father said. "Please close the door on your way out."

AS IF TO COVER UP THE PAST, Dogger was shoveling muck from a wheelbarrow into the cucumber bed.

"Miss Flavia," he said, removing his hat and wiping his brow on his shirtsleeve.

"How should one address a letter to the King?" I asked.

Dogger leaned his shovel carefully against the greenhouse.

"Theoretically, or in actual practice?"

"In actual practice."

"Hmm," he said. "I think I should look it up somewhere."

"Hold on," I said. "Mrs. Mullet's Inquire Within Upon Everything. She keeps it in the pantry.”

"She's shopping in the village," Dogger said. "If we're quick about it, we may well escape with our lives."

A minute later we were huddled in the pantry.

"Here it is," I said excitedly, as the book fell open in my hands. “But wait—this was published sixty years ago. Would it still be correct?”

"Sure to be," Dogger said. "Things don't change as quickly in royal circles as they do in yours and mine, nor should they."

The drawing room was empty. Daffy and Feely were off somewhere, most likely planning their next attack.

I found a decent sheet of writing paper in a drawer, and then, dipping the pen in the inkwell, I copied out the salutation from Mrs. Mullet's greasy book, trying to make my handwriting as neat as possible:

"Apprehended," Dogger said, reading over my shoulder.

I changed it.

"What else?"

"Nothing," Dogger said. "Just sign it. Kings prefer brevity."

Being careful not to blot the page, I copied the closing from the book:

"Perfect!" Dogger said.

I folded the letter neatly, making an extra-sharp crease with my thumb. I slipped it into one of Father's best envelopes and wrote the address:

"Shall I mark it Personal?"

"Good idea," Dogger said.

A WEEK LATER, I was cooling my bare feet in the waters of the artificial lake, revising my notes on coniine, the chief alkaloid in poison hemlock, when Dogger appeared suddenly, waving something in his hand.

"Miss Flavia!" he called, and then he waded across to the island, boots and all.

His trouser legs were soaking wet, and although he stood there dripping like Poseidon, his grin was as bright as the summer afternoon.

He handed me an envelope that was as soft and white as goose down.

"Shall I open it?" I asked.

"I believe it's addressed to you."

Dogger winced as I tore open the flap and pulled out the single sheet of creamy paper which lay folded inside:

And it was signed simply “George.”

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS