The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie

The little man's pale blue eyes bulged visibly in their sockets.

"Why, it's only a girl!" he said.

I could have slapped his face.

"Ay, that's her," said the suntanned one.

"Mr. Ruggles here has reason to believe that you were up in the tower," the Inspector said, with a nod at the white mustache.

"What if I was?" I said. "I was just having a look round."

"That tower's off limits," Mr. Ruggles said loudly. "Off limits! And so it says on the sign. Can't you read?"

I gave him a graceful shrug.

"I'd have come up the ladders after you if I knew you were just a girl." And he added, in an aside to Inspector Hewitt, "Not what they used to be, my old knees.

"I knew you were up there," he went on. "I made out like I didn't so's I could ring up the police. And don't pretend you didn't pick the lock. That lock's my business, and I know it was locked as sure as I'm standing here in Fludd's Lane.

"Imagine! A girl! Tsk, tsk," he remarked, with a disbelieving shake of his head.

"Picked the lock, did you?" the Inspector asked. Even though he acted like he wasn't, I could see that he was taken aback. "Wherever did you learn a trick like that?"

I couldn't tell him, of course. Dogger was to be protected at all costs.

"Long ago and far away," I said.

The Inspector fixed me with a steely gaze. “There might be those who are satisfied with that kind of answer, Flavia, but I am not among them.”

Here comes that old “King George is not a frivolous man” speech again, I thought, but Inspector Hewitt had decided to wait for my answer, no matter how long it was in coming.

"There isn't much to do at Buckshaw," I said. "Some times I do things just to keep from getting bored."

He held out the black gown and cap. “And that's why you're wearing this costume? To keep from getting bored?”

"It's not a costume," I said. "If you must know, I found them under a loose tile on the tower roof. They have something to do with Mr. Twining's death. I'm sure of it."

If Mr. Ruggles's eyes had bulged before, they now almost popped out of his head.

"Mr. Twining?" he said. "Mr. Twining as jumped off the tower?"

"Mr. Twining didn't jump," I said. I couldn't resist the temptation to get even with this nasty little man. "He was—"

"Thank you, Flavia," Inspector Hewitt said. "That will do. And we'll take up no more of your time, Mr. Ruggles. I know you're a busy man."

Ruggles puffed himself up like a courting pigeon, and with a nod to the Inspector and an impertinent smile at me, he set off across the lawn towards his quarters.

"Thank you for your report, Mr. Plover," the Inspector said, turning to the man in overalls, who had been standing silently by.

Mr. Plover tugged at his forelock and returned to his tractor without a word.

"Our great public schools are cities in miniature," the Inspector said, with a wave of his hand. "Mr. Plover spotted you as an intruder the instant you turned into the lane. He wasted no time in getting to the porter's lodge."

Damn the man! And damn old Ruggles too! I'd have to remember when I got home to send them a jug of pink lemonade, just to show that there were no hard feelings. It was too late in the season for anemones, so anemonin was out of the question. Deadly nightshade, on the other hand, although uncommon, could be found if you knew exactly where to look.

Inspector Hewitt handed the cap and gown to Sergeant Graves, who had already produced several sheets of tissue paper from his kit.

"Smashing," the sergeant said. "She might just have saved us a crawl across the slates."

The Inspector shot him a look that could have stopped a runaway horse.

"Sorry, sir," the sergeant said, his face suddenly aflame as he turned to his wrapping.

"Tell me, in detail, how you found these things," Inspector Hewitt said, as if nothing had happened. "Don't leave anything out—and don't add anything."

As I spoke he wrote it all down in his quick, minuscule hand. Because of sitting across from Feely as she wrote in her diary at breakfast, I had become rather good at reading upside down, but Inspector Hewitt's notes were no more than tiny ants marching across the page.

I told him everything: from the creak of the ladders to my near-fatal slip; from the loose tile and what lay behind it to my clever escape.

When I had finished, I saw him scribble a couple of characters beside my account, although what they were, I could not tell. He snapped the notebook shut.

"Thank you, Flavia," he said. "You've been a great help."

Well, at least he had the decency to admit it. I stood there expectantly, waiting for more.

"I'm afraid King George's coffers are not deep enough to ferry you home twice in twenty-four hours," he said, "so we'll see you on your way."

"And shall I come back with tea?" I asked.

He stood there with his feet planted in the grass, and a look on his face that might have meant anything. A minute later, Gladys's Dunlop tires were humming happily along the tarmac, leaving Inspector Hewitt—“and his ilk” as Daffy would have said—farther and farther behind.