The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie

When Mr. Twining had threatened to expose them, they had killed him, probably by bashing his head in with a brick. The fatal blow would have been impossible to detect after such a terrible fall. And then they had staged the suicide—every instant of the thing planned in cold blood. Perhaps they had even rehearsed.

It had been Mr. Twining who fell to the cobbles, but Bonepenny who trod the ramparts in the morning sun and Bonepenny, in a borrowed cap and gown, who had shouted “Vale!" to the boys in the Quad. "Vale!"—a word that could suggest only suicide.

Having done that, he had ducked down behind the parapet just as Stanley dropped the body through the drainage opening in the roof. To a sun-blinded observer on the ground, it would have appeared that the old man had fallen straight through. It was really nothing more than the Resurrection of Tchang Fu performed on a larger stage, dazzled eyes and all.

How utterly convincing it had been!

And for all these years Father had believed that it was his silence that had caused Mr. Twining to commit suicide, that it was he who was responsible for the old man's death! What a dreadful burden to bear, and how horrible!

Not for thirty years, not until I found the evidence among the tiles of Anson House, had anyone suspected it was murder. And they had almost got away with it.

I reached out and touched Mr. Twining's tombstone to steady myself.

"I see you've found him," said someone behind me, and at the sound of his voice my blood ran cold.

I spun round and found myself face-to-face with Frank Pemberton.

twenty-three

WHENEVER ONE COMES FACE-TO-FACE WITH A KILLER in a novel or in the cinema, his opening words are always dripping with menace, and often from Shakespeare.

"Well, well," he will generally hiss, "'Journeys end in lovers meeting,'" or "'So wise so young, they say, do never live long.'"

But Frank Pemberton said nothing of the sort; in fact, quite the contrary:

"Hullo, Flavia," he said with a lopsided grin. "Fancy meeting you here."

My arteries were throbbing like stink, and I could already feel the redness rising in my face, which, in spite of the chills, had instantly become as hot as a griddle.

A single thought went racing through my mind: I mustn't let on… I mustn't let on. Mustn't show that I know he's Bob Stanley.

"Hello," I said, hoping my voice wasn't shaking. "How was the shroud tomb?"

I knew instantly that I was fooling no one but myself. He was watching my face the way a cat watches the family canary when they're alone in the house.

"The shroud tomb? Ah! A confection in white marble," he said. "Remarkably like an almond marzipan, but larger, of course."

I decided to play along until I could formulate a plan.

"I expect your publisher was pleased."

"My publisher? Oh, yes. Old."

"Quarrington," I said.

"Yes. Quite. Quarrington. He was ecstatic."

Pemberton—I still thought of him as Pemberton—put down his knapsack and began to unfasten the leather straps of his portfolio.

"Phew!" he said. "Rather warm, isn't it?"

He removed his jacket, threw it carelessly across his shoulder, and jerked a thumb at Mr. Twining's tombstone.

"What's the great interest?"

"He was my father's old schoolmaster," I said.

"Ah!" He sat down and lounged against the base of the stone as casually as if he were Lewis Carroll and I were Alice, picnicking upon the river Isis.

How much did he know? I wondered. I waited for him to make his opening move. I could use the time to think.

Already I was planning my escape. Could I outrun him if I took to my heels? It seemed unlikely. If I went for the river, he'd overtake me before I was halfway across. If I headed for the field towards Malplaquet Farm, I'd be less likely to find help than if I ran for the High Street.

"I understand your father is something of a philatelist," he said suddenly, looking unconcernedly off towards the farm.

"He collects stamps, yes. How did you know?"

"My publisher—old Quarrington—happened to mention it this morning over at Nether Eaton. He was thinking of asking your father to write a history of some obscure postage stamp, but couldn't think quite how best to approach him. Couldn't begin to understand it all. far beyond me. too technical. suggested that perhaps he should have a word with you."

It was a lie and I detected it at once. As an accomplished fibber myself, I spotted the telltale signs of an untruth before they were halfway out of his mouth: the excessive detail, the offhand delivery, and the wrapping-up of it all in casual chitchat.

"Could be worth a bundle, you know," he added. "Old Quarrington's pretty flush since he married into the Norwood millions, but don't let on I told you. I expect your father wouldn't say no to a bit of pocket change to buy a New Guinea ha'penny thingummy, would he? It must take a pretty penny to keep up a place like Buckshaw."

This was piling insult onto injury. The man must take me for a fool.

"Father's rather busy these days," I said. "But I'll mention it to him."