The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie

Whatever the case, as I brought the handkerchief up towards my nose, before it was even opened he deflected my hand with a lightning-quick grab, crumpled the cotton into a ball, and rammed it, stamp and all, into my mouth.

"Right, then," he said. "We'll see what we shall see."

He pulled his jacket from his shoulder, spread it out like a matador's cape, and the last thing I saw as he threw the thing over my head was Mr. Twining's tombstone, the word “Vale!" carved on its base. I bid you farewell.

Something tightened round my temples and I guessed that Pemberton was using the straps of his portfolio to lash the jacket firmly in place.

He hoisted me up onto his shoulder and carried me back across the river as easily as a butcher does a side of beef. Before my head could stop spinning he had dumped me heavily back onto my feet.

Gripping the nape of my neck with one hand, he used the other to seize my upper arm in a vise-like grip, shoving me roughly ahead of him along the towpath.

"Just keep putting one foot in front of the other until I tell you to stop."

I tried to call out for help, but my mouth was jammed chock-full of wet handkerchief. I couldn't produce anything more than a swinish grunt. I couldn't even tell him how much he was hurting me.

I suddenly realized that I was more afraid than I had ever been in my life.

As I stumbled along, I prayed that someone would spot us; if they did, they would surely call out, and even with my head bound up in Pemberton's jacket, I would almost certainly hear them. If I did, I would wrench sharply away from him and make a dash towards the sound of their voice. But to do so prematurely, I knew, risked tumbling headlong into the river and being left there by Pemberton to drown.

"Stop here," he said suddenly, after I had been frog-marched what I judged to be a hundred yards. "Stand still."

I obeyed.

I heard him tinkering with something metallic and a moment later, what sounded like a door grating open. The Pit Shed!

"One step up," he said. "That's right. now three ahead. And stop."

Behind us, the door closed like a coffin lid, with a wooden groan.

"Empty your pockets," Pemberton said.

I had only one: the pocket in my sweater. There was nothing in it but the key to the kitchen door at Buckshaw. Father had always insisted that each of us carry a key at all times in case of some hypothetical emergency, and because he conducted the occasional spot check, I was never without it. As I turned my pocket inside out, I heard the key fall to the wooden floor, then bounce and skitter. A second later there was a faint clink as it landed on concrete.

"Damn," he said.

Good! The key had fallen into the service pit, I was sure of it. Now Pemberton would have to drag back the boards that covered it, and clamber down into the pit. My hands were still free: I would rip his jacket off my head, run out the door, pull the handkerchief out of my mouth, and scream like old gooseberries as I ran towards the High Street. It was less than a minute away.

I was right. Almost immediately, I heard the unmistakable sound of heavy planks being dragged across the floor. Pemberton grunted as he pulled them away from the mouth of the pit. I'd have to be careful which way I ran: one wrong step and I'd fall into the open hole and break my neck.

I hadn't moved since we came in the door, which, if I was correct, must now be behind me with the pit in front. I'd have to estimate a hundred-and-eighty-degree turn blindfolded.

Either Pemberton had a finely tuned psychic ability or he detected some minute motion of my head. Before I could do anything, he was at my side, spinning me round half a dozen times as if we were beginning a game of blind-man's buff, and I was It. When he finally stopped, I was so dizzy I could barely stand up.

"Now then," he said, "we're going down. Watch your step."

I shook my head rapidly from side to side, thinking, even as I did so, how ridiculous it must look, swathed in his tweed jacket.

"Listen, Flavia, be a good girl. I'm not going to hurt you as long as you behave. As soon as I have the stamp from Buckshaw in my hands, I'll send someone to set you free. Otherwise."

Otherwise?

". I shall be forced to do something most unpleasant."

An image of Horace Bonepenny breathing his final breath into my face floated before my covered eyes, and I knew that Pemberton was more than capable of following through on his threat.

He dragged me by the elbow to a spot I assumed was the edge of the pit.

"Eight steps down," he said. "I'll count them. Don't worry, I'm holding on to you."

I stepped off into space.

"One," he said as my foot came down on something solid. I stood there teetering.

"Easy does it. two. three, you're almost halfway there."

I put out my right hand and felt the edge of the pit nearly level with my shoulder. As my bare knees detected the cold air in the pit, my arm began to tremble like a dead branch in the winter wind. I felt a tightness gripping at my throat.

"Good.four.five.just two more to go."