The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie

I had to admire how quickly the Inspector changed the subject.

"Getting back to the present," he said. "Let me see if I've got this right: You think Bonepenny and Stanley were confederates?"

"They were always confederates," I said. "Bonepenny stole stamps and Stanley sold them abroad to unscrupulous collectors. But somehow they had never managed to dispose of the two Ulster Avengers; those were simply too well known. And with one of them having been stolen from the King, it would have been far too risky for any collector to be caught with them in his collection."

"Interesting," the Inspector said. "And?"

"They were planning to blackmail Father, but somewhere along the line, they must have had a falling-out. Bonepenny was coming over from Stavanger to do the deed, and at some point Stanley realized that he could follow him, kill him at Buckshaw, take the stamps, and leave the country. As simple as that. And it would all be blamed on Father. And so it was," I added, with a reproachful look.

There was an awkward silence.

"Look, Flavia," he said at last. "I didn't really have much choice, you know. There were no other viable suspects."

"What about me," I said. "I was at the scene of the crime." I waved my hand at the bottles of chemicals that lined the walls. “After all, I know a lot about poisons. I might be considered a very dangerous person.”

"Hmm," the Inspector said. "An interesting point. And you were on the spot at the time of death. If things hadn't gone exactly as they did, it might well be your neck in the noose.”

I hadn't thought of that. A goose walked over my grave and I shivered.

The Inspector went on. “Arguing against it, however, are your physical size, your lack of any real motive, and the fact that you haven't exactly made yourself scarce. Your average murderer generally gives the police as wide a berth as possible, whereas you… well, ubiquitous is the word that springs to mind. Now then, you were saying?”

"Stanley ambushed Bonepenny in our garden. Bonepenny was a diabetic, and—"

"Ah," the Inspector said, almost to himself. "Insulin! We didn't think to test for that."

"No," I said. "Not insulin: carbon tetrachloride. Bonepenny died from having carbon tetrachloride injected into his brain stem. Stanley bought a bottle of the stuff from Johns, the chemists, in Doddingsley. I saw their label on the bottle when he filled the syringe in the Pit Shed. You've probably already found it under all the rubbish."

I could tell by his face that they hadn't.

"Then it must have rolled down the pipe," I said. "There's an old drain that runs down to the river. Some one will have to fish it out."

Poor Sergeant Graves! I thought.

"Stanley stole the syringe from the kit in Bonepenny's room at the Thirteen Drakes,” I added, without thinking. Damn!

The Inspector pounced. “How do you know what was in Bonepenny's room?” he asked sharply.

"Uh. I'm coming to that," I said. "In a few minutes.

"Stanley believed you'd never detect any possible traces of carbon tetrachloride in Bonepenny's brain. Jolly good thing you didn't. You might have assumed it came from one of Father's bottles. There are gallons of the stuff in the study."

Inspector Hewitt pulled out his notebook and scrawled a couple of words, which I assumed were carbon tetrachloride.

"I know it was carbon tet because Bonepenny blew the last whiff of the stuff into my face with his dying breath," I said, wrinkling my nose and making an appropriate face.

If an Inspector's complexion can be said to go white, Inspector Hewitt's complexion went white.

"You're certain about that?"

"I'm quite competent with the chlorinated hydrocarbons, thank you."

"Are you telling me that Bonepenny was still alive when you found him?"

"Only just," I said. "He. uh. passed away almost immediately."

There was another one of those long, crypt-like silences.

"Here," I said, "I'll show you how it was done."

I picked up a yellow lead pencil, gave it a couple of turns in the sharpener, and went to the corner where the articulated skeleton dangled at the end of its wire.

"This was given to my great-uncle, Tarquin, by the naturalist Frank Buckland," I said, giving the skull an affectionate rub. "I call him Yorick."

I did not tell the Inspector that Buckland, in his old age, had given his gift in recognition of young Tar's great promise. “To the Bright Future of Science,” Buckland had written on his card.

I brought the sharpened point of the pencil round to the top of the spinal column, shoving it slowly in under the skull as I repeated Pemberton's words in the Pit Shed:

"'Angle in a bit to the side. in through the splenius capitus and semispinalis capitis, puncture the atlantoaxial ligament, and slide the needle over the—’”

"Thank you, Flavia," the Inspector said abruptly. "That's quite enough. You're quite sure that's what he said?"