The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie

"Perfectly well, thank you," I said, babbling a bit too much to make up for my possible rudeness. "I was caught in the rain, you see."

"I do see," he said. "You're saturated."

"Not so much saturated as drenched," I corrected him. When it came to chemistry, I was a stickler.

He opened his knapsack and pulled out a waterproof walking cape, the sort of thing worn by hikers in the Hebrides. He wrapped it round my shoulders and I was immediately warm.

"You needn't. but thank you," I said.

We stood there together in the falling rain, not speaking, each of us gazing off across the lake, listening to the clatter of the downpour.

After a time he said, “Since we're to be marooned on an island together, I suppose there could be no harm in us exchanging names.”

I tried to place his accent: Oxford with a touch of something else. Scandinavian, perhaps?

"I'm Flavia," I said. "Flavia de Luce."

"My name's Pemberton, Frank Pemberton. Pleased to meet you, Flavia."

Pemberton? Wasn't this the man who had arrived at the Thirteen Drakes just as I was making my escape from Tully Stoker? I wanted that visit kept quiet, so I said nothing.

We exchanged a soggy handshake, and then drew apart as strangers often do after they've touched.

The rain went on. After a bit he said, “Actually, I knew who you were.”

"Did you?"

"Mmm. To anyone who takes a serious interest in English country houses, de Luce is quite a well-known name. Your family is, after all, listed in Who's Who."

"Do you take a serious interest in English country houses, Mr. Pemberton?”

He laughed. “A professional interest, I'm afraid. In fact I'm writing a book on the subject. I thought I would call it Pemberton's Stately Homes: A Stroll Through Time. Has rather an impressive ring, don't you think?”

"I expect it depends upon whom you're trying to impress," I said, "but it does, yes. rather, I mean."

"My home base is in London, of course, but I've been tramping through this part of the country for quite some time, scribbling in my notebooks. I'd rather hoped to have a look round the estate and interview your father. In fact, that's why I'm here.”

"I don't think that will be possible, Mr. Pemberton," I said. "You see, there's been a sudden death at Buckshaw, and Father is. assisting the police with their inquiries."

Without thinking, I had pulled the phrase from remembered serials on the wireless, and, until I said it, not realized its import.

"Good Lord!" he said. "A sudden death? Not one of the family, I hope."

"No," I said. "A complete stranger. But since he was found in the garden at Buckshaw, you see, Father is bound to—"

At that moment it stopped raining as suddenly as it had begun. The sun came out to play in rainbows on the grass, and somewhere on the island, a cuckoo sang, precisely as it does at the end of the storm in Beethoven's Pastoral Symphony. I swear it did.

"I understand perfectly," he said. "I wouldn't dream of intruding. Should Colonel de Luce wish to be in contact at a later date, I'm at the Thirteen Drakes, in Bishop's Lacey. I'm sure Mr. Stoker would be happy to convey a message."

I removed the cape and handed it to him.

"Thank you," I said. "I'd best be getting back."

We waded back across the lake together like a couple of bathers holidaying at the seaside.

"It was a pleasure meeting you, Flavia," he said. "In time, I trust we shall become fast friends."

I watched as he strolled across the lawn towards the avenue of chestnuts and out of sight.

11

I FOUND DAFFY IN THE LIBRARY, PERCHED AT THE very top of a wheeled ladder.

"Where's Father?" I asked.

She turned a page and went on reading as if I had never been born.

"Daffy?"

I felt my inner cauldron beginning to boil: that bubbling pot of occult brew that could so quickly transform Flavia the Invisible into Flavia the Holy Terror.

I seized one of its rungs and gave the ladder a good shake, and then a shove to start it rolling. Once in motion, it was easy enough to sustain, with Daffy clinging to the top like a paralyzed limpet as I pushed the thing down the long room.

"Stop it, Flavia! Stop it!"

As the doorway approached at an alarming rate, I braked, then ran round behind the ladder and raced off again in the opposite direction, and all the while, Daffy teetering away up top like the lookout on a whaler in a North Atlantic blow.

"Where's Father?" I shouted.

"He's still in his study with the Inspector. Stop this! Stop it!"

As she looked a little green about the gills, I stopped.

Daffy came shakily down the ladder and stepped gingerly off onto the floor. I thought for a moment she would lunge at me, but she seemed to be taking an unusually long while regaining her land legs.

"Sometimes you scare me," she said.

I was about to retort that there were times I scared myself, but then I remembered that silence can sometimes do more damage than words. I bit my tongue.

The whites of her eyes were still showing, like those of a bolted cart-horse, and I decided to take advantage of the moment.