The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie

"Thank you, Mrs. M," I said. "I'll keep our conversation confidential. Strictly on the q.t."

"Girl to girl, like," she said, with a horrible smirking leer.

The “girl to girl” was too much. Too chummy, too belittling. Something in me that was less than noble rose up out of the depths, and I was transformed in the blink of an eye into Flavia the Pigtailed Avenger, whose assignment was to throw a wrench into this fearsome and unstoppable pie machine.

"Yes," I said. "Girl to girl. And while we're speaking girl to girl, it's probably as good a time as any to tell you that we none of us at Buckshaw really care for custard pie. In fact, we hate it."

"Oh piff, I know that well enough," she said.

"You do?" I was too taken aback to think of more than two words.

"'Course I do. Cooks know all, they say, and I'm no different than the next one. I've known that de Luces and custard don't mix since Miss Harriet was alive.”

"But—"

"Why do I make them? Because Alf fancies a nice custard pie now and again. Miss Harriet used to tell me, 'The de Luces are all lofty rhubarbs and prickly gooseberries, Mrs. M, whereas your Alf's a smooth, sweet custard man. I should like you to bake an occasional custard pie to remind us of our haughty ways, and when we turn up our noses at it, why, you must take it home to your Alf as a sweet apology.' And I don't mind sayin' I've taken home a goodly number of apologies these more than twenty years past."

"Then you'll not need another," I said.

And then I fled. You couldn't see my bottom for dust.

21

I PAUSED IN THE HALLWAY, STOOD PERFECTLY STILL, and listened. Because of its parquet floors and hardwood paneling, Buckshaw transmitted sound as perfectly as if it were the Royal Albert Hall. Even in complete silence, Buckshaw had its own unique silence; a silence I would recognize anywhere.

As quietly as I could, I picked up the telephone and gave the cradle a couple of clicks with my finger. “I'd like to place a trunk call to Doddingsley. I'm sorry, I don't have the number, but it's the inn there: the Red Fox or the Ring and Funnel. I've forgotten its name, but I think it has an R and an F in it.”

"One moment, please," said the bored but efficient voice at the other end of the crackling line.

This shouldn't be too difficult, I thought. Being located across the street from the railway platform, the “RF,” or whatever it was called, was the closest inn to the station and Doddingsley, after all, was no metropolis.

"The only listings I have are for the Grapes and the Jolly Coachman."

"That's it," I said. "The Jolly Coachman!"

The “RF” must have bubbled up from the sludge at the bottom of my mind.

"The number is Doddingsley two three," the voice said. "For future reference."

"Thank you," I mumbled, as the ringing at the other end began its little jig.

"Doddingsley two three. Jolly Coachman. Are you there? Cleaver, here." Cleaver, I assumed, was the proprietor.

"Yes, I'd like to speak with Mr. Pemberton, please. It's rather important."

Any barrier, I had learned—even a potential one—was best breached by pretending urgency.

"He's not here," said Cleaver.

"Oh dear," I said, laying it on a bit thick. "I'm sorry I missed him. Could you tell me when he left? Perhaps then I'll know what time to expect him."

Flave, I thought, you ought to be in Parliament.

"He left Saturday morning. Three days ago."

"Oh, thank you!" I breathed throatily, in a voice I hoped would fool the Pope. "You're awfully kind."

I rang off and returned the receiver to its cradle as gently as if it were a newly hatched chick.

"What do you think you're doing?" demanded a muffled voice.

I spun round and there was Feely, a winter scarf wrapped round the bottom part of her face.

"What are you doing?" she repeated. "You know perfectly well you're not to use the instrument."

"What are you doing?” I parried. “Going tobogganing?”

Feely made a grab for me and the scarf fell away to reveal a pair of red swollen lips which were the spitting image of a Cameroon mandrill's south pole.

I was too in awe to laugh. The poison ivy I had injected into her lipstick had left her mouth a blistered crater that might have done credit to Mount Popocatepetl. My experiment had succeeded after all. Loud fanfare of trumpets!

Unfortunately, I had no time to write it up; my notebook would have to wait.

MAXIMILIAN, IN MUSTARD CHECKS, was perched on the edge of the stone horse trough which lay in the shadow of the market cross, his tiny feet dangling in the air like Humpty Dumpty. He was so small I almost hadn't seen him.

"Haroo, mon vieux, Flavia!” he shouted, and I brought Gladys to a sliding stop at the very toes of his patent leather shoes. Trapped again! I'd better make the best of it.

"Hullo, Max," I said. "I have a question for you."

"Ho-ho!" he said. "Just like that! A question! No preliminaries? No talk of the sisters? No gossip from the great concert halls of the world?"

"Well," I said, a little embarrassed, "I did listen to The Mikado on the wireless.”