But nothing, now, could keep me from Father. He was only minutes away and I had a plan.
What a scolding I was going to give him! I would show him that I was no longer the girl who had gone away to school in Canada; that I had grown up and come home a different person.
I would begin by giving him the very dickens for catching pneumonia; for not looking after himself. I would tear a strip off him that he would never forget.
I would tell him that I was only doing it for his own good, because I loved him so much. Yes, that’s what I would do.
But that was nothing compared with what I would do next.
The idea had popped into my head as if by magic, and I suddenly understood how Saint Paul must have felt on the road to Damascus.
At the first opportunity, I would make an appointment with Father’s solicitors. I would instruct them to draw up whatever papers were necessary for me to sign in order to return the estate to Father.
I would make him a gift of Buckshaw!
It was brilliant! Why hadn’t I thought of it before?
My mother, Harriet, of course, had left Buckshaw to me: a loving and thoughtful act, I suppose, but one which had imposed an enormous and crushing burden on my mind.
Giving it to Father as an outright gift would solve all of our problems. I didn’t know the ins and outs of inheritance tax, but surely we could sort it out together.
I chuckled, coughed, and laughed. Yes, that was it. We would sort it out together.
From the market square, the street to the hospital rose up so steeply that I was obliged to dismount and walk. The snow on the stone cobbles was treacherous, and only by clinging to Gladys’s handlebars could I keep from falling on my face.
At the top of the hill, I stopped and stood staring up at the hospital’s dark, stony face.
On the porter’s lodge, as I knew it would be, was the sign ALL VISITORS PLEASE REPORT. I had been here before, and knew my way around.
I couldn’t run the risk of being stopped for any reason. My barking cough alone would be reason enough to be tossed out on my ear.
To one side was a grim stone archway, which led, I remembered, by way of a pinched and gloomy passage, to a small courtyard which was used mostly by undertakers and others whose secret work was carried out away from the public view.
Here was the loading dock, which would give unquestioned entry to the hospital.
I hoisted Gladys up onto the dock, leaned her against the stone wall, and promised her that we’d be going home with Dogger. No more struggling through the snow.
The wind tore the heavy door from my hands and slammed it shut.
But I was inside.
I flattened myself against the wall and waited to be caught. But the only sound was the growl of distant machinery.
The air was heavy with the smell of superheated laundry and somewhat less superheated institutional soup, both equally unappetizing.
I set off down the long corridor at a military pace, as if I were carrying important dispatches. A chin-up, shoulders-back posture and a brisk pace is generally enough to discourage any but the most officious doorkeepers.
Just let them try! I was gaining confidence with every yard I walked.
Father would be proud when I confessed. We would have a good laugh about it later.
I made it past the kitchen with no alarm, and then the X-ray department. Beyond lay the wards, and I glanced quickly into each as I passed.
No sign of Dogger, or of Feely or Daffy.
And then I remembered there were also wards upstairs on the second floor.
Of course! It made perfect sense that Father would be up there on the top deck—not down here in steerage, so to speak, with the kitchens and the laundry boilers.
I couldn’t risk going into the foyer and inquiring at the desk, I thought, as I smothered a cough with both hands. When I got to Father’s room I would wrap my scarf across my mouth to avoid contagion.
To my left was a door marked STAIRS and I took it, slipping through as silently as a ferret on the hunt.
At the top, I peered cautiously out into the corridor, but I needn’t have bothered: There was no one in sight.
The hospital seemed to be in a dreamy daze, the hum of voices somewhere in the distance. At the end of the hall someone had even put up a Christmas tree, its colored lights and tinsel managing to make even the ghastly brown and green walls look cheery.
The wards were to my right. I stepped into the hall and walked confidently forward, yet fully expecting Matron to come bearing down upon me at any moment, like a pirate ship under full sail.
I must say, though, that I was not afraid. I would deal with her.
The new, stony Flavia de Luce would turn her away: send her scurrying with her tail between her legs.
The very idea delighted me.
As I glanced in at the third door, my heart lifted.
Dogger was sitting on a chair beside the bed in which Father was lying peacefully, his eyes closed.
How surprised they would be to see me!
There was no one else in the room—just the two of them. The others must have stepped out for a break.
As I entered the room and drew closer, I could see that Dogger’s shoulders were shaking. Was he having one of his episodes? If so, I needed to get him out of here. It wouldn’t do for Father to be disturbed by such a sight.
Hoping not to startle him, I reached out and touched Dogger, giving his arm a reassuring squeeze.
“Dogger,” I said quietly, “it’s me, Flavia.”
His head came slowly round and he looked up at me, and I saw that his eyes were brimming with tears.
“What is it, Dogger?” I asked.
“I’m afraid, Miss Flavia…,” he said. “I’m afraid—”
“No need to be afraid, Dogger. Everything is all right.”
And then as I saw the reason for his weeping, a howl escaped my throat and went echoing round the room.
I was shaken as if by a fierce but invisible wind. I could barely breathe.
“Oh, Dogger,” I gasped, clutching at his shoulder. “Whatever shall I do without him?”
“You must cry, Miss Flavia,” Dogger said, looking up at me from his haunted, tearstained face. “You must cry as long and as hard as ever you can.”
For Shirley—then, now, and always
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
SPECIAL THANKS (AND CONGRATULATIONS) to Dana Cameron and Carla Coupe, of the Femmes Fatales, those ferociously creative and talented women dedicated to the fine art of crime fiction. Dana and Carla were the successful bidders in an auction at the 2015 Baker Street and Friends weekend in New York City, for the right to name a character in the next Flavia de Luce novel in support of the very worthy Watson Fund.
Oh, yes…their character? Carla Sherrinford-Cameron. I hope I haven’t treated her too cruelly.
Thanks also to legendary Sherlockian Peter Blau for helping make all of this possible. It was inspiring—and awe-inspiring—to meet Peter at last, after having heard of him everywhere for so many years.
Thanks, too, to Les Klinger, Mike Whelan, and Mary Ann Bradley, and to Steven Rothman, all esteemed members of the Baker Street Irregulars, for extending so cordial a welcome to an ailing Sherlockian.
To Peter Calamai, C.M., and Mary Calamai for so warmly welcoming a wandering alien. As they (almost) said in My Fair Lady: We could have talked all night.
Again, with thanks to Roger K. Bunting, Professor Emeritus, Inorganic Chemistry, Illinois State University, for sharing his vast knowledge of historical photographic chemical arcana.
To Nick and Lynne Ingham, and to Steve and Lesley Ingham, who, far beyond the call of duty, rolled up their sleeves and pitched in when it mattered the most. Without them, there would have been no—
Well, let’s not even think about that!
To cousins Garth and Helga Taylor for their hospitality and for providing, not just a warm oasis in the bitter cold, but also a forgotten piece of family i
ncantatory lore.
To Jim Sherman, of Perfect Books, in Ottawa, who was the perfect host. And to Barbara Fradkin, compère without compare. Thank you, Barbara!
To Elvira Toewes for arranging an unforgettable homecoming in Toronto, and to Bill and Barb Bryson, cousins also, on the Bradley side, for re-creating the family circle of vanished years.
To Ben McNally, of Ben McNally Books in Toronto, for making a dream come true.
One of the great—and unforeseen—joys of writing the Flavia books has been in hearing from friends I had thought long lost. One of the chiefest of these has been Jim Richards, now of Colorado. Although Jim and I labored together in the vineyards of radio long ago, at a time when the vines were still young, we lost touch for more than half a century. Jim went on to even greater great glory in the television racket, becoming one of the most internationally award-winning writer/producer/directors ever. His many suggestions—based on his own growing up in England during the years in question—have added immeasurably to the world of Flavia de Luce. As Webster said in The Duchess of Malfi: “Old friends, like old swords, still are trusted best.”
Thank you, Jim!
BY ALAN BRADLEY
Flavia de Luce Novels
The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie
The Weed That Strings the Hangman’s Bag
A Red Herring Without Mustard
I Am Half-Sick of Shadows
Speaking from Among the Bones
The Dead in Their Vaulted Arches
As Chimney Sweepers Come to Dust
Thrice the Brinded Cat Hath Mew’d
Flavia de Luce Stories
The Curious Case of the Copper Corpse
PHOTO: © JEFF BASSETT
ALAN BRADLEY is the internationally bestselling author of many short stories, children’s stories, newspaper columns, and the memoir The Shoebox Bible. His first Flavia de Luce novel, The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie, received the Crime Writers’ Association Debut Dagger Award, the Dilys Award, the Arthur Ellis Award, the Agatha Award, the Macavity Award, and the Barry Award, and was nominated for the Anthony Award. His Flavia de Luce novels are The Weed That Strings the Hangman’s Bag, A Red Herring Without Mustard, I Am Half-Sick of Shadows, Speaking from Among the Bones, The Dead in Their Vaulted Arches, As Chimney Sweepers Come to Dust, and Thrice the Brinded Cat Hath Mew’d.
alanbradleyauthor.com
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Alan Bradley, Thrice the Brinded Cat Hath Mew'd
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