I peeped round a black marble column, and there she was, stretched out full length, facedown on the slab of a limestone tomb, her red hair flowing out across the weathered inscription like rivulets of blood. Except for the cigarette wedged stylishly erect between her fingers, she might have been a painting by one of the Pre-Raphaelites, such as Burne-Jones. I almost hated to intrude.
“Hullo,” I said. “Are you all right?”
It is another simple fact of nature that one always begins such conversations with an utterly stupid remark. I was sorry the instant I’d uttered it.
“Oh! Of course I’m all right,” she cried, leaping to her feet and wiping her eyes. “What do you mean by creeping up on me like that? Who are you, anyway?”
With a toss of her head she flung back her hair and stuck out her chin. She had the high cheekbones and the dramatically triangular face of a silent cinema star, and I could see by the way she bared her teeth that she was terrified.
“Flavia,” I said. “My name is Flavia de Luce. I live near here—at Buckshaw.”
I jerked my thumb in the general direction.
She was still staring at me like a woman in the grip of a nightmare.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
She pulled herself up to her full height—which couldn’t have been much more than five feet and an inch or two—and took a step towards me, like a hot-tempered version of the Botticelli Venus that I’d once seen on a Huntley and Palmers biscuit tin.
I stood my ground, staring at her dress. It was a creamy cotton print with a gathered bodice and a flaring skirt, covered all over with a myriad of tiny flowers, red, yellow, blue, and a bright orange the color of poppies and, I couldn’t help noticing, a hem that was stained with half-dried mud.
“What’s the matter?” she asked, taking an affected drag at her angled cigarette. “Never seen anyone famous before?”
Famous? I hadn’t the faintest idea who she was. I had half a mind to tell her that I had indeed seen someone famous, and that it was Winston Churchill. Father had pointed him out to me from a London taxicab. Churchill had been standing in front of the Savoy with his thumbs hooked in his waistcoat pockets, talking to a man in a yellow mackintosh.
“Good old Winnie,” Father had breathed, as if to himself.
“Oh, what’s the use?” the woman said. “Bloody place … bloody people … bloody motorcars!” And she began to cry again.
“Is there something I can do to help?” I asked.
“Oh, go away and leave me alone,” she sobbed.
Very well, then, I thought. Actually, I thought more than that, but since I’m trying to be a better person …
I stood there for a moment, leaning forward a bit to see if her fallen tears were reacting with the porous surface of the tombstone. Tears, I knew, were composed largely of water, sodium chloride, manganese, and potassium, while limestone was made up chiefly of calcite, which was soluble in sodium chloride—but only at high temperatures. So unless the temperature of St. Tancred’s churchyard went up suddenly by several hundred degrees, it seemed unlikely that anything chemically interesting was going to be happening here.
I turned and walked away.
“Flavia …”
I looked back. She was reaching out a hand to me.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s just that it’s been an awfully bloody day, all round.”
I stopped—then paced slowly, warily back as she wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.
“Rupert was in a foul mood to begin with—even before we left Stoatmoor this morning. We’d had rather a row, I’m afraid, and then the whole business with the van—it was simply the last straw. He’s gone off to find someone to fix it, and I’m … well, here I am.”
“I like your red hair,” I said. She touched it instantly and smiled, as I somehow knew she would.
“Carrot-top, they used to call me when I was your age. Carrot-top! Fancy!”
“Carrot tops are green,” I said. “Who’s Rupert?”
“Who’s Rupert?” she asked. “You’re having me on!”
She pointed a finger and I turned to look: Parked in the lane at the corner of the churchyard was a dilapidated van—an Austin Eight. On its side panel, in showy gold circus letters, still legible through a heavy coating of mud and dust, were the words PORSON’S PUPPETS.
“Rupert Porson,” she said. “Everyone knows Rupert Porson. Rupert Porson, as in Snoddy the Squirrel—The Magic Kingdom. Haven’t you seen him on the television?”
Snoddy the Squirrel? The Magic Kingdom?
“We don’t have the television at Buckshaw,” I said. “Father says it’s a filthy invention.”
“Father is an uncommonly wise man,” she said. “Father is undoubtedly—”
She was interrupted by a metallic rattle of a loose chain guard as the vicar came wobbling round the corner of the church. He dismounted and leaned his battered Raleigh up against a handy headstone. As he walked towards us, I reflected that Canon Denwyn Richardson was not anyone’s image of a typical village vicar. He was large and bluff and hearty, and if he’d had tattoos, he might have been mistaken for the captain of one of those rusty tramp steamers that drags itself wearily from one sun-drenched port to another in whatever god-awful outposts are still left of the British Empire.
His black clerical outfit was smudged and streaked with chalky dust, as if he’d come a cropper on his bicycle.
“Blast!” he said when he spotted me. “I’ve lost my trouser clip and torn my cuff to ribbons,” and then, dusting himself off as he walked towards us, he added, “Cynthia’s going to have me on the carpet.”
The woman’s eyes widened and she shot me a quick glance.
“She’s recently begun scratching my initials on my belongings with a needle,” he added, “but that hasn’t kept me from losing things. Last week, the hectograph sheets for the parish bulletin, the week before, a brass doorknob from the vestry. Maddening, really.
“Hello, Flavia,” he added. “Always nice to see you at church.”
“This is our vicar, Canon Richardson,” I told the redheaded woman. “Perhaps he can help.”
“Denwyn,” the vicar said, holding out a hand to the stranger. “We don’t stand much on ceremony since the war.”
The woman stuck out two or three fingers and touched his palm, but said nothing. As she extended her hand, the short sleeve of her dress slid up, and I had a quick glimpse of the ugly green and purple bruise on her upper arm. She covered it hastily with her left hand as she tugged the cotton fabric down to hide it.
“And how may I be of service?” the vicar asked, gesturing towards the van. “It is not often that we, in our bucolic little backwater, are called upon to minister to such august theater folk.”
She smiled gamely. “Our van’s broken down—or as good as. Something with the carburetor. If it had been anything electrical, I’m sure Rupert could have mended it in a flash, but I’m afraid the fuel system is beyond him.”
“Dear, dear!” the vicar said. “I’m sure Bert Archer, at the garage, can put it right for you. I’ll ring him up, if you like.”
“Oh, no,” the woman said quickly—perhaps too quickly—”we wouldn’t want you to go to any trouble. Rupert’s gone down the high street. He’s probably already found someone.”
“If he had, he’d be back by now,” the vicar said. “Let me ring Bert. He often slips home for a nap in the afternoon. He’s not as young as he was, you know—nor are any of us, if it comes to that. Still, it is a favorite maxim of mine that, when dealing with motor mechanics—even tame ones—it never does one any harm to have the blessing of the Church.”
“Oh, no. It’s too much trouble. I’m sure we’ll be just fine.”
“Nonsense,” the vicar said, already moving off among the forest of gravestones and making at full speed for the rectory. “No trouble at all. I’ll be back in a jiffy.”
“Vicar!” the woman called. “Please??
?”
He stopped in mid-stride and came reluctantly back towards us.
“It’s just that … you see, we …”
“Aha! A question of money, then,” the vicar said.
She nodded sadly, her head down, her red hair cascading down over her face.
“I’m sure something can be arranged,” the vicar said. “Ah! Here’s your husband now.”
A little man with an oversized head and lopsided gait was stumping towards us across the churchyard, his right leg swinging out at each step in a wide, awkward semicircle. As he approached, I saw that his calf was caged in a heavy iron brace.
He must have been in his forties, but it was difficult to tell.
In spite of his diminutive size, his barrel chest and powerful upper arms seemed ready to burst out of the seersucker suit that confined them. By contrast, his right leg was pitiful: By the way in which his trousers clung, and flapped uselessly around what lay beneath, I could see that it was little more than a matchstick. With his huge head, he looked to me like nothing so much as a giant octopus, stalking on uneven tentacles through the churchyard.
He lurched to a halt and deferentially lifted a flat peaked motoring cap, revealing an unruly mop of pale blond hair that matched precisely his little Vandyke goatee.
“Rupert Porson, I presume?” the vicar said, giving the newcomer a jolly, hail-fellow-well-met handshake. “I’m Denwyn Richardson—and this is my young friend Flavia de Luce.”
Porson nodded at me and shot an almost invisibly quick, dark glance at the woman before turning on the full beam of a searchlight smile.
“Spot of engine trouble, I understand,” the vicar went on. “Quite maddening. Still, if it has brought the creator of The Magic Kingdom and Snoddy the Squirrel into our midst—well, it just proves the old adage, doesn’t it?”
He didn’t say which old adage he was referring to, nor did anyone care enough to ask.
“I was about to remark to your good wife,” the vicar said, “that St. Tancred’s would be honored indeed if you might see your way clear to presenting a little entertainment in the Parish Hall whilst your van is being repaired? I realize, of course, how much in demand you must be, but I should be negligent if I didn’t at least make the attempt on behalf of the children—and yes, the grown-ups, too!—of Bishop’s Lacey. It is good, now and then, to allow children to launch an attack upon their money boxes in a worthy cultural cause, don’t you agree?”
“Well, Vicar,” Porson said, in a honeyed voice—too big, too resonant, too mellifluous, I thought, for such a tiny man—”we do have rather a tight timetable. Our tour has been grueling, you see, and London calls… .”
“I understand,” said the vicar.
“But,” Porson added, lifting a dramatic forefinger, “nothing would delight us more than being allowed to sing for our supper, as it were. Isn’t that so, Nialla? It shall be quite like the old days.”
The woman nodded, but said nothing. She was staring off at the hills beyond.
“Well, then,” the vicar said, rubbing his hands together vigorously, as if he were making fire, “it’s all arranged. Come along and I’ll show you the hall. It’s rather tatty, but it does boast a stage, and the acoustics are said to be quite remarkable.”
With that, they disappeared round the back of the church.
For a moment there seemed nothing to say. And then the woman spoke:
“You wouldn’t happen to have a cigarette, would you? I’m dying for a smoke.”
I gave my head a rather idiotic shake.
“Hmmm,” she said. “You look like the kind of kid who might have.”
For the first time in my life, I was speechless.
“I don’t smoke,” I managed.
“And why is that?” she asked. “Too young or too wise?”
“I was thinking of taking it up next week,” I said lamely. “I just hadn’t actually got round to it yet.”
She threw her head back and laughed toothily, like a film star.
“I like you, Flavia de Luce,” she said. “But I have the advantage, don’t I? You’ve told me your name, but I haven’t told you mine.”
“It’s Nialla,” I said. “Mr. Porson called you Nialla.”
She stuck out her hand, her face grave.
“That’s right,” she said, “he did. But you can call me Mother Goose.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ALAN BRADLEY was born in Toronto and grew up in Cobourg, Ontario. Prior to taking early retirement to write in 1994, he was director of television engineering at the University of Saskatchewan media center for twenty-five years. His versatility has earned him awards for his children’s books, radio broadcasts of his short stories, and national print for his journalism. He also co-authored Ms. Holmes of Baker Street, to great acclaim and much controversy, followed by a poignant memoir, The Shoebox Bible. In 2007, Bradley won the Debut Dagger Award of the Crimewriter’s Association for The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie, the first book in a new series featuring the brilliant young British sleuth Flavia de Luce. Alan Bradley lives in Kelowna, British Columbia, with his wife and two calculating cats. He is at work on the second Flavia de Luce novel.
Alan Bradley, The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie
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