The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie

"But why?" This was a bad question, and I knew it as soon as it was out of my mouth. He was looking at me as if I were a child.

"Look, Flavia," he said, "I know you're upset. That's understandable. You didn't have a chance to see your father before. well, you were away from Buckshaw when we brought him here. These things are always very difficult for a police officer, you know, but you must understand that there are sometimes things which I would very much like to do as a friend, but which, as a representative of His Majesty, I am forbidden to do."

"I know," I said. "King George the Sixth is not a frivolous man."

Inspector Hewitt looked at me sadly. He got up from his desk and went to the window where he stood looking out at the gathering clouds, his hands clasped behind his back.

"No," he said at last, "King George is not a frivolous man."

Then suddenly, I had an idea. Like the proverbial bolt of lightning, everything fell into place as smoothly as one of those backwards cinema films in which the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle jump each into its proper place, completing itself before your very eyes.

"May I be frank with you, Inspector?" I asked.

"Of course," he said. "Please do."

"The body at Buckshaw was that of a man who arrived in Bishop's Lacey on Friday after a journey from Stavanger, in Norway. You must release Father at once, Inspector, because, you see, he didn't do it.”

Although he was a little taken aback, the Inspector recovered quickly and gave me an indulgent smile.

"He didn't?"

"No," I said. "I did. I killed Horace Bonepenny."

14

IT WAS ABSOLUTELY PERFECT. THERE WAS NO ONE who could prove otherwise.

I had been awakened in the night, I would claim, by a peculiar sound outside the house. I had gone downstairs and then into the garden, where I had been put upon by a prowler: a burglar, perhaps, bent on stealing Father's stamps. After a brief struggle I had overpowered him.

Hold on, Flave, that last bit seemed a little far-fetched: Horace Bonepenny was more than six feet tall and could have strangled me between his thumb and forefinger. No, we had struggled and he had died—a dicky heart perhaps, the result of some long-forgotten childhood illness. Rheumatic fever, let's say. Yes, that was it. Delayed congestive heart failure, like Beth in Little Women. I sent up a silent prayer to Saint Tancred to work a miracle: Please, dear Saint Tancred, let Bonepenny's autopsy confirm my fib.

"I killed Horace Bonepenny,” I repeated, as if saying it twice would make it seem more credible.

Inspector Hewitt drew in a deep breath and let it out through his nose. “Tell me about it,” he said.

"I heard a noise in the night, I went out into the garden, someone jumped out at me from the shadows—"

"Hold on," he said, "what part of the shadows?"

"The shadows behind the potting shed. I was struggling to get free when there was a sudden gurgle in his throat, almost as if he had suffered congestive heart failure due to a bout of rheumatic fever he suffered as a child—or something like that."

"I see," Inspector Hewitt said. "And what did you do then?"

"I went back into the house and fetched Dogger. The rest, I believe, you know."

But wait—I knew that Dogger had not told him about our joint eavesdropping on Father's quarrel with Horace Bonepenny; still, it was unlikely that Dogger would tell the Inspector I had awakened him at four in the morning without mentioning the fact that I had killed the man. Or was it?

I needed time to think this through.

"Struggling with an attacker is hardly murder," the Inspector said.

"No," I said, "but I haven't told you everything."

I riffled at lightning speed through my mental index cards: poisons unknown to science (too slow); fatal hypnotism (ditto); the secret and forbidden blows of jujitsu (unlikely; too obscure to explain). Suddenly, it began to dawn on me that martyrdom required real inventive genius—a glib tongue was not enough.

"I'm ashamed to," I added.

When in doubt, I thought, fall back on feelings. I was proud of myself for having thought of this.

"Hmm," the Inspector said. "Let's leave it for now. Did you tell Dogger you had killed this prowler?"

"No, I don't believe I did. I was too upset by it all, you see."

"Did you tell him later?"

"No, I didn't think his nerves were up to it."

"Well, this is all very interesting," Inspector Hewitt said, "but the details seem a bit sparse."

I knew that I was standing at the edge of a precipice: one step more and there would be no turning back.

"There's more," I said, "but—"

"But?"

"I'm not saying another word until you let me speak to Father."

Inspector Hewitt seemed to be trying to swallow something that wouldn't go down. He opened his mouth as if some obstruction had suddenly materialized in his throat, then closed it again. He gulped, and then did something that I had to admire, something I made a mental note to add to my own bag of tricks: He grabbed for his pocket handkerchief and transformed his astonishment into a sneeze.

"Privately," I added.