I shivered. It was almost a replica of Father’s study and stamp collection at Buckshaw: bright blizzards of gummed paper captured and mounted, as if they were so many exotic butterflies.

  If the place had electric light laid on, it was nowhere to be seen. The room was awash in gloom. I felt as if I had been catapulted in time, shot back as if in one of Mr. Wells’s novels, into the eighteenth century. Even the air was ancient, and it reeked with the smell of old paper, old ink, and the slight dry stink of covetousness.

  As my eyes became accustomed to the gloom, I saw that there was a small inner room, in which a small, low-wattage bulb hung from the ceiling by a frayed cord.

  I gave a light, respectful knock to the frame with my knuckles and stepped across the threshold. A dowdy woman in a tailored suit put down a large handheld magnifier.

  “Ah, Flavia,” she said. “I’ve been expecting you.”

  It was Aunt Felicity.

  There were no hugs, no kisses, no smiles. She was, after all, a de Luce. There was only one possible response: I walked casually around the shop, peering at the spines of the stamp albums, running a finger over the glass countertop, and taking a seat at last in the rickety chair behind the counter.

  She made her opening move. “Why have you come?” she asked.

  “I believe you know that, Aunt Felicity,” I said, surprised a little by my own boldness.

  “Yes,” she said. “I believe I do.”

  “You know, and have known all along, that my father is still alive.”

  It only stood to reason. With Father to all intents and purposes dead, this surprisingly frumpy old woman was again, possibly, the most senior living member of the Nide.

  Aunt Felicity said nothing.

  I said nothing.

  It was to be the usual game, and only one of us would win.

  “Well?” I said boldly. It was now or never.

  “Flavia—” she said.

  I’d given her the choice of saying yes or no, and she had taken neither. Like Father, she was going to hide behind the chains of Duty.

  “It’s all right, Aunt Felicity. You don’t have to say anything. I’ve already seen my father and spoken with him.”

  She stared at me with that unnerving stillness, as she had obviously been trained to do. Cool as a cucumber in Antarctica.

  “A man has been murdered in Bishop’s Lacey,” I said. “I suspect he was poisoned—or, rather, cunningly provided with poison, which he unsuspectingly ate himself—by an American serviceman, Preston Malone. I believe Malone might have been brought in by the Nide especially to do the job. And he’s already been moved out, hasn’t he, Aunt Felicity? Gone on to his next assignment, like a pawn in a game of chess.”

  Aunt Felicity remained a glowering iceberg.

  “The crime of the murdered man, Major Greyleigh,” I went on, “was not that he saw and recognized Father at the American airbase at Leathcote, but that he blabbed the news to someone else, jeopardizing this whole cruel charade of my father’s death. That someone else was Mrs. Mullet. But you already know all this, don’t you, Aunt Felicity?”

  “Flavia,” Aunt Felicity said, “there are orders of duty and justice unknown even to the highest among us.”

  “The Invisible Masters, you mean.”

  “If you wish,” she said. “But it is for the common good.”

  “The common good goes around killing innocent people and blaming it on their poor defenseless servants, like Mrs. Mullet. Is that what you’re saying?”

  This was not nearly as elegant as I intended it to sound, but that’s the way it came out. I was trying to be maddeningly rational.

  Aunt Felicity picked up a magnifying glass and peered through it at a postage stamp she held up with a pair of tweezers. Even from where I sat, I could see that the specimen was a recent issue, with a value of no more than a shilling, even to some spotty schoolboy in a village collecting society.

  “The Nide is more or less a society of assassins,” I said, my voice rising. “How do you decide?”

  “That is not my dominion,” Aunt Felicity said.

  “Assassin slaves!” I’m afraid I shouted. “You can’t just go around killing people because some voice in a bottle says so. Don’t lie about it.”

  “We are not permitted to lie,” Aunt Felicity said, putting down the stamp and pretending to look at me through the magnifying glass. “Only to tint. Remember, even the shadows have shadows.”

  Only to tint?

  That fitted me to a T!

  She looked up at me with a cold eye. All my questions were answered.

  In a millionth of a second, the way ahead was clear.

  “Can’t you spare even a scrap of your rotten heart for Undine?” I said in a clear, cold voice, my fists clenched like hand grenades. “Don’t you care what you’ve done to her mind?

  “Probably not. But let me tell you this, Aunt Felicity. If ever you harm a hair on Undine’s head—or Mrs. Mullet’s head—your balloon will be shot down in flames. I’ve left a full account of your doings in the hands of the highest authority. One wrong move by you—or Father—and pop goes the weasel! In fact, pop goes your whole stinking Nide.”

  I had done no such thing, of course, but I intended to. There are times when a good bluff is a better weapon than all the facts in the world.

  Aunt Felicity said nothing. She sat staring like a reptile, her eyes locked on mine: fixing me with that cold, blue de Luce glare that is meant to freeze blood at twenty paces.

  “I’m not afraid of you, Aunt Felicity,” I said, my voice dripping with scorn. “I’m ashamed of you. And you ought to be ashamed of yourself. And the Nide, whoever they might be, ought to be ashamed of themselves. I want nothing to do with you again—ever!

  “And—” I added, surprising even myself, “if you even think about threatening to take Undine away from us, I’ll personally set white hellfire to the whole bloody lot of you.”

  And with that, I rose up from the chair with all the dignity I could muster, turned on my heel, walked out, and gave the door an almighty and bone-rattling slam.

  As I strode across the pavement toward the Rolls, and Dogger stepped out to hold open the door, I realized fully, for the first time ever, who I am. I am a new person. I am the Phoenix reborn.

  I am Flavia de Luce: a living and vital mushroom growing out of the dead wood of the de Luce family.

  It is going to be quite a life.

  · Fourteen ·

  Someone once said that each new day brings us the gift of a new pair of eyes. I don’t know if that’s true, but I felt it must be so.

  After my confrontation with Aunt Felicity, I was no longer under anyone’s thumb.

  Rather than wait for Inspector Hewitt to summon me and pump me dry for information, I took the initiative by ringing up his headquarters at Hinley and leaving a message with the duty sergeant.

  “Tell the inspector I shall be at home between two and two forty-five,” I said, like some old duchess in furs and mothballs who never ventures out of her moldering country house.

  Surprisingly, he came. His Vauxhall rolled up to the front door of Buckshaw at two on the dot. The doorbell rang, and Dogger answered it as we had arranged, after which he vanished at his own request.

  I showed the inspector to the drawing room and took a seat with my back to the windows.

  “Are you and Mrs. Hewitt keeping well?” I asked.

  Niceties first, nastiness after.

  “Yes,” he said. “Now then, about this business at Moonflower Cottage.”

  “Oh, yes,” I said pleasantly. “Perhaps you could refresh my memory?”

  “Stop it, Flavia,” he said.

  “Very well, then,” I replied. “I shall refresh yours. Major Greyleigh was murdered—on assignment, I might add—by one Preston Malone, an American serviceman based at Leathcote. His weapon was the poison saxitoxin, derived from shellfish. The blame was meant to be placed on Mrs. Mullet, who cooked the victim’s mushrooms for breakfast. Since she had no motive, his death would be put down to accident.”

  Of course, Mrs. Mullet did have a connection to the victim: Major Greyleigh had courted her when they were both young. But without breaking my word and my blood oath, I could say no more. I could not tell Inspector Hewitt about Mrs. Mullet’s abiding love for the dead man, nor could I tell him about the box of fetishes she had removed from, and then returned to, the scene of his murder.

  I needed to change the subject.

  “So you see, it was all in the butter, wasn’t it?” I said brightly. “The poison was in the butter from Leathcote. Nothing to do with Mrs. Mullet, except that she unwittingly used it to fry his mushrooms. If we’d been more diligent…”

  I left it hanging there. My intentional use of the word “we” implied that the police were just as dense as I was pretending to be.

  “We’d have discovered that Major Greyleigh had stopped buying butter in the village some time ago.”

  I saw the inspector’s fingers tighten on his Biro. He did not look up. I had told him something that he didn’t know. He might grill Mrs. Mullet for further details, but she would give up no more than she wanted to.

  I went on: “We’ve shown where the saxitoxin originated. My tests were conclusive. Mrs. Mullet has nothing to hide.”

  “And this Malone—” He pretended to consult his notebook. “Preston Malone. Sergeant Malone. What was his motive?”

  It was time to put my cards on the table, and I did—but I placed some of them face down out of necessity.

  Was the inspector aware that my father was alive in a burrow at Leathcote? He may well have been, but he would never be allowed to mention it to me. I would never be permitted to know the true facts about my own parent. Blood may be thicker than water, but it’s weak tea indeed compared with the Official Secrets Act.

  “I suspect Malone might have been hired by one of Major Greyleigh’s ‘clients,’ ” I lied. “Someone he had hanged. Or one of their families.”

  The words “might have been” were the slack in Houdini’s knots: just enough rope to wriggle free, should it be necessary.

  It was now my duty to direct official attention away from Leathcote, and my father’s secret presence there.

  There it was: duty again.

  Aunt Felicity had been right. We were not allowed to lie, but we were allowed to tint. If you wish to be noted for truthfulness, you must always tell the truth—but not all of it. I remembered Daffy reading aloud to me a quote by Mark Twain: Truth is the most precious thing we have. Economize it.

  “You ought to adopt that as your personal motto,” she had said. “Have it printed on calling cards so that people are warned.”

  I must admit I’ve been a bit of a tinter since I was a toddler, so it came as easily to me as falling off a log.

  “I’m sure you will find out Malone’s motive, Inspector,” I said, dead certain that he would not. The Nide and its members would remain invisible, perhaps forever. None but a few would ever know that Asterion, like some comic-paper villain, would remain as the oiler-of-the-gears in his subterranean cavern. No one would ever believe it.

  The inspector would never breathe a word to me about Malone, or what would become of him. He didn’t need to: Carl had already told me during an inconvenient and awkward visit just moments after our return from London.

  “Just like Mordecai,” he had said. “Vanished into thin air. Cashiered, they say. But gosh, Flavia, what do you suppose he did? Just thinking about sleeping in the same barracks and driving around in the same jeep as that guy gives me the creeps.”

  I couldn’t help noticing that Carl’s eyes were all the while on Daffy.

  “Me, too,” I had said.

  Now, back in the drawing room, face-to-face with Inspector Hewitt, I stood up and brushed off my skirt as if preparing for a public appearance.

  “Will that be all, Inspector?” I asked. I couldn’t believe my nerve.

  “No,” he said. “That will not be all,” and my heart sank.

  “There are a few more points. First of all, I’d like to thank you personally for handing in Major Greyleigh’s box of figurines—and what remains of the butter.”

  “I knew you’d like to have them immediately—for chemical analysis, and so forth. Dogger got up before the crack of dawn to drive them over to your lads.”

  Had the inspector winced at the word? If he had, he recovered nicely.

  “Removing objects from the scene of the crime is a serious offense, but I understand that, since it was done by a child, we may expect no further repercussions at this time. And your bringing to light of Mrs. Mullet’s remarkable sketches has been of invaluable assistance. And finally, I have been asked by the chief constable to commend you and Mr. Dogger on your discovery and identification of the saxitoxin. Our chaps missed it completely. If it hadn’t been for you—”

  Mrs. Mullet’s neck might be in a noose. He didn’t need to say it.

  “Sir Rodney Peck, our chief forensic analyst, is livid. I’ve never seen him like that. He’s breathing sea-foam. I think it’s safe to conclude that a couple of our chemical boffins will be playing accordion and banjo in Covent Garden tonight.”

  “Thank you for telling me,” I said. “You didn’t have to.”

  “No,” Inspector Hewitt said, “but I wanted to. In fact, I insisted upon it.”

  “A commendation, you say, Inspector?”

  “Yes, but not a visible one. Because of the circumstances, you understand, this must remain in confidence between you and those in authority.”

  “Something like the pope appointing his secret cardinals,” I said, putting my hushing finger to my lips.

  “Something like that,” Inspector Hewitt said. “The important thing,” he added, “is that you and Mr. Dogger know, and I know. Nothing else matters.”

  Could that possibly be true? Were the inspector and Dogger and I linked forever in the bonds of yet another official secret?

  A smile started in my face, but I quickly stifled it.

  I stuck out my hand, and by all that’s holy, Inspector Hewitt took it and shook it.

  Yaroooo! I shouted in my mind.

  Although, if you’d seen my face, you’d have been forgiven for thinking that butter wouldn’t melt in my mouth.

  From somewhere in the house there drifted an extremely rude noise.

  Sic transit gloria mundi, I thought. Daffy had taught me that:

  So passes the glory of the world.

  Acknowledgments

  One of the greatest pleasures in publishing a book is being given the opportunity to thank those whose assistance made it possible:

  The stalwart Denise Bukowski, of the Bukowski Agency, who has been in this remarkable venture from the very beginning; Anne Speyer, my editor at Ballantine Bantam Dell, whose keen eye and boundless enthusiasm have made this voyage a treat; Amy Black, publisher of Doubleday Canada, for her wonderful support; Anna MacDiarmid, publishing manager of Doubleday Canada, for her helpful comments and enthusiasm; Sarah O’Hara, Orion Books, London, for her important suggestions; Loren Noveck, Penguin Random House, New York, for her sharp eye and luminous copyediting; Anusha Khan, editorial assistant, Ballantine Books, for keeping us all on the same page; my friend Amber Mylrea, for her always lively discussions and sparkling suggestions.

  Bless you all!

  © Jeff Bassett

  Alan Bradley is the New York Times bestselling author of eleven Flavia de Luce mystery novels and the memoir The Shoebox Bible. His first Flavia 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 other Flavia de Luce works include the novels 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, The Grave’s a Fine and Private Place, and The Golden Tresses of the Dead, as well as the ebook short story “The Curious Case of the Copper Corpse.” He lives and writes on an island in the middle of the Irish Sea.

  alanbradleyauthor.com

  Facebook.com/​AlanBradleyAuthor

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