pushed.
The opportunity is simply too good to pass up.
Initially, someone else in the circle had been doing the pushing, and for a few minutes, even I had wavered. Wavered? No, more than that: I’ll admit that the first message shook me. But then rational thought had returned, and I realized that I’d just been handed a rare gift from the gods.
From that point on, it had been yours truly, Flavia de Luce, guiding the planchette.
One of you knows my killer
.
Sheer inspiration on my part!
The results had been even more gratifying than I’dhoped. Trout had been shocked into scattering the board and its runner, and the girl to my left had lost control of her bladder.
I needed to make her acquaintance at the earliest possible moment.
“Oh, dear!” I said, going all solicitous and helping her to her feet. I noticed that no one else made a move. I would have her all to myself.
I led her along the hall to the WC called Cartimandua, which would be a safe haven for an interview, I thought. Although it was forbidden for any girl to be in another’s room after lights-out, there was no law against two of us answering the call of nature at the same time.
“My name is de Luce,” I said, as the tiny creature retired into one of the cubicles. “Flavia.”
“I know who you are, well enough,” she said, her voice echoing oddly from the room’s glazed surfaces.
“But I don’t believe I know yours,” I said.
There was a hollow silence. And then her name came, almost in a whisper.
“Brazenose. Mary Jane.”
Brazenose? It couldn’t be! That was the name of one of the missing girls.
Le Marchand, Wentworth, and Brazenose—or so Collingwood had told me.
Surely there couldn’t be more than one Brazenose in such a small establishment as Miss Bodycote’s?
Or could there?
“Was she your sister?” I asked gently.
A torrent of sobs from the cubicle provided the answer.
“Come out of there,” I said, and surprisingly, she obeyed. The cubicle door clicked open and a moment later, this poor, pale, damp little chick was enfolded in my arms, weeping woefully into my shoulder as if her heart would break.
“I’m sorry,” I told her, honestly meaning it, and for now that had to be enough.
The possibility that the body in the chimney might be her sister must not—at least for now—be put into words. I hardly dared even think the thought for fear that she would somehow read my mind.
But perhaps she had realized it already.
Brazenose was hanging on to me as if she were a shipwreck victim, and I a floating log. And who knows? Perhaps she was.
Perhaps I was, too.
What remarkable bonds we form
, I thought, as she clung to me.
And what very odd ones
.
She seemed reluctant to break away—reluctant to have to look me in the eyes.
“Better wash your face,” I said at last. “In case they call a snap Holy Communion service.”
That fetched the ghost of a smile.
“You are a very peculiar person, Flavia de Luce,” she said in a dampish voice.
I made a deep bow, heel to instep, sweeping an imaginary cavalier’s feathered hat toward the floor with one hand.
As Brazenose was scrubbing her face at the sink, the door opened and Fitzgibbon came into the room.
Was she surprised to see us? I couldn’t tell.
“You’re up late, girls,” she said. “Is everything all right?”
“Yes, Matron,” Brazenose said in a surprisingly strong voice, and I, as a newcomer not expected to know any better, merely nodded.
“Well, then, off to bed with the both of you,” Fitzgibbon said. “No lights, mind.”
We whispered to each other as we went along the hall.
“Don’t believe the Ouija board,” I told her. “It’s a gyp. Someone in Jumbo’s room was spelling out the words.”
Brazenose’s eyes were like lanterns in the darkness. “Are you sure?” she breathed.
“Yes,” I told her. “It was me.”
Half an hour later, as I lay in bed, unable to sleep, I wondered about what I had said.
Were points given out
The opportunity is simply too good to pass up.
Initially, someone else in the circle had been doing the pushing, and for a few minutes, even I had wavered. Wavered? No, more than that: I’ll admit that the first message shook me. But then rational thought had returned, and I realized that I’d just been handed a rare gift from the gods.
From that point on, it had been yours truly, Flavia de Luce, guiding the planchette.
One of you knows my killer
.
Sheer inspiration on my part!
The results had been even more gratifying than I’dhoped. Trout had been shocked into scattering the board and its runner, and the girl to my left had lost control of her bladder.
I needed to make her acquaintance at the earliest possible moment.
“Oh, dear!” I said, going all solicitous and helping her to her feet. I noticed that no one else made a move. I would have her all to myself.
I led her along the hall to the WC called Cartimandua, which would be a safe haven for an interview, I thought. Although it was forbidden for any girl to be in another’s room after lights-out, there was no law against two of us answering the call of nature at the same time.
“My name is de Luce,” I said, as the tiny creature retired into one of the cubicles. “Flavia.”
“I know who you are, well enough,” she said, her voice echoing oddly from the room’s glazed surfaces.
“But I don’t believe I know yours,” I said.
There was a hollow silence. And then her name came, almost in a whisper.
“Brazenose. Mary Jane.”
Brazenose? It couldn’t be! That was the name of one of the missing girls.
Le Marchand, Wentworth, and Brazenose—or so Collingwood had told me.
Surely there couldn’t be more than one Brazenose in such a small establishment as Miss Bodycote’s?
Or could there?
“Was she your sister?” I asked gently.
A torrent of sobs from the cubicle provided the answer.
“Come out of there,” I said, and surprisingly, she obeyed. The cubicle door clicked open and a moment later, this poor, pale, damp little chick was enfolded in my arms, weeping woefully into my shoulder as if her heart would break.
“I’m sorry,” I told her, honestly meaning it, and for now that had to be enough.
The possibility that the body in the chimney might be her sister must not—at least for now—be put into words. I hardly dared even think the thought for fear that she would somehow read my mind.
But perhaps she had realized it already.
Brazenose was hanging on to me as if she were a shipwreck victim, and I a floating log. And who knows? Perhaps she was.
Perhaps I was, too.
What remarkable bonds we form
, I thought, as she clung to me.
And what very odd ones
.
She seemed reluctant to break away—reluctant to have to look me in the eyes.
“Better wash your face,” I said at last. “In case they call a snap Holy Communion service.”
That fetched the ghost of a smile.
“You are a very peculiar person, Flavia de Luce,” she said in a dampish voice.
I made a deep bow, heel to instep, sweeping an imaginary cavalier’s feathered hat toward the floor with one hand.
As Brazenose was scrubbing her face at the sink, the door opened and Fitzgibbon came into the room.
Was she surprised to see us? I couldn’t tell.
“You’re up late, girls,” she said. “Is everything all right?”
“Yes, Matron,” Brazenose said in a surprisingly strong voice, and I, as a newcomer not expected to know any better, merely nodded.
“Well, then, off to bed with the both of you,” Fitzgibbon said. “No lights, mind.”
We whispered to each other as we went along the hall.
“Don’t believe the Ouija board,” I told her. “It’s a gyp. Someone in Jumbo’s room was spelling out the words.”
Brazenose’s eyes were like lanterns in the darkness. “Are you sure?” she breathed.
“Yes,” I told her. “It was me.”
Half an hour later, as I lay in bed, unable to sleep, I wondered about what I had said.
Were points given out
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