A Red Herring Without Mustard: A Flavia de Luce Novel by Alan Bradley

Author:Alan Bradley
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: Random House
Published: 2011-02-07T23:00:00+00:00

It always surprises me after a family row to find that the world outdoors has remained the same. While the passions and feelings that accumulate like noxious gases inside a house seem to condense and cling to the walls and ceilings like old smoke, the out-of-doors is different. The landscape seems incapable of accumulating human radiation. Perhaps the wind blows anger away.

I thought about this as I trudged towards the Trafalgar Lawn. If Porcelain chose to go on believing that I was the monster who had bashed in her grandmother’s skull with—with what?

When I had found Fenella lying on the floor of the caravan, the inside of the wagon had been, except for the blood, as neat as a pin: no bloody weapon flung aside by her attacker: no stick, no stone, no poker. Which seemed odd.

Unless the weapon had some value, why would the culprit choose to carry it away?

Or had it been ditched? I’d seen nothing to suggest that it had.

Surely the police would have gone over the Palings with a microscope in search of a weapon. But had they found one?

I paused for a moment to stare up at the Poseidon fountain. Old Neptune, as the Romans called him, all muscles and tummy, was gazing unconcernedly off into the distance, like someone who has broken wind at a banquet and is trying to pretend it wasn’t him.

His trident was still held up like a scepter (he was, after all, the King of the Sea) and his fishnets lay in a tangle at his feet. There wasn’t a trace of Brookie Harewood. It was hard to believe that, just hours ago, Brookie had dangled dead here—his body a gruesome addition to the sculpture.

But why? Why would his killer go to the trouble of hoisting a corpse into such a difficult position? Could it be a message—some bizarre form of the naval signal flag, for instance?

What little I knew about Poseidon had been gained from Bullfinch’s Mythology, a copy of which was in the library at Buckshaw. It was one of Daffy’s favorite books, but since there was nothing in it about chemistry or poisons, it didn’t really interest me.

Poseidon was said to rule the waters, so it was easy enough to see why he was chosen to adorn a fountain. The only other waters within spitting distance of this particular Poseidon were the river Efon at the Palings and Buckshaw’s ornamental lake.

Brookie had been hung from the trident much like the way a shrike, or larder bird, impales a songbird on a thorn for later use—although it seemed unlikely, I thought, that Brookie’s killer planned to eat him later.

Was it a warning, then? And if so, to whom?

I needed to have a few hours alone with my notebook, but now was not the time. There was Porcelain to deal with.

I wasn’t finished with Porcelain. As a token of goodwill, I would not be put off by her childish behavior—nor would I take offense. I would forgive her whether she liked it or not.

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