Speaking From Among the Bones: A Flavia De Luce Novel by Alan Bradley

Author:Alan Bradley
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: Delacorte Press
Published: 2013-01-29T06:00:00+00:00

Miss Tanty lived in a small house on the west side of Cater Street, which ran north from the high street, just west of the Thirteen Drakes.

I pulled up and parked Gladys at the gate just as Miss Gawl, the Treasurer of the Altar Guild, was coming out the front door.

“I’m afraid she can’t see anyone, child. Doctor’s orders. Here, give me those flowers. I’ll put them in a vase and bring them round later.”

I knew she wouldn’t. She would toss them out her back door and onto the rubbish heap. Not that it mattered. I had picked the wild bouquet in the same spot in front of the church as I had the first lot.

“That’s very kind of you, Miss Gawl,” I said, handing over the flowers and pulling a look of worried concern down over my face like a balaclava. “How is she?”

“She’s resting comfortably now,” she replied. “But she mustn’t be disturbed. We’ve given her an injection to help her sleep.”

We’ve given her an injection?

And then I remembered. Of course—Miss Gawl was the retired District Nurse. Which was why she had used the word “injection.” Anyone else would have said “We’ve given her something to help her sleep.” Or “given her a sedative to help her sleep.” And they wouldn’t have said we—they would have said “The doctor’s given her something to help her sleep.”

What wonderful things can be deduced from a simple four-letter word!

I gave the woman my best village idiot grin.

“I’d best be getting along then,” I said, resisting the urge to add, “to the Easter Cow Show.”

There is a limit even to sauciness.

I wheeled Gladys along toward the place where the street ended at the river. With elaborate stupidity, I picked up a handful of pebbles and, with tongue hanging out of the corner of my mouth, skipped them across the water’s surface.

One … two … three …

When I looked back, Miss Gawl was gone.

I walked quickly back to Miss Tanty’s house, looked both ways to be sure that no one was in sight—then opened the door and slipped inside.

The place was overheated—sweltering like a tropical jungle.

On the right was a dining room with an oversized table and more chairs than we had in all of Buckshaw.

To the left, a drawing room-cum-music room with all the usual fittings: small grand piano, music stands, plaster busts of Beethoven and Mozart and another I didn’t recognize—aha!—Wagner; his name was engraved on the base—all three of them as cold-looking as if they had been molded from moon rubble. Beyond the study was a small conservatory, overflowing with exotic-looking plants. A parrot sat hunched in an elaborate wire cage.

“Pretty Polly,” I said, trying to make friends.

The parrot gave me a surly look.

“Who’s a pretty bird, then?” I asked, feeling like a fool, but there are only so many topics of conversation one can have with a bird.

The thing ignored me. Perhaps it was hungry. Perhaps Miss Tanty had been so disturbed that she had forgotten to feed it.

I took hold of a chunk of suet which was jammed between the wires of the cage.

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