A Red Herring Without Mustard

Although this was the way Colin had told it to me, I must confess to gilding the lily more than a little for the Inspector’s benefit. I no more believed Colin’s version of the story than I believed that dray horses can fly. Brookie’s death, in my estimation, was Colin’s revenge for years of abuse. It was murder, pure and simple.

But who was I to judge? I had no intention of adding so much as another ounce to the burden of Colin’s troubles.

“Brookie fell backwards down the stone steps into the chamber. That’s probably what actually killed him.”

Oh Lord, forgive me this one charitable little fib!

“Colin fetched a length of rope from the tunnel and hauled him up onto Poseidon’s trident. He had to tie Brookie’s wrists together so that the arms wouldn’t slip out of the coat later. He didn’t want to risk the body falling.”

Inspector Hewitt gave me a look I can only describe as skeptical.

“Brookie,” I went on, “had told Colin about the Hobblers’ belief that Heaven was right there above our heads. You see, he wanted to give Brookie a head start.”

“Good lord!” Father said.

Inspector Hewitt scratched his nose. “Hmmm,” he said. “Seems rather far-fetched.”

“Not so far-fetched at all, Inspector,” I said. “That’s precisely the way Colin explained it to me. I’m sure that when Dr. Darby and the vicar allow you to question him further …”

The Inspector nodded in a sad way, as if he’d rather suspected it all along.

“Thank you, Flavia,” he said, getting to his feet and closing his notebook. “And thank you, Colonel de Luce. You’ve been more than generous in helping us get to the bottom of this matter.” He walked to the drawing-room door.

“Oh, and Flavia,” he said rather shyly, turning back. “I almost forgot. I came here today somewhat as a message bearer. My wife, Antigone, would be delighted if you’d come for tea next Wednesday … if you’re free, of course.”

Antigone? Tea? And then it sank in.

Oh, frabjous day! Callooh! Callay! That glorious goddess, Antigone, was summoning me, Flavia Sabina de Luce, to her vine-covered cottage!

“Thank you, Inspector,” I said primly. “I shall consult my calendar and see if I can set aside some time.”

Up the stairs I flew. I couldn’t wait to tell Porcelain!

I should have guessed that she’d be gone.

She had torn a blank page from my notebook and fastened it to one of my pillows with a safety pin.

Thanks for everything. Look me up in London sometime.

Your friend, Porcelain

Just that, and nothing more.

At first I was seized with sadness. In spite of our ups and downs, I had never met anyone quite like Porcelain Lee. I had already begun to miss her.

I find it difficult to write about the portrait of Harriet.

Leaving the painting at Vanetta Harewood’s studio with its face against the wall was out of the question. She had, after all, offered it to me, and since Harriet had paid in full for the work, it belonged rightly to her estate at Buckshaw.

I would hang it secretly, I decided, in the drawing room. I would unveil it for my family with as much ceremony as I could muster. I could hardly wait.

In the end, it hadn’t been terribly difficult to arrange the transfer. I’d asked Mrs. Mullet to have a word with Clarence Mundy, who operated Bishop’s Lacey’s only taxicab, and Clarence had agreed to “lay on transportation,” as he put it.

On a dark and rainy afternoon in late September, we had rolled up at the gate of the cottage studio in Malden Fenwick, and Clarence had walked me to the door with an oversized black umbrella.

“Come in,” Vanetta Harewood said, “I’ve been expecting you.”

“Sorry we’re a bit late,” I said. “The rain, and so forth …”

“It’s no trouble at all,” she replied. “To be truthful, I’ve been finding the days rather longer than usual.”

Clarence and I waited in the hall until the glowering Ursula appeared with a large object, wrapped in brown paper.

“Keep it dry,” Vanetta said. “It’s my best work.”

And so we brought Harriet’s portrait to Buckshaw.

“Hold the umbrella for me,” Clarence said, preparing to wrestle the package from the backseat of the taxicab. “I’m going to need both hands.”

Shielding the parcel from the slanting rain, we dashed to the door, as awkward as three-legged racers.

I had handed Clarence the fare and was halfway across the foyer when suddenly Father emerged from his study.

“What have you dragged home now?” he asked, and I couldn’t find it in my heart to lie.

“It’s a painting,” I said. “It belongs to you.”

Father leaned it against the wall and returned to his study, from which he emerged with a pair of shears to cut the several turns of butcher’s string.

He let the paper fall away.

That was two weeks ago.

The portrait of Harriet and her three children is no longer in the foyer, nor is it in the drawing room. Until today, I’d searched the house in vain.