Osbert.
“Only last night. It hit Charles like a ton of brick. That was why he was a little late getting to work this morning. He’d stopped to see about having the formula recorded in that special ink you have to look at through an X-ray machine, or whatever it is that only shows up when you do whatever it is you do. I leave all that to the boffins.”
Mother Matilda dismissed the world of science with an impatient wave of her hand. “Anyway, whoever’s been doing these dastardly deeds must somehow have got wind of the fact that the jig was up. Or else the nutmeg formula simply happened to be next on their schedule, and this gangster act was another of their bright ideas. I have to tell you the police chief over in Lammergen doesn’t believe me. He thinks it was a bona fide attempt at a bank holdup; but that hardly explains why the so-called bank robbers pursued Charles from there to here, shooting at him all the way, judging from the number of bullet holes Sergeant MacVicar says were found in his car.”
“Why do you suppose your husband came to Lobelia Falls?”
“I think Charles was trying to decoy them away from the factory. He used to be a stock-car racer in his younger days, and may have thought he could easily shake them off on the Lobelia Falls road. Also, Charles had an extremely high opinion of Sergeant MacVicar’s acumen and a very low one of Fridwell Slapp’s. That’s our police chief, I’m sad to say. It’s my opinion that Charles was heading right here to the police station. By the time he got here, he’d been hit by one of the bullets and was, as you know, bleeding profusely.”
Mother Matilda broke down for a moment, took a deep breath, dried her eyes, and fought gamely on. “Coming from Lammergen, he’d naturally have been on the wrong side of the road, and he must, have known the other car was in hot pursuit. Whether Charles failed to make the U-turn for the station because somebody else happened to be in the way at the crucial moment or whether he thought it would be better to park and run across to the station, I couldn’t say.”
“Judging from the way he ran into Miss Jane’s and ran straight out again,” Dittany suggested, “do you think it’s possible your husband simply got confused? Anybody might have, what with getting shot at all the way along and losing so much blood.”
“So they might be,” Mother Matilda agreed. “Charles was always inclined to be a trifle absentminded, anyway. Whatever happened, it’s clear he meant to protect that nutmeg formula to the last. Though I suppose they must have got it off him when they …”
Mother Matilda’s voice failed her. Dittany and Osbert sat silent, realizing how futile mere words of compassion would be in the face of so overwhelming a loss. It was Mrs. MacVicar who brought true consolation. In she bustled, carrying a tray on which sat three teacups and one steaming bowl filled with something that looked like fish chowder and exuded a seductive aroma of finnan haddie.
“Cullen skink!” cried Mother Matilda.
“Aye,” said Sergeant MacVicar, who had followed his wife with the teapot. “And good as your granny’s, I’ll be bound.”
“We’ll see.”
Mother Matilda was in command of herself again. She took the serviette Mrs. MacVicar had brought and spread it neatly over her navy-blue lap. She picked up the spoon, paused a moment to decide precisely where to dip, and essayed her first taste. To a high-powered food expert, this could be no trivial slurp. She sniffed, she sipped. She rolled the rich, creamy broth around on her tongue. Gradually the pain that had wracked her unbeautiful but by no means uncomely features subsided. She raised to her impromptu hostess eyes filled with tears of wonder and gratitude.
“Exactly the way Granny used to make it. To think that I should live to taste Granny’s cullen skink again! Oh, Mrs. MacVicar, you’ve given me back my lost youth.”
Mrs. MacVicar flushed and became
“Only last night. It hit Charles like a ton of brick. That was why he was a little late getting to work this morning. He’d stopped to see about having the formula recorded in that special ink you have to look at through an X-ray machine, or whatever it is that only shows up when you do whatever it is you do. I leave all that to the boffins.”
Mother Matilda dismissed the world of science with an impatient wave of her hand. “Anyway, whoever’s been doing these dastardly deeds must somehow have got wind of the fact that the jig was up. Or else the nutmeg formula simply happened to be next on their schedule, and this gangster act was another of their bright ideas. I have to tell you the police chief over in Lammergen doesn’t believe me. He thinks it was a bona fide attempt at a bank holdup; but that hardly explains why the so-called bank robbers pursued Charles from there to here, shooting at him all the way, judging from the number of bullet holes Sergeant MacVicar says were found in his car.”
“Why do you suppose your husband came to Lobelia Falls?”
“I think Charles was trying to decoy them away from the factory. He used to be a stock-car racer in his younger days, and may have thought he could easily shake them off on the Lobelia Falls road. Also, Charles had an extremely high opinion of Sergeant MacVicar’s acumen and a very low one of Fridwell Slapp’s. That’s our police chief, I’m sad to say. It’s my opinion that Charles was heading right here to the police station. By the time he got here, he’d been hit by one of the bullets and was, as you know, bleeding profusely.”
Mother Matilda broke down for a moment, took a deep breath, dried her eyes, and fought gamely on. “Coming from Lammergen, he’d naturally have been on the wrong side of the road, and he must, have known the other car was in hot pursuit. Whether Charles failed to make the U-turn for the station because somebody else happened to be in the way at the crucial moment or whether he thought it would be better to park and run across to the station, I couldn’t say.”
“Judging from the way he ran into Miss Jane’s and ran straight out again,” Dittany suggested, “do you think it’s possible your husband simply got confused? Anybody might have, what with getting shot at all the way along and losing so much blood.”
“So they might be,” Mother Matilda agreed. “Charles was always inclined to be a trifle absentminded, anyway. Whatever happened, it’s clear he meant to protect that nutmeg formula to the last. Though I suppose they must have got it off him when they …”
Mother Matilda’s voice failed her. Dittany and Osbert sat silent, realizing how futile mere words of compassion would be in the face of so overwhelming a loss. It was Mrs. MacVicar who brought true consolation. In she bustled, carrying a tray on which sat three teacups and one steaming bowl filled with something that looked like fish chowder and exuded a seductive aroma of finnan haddie.
“Cullen skink!” cried Mother Matilda.
“Aye,” said Sergeant MacVicar, who had followed his wife with the teapot. “And good as your granny’s, I’ll be bound.”
“We’ll see.”
Mother Matilda was in command of herself again. She took the serviette Mrs. MacVicar had brought and spread it neatly over her navy-blue lap. She picked up the spoon, paused a moment to decide precisely where to dip, and essayed her first taste. To a high-powered food expert, this could be no trivial slurp. She sniffed, she sipped. She rolled the rich, creamy broth around on her tongue. Gradually the pain that had wracked her unbeautiful but by no means uncomely features subsided. She raised to her impromptu hostess eyes filled with tears of wonder and gratitude.
“Exactly the way Granny used to make it. To think that I should live to taste Granny’s cullen skink again! Oh, Mrs. MacVicar, you’ve given me back my lost youth.”
Mrs. MacVicar flushed and became
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