you’ve seen it before).
A ewer, a pitcher, a water tumbler, and a toothbrush and tooth powder on a bedside table completed my survey. I had already satisfied myself that Mr. Sambridge still possessed almost all of his own teeth: an event so rare as to be remarkable in its own right, as I knew from my visits to Farringdon Street, with its framed warnings, and alerts inspired by the Blitz:
Gum disease is the silent enemy. It strikes while you’re asleep!
Home defense. Lights out on tooth decay!
Avoid the blackout. Brush after every meal!
These placards had taught me that our precious English teeth were in short supply, relatively speaking, and that we ought to guard them like the Crown Jewels.
The cat, still grooming itself on the bed, seemed to sense that I was finished. It jumped down and, with its tail in the air like a flag, stalked to the door to be let out without so much as a glance at the inverted Mr. Sambridge.
I followed it out and shut the bedroom door behind me (handkerchief in hand, of course) making sure that the latch engaged. The thought of a cat being locked in too long with someone in Mr. Sambridge’s condition was too much even for someone with
my
strong stomach. There were certain details that even Edgar Allan Poe hadn’t dared write about.
Next on the agenda was to notify the police: a matter which required a great deal of thought. I mustn’t be rash and yet, at the same time, must not seem ever to be anything less than cooperative. Inspector Hewitt would judge me on my professionalism, and I didn’t intend to let him down.
Or myself, for that matter.
Outside, in the slackening rain and accompanied by the cat, I strolled casually over to where Gladys was waiting. There was a cottage directly across the lane from Thornfield Chase, and it was more than likely that whoever lived in it had seen me go into Mr. Sambridge’s house. In the villages of England, there’s precious little that escapes the neighbor’s eye.
As if to illustrate my thoughts, a bit of lace fluttered at a window.
I had been seen.
Obviously, the cottager didn’t know that Mr. Sambridge was dead. If he or she did, he or she should have been out to challenge me, or should, at least, have called the police.
It seemed to me that the best choice was to amble off with a casual air, as if I were just another girl with a bicycle, taking the country air. To reinforce that impression, I wheeled Gladys over for a closer examination of the holly hedge growing by the gate, remembering, as I did so, that the stuff was often planted in such a position to ward off lightning and witchcraft.
Which of the two had Mr. Sambridge feared?
With a quick and obvious glance over my shoulder, to give the impression that I was checking to see if anyone was watching, I snapped off a sprig of holly with a few colorful berries, and, with a spirited toss of my head, poked the holly jauntily—but carefully—into my hair behind the ear.
Flavia Sabina Dolores de Luce.
So I had once identified myself to a nosy librarian.
Although I refrained from kicking up my heels, you could almost hear the castanets.
Job done. The lace curtain settled too casually back into place.
The cat got up from where it had been sitting beside the gatepost and walked towards me, its tail in the air, as if it wanted to tell me something.
“Meow,” it said.
“Sorry, kitty,” I said. “I can’t take you with me. Go catch a mouse. Be a good cat until someone comes for you.”
Gladys and I pushed off on the road home. There was still plenty of time to think.
—
From Pauper’s Well, the road down Denham Rise is long, steep, straight, and tempting. With my chin down on the handlebars, I pedaled us up to speed, and then sat back to enjoy the mad downhill rush.
I fancied I was Donald Campbell, that Gladys was his speedboat
Bluebird,
and that we were tearing across Coniston Water at 170 miles an hour. With the world rushing by in a blur, it was easy to see how one
A ewer, a pitcher, a water tumbler, and a toothbrush and tooth powder on a bedside table completed my survey. I had already satisfied myself that Mr. Sambridge still possessed almost all of his own teeth: an event so rare as to be remarkable in its own right, as I knew from my visits to Farringdon Street, with its framed warnings, and alerts inspired by the Blitz:
Gum disease is the silent enemy. It strikes while you’re asleep!
Home defense. Lights out on tooth decay!
Avoid the blackout. Brush after every meal!
These placards had taught me that our precious English teeth were in short supply, relatively speaking, and that we ought to guard them like the Crown Jewels.
The cat, still grooming itself on the bed, seemed to sense that I was finished. It jumped down and, with its tail in the air like a flag, stalked to the door to be let out without so much as a glance at the inverted Mr. Sambridge.
I followed it out and shut the bedroom door behind me (handkerchief in hand, of course) making sure that the latch engaged. The thought of a cat being locked in too long with someone in Mr. Sambridge’s condition was too much even for someone with
my
strong stomach. There were certain details that even Edgar Allan Poe hadn’t dared write about.
Next on the agenda was to notify the police: a matter which required a great deal of thought. I mustn’t be rash and yet, at the same time, must not seem ever to be anything less than cooperative. Inspector Hewitt would judge me on my professionalism, and I didn’t intend to let him down.
Or myself, for that matter.
Outside, in the slackening rain and accompanied by the cat, I strolled casually over to where Gladys was waiting. There was a cottage directly across the lane from Thornfield Chase, and it was more than likely that whoever lived in it had seen me go into Mr. Sambridge’s house. In the villages of England, there’s precious little that escapes the neighbor’s eye.
As if to illustrate my thoughts, a bit of lace fluttered at a window.
I had been seen.
Obviously, the cottager didn’t know that Mr. Sambridge was dead. If he or she did, he or she should have been out to challenge me, or should, at least, have called the police.
It seemed to me that the best choice was to amble off with a casual air, as if I were just another girl with a bicycle, taking the country air. To reinforce that impression, I wheeled Gladys over for a closer examination of the holly hedge growing by the gate, remembering, as I did so, that the stuff was often planted in such a position to ward off lightning and witchcraft.
Which of the two had Mr. Sambridge feared?
With a quick and obvious glance over my shoulder, to give the impression that I was checking to see if anyone was watching, I snapped off a sprig of holly with a few colorful berries, and, with a spirited toss of my head, poked the holly jauntily—but carefully—into my hair behind the ear.
Flavia Sabina Dolores de Luce.
So I had once identified myself to a nosy librarian.
Although I refrained from kicking up my heels, you could almost hear the castanets.
Job done. The lace curtain settled too casually back into place.
The cat got up from where it had been sitting beside the gatepost and walked towards me, its tail in the air, as if it wanted to tell me something.
“Meow,” it said.
“Sorry, kitty,” I said. “I can’t take you with me. Go catch a mouse. Be a good cat until someone comes for you.”
Gladys and I pushed off on the road home. There was still plenty of time to think.
—
From Pauper’s Well, the road down Denham Rise is long, steep, straight, and tempting. With my chin down on the handlebars, I pedaled us up to speed, and then sat back to enjoy the mad downhill rush.
I fancied I was Donald Campbell, that Gladys was his speedboat
Bluebird,
and that we were tearing across Coniston Water at 170 miles an hour. With the world rushing by in a blur, it was easy to see how one
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