“I shall,” the Inspector said. “You may well be right.”
He pushed back his cuff with a forefinger and glanced at his wristwatch.
“Just a few questions more,” he said, “and then I should like you to help me with an experiment.”
Oh, joy! To be recognized at last as an equal—or something like it. Father Christmas himself could have devised no better gift. (I remembered with a twinge of pleasure that that old gentleman and I had business to attend to in the hours ahead. Perhaps I could thank him personally.)
“I think I can manage, Inspector,” I replied, “although I do have rather a lot to do.”
Stop it, Flavia! I thought. Stop it at once, before I bite off your tongue from the inside and spit it out on the carpet!
“Right, then,” he said. “Why did you go to the Blue Bedroom?”
“I wanted to talk to Miss Wyvern.”
“About what?”
“About anything.”
“Why choose that particular time? Wasn’t it rather late?”
“I heard the soundtrack of her film come to an end. I knew she must still be awake.”
Even as I spoke, I felt the cold horror of my words. Why hadn’t I realized it before? Phyllis Wyvern might already have been dead.
“But perhaps,” I added, “perhaps—”
The Inspector’s eyes were locked with mine, willing me to say more.
“A reel of sixteen-millimeter film runs for forty-five minutes,” I said. “Two reels for a feature.”
This was a fact I was sure of. I had sat through enough clunkers at the parish hall cinema series to know to the second the likely duration of my torture. Besides, I had once checked with Mr. Mitchell.
“The film ended just before I reached the Blue Bedroom,” I went on. “I heard the line ‘I shall never forget Hawkhover Castle’ just before I started downstairs from my bedroom. By the time I found Miss Wyvern’s body, the end of the film was slapping round the reel. But—”
“Yes?” The Inspector’s eyes were as keen as a ferret’s.
“But what if she was already dead when the film began? What if it was her killer who started the projector?”
In my mind, the pieces fell rapidly into place. An earlier time of death would explain why Phyllis Wyvern’s body was already showing discoloration when I found her. I did not tell the Inspector this. He needed to work at least some of it out on his own.
“An excellent surmise,” the Inspector said. “Besides the slapping of the film end, did you hear anything else?”
“Yes. A door closed as I was crossing the foyer. And a toilet flushed.”
“Before or after the sound of the door?”
“After. The door closed when I was partway down the stairs. The toilet flushed when I was halfway across the foyer.”
“As soon as that?”
“Yes.”
“How odd,” Inspector Hewitt said.
It wasn’t until later that I realized what he meant.
“Of the people sleeping in the foyer, whom do you distinctly remember seeing?”
“The vicar,” I said. “He cried out in his sleep.”
“Cried out? What?”
Why did I feel as if I were betraying a confidence? Why did I feel like such a tattletale?
“He said, ‘Hannah, please! No!’ Very quietly.”
“Nothing else?”
“No.”
The Inspector wrote something in his notebook.
“Go on,” he said. “Who else was sleeping in the foyer?”
“Cynthia Richardson, the vicar’s wife …”
I began ticking them off on my fingers.
“Mrs. Mullet … and Alf, her husband … Dr. Darby … Ned Cropper … Mary Stoker … Bunny Spirling … Max—I mean Maximilian Brock, our neighbor. Max had built a little wall of books around himself.”
“Anyone else?”
“Those are the ones I noticed. Oh, and Dieter, of course. He was bedded down on the landing. I had to tiptoe past him.”
“Did you see or hear anyone or anything else on your way up to the Blue Bedroom?”
“No. Nothing.”
“Thank you,” the Inspector said, closing his notebook. “You’ve been of great assistance.”
Had he forgiven me, I wondered, or was he simply being polite?
“Now, then,” he said. “As I said, I’d like your assistance in a little experiment, but I won’t have time until later.”
I nodded in understanding.
“Do you have a copy of Romeo and Juliet in your library? I should be surprised if you didn’t.”
“There’s a copy of his collected works that Daffy picks up when she wants to look studious. Will that do?”
This was true, but I hadn’t the faintest where to find it. I didn’t fancy sifting through a billion books on Christmas Eve. I had, as they say, bigger fish to catch.
“I’m sure it will. See if you can dig it out, there’s a good girl.”
If anyone but Inspector Hewitt had made that remark, I’d have gone for their throat, but here I was, like a spaniel waiting for its master to throw the slipper.
“Righty ho!” I almost shouted at his back as he went out the door.
Feely was holding court in the drawing room, and it pains me to admit that she had never looked more beautiful. I could tell by her lightning glances at the looking glass that she was of the same opinion. Her face was as radiant as if she’d had a lightbulb installed in her skull, and she batted her eyelashes prettily at Carl, Dieter, and Ned, who stood gathered round her in an adoring circle, as if she were the Virgin Mary and they the Three Wise Men, Caspar, Melchior, and Balthasar.
Actually, not a bad comparison, I thought, since two of them that I knew of, Ned and Carl, had come bearing gifts. Carl’s, of course, had been consigned to the flames by Father, but that seemed not to have affected the giver, who stood slouched smiling against the chimneypiece, his hands in his pockets, gnashing happily away at his gum with a clockwork jaw.
Ned’s prehistoric chocolates were nowhere in sight, having more than likely been laid to rest with their predecessors in Feely’s lingerie drawer.
Detective Sergeant Graves, who had obviously just finished questioning Feely’s other happy slaves, sat in a corner copying notes, but I could tell by the furtive way he kept glancing up from his work that he was keeping an eye on his romantic rivals.
Only Dieter, I thought, had been sensible enough to skip the frankincense and myrrh.
At least that’s what I was thinking when he reached into his pocket and pulled put a tiny hard-shell box.
He handed it to Feely without a word.
Cheeses! I thought. He’s going to propose!
Feely, of course, made the most of it. She examined the box from all six sides, as if each of its faces had a secret inscribed upon it in golden ink by angels.
“Why, Dieter!” she breathed. “How lovely!”
It’s just a box, you stupid porpoise! Get on with it!
Feely opened the box with agonizing slowness.
“Oh!” she said. “A ring!”
Ned and Carl exchanged openmouthed looks.
“A friendship ring,” she added, although whether in disappointment, I could not tell.
She plucked it out between thumb and forefinger, holding it up to the light. It was wide and gold, and was cut out with figures in what I believe is called filigree work—a crown on top of a heart was as much as I could see of it before she twisted away.
“What does it mean?” she asked, lifting her eyes to Dieter’s.
“It means,” Dieter told her, “whatever you want it to mean.”
Flustered, Feely flushed and shoved the box into her pocket.
“You shouldn’t have,” she managed, before turning and walking to our old Broadwood piano, which stood in front of the window.
She smoothed her skirt and sat down at the keyboard.
I recognized the melody before the first three notes had floated from the piano. It was “Für Elise,” by Beethoven—Larry B, as I liked to call him, just to get Feely’s goat.