As if he expected me to believe him! Who in their right mind would be moving scenery, bare-armed and bare-chested, in the back of a freezing lorry?
“I’m sorry,” I said, taking the roll of lint from his hands and unreeling a fresh length. “You’ve cut your chest, too. Here, lean forward a bit and I’ll wrap it round.”
My helpfulness allowed me to have a good look at his wounds, which were already lightly scabbed and red along the edges. Not fresh, by any means, but not old, either. They had been inflicted, at a guess, twenty-four hours ago.
And by fingernails, if I were any judge.
Even though I had been cashiered from the Girl Guides for insubordination, I had not forgotten their many useful teachings, including the mnemonic “P-A-D”: Pressure, Antiseptic, Dressing.
“Pad! Pad! Pad!” we used to shout, rolling about on the floor of the parish hall, mauling one another horribly, trussing our victims and ourselves, like fat white mummies, in the endless rolls of bandaging.
“Did you put iodine on these?” I asked, knowing perfectly well that he hadn’t. The telltale reddish brown stains of that tincture were nowhere in evidence.
“Yes,” he lied, and I noticed for the first time, in the refuse container, the blood-encrusted dressings he had just removed.
“It was very kind of you to help moving props,” I said casually. “I don’t expect many directors would do that.”
“It’s not been easy with McNulty injured,” he said. “Still, one does what one can.”
“Mm,” I said, trying to sound sympathetic, hoping he’d tell me more.
But my mind was already racing through the corridors of Buckshaw, up the stairs, back to the Blue Bedroom, back to the body of Phyllis Wyvern, back to her fingernails—
Which had been remarkably clean. There had been no shreds of ripped flesh beneath them—no sign of blood (although her scarlet nail polish might have hidden the stains).
I became suddenly aware that Val Lampman’s eyes were fixed on mine, as intently hypnotic as those of a cat on a cornered mouse. If he’d had a tail, it would have been swishing.
He was reading my thoughts. I was quite sure of it.
I tried not to think of the fact that the police might already have scraped out whatever bits of evidence were under Phyllis Wyvern’s fingernails; tried not to think that whoever had murdered her had taken the time to re-dress her, to paint her nails, and in doing so, to remove, before any of us got there, any matter that may have been lodged beneath them.
I tried not to think—not to think—but it was no good.
His eyes were boring into mine. Surely he had seen something.
“I’d better be getting along,” I said suddenly. “I promised the vicar I’d help with the …”
Although I could feel my heart pounding as it pumped blood into my face, I couldn’t think of a single word to complete the lie.
“… things,” I added weakly.
I had already opened the door and put one foot in the corridor when he seized my arm.
“Wait,” he said.
From the corner of my eye I caught a glimpse of Dogger entering his room.
“It’s all right, Dogger,” I called out. “I was just showing Mr. Lampman to the WC.”
Lampman let go his grip and I stepped back.
He stood fixedly staring, the bandages on his chest rising and falling with every breath.
I closed the door in his face.
Dogger had already vanished. Good old Dogger. His sense of decorum kept him from intruding in all but the most extreme emergencies. Well, this hadn’t been an emergency.
Or had it? I’d talk to Dogger later, when I’d had time to think things through. It was still too soon.
Had I unmasked Phyllis Wyvern’s killer? Well, perhaps—but also perhaps not.
It seemed quite unlikely that someone as placid-seeming as Val Lampman should strangle his own mother, change her clothing, and apply stage makeup in order to have her looking her best when her body was discovered.
And those injuries on his arms and chest? Mightn’t he simply have got into a tussle with Latshaw, his surly crew chief?
There was no doubt about it. I needed to talk to Dogger.
Yes, that was it—we’d sit down together later over a steaming kettle and a pair of teacups, and I’d run fleet-footed through my observations and deductions, and Dogger would marvel at my accomplishments.
But until then, I had other things to do.
It was with a cheery heart that I lugged my pot of birdlime up the narrow stairs. Good thing I’d thought to bring a clothes brush from the pantry to clear away the snow from the chimney pots, and a stiffish wallpaper brush from the little framing room in the picture gallery, to slather the stuff on with.
If the door had been a chore to open earlier, it was now a beast. I put my shoulder against it and shoved, and shoved, and shoved again until at last the creaking snow yielded grudgingly, enough to allow me to squeeze out onto the roof.
The wind struck me at once and I cringed against the cold.
I trudged my way slowly across the snowy wastes to the west wing of the house, knee deep in drifts. Father Christmas would come down the drawing room chimney, as he always had. There was no point in wasting precious body heat and birdlime in painting the others.
With the snow swept away from the collars of the three stacks, it was possible—although not by any means simple—to pull myself up, slipping and sliding, onto each of the towering brick turrets in turn, although I have to admit that I gave no more than a lick and a promise to the smaller pots that connected to the fireplaces in the upper bedrooms. Father Christmas wouldn’t dare come down Father’s chimney, and as for Harriet’s—well, there was no longer any need, was there? Except for leaving myself a couple of narrow glue-free paths in which to maneuver without becoming stuck myself, the application of the stuff was quite straightforward.
When I was finished, I found myself frozen there for a moment on the roof, thinking, motionless in the bitter wind, a lightning-struck weather vane that points forever in the wrong direction.
And then, just as quickly, my spirits were restored. Wasn’t I, after all, within hours of being able to write “Conclusion” to my grand experiment?
As I fought my way back across the snowy wastes, I whistled a few bars of “The Holly and the Ivy” in sly reference to the sticky mess I had just applied to the chimneys of Buckshaw. I even broke into song:
“The rising of the suh-hun and the running of the deer …”
It was time to turn my attention to the Rocket of Honor.
“What are you doing?” Feely demanded, as I descended the last few steps into my laboratory.
Her fists were clenched and her eyes, as they always are when she’s angry, were several shades lighter than their normal blue.
“Who let you in?” I asked. “You’re not allowed in this room without written permission from me.”
“Oh, take your written permission and stick it up the flue.”
Feely could be remarkably coarse when she felt like it.
Still, “stick” and “flue” were uncannily descriptive of what I’d just done on the roof. I’d better be careful, I thought. Perhaps Feely, like Val Lampman, had found a way of peering into my mind.
“Father sent me to fetch you,” she said. “He wants everyone gathered in the foyer at once. He has something to say, and so does Val Lampman.”
She turned and strode off towards the door.
“Feely …” I said.
She stopped and, without looking at me, turned halfway round.
“Well?”
“Daff and I made a Christmas truce. I thought perhaps—”
“Truces expire after five minutes, come hell or high water, as you jolly well know. There’s no such thing as a Christmas truce. Don’t try to suck me into any of your sordid little schemes.”