"No ..." she said, tentatively.
"Besides," I added, getting back to my usual cheerful self, "no one but me knows you were here."
Nialla reached into the side pocket on the door of the Rolls-Royce and pulled something out. It came free with a rustle of wax paper. As she opened it out into her lap, I couldn't help noticing the razor-sharp creases in the paper.
"No one knows," she said, handing me a cucumber sandwich, "... but you — and one other person. Here, eat this. You must be famished."
* TWENTY-TWO *
"GO ON! GO ON!" Dogger growled, his hands trembling like the last two leaves of autumn. He did not see me standing there, in the doorway of the greenhouse.
With one blade of his pocketknife opened at a near right angle, he was clumsily trying to hone it on a whetstone. The blade skittered crazily here and there, making ghastly grating noises on the black surface.
Poor Dogger. These episodes came upon him without warning, and almost anything could trigger them: a spoken word, a smell, or a drifting snatch of melody. He was at the mercy of his broken memory.
I backed away slowly until I was behind the garden wall. Then I began whistling softly, only gradually increasing the volume. It would sound as if I were just coming across the lawn towards the kitchen garden. Halfway to the greenhouse, I broke into song: a campfire ditty I had learned just before I was excommunicated from the Girl Guides:
I strolled square-shouldered into the greenhouse.
"G'day, mate!" I said, with a hearty, Down-Under grin.
"McCorquedale? Is that you?" Dogger called out, his voice as thin and wispy as the wind in the strings of an old harp. "Is Bennett with you? Have you got your tongues back?"
His head was cocked to one side, listening, his wrist held up to shield his eyes, which were turned blindly up to the glare of the greenhouse glass.
I felt as if I had blundered into a sanctuary, and the flesh crawled on the back of my neck.
"It's me, Dogger — Flavia," I managed.
His brows knitted themselves into a look of puzzlement. "Flavia?"
My name issued from his throat like a whisper from an abandoned well.
I could see that he was already fighting his way back from whatever had seized him, the light in his eyes coming back only warily from the depths to the surface, like golden fish in an ornamental pool.
"Miss Flavia?"
"I'm sorry," I said, taking the knife from his shaking hands. "Have I broken it? I borrowed it yesterday to cut a bit of twine, and I might have jammed the blade. If I did, I'll buy you a new one."
This was sheer fantasy — I hadn't touched the thing — but I have learned that under certain circumstances, a fib is not only permissible, but can even be an act of perfect grace. I took the knife from his hands, opened it fully, and began rubbing it in smooth circles on the surface of the stone.
"No, it's fine," I said. "Phew! I'd have been in big trouble if I'd jiggered your best knife, wouldn't I?"
I snapped the blade shut and handed it back. Dogger took it from me, his fingers now much more sure of themselves.
I turned over an empty pail and sat on it as we shared a silence.
"It was good of you to think of feeding Nialla," I said, after a while.
"She needs a friend," he said. "She's — "
"Pregnant," I blurted.
"Yes."
"But how did you know that? Surely she didn't tell you?"
"Excessive salivation," Dogger said, "... and telangiectasia."
"Tel-what?"
"Telangiectasia," he said in a mechanical voice, as if he were reading from an invisible book. "... Spider veins in proximity to the mouth, nose, and chin. Uncommon, but not unknown in early pregnancy."
"You amaze me, Dogger," I said. "How on earth do you know these things?"
"They float in my head," he replied quietly, "like corks upon the sea. I've read books, I think. I've had a lot of time on my hands."
"Ah!" I said. It was the most I'd heard him say in ages.
But Dogger's former captivity was not a topic for open discussion, and I knew that it was time to change the subject.
"Do you think she did it?" I asked. "Killed Rupert, I mean?"
Dogger knitted his eyebrows, as if thinking came to him only with the greatest effort.
"The police will think that," he said, nodding slowly. "Yes, that's what the police will think. They'll soon be along."
As it turned out, he was right.
"It is a well-known fact," Aunt Felicity trumpeted, "that the Black Death was brought into England by lawyers. Shakespeare said we ought to have hanged the lot of them, and in light of modern sanitary reform, we now know that he was right. This will never do, Haviland!"
She stuffed a handful of papers into a dusty hatbox and clapped the lid on. "It's a perfect disgrace," she added, "the way you've let things slide. Unless something turns up, you'll soon have no option but to sell up Buckshaw and take a cold-water flat in Battersea."
"Hello, all," I said, strolling into the library, pretending for the second time in less than half an hour that I was oblivious to what was going on.
"Ah, Flavia," Father said. "I think Mrs. Mullet requires an extra pair of hands in the kitchen."
"Of course," I said. "And shall I then be allowed to go to the ball?"
Father looked puzzled. My witty repartee was completely lost on him.
"Flavia!" Aunt Felicity said. "That's no way for a child to speak to a parent. I should have thought that you'd outgrown that saucy attitude by now. I don't know why you let these girls get away with it, Haviland."
Father moved towards the window and stared out across the ornamental lake towards the folly. He was taking refuge, as he often does, in letting his eyes, at least, escape an unpleasant situation.
Suddenly he whirled round to face her.
"Damn it all, Lissy," he said, in a voice so strong I think it surprised even him. "It isn't always easy for them. No ... it isn't always easy for them."
I think my mouth fell open as his closed.
Dear old Father! I could have hugged him, and if either of us had been other than who we were, I think I might have.
Aunt Felicity went back to rummaging among the papers.
"Statutory legacies ... personal chattels," she said with a sniff. "Where will it all end?"
"Flavia," Feely said, as I passed the open door of the drawing room, "a moment?"
She sounded suspiciously civil. She was up to something.
As I stepped inside, Daffy, who had been standing near the door, closed it softly behind me.
"We've been waiting for you," Feely said. "Please sit down."
"I'd rather not," I said. They had both remained standing, putting me at a disadvantage when it came to sudden flight.
"As you wish," Feely said, sitting down behind a small table and putting on her eyeglasses. Daffy stood with her back pressed against the door.
"I'm afraid we have some rather bad news for you," Feely said, toying with her spectacles like a judge at the Old Bailey.
I said nothing.
"While you've been gadding about the countryside, we've held a meeting, and we've all of us decided that you must go."
"In short, we've voted you out of the family," Daffy said. "It was unanimous."
"Unanimous?" I said. "This is just another of your stupid — "
"Dogger, of course, pleaded for leniency, but he was overruled by Aunt Felicity, who has more weight in these matters. He wanted you to be allowed to stay until the end of the week, but I'm afraid we can't permit it. It's been decided that you're to be gone by sundown."