Free As Chimney Sweepers Come to Dust by Alan Bradley Page A

center of attention, and yet at the same time I can’t tolerate being ignored.
    How I longed for a brisk knock at the door, and for someone to announce that Inspector Gravenhurst wished to consult with me.
    Not that he would put it that way, of course. No, he would be much more discreet than that.
    “Inspector Gravenhurst presents his compliments,”
they would say,
“and begs that Miss de Luce favor him with her assistance.”
No,
“her
valuable
assistance.”
    Or
“
invaluable
assistance.”
    Were things still done that way in Canada? Somehow I doubted it. Even in England nowadays, in my experience, the police were more likely to send you off to fetch them a cup of char or, when they finally came to their senses, to wring you dry as a dishrag before collaring all the credit for themselves.
    Life wasn’t fair. It simply wasn’t fair, and I meant to make a note of it.
    Before I left home, Aunt Felicity had presented me with a small leather notebook and a miniature propelling pencil, the latter cleverly concealed in a gold crucifix which I wore round my neck.
    “Even a barbarian will think twice before meddling with
that
,” she had said.
    The crucifix itself was altogether quite remarkable, modeled, Aunt Felicity told me, on the idea of the Trinity, three-in-one: Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.
    And so it also contained, besides the pencil, a small but powerful magnifying glass that swung out from inside the cross, and a surprisingly complete set of lock picks.
    “For quiet Sundays,” she had said, giving me what I would have sworn was a glacially slow, lizardlike wink.
    It wasn’t until after dinner that the call actually came. I was walking with Van Arque toward the hockey field when the police sergeant, LaBelle, appeared as if from nowhere. Had he been lying in wait behind the laundry?
    “The inspector wants to see you,” he said, his words reeking of cigarette smoke.
    Just like that. No niceties.
    I gave Van Arque a helpless shrug and followed the sergeant indoors.
    “Big place you’ve got here,” he said as we climbed the stairs to Miss Fawlthorne’s study. “Roomy but gloomy.”
    And he was right. Miss Bodycote’s Female Academy was a shadowed maze: a place in which daylight never strayed far from the windows. It was a place designed not to belived in, but to be prayed in; a place whose narrow zigzag corridors were meant, perhaps, to confound the Devil.
    “All that ever escapes a convent,” Daffy had once told me, after reading a rather sensational book about a nun’s life, “is the prayers and the smoke.”
    Which brought me back to the body in the chimney.
    I had been kept so busy I had scarcely been able to give it more than a moment’s thought.
    Who was she? How had she died? How long had she been hidden in the chimney?
    And—most tantalizing—how and why had she come to be wrapped in a Union Jack?
    We paused at the door of Miss Fawlthorne’s study. The sergeant’s knuckles were raised as if to knock.
    He stood for a moment, examining me from head to toe.
    “Watch yourself, kid,” he said, adjusting his tie as if it were an uncomfortable noose.
    And then he was tapping timidly at the door.
    “Ah, Flav-ee-ah,” Inspector Gravenhurst said, mispronouncing my name in precisely the same way as Miss Dupont had done.
    Miss Fawlthorne sat quietly at her desk as if she were merely a guest.
    “It’s Flavia,” I told him. “The first syllable rhymes with ‘brave’ and ‘grave.’
    “And ‘forgave,’ ” I added, in case he thought I was being frivolous.
    He nodded, but I noticed he had not begged my pardon.
    “Now, then,” he said. “Tell me about your discovery.”
    It was obvious that he had not yet interviewed Collingwood;otherwise, he would already have heard her somewhat different version. Better to face up to my fib right away and get credit for honesty.
    “Actually, it was someone else, I think, who found the body. What I meant was that I just happened to be there.”
    “I