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

see,” he said. “And who might that have been?”
    “Collingwood,” I said. “Patricia Anne.”
    From the corner of my eye, I noticed that Miss Fawlthorne had stopped whatever she was doing and looked up from her desk.
    “She was having a nightmare,” I said. “Walking in her sleep. She tried to climb up the chimney. I was trying to keep from waking her. I’ve heard that sleepwalkers can die of shock if they’re awakened too suddenly.”
    I was proud of myself! Here was a sign of my great compassion, an excuse for fibbing to Miss Fawlthorne, and a plausible account all rolled up neatly into one tidy tale.
    Three-in-one again: a holy trinity of truth, righteousness, and quick thinking.
    “And that’s when the, ah …”
    “Body,” I supplied.
    “Er, yes, the body, as you say—was dislodged from the chimney.”
    “No,” I said. “That didn’t happen until after Miss Fawlthorne came into the room.
    “I didn’t know it was a body at the time,” I added.
    “Because you were in the dark,” the inspector remarked matter-of-factly.
    By the lord Harry! I had to give the man credit: He was as sharp as a tinker’s tack. It was obvious he had alreadyinterviewed Miss Fawlthorne and heard her version of the night’s happenings.
    “Yes, that’s right,” I said. “Miss Fawlthorne’s candle blew out and we were left in the dark.”
    “For how long?”
    “Oh, not long at all. A couple of seconds, I should say. Miss Fawlthorne lit a match almost immediately.”
    “What kind of match?”
    “A paper match. The ones that come in a booklet. They give them away in places like the Savoy, and so forth.”
    The inspector glanced at Miss Fawlthorne, who nodded to confirm my statement.
    “And then?”
    “Well, it was just then that Collingwood fell out of the chimney, and the body right behind her. She must have jarred it loose. Like a chimney sweep—or a pipe cleaner,” I suggested.
    I knew as soon as I spoke that I had gone too far.
    “Flavia!” Miss Fawlthorne exclaimed.
    “I’m sorry, Miss Fawlthorne,” I said. “It’s just that with the amount of soot and tar—”
    “That’s quite enough,” she said. “Inspector, I’ll not have my girls exposed to such questioning. They have, after all, been entrusted to my care.”
    My girls! She already thought of me as one of
her
girls. In some odd, but unknown way, that made all the difference in the world
.
    “Quite right,” the inspector said. “It’s clear that Flavia here”—he pronounced it correctly this time—“has seen enough.”
    Whatever did he mean by that?
    “You’ve been very helpful,” he said. “Thank you. You may go now.”
    I looked at Miss Fawlthorne, who gave her assent.
    Although I got to my feet, I lingered at the door (an art of which I have made a particular study, and one which is greatly underestimated by amateurs) long enough to hear him say, “Now, then, Miss Fawlthorne: I’d like a list of everyone who has been in and out of this building within the past twenty-four hours.”
    In the corridor, I wondered: Why twenty-four hours? The body had been in the chimney for ages and ages. That was as plain as a pikestaff.
    Surely the inspector’s next step wouldn’t be to demand a list of everyone who had crossed the threshold of Miss Bodycote’s Female Academy for the past quarter century?
    But wouldn’t a list such as that include the name of my own mother?
    A cold chill gripped my spine.

• SIX •
    V AN A RQUE WAS WAITING at the bottom of the stairs. Had she been listening at the door?
    “Jumbo wants to see you,” she said.
    “Jumbo?”
    “The head girl. Her name’s June Bowles, actually, but you must always call her Jumbo, or she’ll have your eyeballs for earrings.”
    “I see,” I said.
    “You darn well won’t if she does it!” Van Arque cackled, clapping her hands together with animated joy, as if she had just made the world’s greatest witticism.
    “What does she want to see me about?”
    “You’ll