Alan Bradley - The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie

It was a tombstone, and crudely carved upon it was the name Grenville Twining.

On the tilted base of the stone was a single word: Vale!

Vale! —the word Mr. Twining had shouted from the top of the tower! The word Horace Bonepenny had breathed into my face as he expired.

Realization swept over me like a wave: Bonepenny's dying mind had wanted only to confess to Mr. Twining's murder, and fate had granted him only one word with which to do so. In hearing his confession, I had become the only living person who could link the two deaths. Except, perhaps, for Bob Stanley. My Mr. Pemberton.

At the thought, a cold shiver ran down my spine.

There were no dates given on Mr. Twining's tombstone, almost as if whoever had buried him here had wanted to obliterate his history. Daffy had read us tales in which suicides were buried outside the churchyard or at a crossroads, but I had scarcely believed these to be any more than ecclesiastical old wives' tales. Still, I couldn't help wondering if, like Dracula, Mr. Twining was lying beneath my feet wrapped tightly in his Master's cape?

But the gown I had found hidden on the tower roof at Anson House—which was now reposing with the police—had not belonged to Mr. Twining. Father had made it clear that Mr. Twining was wearing his gown when he fell. So, too, had Toby Lonsdale, as he told The Hinley Chronicle .

Could they both be wrong? Father had admitted, after all, that the sun might have dazzled his eyes. What else had he told me?

I remembered his exact words as he described Mr. Twining standing on the parapet:

"His whole head seemed to be aglow," Father had said. "His hair like a disk of beaten copper in the rising sun; like a saint in an illuminated manuscript."

And then the rest of the truth rushed in upon me like a wave of nausea: It had been Horace Bonepenny up there on the ramparts. Horace Bonepenny of the flaming red hair; Horace Bonepenny the mimic; Horace Bonepenny the magician.

The whole thing had been a skillfully planned illusion!

Miss Mountjoy had been right. He had killed her uncle.

He and his confederate, Bob Stanley, must have lured Mr. Twining to the roof of the tower, most likely under the pretense of returning the stolen postage stamp which they had hidden there.

Father had told me of Bonepenny's extravagant mathematical calculations; his architectural prowlings would have made him as familiar with the tiles of the tower as he was with his own study.

When Mr. Twining had threatened to expose them, they had killed him, probably by bashing his head in with a brick. The fatal blow would have been impossible to detect after such a terrible fall. And then they had staged the suicide—every instant of the thing planned in cold blood. Perhaps they had even rehearsed.

It had been Mr. Twining who fell to the cobbles, but Bonepenny who trod the ramparts in the morning sun and Bonepenny, in a borrowed cap and gown, who had shouted “ Vale! " to the boys in the Quad. " Vale! "—a word that could suggest only suicide.

Having done that, he had ducked down behind the parapet just as Stanley dropped the body through the drainage opening in the roof. To a sun-blinded observer on the ground, it would have appeared that the old man had fallen straight through. It was really nothing more than the Resurrection of Tchang Fu performed on a larger stage, dazzled eyes and all.

How utterly convincing it had been!

And for all these years Father had believed that it was his silence that had caused Mr. Twining to commit suicide, that it was he who was responsible for the old man's death! What a dreadful burden to bear, and how horrible!

Not for thirty years, not until I found the evidence among the tiles of Anson House, had anyone suspected it was murder. And they had almost got away with it.

I reached out and touched Mr. Twining's tombstone to steady myself.

"I see you've found him," said someone behind me, and at the sound of his voice my blood ran cold.

I spun round and found myself face-to-face with Frank Pemberton.

WHENEVER ONE COMES FACE-TO-FACE WITH A KILLER in a novel or in the cinema, his opening words are always dripping with menace, and often from Shakespeare.

"Well, well," he will generally hiss, "'Journeys end in lovers meeting,'" or "'So wise so young, they say, do never live long.'"

But Frank Pemberton said nothing of the sort; in fact, quite the contrary:

"Hullo, Flavia," he said with a lopsided grin. "Fancy meeting you here."

My arteries were throbbing like stink, and I could already feel the redness rising in my face, which, in spite of the chills, had instantly become as hot as a griddle.

A single thought went racing through my mind: I mustn't let on… I mustn't let on. Mustn't show that I know he's Bob Stanley.

"Hello," I said, hoping my voice wasn't shaking. "How was the shroud tomb?"

I knew instantly that I was fooling no one but myself. He was watching my face the way a cat watches the family canary when they're alone in the house.

"The shroud tomb? Ah! A confection in white marble," he said. "Remarkably like an almond marzipan, but larger, of course."

I decided to play along until I could formulate a plan.

"I expect your publisher was pleased."

"My publisher? Oh, yes. Old."

"Quarrington," I said.

"Yes. Quite. Quarrington. He was ecstatic."

Pemberton—I still thought of him as Pemberton—put down his knapsack and began to unfasten the leather straps of his portfolio.

"Phew!" he said. "Rather warm, isn't it?"

He removed his jacket, threw it carelessly across his shoulder, and jerked a thumb at Mr. Twining's tombstone.

"What's the great interest?"

"He was my father's old schoolmaster," I said.

"Ah!" He sat down and lounged against the base of the stone as casually as if he were Lewis Carroll and I were Alice, picnicking upon the river Isis.

How much did he know? I wondered. I waited for him to make his opening move. I could use the time to think.

Already I was planning my escape. Could I outrun him if I took to my heels? It seemed unlikely. If I went for the river, he'd overtake me before I was halfway across. If I headed for the field towards Malplaquet Farm, I'd be less likely to find help than if I ran for the High Street.

"I understand your father is something of a philatelist," he said suddenly, looking unconcernedly off towards the farm.

"He collects stamps, yes. How did you know?"

"My publisher—old Quarrington—happened to mention it this morning over at Nether Eaton. He was thinking of asking your father to write a history of some obscure postage stamp, but couldn't think quite how best to approach him. Couldn't begin to understand it all. far beyond me. too technical. suggested that perhaps he should have a word with you."

It was a lie and I detected it at once. As an accomplished fibber myself, I spotted the telltale signs of an untruth before they were halfway out of his mouth: the excessive detail, the offhand delivery, and the wrapping-up of it all in casual chitchat.

"Could be worth a bundle, you know," he added. "Old Quarrington's pretty flush since he married into the Norwood millions, but don't let on I told you. I expect your father wouldn't say no to a bit of pocket change to buy a New Guinea ha'penny thingummy, would he? It must take a pretty penny to keep up a place like Buckshaw."

This was piling insult onto injury. The man must take me for a fool.

"Father's rather busy these days," I said. "But I'll mention it to him."

"Ah, yes, this—sudden death you spoke of.police and all that. Must be a damnable bore."

Was he going to make a move or were we going to sit here gossiping until dark? Perhaps it would be best if I took the initiative. That way, at least, I'd have the advantage of surprise. But how?