Alan Bradley - A Red Herring Without Mustard - A Flavia de Luce Novel

“No,” Colin snuffled.

“Then how did you get in there?”

“We come through the door in the fountain.”

A door in the fountain ? We ?

I chose to ask the most important question first.

“Who’s ‘we,’ Colin? Who did this to you?”

I could hear him breathing heavily in the darkness, but he did not answer.

I realized at once the futility of it all. I was not about to spend the rest of my life trying to pry answers out of a captive from whom I was separated by a wall of iron bars.

“All right, then,” I said. “It doesn’t matter. Tell me about the door in the fountain. I’ll come round and let you out.”

It made me furious, actually, to think that I should have to ask a stranger about a secret door at Buckshaw—and secret it must be, for I had never heard of such a thing myself. Such mysteries were surely meant to be handed down by word of mouth from one family member to another, not practically pried from a near-stranger who skulked about the countryside in the company of a poacher.

“Simon’s toe,” Colin said.

“What? You’re not making any sense.”

The sound of sobbing told me there was no more to be got from him.

“Stay here,” I said, although it made no sense. “I’ll be back before you know it.”

“No, wait!” he cried. “Give me the torch. Don’t leave me alone!”

“I have to, Colin. I need the torch to light my way.”

“No, please! I’m ’fraid of the dark!”

“Tell you what,” I said. “Close your eyes and count to five hundred and fifty. It won’t be dark with your eyes closed. When you finish, I’ll be back. Here—I’ll help you start. One … two … three …”

“Can’t,” Colin interrupted, “I ’aven’t learnt my hundreds.”

“All right, then, let’s sing. Come on, we’ll sing together:

“ God save our gracious King ,

Long live our noble King ,

Long may he …

“Come on, Colin, you’re not singing.”

“Don’t know the words.”

“All right, then, sing something you know. Singing will make me come back sooner.”

There was a long pause, and then he began in a cracked and quavering voice:

“ London Bridge is … fallin’ down

Fallin’… down, fallin’ down

London Bridge is fallin’ down … ”

I turned round and began to pick my way carefully back along the passage, the sound of Colin’s voice soon becoming no more than a faint echo. Leaving him there, alone in the darkness, was one of the most difficult things I’ve ever had to do, although I can’t say why. Life is full of surprises like that.

The return journey seemed endless. Time had surely slowed as I made my way back beneath the low arched ceilings to the cellars.

Up the steps I went and into the kitchen. Although the house was in perfect silence, I paused anyway to listen at the door.

Nothing.

Technically, I knew, I was not being disobedient. I had been forbidden to leave home, and I had no intention of doing so. The Poseidon fountain was well within the bounds of Buckshaw, which allowed me to have my cake and jolly well eat it, too.

I slipped quietly out the back door, leaving it unlocked, and into the kitchen garden. Overhead, the stars twinkled like a million mad eyes, while the moon, already halfway to its first quarter, hung like a broken silver fingernail in the night sky.

Ordinarily, even though it wasn’t far to the Poseidon fountain, I’d have taken Gladys with me, if only for company. But now, when a single one of her excited squeaks or rattles might awaken the household, I simply couldn’t risk it.

I set out at a brisk walk through the wet grass, across the east lawn towards the Visto. Somewhere, an owl hooted, and something tiny scurried through the dead leaves.

Then suddenly, almost without warning, Poseidon was looming above me, odd angles of his metal anatomy catching the starlight, as if some ancient part of the galaxy had fallen to earth.

I climbed up the steps to the base. What was it Colin had said?

“ Simon’s toe. ” Yes, that was it—but what had he meant?

Of course! Poseidon’s toe!

He must have heard the name from Brookie and got it muddled.

I scrambled up onto the fountain’s lower bowl. Now Poseidon’s giant foot was almost in my face, its big toe curled back as if someone were tickling his tummy.

I reached out and touched the thing—shoved it down as hard as I could. The toe moved—as if on a hidden hinge—and from somewhere below came a distinct metallic snick .

“Simon’s toe,” I said aloud, smiling and shaking my head, proud of myself for having solved the puzzle.

I climbed down to the ground and—yes!—there it was! One of the large sculptured panels of water nymphs that formed the fountain’s decorative base had sprung out slightly from the others.

How devilishly clever of old “Leaking de Luce” to have hidden the lock’s release in one of the statue’s feet, where it wouldn’t be easily discovered.

The hatch swung open with a groan and I stepped carefully into the fountain’s base. As I had suspected it might, a single lead pipe emerged from one of several grottos below and bent up sharply to feed water to the fountain. A large arm-valve was obviously meant to control the flow, and although a heavy covering of cobwebs told me that it had not been used for ages, I was surrounded by the sound of dripping water which echoed unnervingly in the dankness of the confined chamber.

A dozen precarious steps led down into a wide, rectangular pit at the bottom of the fountain.

They were splattered with blood!

On the edge of the bottom step was a large stain, while diminishing dribbles marked the ones higher up.

The blood had been here for some time, as was evident from its brown, well-oxidized appearance.

This must be the spot where Brookie met his death.

Avoiding the splotches, I picked my way gingerly to the bottom.

The pit was surprisingly spacious.

To one side, overhead, an iron grating revealed slits of the night sky: the stars still shining brightly, giving off so much light, in fact, that even the towering outline of Poseidon himself was visible far above. Gaping upwards at this novel viewpoint, I somehow managed to misstep. I twisted my ankle.

“Damn!” I said, pointing the torch at the ground to see what had caused my injury.

It was a rope, and it lay coiled in the circle of light like a self-contented viper sunning itself after a particularly satisfying lunch.

I can’t say that I was surprised, since I had already deduced that there would likely be a rope. I had simply forgotten about it until I tripped on the stupid thing.

What was surprising, though, was that the police had not discovered such a crucial bit of evidence: a surprising misstep, not only for me, but also for them.

Better not touch it , I thought. Best leave it in place for Inspector Hewitt’s men . Besides, I already knew as much as I needed to know about this particular remnant of the crime.

With a couple of halting steps, I limped towards an open tunnel.

But wait! Which of these openings would lead me back to Colin?

The one on the left, I thought, although I could hardly be sure. Lucius de Luce’s plan had shown a bewildering maze of subterranean waterworks, and only now that I thought about it did I remember shoving the folded map into my pocket.

I grinned, realizing that help was right here at my very fingertips. But when I reached for it, my pocket was empty.

Of course! I had changed my dusty dress for a clean one, and I let slip a mental curse as I realized that Lucius’s priceless hand-drawn map was, at this very moment, soaking its way to blankness in a laboratory sink!