Alan Bradley - The Dead in Their Vaulted Arches

She ignored me and looked slowly round the room as if she had never noticed it before—as if she were awakening gradually from a dream.

“This was your uncle Tarquin’s laboratory, was it not?”

I nodded, barely capable.

There was another restless silence, and she went again to the casement window—the same window, I realized with a small ripple of gooseflesh, at which the military stranger had appeared in the ciné film.

What remarkable things windows are when you stop to think about it: silica, potash, soda, and lime combining in thin sheets to form a solid you can see through.

Even now, I realized—at this very instant—Lena was looking out at the world through the same crystal lattice as the stranger had so many years ago, the same crystal lattice through which the ciné camera had looked in at the stranger.

A window, I realized, can exist almost unchanged itself while looking out upon the ever-changing ages. A miracle of chemistry right here under our very noses!

Window glass, technically, is a liquid. A slow-flowing liquid, but a liquid nonetheless. Drawn by gravity, it can take hundreds—or even thousands!—of years to flow the same quarter inch that water can travel in a thousandth of a second.

My friend Adam Sowerby, the flora-archaeologist, had not long ago remarked that a simple flower seed was our one true time machine. I made a mental note to set him straight: Next time I saw him, I would insist he add plain ordinary window glass to his somewhat hasty theory.

“I’ve decided to enlist your assistance, Flavia,” Lena said with sudden determination, turning away from the window and breaking in upon my thoughts.

Her face was half in shadow and half in light, like one of those black-and-white Venetian carnival masks you sometimes see in the illustrated papers.

I made plummy lips and gave her the barest nod of submission.

“Undine, you see,” she began, choosing each word as carefully as if she were choosing diamonds, “Undine, you see—Good Lord!”

Something shot past the window outside, blocking the sunlight and, for an instant, plunging the room into semi-darkness.

“Good Lord,” Lena said again, her hand to her breast, “what in the name of—”

I was already at the window, pushing past her to get my nose against the glass.

“It’s Blithe Spirit !” I shouted. “Harriet’s plane! It’s come home!”

And indeed it had. As I watched, the de Havilland Gipsy Moth touched down as lightly as a feather in the scrubby grass of the Visto and came to a jaunty stop among the foxgloves and the odd bits of shattered statuary that projected here and there from the weeds.

With its engine revving, it turned and teetered, its control surfaces waggling and flapping saucily as if to say “There! Wasn’t that something?”

Needless to say, I was out of the room like a brick from a ballista, down the east staircase, out the front door—where the long queue of waiting mourners watched in silent astonishment as I flew past them—galloping across the overgrown ruins of the tennis courts and onto the weedy wasteland of the Visto.

I was alongside Blithe Spirit even before her propeller clattered to a halt, and a tall man—an excessively tall man—began to unfold himself from the cockpit.

There was more of him than it seemed possible for such a frail craft to have contained, but he kept coming and coming until at the end of one of his impossibly long legs a foot appeared, a foot which lifted itself neatly out over the cowling and planted itself on the root of one of the wings.

He shoved up the goggles covering his eyes, then un-snapped his flying helmet and lifted it to reveal the most golden head of hair that had ever existed on the planet since Apollo flew about in his personal cloud during the Trojan War.

Suddenly, and for just an instant, my heart seemed to have filled with air, and just as suddenly, it deflated and the feeling passed.

I raked my toe in the dust. What was happening to me?

“Miss de Luce, I expect?” he asked, extending a hand. “I’m Tristram Tallis.”

His voice was clipped and yet mellow: frank, man-to-man.

I didn’t dare touch him. Even the simple act of shaking hands with a god could turn one into a thornbush, and I knew that for a fact.

“Yes,” I managed. “Flavia. How did you know?”

“Your mother,” he said gently. “You are her very image.”

Suddenly, and without an instant’s warning, hot globs of water had sprung from my eyes and were streaming down my cheeks. I had, for days, intentionally been trying to keep my brain so busy with details, so full of this and that, that there was no farthest nook or cranny left to think about the fact that my mother was dead.

And now, in a single unguarded instant, a word from a stranger had reduced me to a sodden pulp.

Fortunately, Mr. Tallis was enough of a gentleman to pretend he hadn’t noticed. “I say, pity about Oxford, isn’t it?”

“Oxford?” He had caught me completely off guard.

“The University Boat Race. Easter weekend. At Henley. Oxford sank. Hadn’t you heard?”

Of course I’d heard, and so had everyone else in England—in the whole world, for that matter. By now it had likely been shown in cinema newsreels from London to Bombay.

But that had been several days ago. Only an Englishman of a certain type could still have the incident running foremost in his brain.

Or was he joking?

I peered carefully at his face, but he gave away nothing.

I couldn’t stop the smile from creeping up my cheeks.

“I had heard, as a matter of fact,” I said. “Bugger Cambridge.”

I’ll admit I was taking a chance. I had no idea, rather than the slightest hint in his accent, to which of our great universities he might belong. But since he had said “pity about Oxford,” I was going to take a chance that he was not being sarcastic.

His ready smile told me that I had judged correctly.

“RAW-ther!” he said, laying it on a bit thick.

The crisis had passed. We had managed a delicate moment quite nicely, the two of us, in the most civilized way of all: deflection.

Father would be proud of me—I know I was.

I laid an affectionate hand on Blithe Spirit ’s taut fabric, which gave off in the warm sunlight a slight but comforting reek of nitrocellulose lacquer. How perfect, in a way, I thought, that an aircraft’s skin should be painted with explosive guncotton in its liquid form.

I sniffed my fingers surreptitiously, and in that instant added to my store of memories a smell that would from now and forever, until the end of time, never fail to remind me of Harriet.

I glanced up—guiltily, for some odd reason—at the laboratory windows to see if Lena was watching, but the old glass, like the clouded eyes of some village ancient, showed no more than the reflected sky.

ELEVEN

“BEAUTY, ISN’T SHE?”

Tristram Tallis brushed away an imaginary particle of dust from one of Blithe Spirit ’s wings. “I bought her from your mother just before the War. We’ve had some grand times together, the old girl and I.”

And he suddenly went the color of pickled beetroot. “ Blithe Spirit and I, I mean. Not your mother.”

I looked at him blankly.

“I must make a clean breast of it, though: I renamed her years ago. She’s now a he: Typhon .”

It seemed a sacrilege but I didn’t say so.

“I trust you’ve spent many pleasant hours flying her—him.”

“Not so many as I’d like. Typhon— ”

He saw the pained look on my face.

“All right, then, Blithe Spirit , if you like, has been hangared for years.”