Read Online Flavia de Luce 1 - The Sweetness At The Bottom Of The Pie by Alan Bradley - Free Book Online Page A
Book: Flavia de Luce 1 - The Sweetness At The Bottom Of The Pie by Alan Bradley
Read Free Book Online
Authors: Alan Bradley
Ads: Link
Times of London, was chock-full of adverts, snippets of news, and agony columns:
Lost: brown paper parcel tied with butcher's twine.
Of sentimental value to distressed owner. Generous reward offered.
Apply “Smith,” c/o The White Hart, Wolverston
Or this:
Dear One: He was watching. Same time Thursday next. Bring
soapstone. Bruno.
AND THEN SUDDENLY I REMEMBERED! Father had attended Greyminster… and wasn't Greyminster near Hinley? I tossed The Morning Post-Horn back onto its bier, and pulled down the first of four stacks of The Hinley Chronicle.
This paper had been published weekly, on Fridays. The first Friday of that year was New Year's Day, so that the year's first issue was dated the following Friday: the eighth of January, 1920.
Page followed page of holiday news—Christmas visitors from the Continent, a deferred meeting of the Ladies' Altar Guild, a “good-sized pig” for sale, Boxing Day revels at The Grange, a lost tire from a brewer's dray.
The Assizes in March were a grim catalogue of thefts, poaching, and assaults.
On and on I went, my hands blackening with ink that had dried twenty years before I was born. The summer brought more visitors from the Continent, market days, laborers wanted, Boy Scout camps, two fêtes, and several proposed road works.
After an hour I was beginning to despair. The people who read these things must have possessed superhuman eyesight, the type was so wretchedly small. Much more of this and I knew I'd have a throbbing headache.
And then I found it:
Popular Schoolmaster Plummets to Death
In a tragic accident on Monday morning, Grenville Twining, M.A. (Oxon.), 72, Latin scholar and respected housemaster at Greyminster School, near Hinley, fell to his death from the clock tower of Greyminster's Anson House. Those familiar with the facts have described the accident as “simply inexplicable.”
"He climbed up onto the parapet, gathered his robes about him, and gave us the palm-down Roman Salute. 'Vale!' he shouted down to the boys in the quad,” said Timothy Greene of the sixth form at Greyminster, “… and down he came!”
“Vale”? My heart gave a leap. It was the same word the dying man had breathed into my face! “Farewell.” It could hardly be coincidence, could it? It was just too bizarre. There had to be some connection—but what could it be?
Damn! My mind was racing away like mad and my wits were standing still. The Pit Shed was hardly the place for speculation; I'd think about it later.
I read on:
“The way his gown fluttered, he seemed just like a falling angel,” said Toby Lonsdale, a rosy-cheeked lad who was near tears as he was shepherded away by his comrades before giving way and breaking down altogether nearby.
Mr. Twining had recently been questioned by police in the matter of a missing postage stamp: a unique and extremely valuable variation of the Penny Black.
“There is no connection,” said Dr. Isaac Kissing, who has been Headmaster at Greyminster since 1915. “No connection whatsoever. Mr. Twining was revered and, if I may say so, loved by all who knew him.”
The Hinley Chronicle has learned that police inquiries into both incidents are continuing.
The newspaper's date was the 24th of September, 1920.
I reshelved the paper, stepped outside, and locked the door. Miss Mountjoy was still sitting idle at her desk when I returned the key.
“Did you find what you were looking for, dearie?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said, making a great show of dusting off my hands.
“May I inquire further?” she asked coyly. “I might be able to direct you to related materials.”
Translation: She was perishing with nosiness.
“No, thank you, Miss Mountjoy,” I said.
For some reason I suddenly felt as if my heart had been ripped out and swapped with a counterfeit made of lead.
“Are you all right, dearie?” Miss Mountjoy asked. “You seem a little peaked.”
Peaked? I felt as if I were about to puke.
Perhaps it was nervousness, or
Lost: brown paper parcel tied with butcher's twine.
Of sentimental value to distressed owner. Generous reward offered.
Apply “Smith,” c/o The White Hart, Wolverston
Or this:
Dear One: He was watching. Same time Thursday next. Bring
soapstone. Bruno.
AND THEN SUDDENLY I REMEMBERED! Father had attended Greyminster… and wasn't Greyminster near Hinley? I tossed The Morning Post-Horn back onto its bier, and pulled down the first of four stacks of The Hinley Chronicle.
This paper had been published weekly, on Fridays. The first Friday of that year was New Year's Day, so that the year's first issue was dated the following Friday: the eighth of January, 1920.
Page followed page of holiday news—Christmas visitors from the Continent, a deferred meeting of the Ladies' Altar Guild, a “good-sized pig” for sale, Boxing Day revels at The Grange, a lost tire from a brewer's dray.
The Assizes in March were a grim catalogue of thefts, poaching, and assaults.
On and on I went, my hands blackening with ink that had dried twenty years before I was born. The summer brought more visitors from the Continent, market days, laborers wanted, Boy Scout camps, two fêtes, and several proposed road works.
After an hour I was beginning to despair. The people who read these things must have possessed superhuman eyesight, the type was so wretchedly small. Much more of this and I knew I'd have a throbbing headache.
And then I found it:
Popular Schoolmaster Plummets to Death
In a tragic accident on Monday morning, Grenville Twining, M.A. (Oxon.), 72, Latin scholar and respected housemaster at Greyminster School, near Hinley, fell to his death from the clock tower of Greyminster's Anson House. Those familiar with the facts have described the accident as “simply inexplicable.”
"He climbed up onto the parapet, gathered his robes about him, and gave us the palm-down Roman Salute. 'Vale!' he shouted down to the boys in the quad,” said Timothy Greene of the sixth form at Greyminster, “… and down he came!”
“Vale”? My heart gave a leap. It was the same word the dying man had breathed into my face! “Farewell.” It could hardly be coincidence, could it? It was just too bizarre. There had to be some connection—but what could it be?
Damn! My mind was racing away like mad and my wits were standing still. The Pit Shed was hardly the place for speculation; I'd think about it later.
I read on:
“The way his gown fluttered, he seemed just like a falling angel,” said Toby Lonsdale, a rosy-cheeked lad who was near tears as he was shepherded away by his comrades before giving way and breaking down altogether nearby.
Mr. Twining had recently been questioned by police in the matter of a missing postage stamp: a unique and extremely valuable variation of the Penny Black.
“There is no connection,” said Dr. Isaac Kissing, who has been Headmaster at Greyminster since 1915. “No connection whatsoever. Mr. Twining was revered and, if I may say so, loved by all who knew him.”
The Hinley Chronicle has learned that police inquiries into both incidents are continuing.
The newspaper's date was the 24th of September, 1920.
I reshelved the paper, stepped outside, and locked the door. Miss Mountjoy was still sitting idle at her desk when I returned the key.
“Did you find what you were looking for, dearie?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said, making a great show of dusting off my hands.
“May I inquire further?” she asked coyly. “I might be able to direct you to related materials.”
Translation: She was perishing with nosiness.
“No, thank you, Miss Mountjoy,” I said.
For some reason I suddenly felt as if my heart had been ripped out and swapped with a counterfeit made of lead.
“Are you all right, dearie?” Miss Mountjoy asked. “You seem a little peaked.”
Peaked? I felt as if I were about to puke.
Perhaps it was nervousness, or
Similar Books
