Read Online Flavia de Luce 3 - A Red Herring Without Mustard by Alan Bradley - Free Book Online
Authors: Alan Bradley
Ads: Link
slows to a crawl. I could not begin to guess how long we stood rooted to the spot in the lane; it was probably no more than a few minutes. But almost immediately I found myself shifting my weight uneasily from foot to foot and shivering in the gloom while Gry, the old dear, had apparently fallen asleep. He didn’t move a muscle.
And then the racket stopped abruptly.
Had the person in the garden sensed our presence? Were they lying in wait—ready to spring—on the far side of the house?
More time leaked past. I couldn’t move. My heart was pounding crazily in my chest. It seemed impossible that whoever was in the Bulls’ garden could fail to hear it.
They must be keeping still … listening, as I was.
Suddenly there came to my nostrils the sharp reek of a safety match; the unmistakeably acrid odor of phosphorus reacting with potassium chlorate. This was quickly followed by the smell of a burning cigarette.
I smiled. Mrs. Bull was taking a break from her brats.
But not for long. A door banged and a dark shape fluttered across behind one of the closed curtains.
Before I could talk myself out of it I began moving along the lane—slowly at first, and then more quickly. Gry walked quietly behind me. When we reached the trees at the far edge of the property, I scrambled up onto his back and urged him on.
“Dr. Darby’s surgery,” I said. “And make it snappy!”
As if he understood.
The surgery was situated in the high street, just round the corner from Cow Lane. I lifted the knocker—a brass serpent on a staff—and pounded at the door. Almost instantly, or so it seemed, an upstairs window flew open with a sharp wooden groan and Dr. Darby’s head appeared, his gray, wispy hair tousled from sleeping.
“The bell,” he said grumpily. “Please use the bell.”
I gave the button a token jab with my thumb, and somewhere in the depths of the house a muted buzzing went off.
“It’s the Gypsy woman,” I called up to him. “The one from the fête. I think someone’s tried to kill her.”
The window slammed shut.
It couldn’t have been more than a minute before the front door opened and Dr. Darby stepped outside, shrugging himself into his jacket. “My car’s in the back,” he said. “Come along.”
“But what about Gry?” I asked, pointing at the old horse, which stood quietly in the street.
“Bring him round to the stable,” he said. “Aesculapius will be glad of his company.”
Aesculapius was the ancient horse that had pulled Dr. Darby’s buggy until about ten years ago, when the doctor had finally caved in to pressure from patients and purchased a tired old bull-nosed Morris—an open two-seater that Daffy referred to as “The Wreck of the Hesperus.”
I hugged Gry’s neck as he sidled into the stall with an almost audible sigh.
“Quickly,” Dr. Darby said, tossing his bag into the back of the car.
A few moments later we were veering off the high street and into the Gully.
“The Palings, you said?”
I nodded, hanging on for dear life. Once, I fancied I caught Dr. Darby stealing a glance at my bloody hands in the dim light of the instrument panel, but whatever he might have been thinking, he kept it to himself.
We rocketed along the narrow lane, the Morris’s headlamps illuminating the green tunnel of the trees and hedgerows with bounces of brightness. We sped past the Bulls’ place so quickly that I almost missed it, although my mind did manage to register the fact that the house was now in total darkness.
As we shot across the little stone bridge and into the grove, the Morris nearly became airborne, then bounced heavily on its springs as Dr. Darby brought it to a skidding halt just inches from the Gypsy’s caravan. Even in the dark his knowledge of Bishop’s Lacey’s lanes and byways was remarkable, I thought.
“Stay here,” he barked. “If I need you, I’ll call.” He threw open the driver’s door, walked briskly round the caravan, and was gone.
Alone in the
And then the racket stopped abruptly.
Had the person in the garden sensed our presence? Were they lying in wait—ready to spring—on the far side of the house?
More time leaked past. I couldn’t move. My heart was pounding crazily in my chest. It seemed impossible that whoever was in the Bulls’ garden could fail to hear it.
They must be keeping still … listening, as I was.
Suddenly there came to my nostrils the sharp reek of a safety match; the unmistakeably acrid odor of phosphorus reacting with potassium chlorate. This was quickly followed by the smell of a burning cigarette.
I smiled. Mrs. Bull was taking a break from her brats.
But not for long. A door banged and a dark shape fluttered across behind one of the closed curtains.
Before I could talk myself out of it I began moving along the lane—slowly at first, and then more quickly. Gry walked quietly behind me. When we reached the trees at the far edge of the property, I scrambled up onto his back and urged him on.
“Dr. Darby’s surgery,” I said. “And make it snappy!”
As if he understood.
The surgery was situated in the high street, just round the corner from Cow Lane. I lifted the knocker—a brass serpent on a staff—and pounded at the door. Almost instantly, or so it seemed, an upstairs window flew open with a sharp wooden groan and Dr. Darby’s head appeared, his gray, wispy hair tousled from sleeping.
“The bell,” he said grumpily. “Please use the bell.”
I gave the button a token jab with my thumb, and somewhere in the depths of the house a muted buzzing went off.
“It’s the Gypsy woman,” I called up to him. “The one from the fête. I think someone’s tried to kill her.”
The window slammed shut.
It couldn’t have been more than a minute before the front door opened and Dr. Darby stepped outside, shrugging himself into his jacket. “My car’s in the back,” he said. “Come along.”
“But what about Gry?” I asked, pointing at the old horse, which stood quietly in the street.
“Bring him round to the stable,” he said. “Aesculapius will be glad of his company.”
Aesculapius was the ancient horse that had pulled Dr. Darby’s buggy until about ten years ago, when the doctor had finally caved in to pressure from patients and purchased a tired old bull-nosed Morris—an open two-seater that Daffy referred to as “The Wreck of the Hesperus.”
I hugged Gry’s neck as he sidled into the stall with an almost audible sigh.
“Quickly,” Dr. Darby said, tossing his bag into the back of the car.
A few moments later we were veering off the high street and into the Gully.
“The Palings, you said?”
I nodded, hanging on for dear life. Once, I fancied I caught Dr. Darby stealing a glance at my bloody hands in the dim light of the instrument panel, but whatever he might have been thinking, he kept it to himself.
We rocketed along the narrow lane, the Morris’s headlamps illuminating the green tunnel of the trees and hedgerows with bounces of brightness. We sped past the Bulls’ place so quickly that I almost missed it, although my mind did manage to register the fact that the house was now in total darkness.
As we shot across the little stone bridge and into the grove, the Morris nearly became airborne, then bounced heavily on its springs as Dr. Darby brought it to a skidding halt just inches from the Gypsy’s caravan. Even in the dark his knowledge of Bishop’s Lacey’s lanes and byways was remarkable, I thought.
“Stay here,” he barked. “If I need you, I’ll call.” He threw open the driver’s door, walked briskly round the caravan, and was gone.
Alone in the
Similar Books
