Read Online Flavia de Luce 3 - A Red Herring Without Mustard by Alan Bradley - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Alan Bradley
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darkness, I gave an involuntary shiver.
To be perfectly honest, my stomach was a bit queasy. I don’t mind death, but injury makes me nervous. It would all depend upon what Dr. Darby found inside the caravan.
I shifted restlessly in the Morris, trying to sift through these rather unexpected feelings. Was the Gypsy woman dead? The thought that she might be was appalling.
Although Death and I were not exactly old friends, we did have a nodding acquaintance. Twice before in my life I had encountered corpses, and each one had given me—
“Flavia!” The doctor was at the caravan’s door. “Fetch a screwdriver. It’s in the tool kit in the boot.”
A screwdriver? What kind of—
It was perhaps just as well that my speculations were interrupted.
“Quickly. Bring it here.”
At any other time I might have balked at his insolence in ordering me about like a lackey, but I bit my tongue. In fact, I even forgave him a little.
As Dr. Darby began loosening the screws of the door hinges, I couldn’t help thinking what remarkably strong hands he had for an older man. If he hadn’t used them to save lives, he might have made a wizard carpenter.
“Unscrew the last few,” he said. “I’ll take the weight of the door. That’s it … good girl.”
Even without knowing what we were doing, I was his willing slave.
As we worked, I caught glimpses of the Gypsy beyond, in the caravan’s interior. Dr. Darby had lifted her from the floor to her bed where she lay motionless, her head wrapped in surgical gauze. I could not tell if she was dead or alive and it seemed awkward to ask.
At last the door came free of the frame, and for an instant, Dr. Darby held it in front of him like a shield. The image of a crusader crossed my mind.
“Easy now—put it down here.”
He maneuvered the heavy panel carefully onto the caravan’s floor, where it fit with not an inch to spare between the stove and the upholstered seats. Then, plucking two pillows from the bed, he placed them lengthwise on the door, before wrapping the Gypsy in a sheet and ever so gently lifting her from the bunk onto the makeshift stretcher.
Again I was struck with his compact strength. The woman must have weighed almost as much as he did.
“Quickly now,” he said. “We must get her to the hospital.”
So! The Gypsy was alive. Death had been thwarted—at least for now.
Pulling a second sheet from the bed, Dr. Darby tore it into long strips, which he worked swiftly into position under the door, then round and round the Gypsy, fastening the ends with a series of expert knots.
He had positioned her so that her feet were closest to the empty door frame, and now I watched as he eased past her and leapt to the ground outside.
I heard the Morris’s starter grind—and then engage. The motor roared and moments later I saw him backing his machine towards the caravan.
Now he was clambering back aboard.
“Take this end,” he said, pointing to the Gypsy’s feet. “It’s lighter.”
He scrambled past me, seized the end of the door that lay beneath her head, and began sliding it towards the doorway.
“Into the offside seat,” he said. “That’s it … easy now.”
I had suddenly seen what he was trying to do, and as Dr. Darby lifted the head of the door, I guided its foot down into the space between the passenger’s seat and the instrument panel.
With surprisingly little struggle, our task was finished. With the Gypsy jutting up at a rigid angle, the little Morris looked like an oversized woodworking plane; the Gypsy herself like a mummy lashed to a board.
It isn’t the neatest of arrangements, I remember thinking, but it will do.
“You’ll have to stay here,” Dr. Darby said, wedging himself in behind the steering wheel. “There’s not room for the three of us in the old bus. Just stay put and don’t touch anything. I’ll send the police as soon as I’m able.”
What he meant, of course, was that I was in far less physical danger if I
To be perfectly honest, my stomach was a bit queasy. I don’t mind death, but injury makes me nervous. It would all depend upon what Dr. Darby found inside the caravan.
I shifted restlessly in the Morris, trying to sift through these rather unexpected feelings. Was the Gypsy woman dead? The thought that she might be was appalling.
Although Death and I were not exactly old friends, we did have a nodding acquaintance. Twice before in my life I had encountered corpses, and each one had given me—
“Flavia!” The doctor was at the caravan’s door. “Fetch a screwdriver. It’s in the tool kit in the boot.”
A screwdriver? What kind of—
It was perhaps just as well that my speculations were interrupted.
“Quickly. Bring it here.”
At any other time I might have balked at his insolence in ordering me about like a lackey, but I bit my tongue. In fact, I even forgave him a little.
As Dr. Darby began loosening the screws of the door hinges, I couldn’t help thinking what remarkably strong hands he had for an older man. If he hadn’t used them to save lives, he might have made a wizard carpenter.
“Unscrew the last few,” he said. “I’ll take the weight of the door. That’s it … good girl.”
Even without knowing what we were doing, I was his willing slave.
As we worked, I caught glimpses of the Gypsy beyond, in the caravan’s interior. Dr. Darby had lifted her from the floor to her bed where she lay motionless, her head wrapped in surgical gauze. I could not tell if she was dead or alive and it seemed awkward to ask.
At last the door came free of the frame, and for an instant, Dr. Darby held it in front of him like a shield. The image of a crusader crossed my mind.
“Easy now—put it down here.”
He maneuvered the heavy panel carefully onto the caravan’s floor, where it fit with not an inch to spare between the stove and the upholstered seats. Then, plucking two pillows from the bed, he placed them lengthwise on the door, before wrapping the Gypsy in a sheet and ever so gently lifting her from the bunk onto the makeshift stretcher.
Again I was struck with his compact strength. The woman must have weighed almost as much as he did.
“Quickly now,” he said. “We must get her to the hospital.”
So! The Gypsy was alive. Death had been thwarted—at least for now.
Pulling a second sheet from the bed, Dr. Darby tore it into long strips, which he worked swiftly into position under the door, then round and round the Gypsy, fastening the ends with a series of expert knots.
He had positioned her so that her feet were closest to the empty door frame, and now I watched as he eased past her and leapt to the ground outside.
I heard the Morris’s starter grind—and then engage. The motor roared and moments later I saw him backing his machine towards the caravan.
Now he was clambering back aboard.
“Take this end,” he said, pointing to the Gypsy’s feet. “It’s lighter.”
He scrambled past me, seized the end of the door that lay beneath her head, and began sliding it towards the doorway.
“Into the offside seat,” he said. “That’s it … easy now.”
I had suddenly seen what he was trying to do, and as Dr. Darby lifted the head of the door, I guided its foot down into the space between the passenger’s seat and the instrument panel.
With surprisingly little struggle, our task was finished. With the Gypsy jutting up at a rigid angle, the little Morris looked like an oversized woodworking plane; the Gypsy herself like a mummy lashed to a board.
It isn’t the neatest of arrangements, I remember thinking, but it will do.
“You’ll have to stay here,” Dr. Darby said, wedging himself in behind the steering wheel. “There’s not room for the three of us in the old bus. Just stay put and don’t touch anything. I’ll send the police as soon as I’m able.”
What he meant, of course, was that I was in far less physical danger if I
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