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Authors: Anthony Horowitz
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medicine chest.
“I’m being serious.” Herbert slid the newspaper in front of me.
I opened the medicine chest—a red plastic box with a white cross on it. It contained two Band-Aids and a tin of cough drops. Clearly Herbert wasn’t expecting an outbreak of bubonic plague. I groaned for a second time and pulled the newspaper before me. With an effort, I managed to get the print to unblur itself.
Herbert was right. There was going to be a funeral later in the day—just a few minutes down the road as luck would have it. Or was it luck? I wasn’t thinking straight, that was my trouble. The guy being buried was one Henry von Falkenberg. It appeared that the Falcon had flown home.
There was nothing about the Falcon’s five million dollars in the paper. They didn’t even mention he’d been a crook. In fact it was just one of those fill-in stories, the sort of thing they print between the crossword and the gardening report when they haven’t got enough news. This was a story about a wealthy businessman living in Bolivia who had once lived in England and had decided that he wanted to be buried there. The only trouble was, the week he’d died, there’d been a baggage handlers’ strike in La Paz and—now that he was dead—“baggage” included him. He’d spent the last four weeks sharing an airport deep freeze with a load of corned beef from Argentina.
But now the strike was over and von Falkenberg could be buried in his family plot just down the road from our apartment. It was too good an opportunity to miss, hungover or not. How many of the names on Snape’s blackboard would turn up to pay their last respects to the Falcon?
We had to be there.
Herbert reached for the telephone book. “3521201,” he said.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“Brompton Cemetery.”
I’d written the number down for him and he called them. He spoke briefly before he put down the phone.
“The funeral’s at twelve,” Herbert said. “Recommended dress: black tie and rain boots.”
Perhaps you know Brompton Cemetery—a stretch of ground between Fulham Road and the Brompton Road—a stone’s throw away from the soccer field. I sometimes walked there on Sundays, which isn’t as creepy as it sounds. After all, there’s not much grass in Fulham, and with the sun shining it isn’t such a bad place to be. Anyway, the best thing about walking in a cemetery is walking out again. Don’t forget, not everyone can.
From the Fulham Road you pass between a pair of tall black iron gates and follow the path. You don’t even know you’re in a cemetery until you’re a short way up and pass the first graves. It’s pretty at first. This is the old part of the cemetery, the romantic bit with the grass waist-high and the stones poking out at odd angles like they’ve grown there, too. Then you turn a corner and there’s a cluster of buildings curving around an open space like some sort of weird Victorian summerhouse. Now everything is flat and you can see all the way up to the Brompton Road, a green stretch with the crosses sticking up like the masts of a frozen armada.
We got there at five to twelve, squelching through the rain and the mud, our raincoats pulled up tightly around our necks. About a dozen people had braved the weather to make their farewells to the Falcon . . . and the Argentinian Corned Beef Company had sent a wreath, which was a nice gesture. The first person we met was a less pleasant surprise: Chief Inspector Snape looking about as cheerful as the cemetery’s residents. Boyle was behind him, dressed in a crumpled black suit with a mourning band on his arm.
“Simple and Simple,” Snape cried, seeing us. “I was planning to visit you as soon as this little shindig was over.”
“Why?” Herbert asked.
“We’ve been receiving reports of an incident in Charing Cross. I thought you might be able to help us with our inquiries into the disappearance of a certain singer. One Lauren Bacardi. It looks like a
“I’m being serious.” Herbert slid the newspaper in front of me.
I opened the medicine chest—a red plastic box with a white cross on it. It contained two Band-Aids and a tin of cough drops. Clearly Herbert wasn’t expecting an outbreak of bubonic plague. I groaned for a second time and pulled the newspaper before me. With an effort, I managed to get the print to unblur itself.
Herbert was right. There was going to be a funeral later in the day—just a few minutes down the road as luck would have it. Or was it luck? I wasn’t thinking straight, that was my trouble. The guy being buried was one Henry von Falkenberg. It appeared that the Falcon had flown home.
There was nothing about the Falcon’s five million dollars in the paper. They didn’t even mention he’d been a crook. In fact it was just one of those fill-in stories, the sort of thing they print between the crossword and the gardening report when they haven’t got enough news. This was a story about a wealthy businessman living in Bolivia who had once lived in England and had decided that he wanted to be buried there. The only trouble was, the week he’d died, there’d been a baggage handlers’ strike in La Paz and—now that he was dead—“baggage” included him. He’d spent the last four weeks sharing an airport deep freeze with a load of corned beef from Argentina.
But now the strike was over and von Falkenberg could be buried in his family plot just down the road from our apartment. It was too good an opportunity to miss, hungover or not. How many of the names on Snape’s blackboard would turn up to pay their last respects to the Falcon?
We had to be there.
Herbert reached for the telephone book. “3521201,” he said.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“Brompton Cemetery.”
I’d written the number down for him and he called them. He spoke briefly before he put down the phone.
“The funeral’s at twelve,” Herbert said. “Recommended dress: black tie and rain boots.”
Perhaps you know Brompton Cemetery—a stretch of ground between Fulham Road and the Brompton Road—a stone’s throw away from the soccer field. I sometimes walked there on Sundays, which isn’t as creepy as it sounds. After all, there’s not much grass in Fulham, and with the sun shining it isn’t such a bad place to be. Anyway, the best thing about walking in a cemetery is walking out again. Don’t forget, not everyone can.
From the Fulham Road you pass between a pair of tall black iron gates and follow the path. You don’t even know you’re in a cemetery until you’re a short way up and pass the first graves. It’s pretty at first. This is the old part of the cemetery, the romantic bit with the grass waist-high and the stones poking out at odd angles like they’ve grown there, too. Then you turn a corner and there’s a cluster of buildings curving around an open space like some sort of weird Victorian summerhouse. Now everything is flat and you can see all the way up to the Brompton Road, a green stretch with the crosses sticking up like the masts of a frozen armada.
We got there at five to twelve, squelching through the rain and the mud, our raincoats pulled up tightly around our necks. About a dozen people had braved the weather to make their farewells to the Falcon . . . and the Argentinian Corned Beef Company had sent a wreath, which was a nice gesture. The first person we met was a less pleasant surprise: Chief Inspector Snape looking about as cheerful as the cemetery’s residents. Boyle was behind him, dressed in a crumpled black suit with a mourning band on his arm.
“Simple and Simple,” Snape cried, seeing us. “I was planning to visit you as soon as this little shindig was over.”
“Why?” Herbert asked.
“We’ve been receiving reports of an incident in Charing Cross. I thought you might be able to help us with our inquiries into the disappearance of a certain singer. One Lauren Bacardi. It looks like a
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