Read Online The Flavia De Luce Series 1-4 by Alan Bradley - Free Book Online
Authors: Alan Bradley
Ads: Link
The spectacles, I noted, had a slightly grayish tint, as if they had been steeped overnight in vinegar.
“I was expecting to see Miss Pickery,” I said.
“Miss Pickery has been called away on a private family matter.”
“Oh,” I said.
“Yes, very sad. Her sister, Hetty, who lives over in Nether-Wolsey, had a tragic accident with a sewing machine. It appeared for the first few days that all might be well, but then she took a sudden turn and it seems now as if there’s a real possibility she might lose the finger. Such a shame—and she with the twins. Miss Pickery, of course …”
“Of course,” I said.
“I’m Miss Mountjoy, and I’d be happy to assist you in her stead, as it were.”
Miss Mountjoy! The retired Miss Mountjoy! I had heard tales about “Miss Mountjoy and the Reign of Terror.” She had been Librarian-in-Chief of the Bishop’s Lacey Free Library when Noah was a sailor. All sweetness on the outside, but on the inside, “The Palace of Malice.” Or so I’d been told. (Mrs. Mullet again, who reads detective novels.) The villagers still held novenas to pray she wouldn’t come out of retirement.
“And how may I help you, dearie?”
If there is a thing I truly despise, it is being addressed as “dearie.” When I write my magnum opus, A Treatise Upon All Poisons , and come to “Cyanide,” I am going to put under “Uses” the phrase “Particularly efficacious in the cure of those who call one ‘Dearie.’ ”
Still, one of my Rules of Life is this: When you want something, bite your tongue.
I smiled weakly and said, “I’d like to consult your newspaper files.”
“Newspaper files!” she gurgled. “My, you do know a lot, don’t you, dearie?”
“Yes,” I said, trying to look modest, “I do.”
“The newspapers are in chronological order on the shelves in the Drummond Room: That’s the west rear, to the left, at the top of the stairs,” she said with a wave of her hand.
“Thank you,” I said, edging towards the staircase.
“Unless, of course, you want something earlier than last year. In that case, they’ll be in one of the outbuildings. What year are you looking for, in particular?”
“I don’t really know,” I said. But, wait a minute—I did know! What was it the stranger had said in Father’s study?
“Twining—Old Cuppa’s been dead these—” What?
I could hear the stranger’s oily voice in my head: “Old Cuppa’s been dead these … thirty years!”
“The year 1920,” I said, as cool as a trout. “I’d like to peruse your newspaper archive for 1920.”
“Those are likely still in the Pit Shed—that is, if the rats haven’t been at them.” She said this with a bit of a leer over her spectacles as if, at the mention of rats, I might throw my hands in the air and run off screaming.
“I’ll find them,” I said. “Is there a key?”
Miss Mountjoy rummaged in the desk drawer and dredged up a ring of iron keys that looked as if they might once have belonged to the jailers of Edmond Dantès in The Count of Monte Cristo . I gave them a cheery jingle and walked out the door.
The Pit Shed was the outbuilding farthest from the library’s main building. Tottering precipitously on the river’s bank, it was a conglomeration of weathered boards and rusty corrugated tin, all overgrown with moss and climbing vines. In the heyday of the motor showroom, it had been the garage where autos had their oil and tires changed, their axles lubricated, and other intimate underside adjustments seen to.
Since then, neglect and erosion had reduced the place to something resembling a hermit’s hovel in the woods.
I gave the key a twist and the door sprang open with a rusty groan. I stepped into the gloom, being careful to edge round the sheer sides of the deep mechanic’s pit which, though it was boarded over with heavy planks, still occupied much of the room.
The place had a sharp and musky smell with more than a hint of ammonia, as if there were
“I was expecting to see Miss Pickery,” I said.
“Miss Pickery has been called away on a private family matter.”
“Oh,” I said.
“Yes, very sad. Her sister, Hetty, who lives over in Nether-Wolsey, had a tragic accident with a sewing machine. It appeared for the first few days that all might be well, but then she took a sudden turn and it seems now as if there’s a real possibility she might lose the finger. Such a shame—and she with the twins. Miss Pickery, of course …”
“Of course,” I said.
“I’m Miss Mountjoy, and I’d be happy to assist you in her stead, as it were.”
Miss Mountjoy! The retired Miss Mountjoy! I had heard tales about “Miss Mountjoy and the Reign of Terror.” She had been Librarian-in-Chief of the Bishop’s Lacey Free Library when Noah was a sailor. All sweetness on the outside, but on the inside, “The Palace of Malice.” Or so I’d been told. (Mrs. Mullet again, who reads detective novels.) The villagers still held novenas to pray she wouldn’t come out of retirement.
“And how may I help you, dearie?”
If there is a thing I truly despise, it is being addressed as “dearie.” When I write my magnum opus, A Treatise Upon All Poisons , and come to “Cyanide,” I am going to put under “Uses” the phrase “Particularly efficacious in the cure of those who call one ‘Dearie.’ ”
Still, one of my Rules of Life is this: When you want something, bite your tongue.
I smiled weakly and said, “I’d like to consult your newspaper files.”
“Newspaper files!” she gurgled. “My, you do know a lot, don’t you, dearie?”
“Yes,” I said, trying to look modest, “I do.”
“The newspapers are in chronological order on the shelves in the Drummond Room: That’s the west rear, to the left, at the top of the stairs,” she said with a wave of her hand.
“Thank you,” I said, edging towards the staircase.
“Unless, of course, you want something earlier than last year. In that case, they’ll be in one of the outbuildings. What year are you looking for, in particular?”
“I don’t really know,” I said. But, wait a minute—I did know! What was it the stranger had said in Father’s study?
“Twining—Old Cuppa’s been dead these—” What?
I could hear the stranger’s oily voice in my head: “Old Cuppa’s been dead these … thirty years!”
“The year 1920,” I said, as cool as a trout. “I’d like to peruse your newspaper archive for 1920.”
“Those are likely still in the Pit Shed—that is, if the rats haven’t been at them.” She said this with a bit of a leer over her spectacles as if, at the mention of rats, I might throw my hands in the air and run off screaming.
“I’ll find them,” I said. “Is there a key?”
Miss Mountjoy rummaged in the desk drawer and dredged up a ring of iron keys that looked as if they might once have belonged to the jailers of Edmond Dantès in The Count of Monte Cristo . I gave them a cheery jingle and walked out the door.
The Pit Shed was the outbuilding farthest from the library’s main building. Tottering precipitously on the river’s bank, it was a conglomeration of weathered boards and rusty corrugated tin, all overgrown with moss and climbing vines. In the heyday of the motor showroom, it had been the garage where autos had their oil and tires changed, their axles lubricated, and other intimate underside adjustments seen to.
Since then, neglect and erosion had reduced the place to something resembling a hermit’s hovel in the woods.
I gave the key a twist and the door sprang open with a rusty groan. I stepped into the gloom, being careful to edge round the sheer sides of the deep mechanic’s pit which, though it was boarded over with heavy planks, still occupied much of the room.
The place had a sharp and musky smell with more than a hint of ammonia, as if there were
Similar Books
