The Curious Case of the Copper Corpse Read Free Page A

was coming apart at the seams. The contents were few. It was obvious that it belonged to a man of frugal habits. There was a five-pound note, a creased black-and-white snapshot of an Irish setter with “Brownie x/ix/39” penciled on the back, a prescription for Pentostam written by a Harley Street specialist, several prewar postage stamps bearing the image of King George V, and a worn newspaper clipping with a photo of the British Eighth Army landing on Sicily in 1943. The photograph had been handled so much that it looked like a hole-riddled snowflake cut by a child from a sheet of repetitively folded paper.
    Overtaken suddenly by an inexplicable sadness, I glanced at the man in the tub as I laid aside the letter case.
    Steady on, Flavia,
I thought.
Keep your mind on the business at hand. Harsh as it may seem, in detective work there’s no place for feelings.
    Right, then: now for the kit bag. I removed the contents one at a time, a little squeamish at handling a man’s personal belongings, even if he
was
dead. Fortunately, they were pitifully few: hog-hair shaving brush, pewter mug, shaving soap, tin mirror, double-edge safety razor, nail scissors, toothbrush, tooth powder, and a tube of theatrical greasepaint makeup, Number 12 rouge.
    I’ve always been amazed by the ease with which a stranger’s life can be reconstructed by simply snooping through their belongings. Art and imagination combine to tell a tale that’s more complete than even a fat printed biography could ever hope to equal. And Mr. Denning was no exception: His secrets were laid so bare that I felt I ought to be apologizing.
    But I didn’t, of course. The man was dead and I needed to get on with my investigations.
    Somerville and his herd were still shuffling and mumbling on the landing. I could not let them in to trample on the evidence. All but one of them, or two, perhaps, were still in ignorance of Mr. Denning’s death.
    They would not break down the door—of that I was certain. The British schoolboy may be many things, but he is not a beast. In spite of his outward shell of highly polished indifference, he is at heart a gentleman and a jellyfish. I had learned this from years of close observation of my own father, who was himself an old Greyminsterian.
    By the time the door was opened, I would be gone. I smiled at the thought of the looks on those boyish faces.
    The window above the bathtub was like all the rest at Greyminster: diamond panes in a lattice of lead strips. It was but the work of a moment to haul myself up on the edge of the tub (begging the corpse’s pardon, of course), lift the latch, and swing the opaque panes outward.
    Scaling the exterior of the school was nothing new to me: Because I had done so during a previous investigation, I knew my way around. After a quick look outside to see that no one was in the quad, I squeezed through the open window and scrambled onto the network of vines which clung everywhere to the old stones.
    My descent was ridiculously easy: I felt a bit like Tarzan of the Apes as I swarmed hand over hand to the ground as a choir of angelic voices came floating from the chapel. Borne on the tide of the mighty organ, their words provided a perfect and cinematic musical score for my bold escape:
“Praise to our God; the vine he set
    Within our coasts is fruitful yet;
    On many a shore her offshoots grow
    ’Neath many a sun her clusters glow.”
    Whistling along with the hymn, I strolled nonchalantly off toward the far end of the building.
    I remembered that the housemaster’s study was located just inside the west door. Taking care to avoid the porter’s lodge, I made my way along the back of the building.
    Sundays, I decided, are perfect for detective work. Everyone expects that Justice is set aside—at least until church or chapel lets out—and their guard is let down.
    I met not a soul, and slipped as easily into Staircase No. 1 as if I were invisible.
    The study was precisely where I had remembered