The Dead in Their Vaulted Arches Read Free Page A

asked.
    “He said that he was sorry,” I lied. I didn’t know why, but I knew that it was the thing to do. “Just that he was sorry.”
    Daffy gave me that squinty evil look of hers.
    How could it be, I wondered, that with our mother lying dead under our very noses, two sisters could be almost at each other’s throats over a simple fib? It seemed ridiculous, but it was happening. I can only suppose that that’s the way life is.
    And
death.
    What I
did
know for certain was that I needed to get home, that I needed to be locked in the silence of my own room.
    Father was busy shaking hands with all the people who wanted to give him their condolences. The very air was alive with the reptilian hissing of their Ss and the little animal squeals of their Ys.
    “Sorry, Colonel de Luce … sorry … sorry,” they were telling him, over and over again, each in his or her own turn. It’s a wonder Father didn’t go mad on the spot.
    Could no one think of anything original to say?
    Daffy once told me that there are approximately half a million words in the English language. With so many to choose from, you’d think that just one person, at least, could find something more original than that stupid word “sorry.”
    That’s what I was thinking when a tall man in a coat toolong and much too heavy for such a lovely day detached himself from the crowd on the platform and made directly for me.
    “Miss de Luce?” he asked, in a surprisingly gentle voice.
    I was not accustomed to being addressed as “Miss de Luce.” It was a name usually reserved for Daffy or Feely—or for Aunt Felicity.
    “I am Flavia de Luce,” I said. “And you are?”
    It was a response Dogger had taught me to give automatically when spoken to by strangers. I glanced over and saw Dogger hovering solicitously at Father’s side.
    “A friend,” the man said. “Just a friend—of the family. I need to talk to you.”
    “I’m sorry,” I said, taking a step backwards. “I’m—”
    “Please. It’s
vitally
important.”
    Vitally
? Anyone who used the word “vitally” in everyday conversation could hardly be a villain.
    “Well …” I said, wavering.
    “Tell your father that the Gamekeeper is in jeopardy. He’ll understand. I must speak to him. Tell him that the Nide is under—”
    The man’s eyes widened suddenly in puzzlement—or was it horror?—as he looked over my shoulder. What—or whom—had he seen?
    “Come along, Flavia. You’re keeping everyone waiting.”
    It was Feely. My sister gave the stranger a tight, polite smile as she put a hand on my shoulder and gave it an unnecessarily hard tug.
    “Wait,” I said, ducking to one side and breaking away from her grip. “I’ll be there in a minute.”
    Dogger was already holding open the door of Harriet’sold Rolls-Royce Phantom II, which he had parked as close to the platform as he possibly could. Father was halfway to the car, shuffling alarmingly, his head bowed.
    It was not until that moment, I think, that I realized what a crushing blow this whole business must be to him.
    He had lost Harriet, not once, but twice.
    “Flavia!”
    It was Feely again, her eyes bugging with cold blue impatience. “Why,” she hissed, “must you always insist on being such a—”
    A shriek from the engine’s whistle blotted out her last few words, but I was easily able to lip-read their shocking shape.
    The train began to move, slowly at first. We had been told during our briefing by the undertakers that, as we departed the station, the train would be taken to a disused railway yard somewhere north of East Finching to be turned round for its return run up to London. It was a breach of undertaking etiquette, as well as being “uncommon bad luck,” according to Mr. Sowerby, of Sowerby & Sons, to run a funeral train backwards.
    By now, Feely was dragging me—literally—towards the waiting Rolls.
    I tried to break free, but it was no use. Her fingers dug deeply into the muscle of my upper