Flavia de Luce 3 - A Red Herring Without Mustard by Alan Bradley Read Free Book Online

should have.”
    As he turned his attention to me, I could not help noticing that the folds of skin at the outer corners of his hooded eyes—those folds that I so often thought of as making him look so aristocratic—were hanging more heavily than usual, giving him a look of deeper sadness than I had ever seen.
    “Flavia,” he said in a flat and weary voice that wounded me more than a pointed weapon.
    “Yes, sir?”
    “What is to be done with you?”
    “I’m sorry, Father. I didn’t mean to break the brooch. I dropped it and stepped on it by accident, and it just crumbled. Gosh, it must have been very old to be so brittle!”
    He gave an almost imperceptible wince, followed instantly by one of those looks that meant I had touched upon a topic that was not open for discussion. With a long sigh he shifted his gaze to the window. Something in my words had sent his mind fleeing to safety beyond the hills.
    “Did you have an enjoyable trip up to London?” I ventured. “To the philatelic exhibition, I mean?”
    The word “philatelic” drew him back quickly.
    “I hope you found some decent stamps for your collection.”
    He let out another sigh: this one frighteningly like a death rattle. “I did not go to London to buy stamps, Flavia. I went there to sell them.”
    Even Feely gasped.
    “Our days at Buckshaw may be drawing to a close,” Father said. “As you are well aware, the house itself belonged to your mother, and when she died without leaving a will …”
    He spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness that reminded me of a stricken butterfly.
    He had deflated so suddenly in front of us that I could scarcely believe it.
    “I had hoped to take her brooch to someone whom I know …”
    For quite a few moments his words did not register.
    I knew that in recent years the cost of maintaining Buckshaw had become positively ruinous, to say nothing of the taxes and the looming death duty. For years Father had managed to keep “the snarling taxmen,” as he called them, at bay, but now the wolves must be howling once again on the doorstep.
    There had been hints from time to time of our predicament, but the threat had always seemed unreal: no more than a distant cloud on a summer horizon.
    I remembered that for a time, Father had pinned his hopes on Aunt Felicity, his sister who lived in Hampstead. Daffy had suggested that many of his so-called “philatelic jaunts” were, in fact, calls upon Aunt Felicity to touch her for a loan—or to beg her to fork over whatever remained of the family jewels.
    In the end, his sister must have turned him down. Just recently, and with our own ears, we had heard her tell him he must think about selling his philatelic collection. “Those ridiculous postage stamps,” she had called them, to be precise.
    “Something will turn up,” Daffy remarked brightly. “It always does.”
    “Only in Dickens, Daphne,” Father said. “Only in Dickens.”
    Daffy had been reading David Copperfield for the umpteenth time. “Boning up on pawnshops,” she had answered when I asked her why.
    Only now did it occur to me that Father had intended to take Harriet’s brooch—the one I had destroyed—to a pawnbroker.
    “May I be excused?” I asked. “I’m suddenly not feeling well.”
    It was true. I must have fallen asleep the instant my head touched the pillow.
    Now, hours later, I was suddenly awake. The hands of my alarm clock, which I had carefully dabbed with my own formulation of phosphorescent paint, told me that it was several minutes past two in the morning.
    I lay in bed watching the dark shadows of the trees as they twitched restlessly on the ceiling. Ever since a territorial dispute between two of my distant ancestors had ended in a bitter stalemate—and a black line painted in the middle of the foyer—this wing of the house had remained unheated. Time and the weather had taken their toll, causing the wallpaper of nearly every room—mine was mustard yellow with scarlet