2 The Weed That Strings the Hangman’s Bag: A Flavia De Luce Mystery (25 page)

Miss Cool was the postmistress and purveyor of sweets to the village, and there was only one reason I could think of that she would have closed her shop on a Friday.

I turned eagerly to the following week: the issue of 14 September.

An inquest convened to inquire into the death of Robin Ingleby, aged five years, of Culverhouse Farm, near Bishop’s Lacey was adjourned Friday last at 3:15 P.M. after forty minutes of deliberation. The coroner recorded a verdict of Death by Misadventure, and expressed his sympathy to the bereaved parents.

And that was all. It seemed obvious that the village wanted to spare Robin’s parents the grief of seeing the horrid details in print.

A quick look through the remaining papers turned up nothing more than a brief notice of the funeral, at which the pallbearers had been Gordon Ingleby, Bartram Tennyson (Robin’s grandfather, who had come down from London), Dieter Schrantz, and Clarence Mundy, the taxicab proprietor. Rupert’s name was not mentioned.

I replaced the newspapers in their cradle and, with no more damage to myself than a scuffed knee, shoehorned myself back out of the window.

Curses! It was beginning to rain. A black-bottomed cloud had drifted across the sun, bringing a sudden chill to the air.

I ran across the weeded lot to the river, where fat raindrops were already pocking the water with perfectly formed little craters. I scrambled down the slope and, with my bare hands, scooped out a gob of the sticky clay that formed the bank.

Then back to the Pit Shed again, where I dumped the muck in a mound on the windowsill. Taking care not to get any of it on my clothing, I rolled handfuls of the stuff between my palms, making a family of long stringy gray snakes. Then, clambering up onto the rusty motor once again, I seized the edges of the windowpane, and hoisted it gingerly back into position. With my forefinger as a makeshift putty knife, I pressed the stuff all round the edges of the glass into what looked, at least, like a tight and sturdy seal.

How long it would last was anybody’s guess. If the rain didn’t wash it away, it might well last forever. Not that it would need to: At the first opportunity, I thought, I would replace it by pinching some bona fide putty and the proper knife from Buckshaw, where Dogger was forever using the stuff to shore up loose panes in the decaying greenhouse.

“The Mad Putty-Knifer has struck again!” the villagers would whisper.

After a quick dash to the river to scrub the caked clay from my hands, I was, aside from being soaked through, almost presentable.

I picked up Gladys from the grass and strolled in a carefree manner up Cow Lane to the high street, as if butter wouldn’t melt in my mouth.

Miss Cool’s confectionery, which incorporated the village post office, was a narrow Georgian relic, hemmed in by a tearoom and an undertaker’s establishment to the east and a fish shop to the west. Its flyblown display windows were sparsely strewn with faded chocolate boxes, their lids picturing plump ladies in striped stockings and feathers who grinned brazenly as they sat half astride cumbersome three-wheeled tricycles.

This was where Ned had bought the chocolates he had left on our doorstep. I was sure of it, for there on the right was the dark rectangular mark where the box had reposed since horse-drawn charabancs had rumbled past it in the high street.

For a fleeting instant I wondered if Feely had sampled my handiwork yet, but I banished the thought at once. Such pleasures would have to wait.

The bell over the door tinkled to announce my entrance, and Miss Cool looked up from behind the post office counter.

“Flavia, dear!” she said. “What a pleasant surprise. Why, you’re all wet! I was just thinking about you not ten minutes ago, and here you are. Actually, it was your father I was thinking of, but it’s all the same, isn’t it? I’ve a strip of stamps here that might interest him: four Georges with an extra perforation clean through his face. Hardly seems right, does it? Quite disrespectful. Miss Reynolds over at Glebe House bought them last Friday and returned them on Saturday.

“‘Too many holes in them!’ she said. ‘I won’t have my letters to Hannah—’ (that’s her niece in Shropshire, dear)—‘being seized for infringement of the Postal Act.’”

She handed me a glassine envelope.

“Thank you, Miss Cool,” I said. “I’m sure Father will appreciate having these in his collection, and I know he’d want me to thank you for your thoughtfulness.”

“You’re such a good girl, Flavia,” she said, blushing. “He must be very proud of you.”

“Yes,” I said, “he is. Very.”

Actually, it was a thought that had never crossed my mind.

“You really mustn’t stand around like that in wet clothing, dear. Go into my little room in the back and take off your things. I’ll hang them in the kitchen to dry. You’ll find a quilt at the bottom of my bed—wrap yourself up in it and we shall have a nice cozy chat.”

Five minutes later, we were back in the shop, me like a blanketed Blackfoot and Miss Cool, with her tiny spectacles looking for all the world like the Factor at a Hudson’s Bay trading post.

She was already moving across the shop towards the tall jar of horehound sticks.

“How many would you like today, my dear?”

“None, thank you, Miss Cool. I left home in rather a rush this morning and came away without my purse.”

“Take one anyway,” she said, holding out the jar. “I think I shall have one, too. Horehound sticks are meant to be shared with friends, don’t you think?”

She was dead wrong about that: Horehound sticks were meant to be gobbled down in solitary gluttony, and preferably in a locked room, but I didn’t dare say so. I was too busy setting my trap.

For a few minutes we sat in companionable silence, sucking on our sweets. Gray, watery light from the window seeped into the shop, illuminating from within the rows of glass sweet jars, lending them a pallid and unhealthy glow. We must look, I thought, for all the world like a couple of alchemists plotting our next attack upon the elements.

“Did Robin Ingleby like horehound sticks, Miss Cool?”

“Why, what a strange question! Whatever made you think of that?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” I said carelessly, running my finger along the edge of a glass display case. “I suppose it was seeing poor Robin’s face on that puppet at the church hall. It was such a shock. I haven’t been able to get him out of my mind.”

This was true enough.

“Oh, you poor thing!” she said. “I’m sure none of us can, but no one wanted to mention it. It was almost … what’s the word? Obscene. And that poor man! What a tragedy. I couldn’t sleep a wink after what happened. But then, I expect it gave all of us quite a turn, didn’t it?”

“You were on the jury at Robin’s inquest, weren’t you?”

I was becoming rather good at this. The air went out of her sails in an instant.

“Why … why, yes, so I was. But how on earth could you know that?”

“I think Father might have mentioned it at some time or another. He has a great deal of respect for you, Miss Cool. But surely you know that.”

“A respect that is entirely mutual, I assure you,” she said. “Yes, I was a member of the jury. Why do you ask?”

“Well, to be honest, my sister Ophelia and I were having an argument about it. She said that at one time, it was thought that Robin had been murdered. I disagreed. It was an accident, wasn’t it?”

“I’m not sure that I’m allowed to discuss it, dear,” she said. “But it was years ago, wasn’t it? I think I can tell you—just among friends, mind—that the police did consider that possibility. But there was nothing in it. Not a shred of evidence. The little boy went up to the wood alone and hanged himself alone. It was an accident. We said so in our verdict—Death by Misadventure, they called it.”

“But how did you know he was alone? You must be awfully clever to figure that out!”

“Why, because of his footprints, love! Because of his footprints! There were no others anywhere near that old scaffold. He went up to the wood alone.”

My gaze shifted to the shop window. The downpour had begun to slacken.

“Had it rained?” I asked with sudden inspiration. “Before they found him?”

“It had, in fact,” she answered. “In great bloomin’ buckets.”

“Ah,” I said, noncommittally. “Has a Mr. Mutt Wilmott been in to pick up his mail? It would probably be poste restante.”

I knew at once that I had gone too far.

“I’m sorry, dear,” Miss Cool said, with a barely detectable sniff. “We are not permitted to give out information like that.”

“He’s a BBC producer,” I said, putting on my best slightly crushed look. “Quite a famous one, actually. He’s in charge of—at least he used to be—poor Mr. Porson’s television program, The Magic Kingdom. I was hoping to get his autograph.”

“If he comes in, I’ll tell him you were asking,” Miss Cool said, softening. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure of meeting the gentleman yet.”

“Oh, thank you, Miss Cool,” I babbled. “I’m frightfully keen on adding a few BBC personalities to my little collection.”

Sometimes I hated myself. But not for long.

“Well, it looks as if the rain has stopped,” I said. “I must really be getting along. I expect my clothes are dry enough to get me home, and I wouldn’t want Father to be worried. He has so much on his mind nowadays.”

I was well aware that everyone in Bishop’s Lacey knew about Father’s financial difficulties. Late-paid bills in a village were as good as a signal rocket in the night. I might as well chalk up a few points for deportment.

“Such a thoughtful child, you are, Flavia,” she said. “Have another horehound.”

Minutes later, I was dressed and at the door. Outside, the sun had come out, and a perfect rainbow arched across the sky.

“Thank you for a lovely chat, Miss Cool, and for the horehound. It will be my treat next time—I insist.”

“Ride home safely, dear,” she told me. “Mind the puddles. And keep it under your hat—about the stamps, I mean. We’re not supposed to let the defectives circulate.”

I gave her a ghastly conspiratorial wink and a twiddle of the fingers.

She hadn’t answered my question about whether Robin was fond of horehound sticks, but then it didn’t really matter, did it?

• TWENTY-ONE •

I GAVE GLADYS a jolly good shaking, and raindrops went flying off her frame like water from a shaggy dog. I was about to shove off for home when something in the window of the undertaker’s shop caught my eye: no more than a slight movement, really.

Although it had been in business at the same location since the time of George the Third, the shop of Sowbell & Sons stood as discreet and aloof in the high street as if it were waiting for an omnibus. It was quite unusual, actually, to see anyone enter or leave the place.

I sauntered a little closer for a look, feigning a great interest in the black-edged obituary cards that were on display in the plate-glass window. Although none of the dead (Dennison Chatfield, Arthur Bronson-Willowes, Margaret Beatrice Peddle) were people whose names I recognized, I pored over their names intently, giving each one a rueful shake of my head.

By moving my eyes from left to right, as if I were reading the small print on the cards, and yet shifting my focus through to the shop’s dim interior, I could see someone inside waving his hands as he talked. His yellow silk shirt and mauve cravat were what had caught my eye: It was Mutt Wilmott!

Before reason could apply the brakes, I had burst into the shop.

“Oh, hello, Mr. Sowbell,” I said. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything. I just wanted to stop by and let you know that our little chemical experiment worked out quite admirably in the end.”

I’m afraid this was varnishing the facts a little. The truth was that I had buttonholed him in St. Tancred’s churchyard one Sunday after Morning Prayer, to ask his professional opinion—as an expert in preservatives, as it were—about whether a reliable embalming fluid could be inexpensively obtained by collecting, macerating, boiling, and distilling the formic acid from large numbers of red ants (formica rufa).

He had fingered his long jaw, scratched his head, and stared up into the branches of the yew trees for quite some time before saying he’d never really thought about it.

“It’s something I’d have to look up, Miss Flavia,” he said.

But I knew he would never actually do so, and I was right. The older craftsmen can be awfully tight-lipped when it comes to discussing the tricks of the trade.

He was standing now in the shadows near a dark-paneled door that led to some undoubtedly grisly back room: a room I’d give a guinea to see.

“Flavia.” He nodded—somewhat warily, I thought.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse us,” he said. “We’re in the midst of rather a—”

“Well, well,” Mutt Wilmott interrupted, “I do believe it’s Rupert’s ubiquitous young protégée, Miss …”

“De Luce,” I said.

“Yes, of course—de Luce.” He smiled condescendingly, as if he’d known it all along; as if he were only teasing.

I have to admit that, like Rupert, the man had an absolutely marvelous professional speaking voice: a rich, mellifluous flow of words that came forth as if he had a wooden organ pipe for a larynx. The BBC must breed these people on a secret farm.

“As one of Rupert’s young protégées, so to speak,” Mutt went on, “you’ll perhaps be comforted to learn that Auntie—as we insiders call the British Broadcasting Corporation—is laying on the sort of funeral that one of her brightest stars deserves. Not quite Westminster Abbey, you understand, but the next best thing. Once Mr. Sowbell here, gets the … ah … remains back to London, the public grieving can begin: the lying in state, the floral tributes, the ruddy-faced mother of ten from Weston-super-Mare, kneeling at the bier alongside her tear-drenched children, and all with the television cameras looking on. No less a personage than the Director General himself has suggested that it might be a poignant touch to have Snoddy the Squirrel stand vigil at the foot of the coffin, mounted upon an empty glove.”

“He’s here?” I asked, with a gesture towards the back room. “Rupert’s still here?”

“He’s in good hands.” Mutt Wilmott nodded, and Mr. Sowbell, with a smirk, made a humble little bow of acknowledgment.