Alan Bradley - The Weed That Strings the Hangman's Bag

The entire population of Bishop's Lacey seemed to be there. Mutt Wilmott, I saw, had taken a seat against the wall near the back. Miss Cool was in the row behind him, listening to Cynthia Richardson, who had her ear, and behind her sat Miss Mountjoy, the niece of the late Dr. Twining, Father's old schoolmaster. To Miss Mountjoy's right, from Culverhouse Farm, Dieter Schrantz and Sally Straw, the Land Girl, sat side by side. I gave them a little wave, and both of them grinned.

"Haroo, mon vieux — Flavia!"

It was Maximilian Wight, our diminutive neighbor who, after several triumphant world tours as a concert pianist, had settled down at last in our village to teach music. Feely had been one of his pupils, but had begged off her lessons when Max began asking too many intrusive questions about her "paramours."

Max waved a white glove, and I waved back.

As I scanned the rows of faces, my eyes skidded to a stop on a dark-haired woman in a sage green sweater set. She was no one I had seen before, and must be, I thought, a stranger to Bishop's Lacey. Perhaps a visiting relative.

The man beside her saw me staring, and gave me a pleasant smile: Inspector Hewitt. It was not so long since I had assisted him in bringing a murderer to justice.

In a flash I was standing before them, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot as I realized I was probably intruding.

"Fancy meeting you here," the Inspector said. It was not a particularly original comment, but it neatly covered what might have been an awkward moment.

"Antigone," he told the dark-haired woman, "I'd like you to meet Flavia de Luce."

I knew for a fact that she was going to say, "Oh, yes, my husband has mentioned you," and she would say it with that little smirk that tells so much about the amused conversation that had followed.

"I'm so pleased to meet you, Flavia," she said, putting out the most beautiful hand in the world and giving me a good solid shake, "and to find that you share my love of marionettes."

If she'd told me to "fetch" I would have done it.

"I love your name," I managed.

"Do you? My father was Greek and my mother Italian. She was a ballet teacher and he was a fishmonger, so I grew up dancing in the streets of Billingsgate."

With her dark hair and sea green eyes, she was the image of Botticelli's Flora , whose features adorned the back of a hand mirror at Buckshaw that Father had once given to Harriet.

I wanted to ask "In what far isle is your shrine? that I might worship there," but I settled for shuffling my feet and a mumbled, "Nice to meet you, Mrs. Hewitt. I hope you and Inspector Hewitt enjoy the show."

As I slipped into my seat, the vicar strode purposefully to the front of the hall and took up a position in front of the stage. He smiled indulgently, waiting, as Daffy, Mrs. Mullet, and Dogger slid into their seats.

"Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, parishioners of St. Tancred's and otherwise, thank you for coming. We are honored, this evening, to welcome to our midst, the renowned puppet-showman — if he will allow me to make use of that illustrious nomenclature — Rupert Porson."

(Applause)

"Although Mr. Porson, or Rupert, if I may, is best known nowadays for his performances on the BBC Television of The Magic Kingdom which, as I'm sure all of you know, is the realm of Snoddy the Squirrel ..."

(Applause)

"... I am told on good authority that he has traveled widely, presenting his puppet artistry in all of its many forms, and has, on at least one occasion, performed before one of the crowned heads of Europe."

(Applause)

"But before Jack sells his mother's cow for a handful of beans — "

"Hssst! Don't give away the plot, Vicar!"

(Tully Stoker, the proprietor and landlord of the Thirteen Drakes, greeted with hoots of laughter, including his own.)

"... and while the maestro prepares his enchanted strings, the Ladies' Auxiliary of St. Tancred's is pleased to present, for your musical entertainment, the Misses Puddock, Lavinia and Aurelia."

Oh, Lord! Spare us! Please spare us!

We had been saved from having to listen to them during the matinee performance only because their St. Nicholas Tea Room kept them too busy to attend.

The Misses Puddock had a death grip on public events at St. Tancred's parish hall. No matter if it was a tea put on by the Ladies' League, a whist drive by the Altar Guild, a white elephant sale by the Ladies' Auxiliary, or a spring flower show by the Vestry Guild, the Misses Puddock would perform, winter or summer, rain or shine.

Miss Lavinia would seat herself at the upright piano, rummage in her string bag, and fish out at last a tattered piece of sheet music: "Napoleon's Last Charge."

After an interminable wait — during which she would thrust her face forward until her nose was touching the music — she would sit back, her spine stiff as a poker, raise her hands above the keyboard, drop them, take a second squint at the music, and then tear into it like a grizzly bear clawing at a salmon in the Pathe newsreels.

When she was finished, her sister, Miss Aurelia, would take up her position, her white-gloved fingertips idly brushing the dusty piano top, and warble (there's no other word for what she did) "Bendemeer's Stream."

Afterwards, the chairman would announce that the Vestry Guild had voted unanimously to present the Misses Puddock with an honorarium: "a purse of appreciation," as he always put it.

And they're off!

Miss Lavinia, her eyes riveted to the music, was into "Napoleon's Last Charge," and I noticed for the first time that, as she read the music, her lips were moving. I couldn't help wondering what she was saying. There were no lyrics to the piece — could she be naming the chords? Or praying ?

Mercifully, she took it at a somewhat faster gallop than usual, and the thing was soon over — at least, relatively speaking. I noticed that Feely's jaw muscles were twitching, and that Max looked as if he were biting down on a stainless-steel humbug.

Now it was Miss Aurelia's turn. Miss Lavinia pounded out the first few bars as an introduction before her sister joined in:

(Miss Aurelia's childhood, to look at her, must have been during George the Third.)

When she finished, there was a smattering of polite applause, and Miss Aurelia stood with her head cocked for a few moments, checking the piano with her fingers for dust, waiting to be coaxed into an encore. But the audience, knowing better than to encourage her, settled quickly back into their seats, and some of us crossed our arms.

As the house lights went down, I turned round for one last look at the audience. A couple of latecomers were just taking their seats on the aisle. To my horror, I saw that they were Gordon and Grace Ingleby, she in her usual dreadful black outfit, he with a bowler hat, for God's sake! And both of them looking less than happy to be there.

At first, I felt anger rushing up and fluttering within my chest. Why had no one warned them? Why had no one cared enough to keep them away?

Why hadn't I?

Crazily, the thing that popped into my mind was something Daffy once told me: It is the duty of a constitutional monarch to warn and advise.

If His Royal Majesty, King George the Sixth, had been among us this evening, he would be bound to take them aside and say something about the puppet with their dead child's face. But he was not.

Besides, it was already too late.... The hall was in total darkness. No one but me seemed to have noticed the Inglebys.