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

Even though the fact should have been evident, its confirmation caused a wave of sound to break from the audience: a mixture of gasps, cries, and excited whispers. The Inspector waited patiently for it to die down.

"I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to remain in your seats a little longer, until we are able to take names and addresses as well as a brief statement from each one of you. This process will take some time, and for that I must apologize. When you have been interviewed, you will be free to go, although we may wish to speak with you again at some later time. Thank you for your attention."

He beckoned to someone behind me, and I saw that it was Detective Sergeant Graves. I wondered if the sergeant would remember me. I had first met him at Buckshaw during the police investigation into the death of Father's old school chum Horace Bonepenny. I kept my eyes fixed on his face as he came to the front of the hall, and at last I was rewarded with an ever-so-slight but distinct grin.

"Schoolboys!" Aunt Felicity huffed. "The police recruiters are ransacking the cradles of England."

"He's extremely experienced," I whispered. "He's already a detective sergeant."

"Poppycock!" she said, and dug for another mint.

Since the corpse had been hidden from view, there was nothing left for me to do but study the people around me.

Dieter, I noticed, was staring fixedly at Feely. Although he was sitting with Sally Straw — whose face was a petulant thundercloud — he was gazing at my sister's profile as if her hair were an altar of beaten gold.

Daffy had noticed it, too. When she saw the look of puzzlement on my face, she leaned over in front of Father and whispered, "The phrase you're fishing for is 'reverent infatuation.'" Then she leaned back and resumed not speaking to me.

Father paid us no attention. He had already retreated into his own world: a world of colored inks and perforations-per-inch; a world of albums and gum arabic; a world where our Gracious Majesty, King George the Sixth, was firmly ensconced on both the throne and the postage stamps of Great Britain; a world in which sadness — and reality — had no place.

At last the interviews began. As Inspector Hewitt and Sergeant Woolmer took on one side of the hall, Sergeant Graves and Constable Linnet attended to the other.

It was a long and weary old process. Time, as they say, hung heavily on our hands, or, to be more exact, on our behinds. Even Aunt Felicity was shifting uneasily on her more-than-ample padding.

"You may stand up and stretch," Inspector Hewitt had said at one point, "but please do not move from your places."

It was probably no more than about an hour before they got round to us, but it seemed to take forever. Father went first, to the corner where a plain wooden table with a couple of chairs had been set up. I could not hear what the Inspector asked him, nor could I hear any of his responses, which seemed to consist mainly of shaking his head in the negative.

It was not so very long since Inspector Hewitt had charged Father with the murder of Horace Bonepenny, and although Father had never said it in so many words, he still felt a certain coolness towards the constabulary. He was quickly back, and I waited patiently as Aunt Felicity, then Feely, then Daffy went up to speak quietly with the Inspector.

As each one returned to their seat, I tried to catch their eye, to get some hint of what they had been asked or what they had replied, but it was no use. Feely and Daffy both had that smarmy, sanctimonious look they get after partaking of Holy Communion, their eyes downcast and hands clasped at their waists in humbug humility. Father and Aunt Felicity were inscrutable, too.

Dogger was another matter.

Although he had borne up well under the Inspector's grilling, I noticed that he went back to his seat like a man walking a tightrope. A twitch had appeared at the corner of one eye, and his face had that strained yet vacant look that invariably preceded his attacks. Whatever it was that had happened to Dogger during the war, it had left him with an inability to be confronted close-up by any sort of officialdom.

Damn the consequences! I got up from my chair and knelt at his feet. Although Inspector Hewitt glanced in my direction, he made no move to stop me.

"Dogger," I whispered, "have you seen what I've seen?"

As I slipped into the chair beside him vacated by Mrs. Mullet, he looked at me as if he'd never seen me before in his life and then, like a pearl diver fighting his way slowly back to the surface from some great depth, he re-entered the real world, nodding his head in slow motion.

"Yes, Miss Flavia. Murder — I fear we have seen murder."

As my turn at the table approached, I suddenly became aware of my own heartbeat. I wished that I were a Tibetan lama, so that I could control its racing valves.

But before I could think about it further, Inspector Hewitt beckoned me. He was messing about with a stack of papers and forms, waiting until I had seated myself. For an idle instant, I found myself wondering where the blank forms had come from. Woolmer and Graves must have brought them , I decided. The Inspector certainly hadn't been carrying a briefcase before the performance.

I twisted round for a look at his wife, Antigone. Yes, there she was, sitting quietly among the villagers in her seat, radiant in spite of the situation.

"She's very beautiful," I whispered.

"Thank you," he said, not looking up from his papers, but I could tell by the corners of his mouth that he was pleased.

"Now then — name and address?"

Name and address? What was the man playing at?

"You know that already," I said.

"Of course I do" — he smiled — "but it's not official until you say it."

"Flavia de Luce — Buckshaw," I replied rather icily, and he wrote it down.

"Thank you," he said. "Now then, Flavia, what time did you arrive this evening?"

"Six-forty," I said, "on the dot. With my family. In a taxicab. Clarence Mundy's taxicab."

"And you were in the hall the whole evening?"

"Of course I was. I came over and spoke to you — don't you remember?"

"Yes. Answer the question, please."

"Yes."

I must admit that the Inspector was making me quite cross. I had hoped to be able to collaborate with him: to provide him with a richly described, minute-by-minute account of the horror that had taken place — almost in my lap — this evening. Now I could see that I was going to be treated as if I were just another gawking spectator.

"Did you see or speak to Mr. Porson before the performance?"

What did he mean by that? I had seen and spoken to Mr. Porson on several occasions over the past three days. I had driven with Mr. Porson to Culverhouse Farm and had overheard his quarrel with Gordon Ingleby in Gibbet Wood. And that was not all that I knew about Rupert Porson. Not by a long chalk.

"No," I said.

Two could play at this game.

"I see," he said. "Well, thank you. That will be all."

I had just been checkmated.

"You're free to go," he added, glancing at his wristwatch. "It's probably past your bedtime."

The nerve of the man! Past my bedtime indeed! Who did he think he was talking to?

"May I ask a question?"

"You may," he said, "although I might not be able to answer it."

"Was Rupert — Mr. Porson, I mean — electrocuted?"

He looked at me narrowly, and I could see that he was thinking carefully about his reply.

"There is that possibility. Good night, Flavia."

The man was fobbing me off. Rupert had fried like a flounder, and the Inspector knew it as well as I did.

Flashbulbs were still going off behind the puppet stage as I rejoined Father in the front row. Feely and Daffy were nowhere in sight.