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

"Mundy has already taken them home," he said.

"I'll be ready in a jiff," I said, walking towards the W.C. No one, anywhere, at any time in history, has ever stopped a female en route to the Baffins.

At the last moment, I changed direction and slipped into the kitchen, where I found Mrs. Mullet in full command. She had made a huge pot of tea, and had placed steaming cups in front of Nialla and Sergeant Woolmer, who sat at a side table.

Nialla saw me before the sergeant did, and her eyes flashed — but only for an instant — like a startled animal. She gave me an almost imperceptible shake of the head, but its meaning was clear.

Women's wireless at work. I rubbed my nose casually to let her know that the message had been received.

"Thank you, Miss Gilfoyle," the sergeant said. "You've been most helpful."

Gilfoyle? Was that Nialla's name? It was the first time I'd heard it.

Sergeant Woolmer drained his cup in a single draught, with no apparent ill effects.

"Champion tea, Mrs. Mullet," he said, closing his notebook. He gathered his papers, and with a pleasant nod in my direction, walked back out into the auditorium.

The man must have a stomach like a ship's boiler , I thought.

"Now then, dear, as I was saying," Mrs. Mullet said, "there's no use you goin' back to Culverhouse Farm tonight. It's rainin' cats and dogs — has been for an hour or more. The river will be mortal high — not safe to cross. 'Sides, no one would expect you to sleep in a tent in a wet field with the situation bein' what it is, if you take my meanin'. Alf's brought a brolly that's big enough for the three of us, and we're just across the way. Our Agnes's room hasn't been slept in since she left home to take up Pitman shorthand six years ago come November thirteenth. Alf and me have kept it a kind of a shrine, like. Has its own hot plate and a goose-down mattress. And don't say no, 'cause I won't hear you."

Nialla's eyes were suddenly brimming with tears, and for the life of me, I could not tell if they were tears of grief or joy.

I'd have given a guinea to know what words passed between Father and Dogger in the backseat of the taxicab, but the simple truth is that I dropped off. With the heater turned full up against the chill of the cold night rain, and the windscreen wipers making their quiet swish-swash in the darkness, the urge to sleep was irresistible. Not even an owl could have stayed awake.

When Father roused me at the door of Buckshaw, I stumbled into the house and up the stairs to bed — too tired even to bother undressing.

I must have fallen asleep with my eyes open.

THE SUN WAS STREAMING splendidly in at my casement window; the birds in the chestnuts were singing their little throats out. The first thought that came flashing into my mind was of Rupert's face: his lips pulled slightly back, his teeth showing obscenely.

I rolled over onto my back and stared at the ceiling. I always find that a blank screen helps clarify one's thoughts marvelously; helps bring them into focus.

In death Rupert had looked, I decided, remarkably like the dead dog I had once almost stepped on in a field behind the Thirteen Drakes, its fog-filled eyes staring, its yellowed fangs bared in a frozen grimace. (Although with Rupert, there had been no flies, and his teeth were quite presentable, actually.)

Somehow, the dog reminded me of something — but what?

Of course! Mutt Wilmott! The Thirteen Drakes! Mutt Wilmott would be staying at the Thirteen Drakes!

If Mrs. Mullet were to be believed, it had begun raining shortly after the evening performance began. Mutt had been there at about six-forty — say, six forty-five — I had seen him with my own eyes. He would hardly have set out for London in such a downpour. No, had he planned to leave, he would have done so before the show. It seemed obvious that he still had business to conclude with Rupert.

Ergo: He was, at this very instant, eating bacon and eggs at the Thirteen Drakes, Bishop Lacey's sole hostelry.

Fortunately, I was already dressed.

There was a cryptlike silence in the house as I crept down the east staircase. Last night's excitement had drained everyone of their energy and they were, I guessed, still snoring away in their respective rooms like a pack of convalescent vampires.

As I was slipping out the kitchen door, however, I came to an abrupt halt. On the wooden stand beside the door, tucked between the two full bottles the milk float had left on our doorstep at dawn, was a package.

It was a pustulent purple color, with projecting top and bottom rims. The clear cellophane in which it was wrapped had protected it from last night's rain. On the lid, in gold letters, were the words Milady Chocolates — Finest Assorted — 2 lb. Duchess Selection . Wrapped around it lengthwise was a ribbon the color of a faded red rose. The label was still attached like the Mad Hatter's hat: 10/6.

I had seen this box before. In fact, I had seen it just a few days ago in the flyblown window of Miss Cool's confectionery shop cum post office in the high street, where it had languished since time immemorial — perhaps since the war, or even longer. And I realized at once how it had made its way to the back door at Buckshaw: Ned Cropper.

Ned earned PS7 a week doing chores for Tully Stoker at the Thirteen Drakes, and he was smitten with, among others, my sister Ophelia. Even though he had accompanied Tully's daughter, Mary, to Jack and the Beanstalk last night, it had not kept him from leaving his midnight love token on our doorstep, as an adoring tomcat drops a mouse at its owner's feet.

The chocolates were so old, I thought, they were most likely full to bursting with countless varieties of interesting molds, but unfortunately there was no time to investigate. Reluctantly, I returned to the kitchen and stuffed the box in the top compartment of the ice cabinet. I would deal with Feely later.

"Ned!"

I gave him a smile, and a wave with my fingers spread generously apart, the way royalty is taught to do. With his sleeves rolled up and brilliantined hair like a wet haystack, Ned was high atop the steep-pitched roof of the Thirteen Drakes, his heels braced against a chimney pot, using a brush to slather hot pitch onto tiles that looked as if they'd been up there since King Alfred burned the cakes.

"Come down!" I shouted.

"Can't, Flavia. Got a leak in the kitchen. Tully wants this done before the Inspector shows up. Said he'd be here bright and early.

"Tully says he's counting on the early part, anyhow," he added. "... Whatever that means."

"I have to talk to you," I said, dropping my voice to a loud stage whisper. "I can't very well go shouting it up to the housetops."

"You'll have to come up." He pointed to a ladder that leaned against the wall. "Mind your step."

The ladder was as old as the inn, or so it seemed to me. It tottered and twisted as I climbed, creaking and groaning horribly. The ascent seemed to take forever, and I tried not to look down.

"It's about last night, isn't it?" Ned asked, as I neared the top.

Double damnation! If I was so transparent that even someone like Ned could see through me, I might as well leave it to the police.

"No," I said, "as a matter of fact it isn't, Mister Smart-Pants. A certain person asked me to thank you for your lovely gift."

"She did?" Ned said, his features broadening into a classic village idiot grin. The Folklore Society would have had him in front of a cine-camera before you could turn round three times and spit across the wind.

"She'd have come herself, but she's being detained in her tower by her wicked father who feeds her on floor sweepings and disgusting table scraps."

"Haw!" Ned said. "She didn't look too underfed last night." His features darkened, as if he had only just remembered what had taken place.