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

"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.