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

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

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 protegee, 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 protegees, 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.

I have never wanted anything more in my life than I wanted at that moment to ask if I could have a look at the corpse, but for once, my normally nimble mind failed me. I could not think of a single plausible reason for having a squint at Rupert's remains — as Mutt Wilmott had called them — nor could I think of an implausible one.

"How's Nialla taking it?" I asked, making a wild stab in the dark.

Mutt frowned.

"Nialla? She's taken herself off somewhere," he said. "No one seems to know where."

"Perhaps she took a room at the Thirteen Drakes," I suggested. "She might have needed a hot bath."

I was hoping Mutt would take the bait, and he did.

"She's not at the Thirteen Drakes," he replied. "I've been bivouacked there myself since I first arrived."

So! As I had suspected, Mutt Wilmott had been within walking distance of St. Tancred's, before, during, and perhaps after Rupert was murdered.

"Well," I said, "sorry to have bothered you."

They had their heads together before I was out the door.

As they so often do in summer, the skies had quickly cleared. The dark overcast had moved off to the east and the birds were singing like billy-oh. Although it was still quite early in the day, and in spite of the fresh air and the warm sunshine, I found myself yawning like a cat as I rode along the lanes towards Buckshaw. Perhaps it was because I had been up before dawn; perhaps because I had been up too late the night before.

Whatever the case, I was suddenly quite fagged out. Daffy had once remarked that Samuel Pepys, the diarist, was forever climbing into bed, and Father was always going on about the remarkable restorative power of a brief nap. For once, I understood how they felt.

But how to get into the house unseen? Mrs. Mullet guarded the kitchen like a Foo Dog at the tomb of a Chinese emperor, yet if I used the front door, I ran the risk of being set upon by Aunt Felicity and assigned unwelcome duties for whatever remained of the day.

The coach house was the only place where one could easily come and go without being seen or disturbed.

I parked Gladys behind one of the great chestnut trees that lined the drive, and made my way stealthily round the side of the house.

A door in the far side of the coach house opened into what had once been a small paddock. I scaled the fence, lifted the wrought-iron latch, and slipped noiselessly inside.

Although my eyes were somewhat dazzled from the light outside, I could still make out the dark, looming form of Harriet's vintage Rolls-Royce, a Phantom II, its nickel radiator gleaming dully in the gloom. No more than a diffused and feeble light managed to find its way in through the small, dusty windows, and I knew I would have to watch my step.

Sometimes I came here to brood. I would climb aboard this palace on wheels, and in its comforting interior, I would sit in creamy leather, pretending I was Harriet, just about to engage the gears and drive off to a better life.

I took hold of the door handle and turned it quietly. If Dogger was nearby, I knew he'd be alerted by the slightest sound, and would come running to see who was burgling the coach house. God bless the good ship Rolls-Royce, and all who sail in her , I thought as the heavy door swung open in utter silence, and I hauled myself up into the driver's seat.

I inhaled the plush motorcar scent, as Harriet must once have done, and prepared to curl myself up into a ball. With any luck, and the near-darkness, I'd be asleep in less than a minute. There would be time enough later to think about murder.