The Weed That Strings the Hangman's Bag

"Exactly! If he had, Galligantus would have been triggered. But he wasn't, of course, because the vicar's bicycle clip was clamped over the end of the lever. Black on black. Rupert mustn't have noticed it."

"Good Lord!" the Inspector exclaimed, realizing what I was saying. "Then it wasn't--"

"A tragic accident? No, Inspector. I should hardly say so."

He let out a low whistle.

"See this? Someone's cut away the insulation from this cable," I went on, "right down to the bare wire, then shoved the bicycle clip down on top to cover it. The other end of the bicycle clip is clamped over the end of Galligantus's lever."

"Forming an electrical jumper," he said. "A deliberate short circuit."

"Precisely," I said. "Here--you can see the deposit of carbon where it arced. See where the wood beneath it is a little charred?"

Inspector Hewitt leaned in for a closer look, but said nothing.

"It seems to me," I added, "that the bicycle clip couldn't have been put there until sometime after the first performance. Otherwise, Galligantus couldn't have fallen."

"Flavia," the Inspector said, "you must promise me you will discuss this with no one. Not a word. Do you understand?"

I stared at him for a moment, as if the very thought of doing so were highly offensive.

"He was electrocuted, wasn't he?" I asked.

The Inspector nodded. "Dr. Darby thinks it most likely. We'll have the autopsy results later today."

We'll have the autopsy results? Was the Inspector including me? Did he count me as part of his team? I needed to choose my words carefully.

"My lips are sealed," I said. "Cross my heart and--"

"Thank you, Flavia," he said firmly. "A simple promise is sufficient. Now run along and let me get on with it."

Run along? What jolly cheek! What utter gall!

I'm afraid I made a rude noise on my way out.

As I suspected she would be, Feely was still flirting with Dieter beneath the oaks.

Father stood near the door of the church with the perplexed look on his face of a man trying to decide if he should rush to the aid of someone who has unwittingly wandered into the tiger's cage, but can't quite make up his mind about which of the cage's two occupants is in greater need of saving from the other.

"Feely," he called out at last, "we mustn't keep Mrs. Mullet waiting."

My stomach curdled instantly. Today was Sunday, the day of the week upon which we were force-fed, like Strasbourg geese, upon one of Mrs. Mullet's failed culinary experiments, such as stuffed sow's liver brought whole to the table and passed off as Mock Denbighshire Sweet Loaf.

"Father," Feely said, taking the bull by the horns, "I'd like you to meet Dieter Schrantz."

Father, of course, like everyone else in Bishop's Lacey, was aware that there were German prisoners of war working in the neighbourhood. But until that moment, he had never been put in the position of having to converse with someone he always referred to, at home in Buckshaw's drawing room, as the Enemy.

He offered his hand.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, sir," Dieter said, and I could see that Father was taken aback by Dieter's perfect English. But before he could respond, Feely fired off the next round: "I've invited Dieter to tea," she said. "And he's accepted."

"Providing you approve, of course, sir," Dieter added.

Father seemed flustered. He pulled his spectacles from his waistcoat pocket and began polishing them on his handkerchief. Fortunately, Aunt Felicity arrived in time to intervene.

"Of course he approves!" she said. "Haviland's never been one to hold a grudge, have you, Havvie?"

Like a man in a dream, Father looked round him and remarked, to no one in particular, "Interesting weather."

I took immediate advantage of his momentary confusion.

"Go on ahead without me," I said. "I just want to pop in and make sure Nialla's all right. I'll be home directly."

And no one lifted a finger to stop me.

Mrs. Mullet's cottage was nestled at the far end of Cobbler's Lane, a narrow, dusty track that ran south from the high street and ended at a stile. It was a cozy little place with hollyhocks and a ginger cat dozing in the sun. Her husband, Alf, was sitting on a bench in the yard, carving a willow whistle.

"Well, well," he said when he saw me at his gate, "to what do we owe this most prodigious great pleasure?"

"Good morning, Mr. Mullet," I said, falling effortlessly into my best prunes-and-prisms voice, "I hope you're keeping well?"

"Fair ... fair to troublesome digestion. Sometimes kicks like a kangaroo--elsewise, burns like Rome."

"I'm sorry to hear that," I said, meaning every word of it. We de Luces were not the only ones subjected to Mrs. Mullet's culinary concoctions.

"Here," Alf said, handing me the wooden whistle. "Give 'er a blow. See if you can fetch up an elf."

I took the slender piece of wood and raised it to my lips.

"Perhaps I'd better not," I said. "I don't want to wake Nialla."

"Ha!" he said. "No fear o' that. She's gone afore the sun."

"Gone?"

I was astonished. How could she be gone?

"Where?" I asked.