The Weed That Strings the Hangman's Bag

Although the broken glass from my earlier rescue had been cleared away, the place still gave me the shivers. I wasted no time in finding the issues of The Hinley Chronicle for the latter part of 1945.

Although Robin's exact dates hadn't been carved on his headstone, Sally's story indicated that he had died sometime after the harvest in that year. The Hinley Chronicle had been--and still was--published weekly, on Fridays. Consequently, there were only a couple of dozen issues covering the time between the end of June and the end of the year. I knew, though, that I would most likely find the story in an earlier issue than a later one. And so it was: Friday, 7 September, 1945.An inquest will be held today at Almoner's Hall in Bishop's Lacey into the death of Robin Ingleby, five years of age, whose body was found on Monday in Gibbet Wood, near that village. Inspector Josiah Gully of the Hinley constabulary has declined comment at this time, but strongly urges any member of the public who may have information about the child's death to contact police authorities immediately at Hinley 5272.

Directly below this was printed the notice:

Patrons are informed that the post office and confectionery located in the high street, Bishop's Lacey, will close today (Friday, 7th inst.) at noon. Both will be open as usual on Saturday morning. Your patronage is appreciated. Letitia Cool, Proprietress.

Miss Cool was the postmistress and purveyor of sweets to the village, and there was only one reason I could think of that she would have closed her shop on a Friday.

I turned eagerly to the following week: the issue of 14 September.An inquest convened to inquire into the death of Robin Ingleby, aged five years, of Culverhouse Farm, near Bishop's Lacey was adjourned Friday last at 3:15 P.M. after forty minutes of deliberation. The coroner recorded a verdict of Death by Misadventure, and expressed his sympathy to the bereaved parents.

And that was all. It seemed obvious that the village wanted to spare Robin's parents the grief of seeing the horrid details in print.

A quick look through the remaining papers turned up nothing more than a brief notice of the funeral, at which the pallbearers had been Gordon Ingleby, Bartram Tennyson (Robin's grandfather, who had come down from London), Dieter Schrantz, and Clarence Mundy, the taxicab proprietor. Rupert's name was not mentioned.

I replaced the newspapers in their cradle and, with no more damage to myself than a scuffed knee, shoehorned myself back out of the window.

Curses! It was beginning to rain. A black-bottomed cloud had drifted across the sun, bringing a sudden chill to the air.

I ran across the weeded lot to the river, where fat raindrops were already pocking the water with perfectly formed little craters. I scrambled down the slope and, with my bare hands, scooped out a gob of the sticky clay that formed the bank.

Then back to the Pit Shed again, where I dumped the muck in a mound on the windowsill. Taking care not to get any of it on my clothing, I rolled handfuls of the stuff between my palms, making a family of long stringy gray snakes. Then, clambering up onto the rusty motor once again, I seized the edges of the windowpane, and hoisted it gingerly back into position. With my forefinger as a makeshift putty knife, I pressed the stuff all round the edges of the glass into what looked, at least, like a tight and sturdy seal.

How long it would last was anybody's guess. If the rain didn't wash it away, it might well last forever. Not that it would need to: At the first opportunity, I thought, I would replace it by pinching some bona fide putty and the proper knife from Buckshaw, where Dogger was forever using the stuff to shore up loose panes in the decaying greenhouse.

"The Mad Putty-Knifer has struck again!" the villagers would whisper.