The Weed That Strings the Hangman's Bag

"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.

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

* TWENTY-ONE *

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.