The Weed That Strings the Hangman's Bag

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.