The Weed That Strings the Hangman's Bag

The chocolates were so old, I thought, they were most likely full to bursting with countless varieties of interesting molds, but unfortunately there was no time to investigate. Reluctantly, I returned to the kitchen and stuffed the box in the top compartment of the ice cabinet. I would deal with Feely later.

"Ned!"

I gave him a smile, and a wave with my fingers spread generously apart, the way royalty is taught to do. With his sleeves rolled up and brilliantined hair like a wet haystack, Ned was high atop the steep-pitched roof of the Thirteen Drakes, his heels braced against a chimney pot, using a brush to slather hot pitch onto tiles that looked as if they'd been up there since King Alfred burned the cakes.

"Come down!" I shouted.

"Can't, Flavia. Got a leak in the kitchen. Tully wants this done before the Inspector shows up. Said he'd be here bright and early.

"Tully says he's counting on the early part, anyhow," he added. "... Whatever that means."

"I have to talk to you," I said, dropping my voice to a loud stage whisper. "I can't very well go shouting it up to the housetops."

"You'll have to come up." He pointed to a ladder that leaned against the wall. "Mind your step."

The ladder was as old as the inn, or so it seemed to me. It tottered and twisted as I climbed, creaking and groaning horribly. The ascent seemed to take forever, and I tried not to look down.

"It's about last night, isn't it?" Ned asked, as I neared the top.

Double damnation! If I was so transparent that even someone like Ned could see through me, I might as well leave it to the police.

"No," I said, "as a matter of fact it isn't, Mister Smart-Pants. A certain person asked me to thank you for your lovely gift."

"She did?" Ned said, his features broadening into a classic village idiot grin. The Folklore Society would have had him in front of a cine-camera before you could turn round three times and spit across the wind.

"She'd have come herself, but she's being detained in her tower by her wicked father who feeds her on floor sweepings and disgusting table scraps."

"Haw!" Ned said. "She didn't look too underfed last night." His features darkened, as if he had only just remembered what had taken place.

"Pretty sad, that puppet man," he said. "I feel sorry for him."

"I'm glad you do, Ned. He hadn't many friends in the world, you know. It might be nice if you expressed your condolences to Mr. Wilmott. Someone said he's staying here."

This was a lie, but a well-intentioned one.

"Is he? Dunno. All I know right now is 'Roof! Roof! Roof!' — sounds like a dog when you say it like that, doesn't it? 'Roof! Roof! Roof!'"

I shook my head and started down the shaky ladder.

"Look at yourself!" Ned said. "You're covered with tar."

"Like a roof," I said, getting a look at my filthy hands and my dress. Ned hooted with laughter and I managed a pathetic grin.

I could cheerfully have fed him to the pigs.

"It won't come off, you know. You'll still have it plastered all over you when you're an old lady."

I wondered where Ned had picked up this rustic folklore — it was probably from Tully. I knew for a fact that Michael Faraday had synthesized tetrachloroethene in the 1820s by heating hexachloroethane and piping off the chlorine as it decomposed. The resulting solvent would remove tar from fabric like stink. Unfortunately — much as I should like to have done — I hadn't the time to repeat Faraday's discovery. Instead, I would have to fall back on mayonnaise, as recommended in The Butler and Footman's Vade Mecum, which I had come across one rainy day while snooping through the pantry at Buckshaw.

"Perhaps Mary would know. Is she somewhere about?"

I didn't dare barge in and ask Tully about a paying guest. To be perfectly honest, I was afraid of him, although it's difficult to say why with any certainty.

"Mary? She's taken the week's wash to the laundry, then she'll most likely be off to church."

Church! Baste me with butter! I'd forgotten all about church. Father would be going purple!

"Thanks, Ned," I shouted, grabbing Gladys from the bicycle stand. "See you!"

"Not if I see you first." Ned laughed, and like Santa Claus, turned to his work.

As I had feared, Father was standing at the front door glaring at his watch as I slid to a stop.

"Sorry!" I said. He didn't even bother asking.

Through the open door I flew and into the front hall. Daffy was sitting halfway up the west staircase with a book open in her lap. Feely wasn't down yet.

I charged up the east staircase to my bedroom, threw on my Sunday dress like a quick-change artist, scrubbed my face with a cloth, and within two minutes by the clock — barring a bit of tar on the end of my pigtails — I was ready for morning prayer.

It was then that I remembered the chocolates. I'd better retrieve them before Mrs. Mullet began to concoct her dreadful Sunday ices. If I didn't, there would be a host of cheeky questions to answer.