The Weed That Strings the Hangman's Bag

"You mustn't say things like that," Nialla said. "They were both very sweet, especially Alf. He's a lovely old gentleman — puts me in mind of my grandfather. But I needed to get away somewhere to think, to pull myself together. You don't know what it's like to come flying apart at the seams."

"Yes, I do. More than you might think. I quite often come here myself when I need to be alone."

"I must have sensed that. I thought of Buckshaw at once. No one would ever think to look for me here. The place wasn't actually that hard to find."

"You'd better get back," I said, "before they notice you're gone. The Inspector wasn't at the church when I came past. I expect they had rather a late night. Since he's already questioned you, there's no reason you shouldn't be taking a long walk in the country, is there?"

"No ..." she said, tentatively.

"Besides," I added, getting back to my usual cheerful self, "no one but me knows you were here."

Nialla reached into the side pocket on the door of the Rolls-Royce and pulled something out. It came free with a rustle of wax paper. As she opened it out into her lap, I couldn't help noticing the razor-sharp creases in the paper.

"No one knows," she said, handing me a cucumber sandwich, "... but you — and one other person. Here, eat this. You must be famished."

* TWENTY-TWO *

"GO ON! GO ON!" Dogger growled, his hands trembling like the last two leaves of autumn. He did not see me standing there, in the doorway of the greenhouse.

With one blade of his pocketknife opened at a near right angle, he was clumsily trying to hone it on a whetstone. The blade skittered crazily here and there, making ghastly grating noises on the black surface.

Poor Dogger. These episodes came upon him without warning, and almost anything could trigger them: a spoken word, a smell, or a drifting snatch of melody. He was at the mercy of his broken memory.

I backed away slowly until I was behind the garden wall. Then I began whistling softly, only gradually increasing the volume. It would sound as if I were just coming across the lawn towards the kitchen garden. Halfway to the greenhouse, I broke into song: a campfire ditty I had learned just before I was excommunicated from the Girl Guides:

Once a jolly swagman camped by a billabong,
Under the shade of a coolibah tree,
And he sang as he watched and waited till his billy boiled,
"Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me?"

I strolled square-shouldered into the greenhouse.

"G'day, mate!" I said, with a hearty, Down-Under grin.

"McCorquedale? Is that you?" Dogger called out, his voice as thin and wispy as the wind in the strings of an old harp. "Is Bennett with you? Have you got your tongues back?"

His head was cocked to one side, listening, his wrist held up to shield his eyes, which were turned blindly up to the glare of the greenhouse glass.

I felt as if I had blundered into a sanctuary, and the flesh crawled on the back of my neck.

"It's me, Dogger — Flavia," I managed.

His brows knitted themselves into a look of puzzlement. "Flavia?"

My name issued from his throat like a whisper from an abandoned well.

I could see that he was already fighting his way back from whatever had seized him, the light in his eyes coming back only warily from the depths to the surface, like golden fish in an ornamental pool.

"Miss Flavia?"

"I'm sorry," I said, taking the knife from his shaking hands. "Have I broken it? I borrowed it yesterday to cut a bit of twine, and I might have jammed the blade. If I did, I'll buy you a new one."

This was sheer fantasy — I hadn't touched the thing — but I have learned that under certain circumstances, a fib is not only permissible, but can even be an act of perfect grace. I took the knife from his hands, opened it fully, and began rubbing it in smooth circles on the surface of the stone.

"No, it's fine," I said. "Phew! I'd have been in big trouble if I'd jiggered your best knife, wouldn't I?"

I snapped the blade shut and handed it back. Dogger took it from me, his fingers now much more sure of themselves.

I turned over an empty pail and sat on it as we shared a silence.

"It was good of you to think of feeding Nialla," I said, after a while.

"She needs a friend," he said. "She's — "

"Pregnant," I blurted.

"Yes."

"But how did you know that? Surely she didn't tell you?"

"Excessive salivation," Dogger said, "... and telangiectasia."

"Tel-what?"

"Telangiectasia," he said in a mechanical voice, as if he were reading from an invisible book. "... Spider veins in proximity to the mouth, nose, and chin. Uncommon, but not unknown in early pregnancy."

"You amaze me, Dogger," I said. "How on earth do you know these things?"

"They float in my head," he replied quietly, "like corks upon the sea. I've read books, I think. I've had a lot of time on my hands."