The Weed That Strings the Hangman's Bag

'This is our vicar, Canon Richardson,' I told the redheaded woman. 'Perhaps he can help.'

'Denwyn,' the vicar said, holding out a hand to the stranger. 'We don't stand much on ceremony since the war.'

The woman stuck out two or three fingers and touched his palm, but said nothing. As she extended her hand, the short sleeve of her dress slid up, and I had a quick glimpse of the ugly green and purple bruise on her upper arm. She covered it hastily with her left hand as she tugged the cotton fabric down to hide it.

'And how may I be of service?' the vicar asked, gesturing towards the van. 'It is not often that we, in our bucolic little backwater, are called upon to minister to such august theater folk.'

She smiled gamely. 'Our van's broken down--or as good as. Something to do with the carburetor. If it had been anything electrical, I'm sure Rupert could have mended it in a flash, but I'm afraid the fuel system is beyond him.'

'Dear, dear!' the vicar said. 'I'm sure Bert Archer, at the garage, can put it right for you. I'll ring him up, if you like.'

'Oh, no,' the woman said quickly--perhaps too quickly--'we wouldn't want you to go to any trouble. Rupert's gone down the high street. He's probably already found someone.'

'If he had, he'd be back by now,' the vicar said. 'Let me ring Bert. He often slips home for a nap in the afternoon. He's not as young as he was, you know--nor are any of us, if it comes to that. Still, it is a favorite maxim of mine that, when dealing with motor mechanics--even tame ones--it never does one any harm to have the blessing of the Church.'

'Oh, no. It's too much trouble. I'm sure we'll be just fine.'

'Nonsense,' the vicar said, already moving off among the forest of gravestones and making at full speed for the rectory. 'No trouble at all. I'll be back in a jiffy.'

'Vicar!' the woman called. 'Please--'

He stopped in mid-stride and came reluctantly back towards us.

'It's just that ... you see, we ...'

'Aha! A question of money, then,' the vicar said.

She nodded sadly, her head down, her red hair cascading over her face.

'I'm sure something can be arranged,' the vicar said. 'Ah! Here's your husband now.'

A little man with an oversized head and a lopsided gait was stumping towards us across the churchyard, his right leg swinging out at each step in a wide, awkward semicircle. As he approached, I saw that his calf was caged in a heavy iron brace.

He must have been in his forties, but it was difficult to tell.

In spite of his diminutive size, his barrel chest and powerful upper arms seemed ready to burst out of the seersucker suit that confined them. By contrast, his right leg was pitiful: By the way in which his trousers clung, and flapped uselessly round what lay beneath, I could see that it was little more than a matchstick. With his huge head, he looked to me like nothing so much as a giant octopus, stalking on uneven tentacles through the churchyard.

He lurched to a halt and deferentially lifted a flat, peaked motoring cap, revealing an unruly mop of pale blond hair that matched precisely his little Vandyke goatee.

'Rupert Porson, I presume?' the vicar said, giving the newcomer a jolly, hail-fellow-well-met handshake. 'I'm Denwyn Richardson--and this is my young friend Flavia de Luce.'

Porson nodded at me and shot an almost invisibly quick, dark glance at the woman before turning on the full beam of a searchlight smile.

'Spot of engine trouble, I understand,' the vicar went on. 'Quite maddening. Still, if it has brought the creator of The Magic Kingdom and Snoddy the Squirrel into our midst--well, it just proves the old adage, doesn't it?'

He didn't say which old adage he was referring to, nor did anyone care enough to ask.

'I was about to remark to your good wife,' the vicar said, 'that St. Tancred's would be honored indeed if you might see your way clear to presenting a little entertainment in the parish hall whilst your van is being repaired? I realize, of course, how much in demand you must be, but I should be negligent if I didn't at least make the attempt on behalf of the children--and yes, the grown-ups, too!--of Bishop's Lacey. It is good, now and then, to allow children to launch an attack upon their money boxes in a worthy cultural cause, don't you agree?'

'Well, Vicar,' Porson said, in a honeyed voice--too big, too resonant, too mellifluous, I thought, for such a tiny man--'we do have rather a tight timetable. Our tour has been grueling, you see, and London calls....'

'I understand,' said the vicar.

'But,' Porson added, lifting a dramatic forefinger, 'nothing would delight us more than being allowed to sing for our supper, as it were. Isn't that so, Nialla? It shall be quite like the old days.'

The woman nodded, but said nothing. She was staring off at the hills beyond.

'Well, then,' the vicar said, rubbing his hands together vigorously, as if he were making fire, 'it's all arranged. Come along and I'll show you the hall. It's rather tatty, but it does boast a stage, and the acoustics are said to be quite remarkable.'

With that, the two men disappeared round the back of the church.

For a moment there seemed nothing to say. And then the woman spoke: 'You wouldn't happen to have a cigarette, would you? I'm dying for a smoke.'

I gave my head a rather idiotic shake.

'Hmmm,' she said. 'You look like the kind of kid who might have.'