The Weed That Strings the Hangman's Bag

'WELL, THEN!' THE VICAR said brightly, rubbing his hands together, as if the moment hadn't happened. 'That's settled. Where shall we begin?' He looked eagerly from one of them to the other.

'By unloading the van, I suppose,' Rupert said. 'I assume we can leave things here until the show?'

'Oh, of course ... of course,' said the vicar. 'The parish hall's as safe as houses. Perhaps even a little safer.'

'Then someone will need to have a look at the van ... and we'll want a place to put up for a few days.'

'Leave that department to me,' the vicar said. 'I'm sure I can manage something. Now then, up sleeves, and to work we go. Come along, Flavia, dear. I'm sure we'll find something suited to your special talents.'

Something suited to my special talents? Somehow I doubted it--unless the subject was criminal poisoning, which was my chief delight.

But still, because I didn't feel up to going home to Buckshaw just yet, I pasted on my best Girl Guide (retired) smile for the vicar, and followed him, along with Rupert and Nialla, outside into the churchyard.

As Rupert swung open the rear doors of the van, I had my first glimpse into the life of a traveling showman. The Austin's dim interior was beautifully fitted out with row upon row of varnished drawers, each one nestled snugly above, beside, and below its neighbors: very like the boxes of shoes in a well-run boot maker's shop, with each drawer capable of sliding in and out on its own track. Piled on the floor of the van were the larger boxes-- shipping crates, really--with rope handles at the ends to facilitate their being pulled out and lugged to wherever they were going.

'Rupert made it all himself,' Nialla said, proudly. 'The drawers, the folding stage, the lighting equipment ... made the spotlights out of old paint tins, didn't you, Rupert?'

Rupert nodded absently as he hauled away at a bundle of iron tubing.

'And that's not all. He cut the cables, made the props, painted the scenery, carved the puppets ... everything--except that, of course.'

She was pointing to a bulky black case with a leather handle and perforations in the side.

'What's in there? Is it an animal?'

Nialla laughed.

'Better than that. It's Rupert's pride and joy: a magnetic recorder. Had it sent him from America. Cost him a pretty penny, I can tell you. Still, it's cheaper than hiring the BBC orchestra to play the incidental music!'

Rupert had already begun to tug boxes out of the Austin, grunting as he worked. His arms were like dockyard cranes, lifting and turning ... lifting and turning, until at last, nearly everything was piled in the grass.

'Allow me to lend a hand,' the vicar said, seizing a rope handle at the end of a black coffin-shaped trunk with the word 'Galligantus' stenciled upon it in white letters, as Rupert took the other end.

Nialla and I went back and forth, back and forth, with the lighter bits and pieces, and within half an hour, everything was piled up inside the parish hall in front of the stage.

'Well done!' the vicar said, dusting off the sleeves of his jacket. 'Well done, indeed. Now then, would Saturday be suitable? For the show, I mean? Let me see ... today is Thursday ... that would give you an extra day to make ready, as well as time to have your van repaired.'

'Sounds all right to me,' Rupert said. Nialla nodded, even though she hadn't been asked.

'Saturday it is, then. I'll have Cynthia run off handbills on the hectograph. She can take them round the shops tomorrow ... slap a few up in strategic places. Cynthia's such a good sport about these things.'

Of the many phrases that came to mind to describe Cynthia Richardson, 'good sport' was not among them; 'ogress,' however, was.

It was after all Cynthia, with her rodent features, who had once caught me teetering tiptoe on the altar of St. Tancred's, using one of Father's straight razors to scrape a sample of blue zafre from a medieval stained-glass window. Zafre was an impure basic arsenate of cobalt, prepared by roasting, which the craftsmen of the Middle Ages had used for painting on glass, and I was simply dying to analyze the stuff in my laboratory to determine how successful its makers had been in the essential step of freeing it of iron.

Cynthia had seized me, upended me, and spanked me on the spot, making what I thought to be unfair use of a nearby copy of Hymns Ancient and Modern (Standard Edition).

'What you have done, Flavia, is not worthy of congratulation,' Father said when I reported this outrage to him. 'You have ruined a perfectly good Thiers-Issard hollow-ground blade.'

I have to admit, though, that Cynthia was a great organizer, but then, so were the men with whips who got the pyramids built. Certainly, if anyone could manage to paper Bishop's Lacey from end to end in three days with handbills, it was Cynthia Richardson.

'Hold on!' the vicar exclaimed. 'I've just had the most splendid idea! Tell me what you think. Why not present two shows rather than one? I don't claim to be an expert in the art of the puppet theater, by any means--knowing what is possible and what is not, and so forth--but why not put on a show Saturday afternoon for the children, and another Saturday evening, when more of the grownups would be free to attend?'

Rupert did not reply at once, but stood rubbing his chin. Even I could see instantly that two performances would double the take at the box office.

'Well ...' he said at last. 'I suppose. It would have to be the same show both times, though ...'

'Splendid!' said the vicar. 'What's it to be, then ... the program, that is?'

'Open with a short musical piece,' Rupert said. 'It's a new one I've been working up. No one's seen it yet, so this would be a good chance to try it out. Then Jack and the Beanstalk. They always clamor for Jack and the Beanstalk, young and old alike. Classic fare. Very popular.'

'Smashing!' the vicar said. He pulled a folded sheet of paper and the nub of a pencil from an inner pocket and