The Weed That Strings the Hangman's Bag

scribbled a few notes.

'How's this?' he asked, with a final flourish, then, with a pleased look on his face, read aloud what he had written:'Direct from London!

'I hope you'll forgive the small fib and the exclamation point,' he whispered to Nialla.'Porson's Puppets

'(Operated by the acclaimed Rupert Porson. As seen on the BBC Television) 'Program'I. A Musical Interlude

'II. Jack and the Beanstalk(The former being presented for the first time on any stage; the latter declared to be universally popular with old and young alike.)

Saturday, July 22nd, 1950, at St. Tancred's Parish Hall, Bishop's Lacey.

Performances at 2:00 P.M. and 7:00 P.M. sharp!

'... Otherwise they'll just dawdle in,' he added. 'I'll have Cynthia dash off a sketch of a little jointed figure with strings to put at the top. She's an exceedingly talented artist, you know--not that she's had as many opportunities as she'd like to express herself--oh, dear, I fear I'm rambling. I'd best away to my telephonic duties.'

And with that he was gone.

'Peculiar old duck,' Rupert remarked.

'He's all right,' I told him. 'He leads rather a sad life.'

'Ah,' Rupert said, 'I know what you mean. Funerals, and all that.'

'Yes,' I said. 'Funerals and all that.'

But I was thinking more of Cynthia.

'Which way to the mains?' Rupert asked suddenly.

For a moment I was dumbfounded. I must have looked particularly unintelligent.

'The mains,' he repeated. 'The current. The electrical controls. But then I don't suppose you'd know where they are, would you?'

As it happened, I did. Only weeks before I had been press-ganged into standing backstage with Mrs. Witty, helping to throw the massive levers of the antique lighting control panel, as her first-year ballet students tripped across the boards in their recital of The Golden Apples of the Sun, in which Pomona (Deirdre Skidmore, in insect netting) wooed the reluctant Hyas (a red-faced Gerald Plunkett in improvised tights cut from a pair of winter-weight long johns), by presenting him with an ever-growing assortment of papier-mache fruit.

'Stage right,' I said. 'Behind the black tormentor curtains.'

Rupert blinked once or twice, shot me a barbed look, and clattered back up the narrow steps to the stage. For a few moments we could hear him muttering away to himself up there, punctuated by the metallic sounds of panels being opened and slammed, and switches clicked on and off.

'Don't mind him,' Nialla whispered. 'He's always nervous as a cat from the minute a show's booked until the final curtain falls. After that, he's generally as right as rain.'

As Rupert tinkered with the electricity, Nialla began unfastening several bundles of smooth wooden posts, which were bound tightly together with leather straps.

'The stage,' she told me. 'It all fits together with bolts and butterfly nuts. Rupert designed and built it all himself. Mind your fingers.'

I had stepped forward to help her with some of the longer pieces.

'I can do it myself, thanks,' she said. 'I've done it hundreds of times--got it down to a science. Only thing that needs two to lift is the floor.'

A rustling sound behind me made me turn around. There stood the vicar with rather an unhappy look on his face.

'Not good news, I'm afraid,' he said. 'Mrs. Archer tells me that Bert has gone up to London for a training course and won't be back until tomorrow, and there's no answer at Culverhouse Farm, where I had hoped to put you up. But then Mrs. I doesn't often answer the telephone when she's home alone. She'll be bringing the eggs down on Saturday, but by then it will be far too late. I'd offer the vicarage, of course, but Cynthia has quite forcibly reminded me that we're in the midst of painting the guest rooms: beds taken down and stowed in the hallways, armoires blockading the landings, and so forth. Maddening, really.'

'Don't fret, Vicar,' Rupert said from the stage.

I nearly jumped out of my skin. I'd forgotten he was there.

'We'll camp where we are, in the churchyard. We've a good tent in the van, with wool rugs and a rubber groundsheet, a little Primus stove, and beans in a tin for breakfast. We'll be as cozy as bugs in a blanket.'

'Well,' the vicar said, 'if it were solely up to me, I--'

'Ah,' Rupert said, raising a finger. 'I know what you're thinking: Can't have gypsies camping among the graves. Respect for the dear departed, and all that.'

'Well,' said the vicar, 'there might be a modicum of truth in that, but--'

'We'll set up in an unoccupied corner, won't we? No desecration, that way. Shan't be the first time we've slept in a churchyard, will it, Nialla?'

Nialla colored slightly and became fascinated with something on the floor.

'Well, I suppose it's settled then,' the vicar said. 'We don't really have a great deal of choice, do we? Besides, it's only for one night. What harm can there be in that?

'Dear me!' he said, glancing at his wristwatch. 'How tempus does