The Weed That Strings the Hangman's Bag

As Nialla climbed the stairs, a rubber heel squeaked on waxed floorboards, and Cynthia was gone.

'Cynthia has offered to run you over to Buckshaw,' the vicar said, turning to me, and I knew instantly that he was fibbing. 'I expect you'll be back this evening with your family?'

'Oh, of course,' I said. 'They're all jolly keen on Jack and the Beanstalk.'

With Gladys strapped precariously to the roof, we crept slowly along the lane in the tired, dusty Oxford. Cynthia, like vicar's wives in general, had a tendency to over-control, steering from side to side in a series of pie crust scallops between the hedges.

Sitting beside her in the front seat, I had a good opportunity to examine her overbite, close-up and in profile. Even with her mouth shut, she showed a remarkable amount of tooth, and I found myself seriously rethinking my rebellion against braces.

'There's always something, isn't there?' she said suddenly, her face still on fire from her recent humiliation. 'One is forever being rousted out of one's own house by someone more needy--not that I mind, of course. First, it was the Gypsies. Then, during the war, the evacuees. Then, last year, the Gypsies came again. Denwyn went to them in Gibbet Wood, and invited them personally, each and every one, to attend the Holy Eucharist. Not a single man jack of them ever showed up, of course. Gypsies are savages, essentially, or perhaps Roman Catholics. Not that they don't have souls--they do, naturally--but one always feels that theirs are so much shadier than one's own.'

'I wonder how Nialla's getting on with her bath?' I remarked brightly, as we drove up the avenue of chestnuts to Buckshaw.

Cynthia stared straight ahead, gripping the wheel.

'Nonsense!' Aunt Felicity declared. 'We shall go as a family.'

We were in the drawing room, spread as widely apart as was humanly possible.

Father muttered something about stamp albums, and I could see that Daffy was already holding her breath in an attempt to feign a fever.

'You and your girls need to get out more, Haviland. You're all of you as pale as jellyfish. It will be my treat. I shall have Clarence bring round his car as soon as we've eaten.'

'But--' Father managed.

'I shall brook no buts, Haviland.'

Outside, Dogger was weeding at the edge of the terrace. Aunt Felicity rapped sharply on the windowpane to get his attention.

'Yes, miss?' he said, coming to the French doors, straw hat in hand.

'Ring up Clarence and tell him we shall require a taxi for seven at six-thirty.'

'Six-thirty, miss?' Dogger asked, his brow furrowed.

'Of course,' Aunt Felicity said. 'He'll have to make two trips. I expect you and Mrs. Mullet would both have your noses out of joint if you were left behind. Puppet shows are not just for bluebloods, you know.'

'Thank you, miss,' Dogger said.

I tried to catch his eye, but he was gone.

* TWELVE *

CLARENCE PULLED UP AT the lych-gate at twenty minutes to seven. He came round the taxicab to hold the door open for Aunt Felicity, who had insisted on sitting in the front seat with him in order to, as she put it, 'keep a sharp eye out for road hogs.'

She had dressed herself in a sort of comic-opera cape over a voluminous red silk suit that might have been pinched from a Persian harem. Her hat was a collapsed black bag with a peacock's feather billowing out behind like smoke from the Flying Scotsman; on her feet were a pair of medieval slippers in mustard yellow, with long upturned points like a pair of icing bags. When we arrived at the parish hall, Father and Feely got out on the far side of the taxicab.

'Now off you go to fetch the others, Clarence,' Aunt Felicity commanded, 'and don't dawdle.'

Clarence raised a forefinger to the peak of his cap and, with an impertinent shifting of gears, was gone.

Inside the parish hall, we found that the entire front row of chairs had been reserved for us. Aunt Felicity had certainly not skimped on the cost of tickets. She and Father were to sit front and center, with Feely and Daffy on their left. I was on Father's right, with Dogger and Mrs. Mullet (when they arrived) on our flank.

All was in readiness. The house lights had already been lowered to a level of delicious expectation. Incidental music floated from backstage, and from time to time, the red velvet curtains on the puppet stage gave an enticing twitch.

The entire population of Bishop's Lacey seemed to be there. Mutt Wilmott, I saw, had taken a seat against the wall near the back. Miss Cool was in the row behind him, listening to Cynthia Richardson, who had her ear, and behind her sat Miss Mountjoy, the niece of the late Dr. Twining, Father's old schoolmaster. To Miss Mountjoy's right, from Culverhouse Farm, Dieter Schrantz and Sally Straw, the Land Girl, sat side by side. I gave them a little wave, and both of them grinned.

'Haroo, mon vieux--Flavia!'

It was Maximilian Wight, our diminutive neighbor who, after several triumphant world tours as a concert pianist, had settled down at last in our village to teach music. Feely had been one of his pupils, but had begged off her lessons when Max began asking too many intrusive questions about her 'paramours.'

Max waved a white glove, and I waved back.

As I scanned the rows of faces, my eyes skidded to a stop on a dark-haired woman in a sage green sweater set. She was no one I had seen before, and must be, I thought, a stranger to Bishop's Lacey. Perhaps a visiting relative.