The Weed That Strings the Hangman's Bag

'Flavia de Luce--Buckshaw,' I replied rather icily, and he wrote it down.

'Thank you,' he said. 'Now then, Flavia, what time did you arrive this evening?'

'Six-forty,' I said, 'on the dot. With my family. In a taxicab. Clarence Mundy's taxicab.'

'And you were in the hall the whole evening?'

'Of course I was. I came over and spoke to you--don't you remember?'

'Yes. Answer the question, please.'

'Yes.'

I must admit that the Inspector was making me quite cross. I had hoped to be able to collaborate with him: to provide him with a richly described, minute-by-minute account of the horror that had taken place--almost in my lap--this evening. Now I could see that I was going to be treated as if I were just another gawking spectator.

'Did you see or speak to Mr. Porson before the performance?'

What did he mean by that? I had seen and spoken to Mr. Porson on several occasions over the past three days. I had driven with Mr. Porson to Culverhouse Farm and had overheard his quarrel with Gordon Ingleby in Gibbet Wood. And that was not all that I knew about Rupert Porson. Not by a long chalk.

'No,' I said.

Two could play at this game.

'I see,' he said. 'Well, thank you. That will be all.'

I had just been checkmated.

'You're free to go,' he added, glancing at his wristwatch. 'It's probably past your bedtime.'

The nerve of the man! Past my bedtime indeed! Who did he think he was talking to?

'May I ask a question?'

'You may,' he said, 'although I might not be able to answer it.'

'Was Rupert--Mr. Porson, I mean--electrocuted?'

He looked at me narrowly, and I could see that he was thinking carefully about his reply.

'There is that possibility. Good night, Flavia.'

The man was fobbing me off. Rupert had fried like a flounder, and the Inspector knew it as well as I did.

Flashbulbs were still going off behind the puppet stage as I rejoined Father in the front row. Feely and Daffy were nowhere in sight.

'Mundy has already taken them home,' he said.

'I'll be ready in a jiff,' I said, walking towards the W.C. No one, anywhere, at any time in history, has ever stopped a female en route to the Baffins.

At the last moment, I changed direction and slipped into the kitchen, where I found Mrs. Mullet in full command. She had made a huge pot of tea, and had placed steaming cups in front of Nialla and Sergeant Woolmer, who sat at a side table.

Nialla saw me before the sergeant did, and her eyes flashed--but only for an instant--like a startled animal. She gave me an almost imperceptible shake of the head, but its meaning was clear.

Women's wireless at work. I rubbed my nose casually to let her know that the message had been received.

'Thank you, Miss Gilfoyle,' the sergeant said. 'You've been most helpful.'

Gilfoyle? Was that Nialla's name? It was the first time I'd heard it.

Sergeant Woolmer drained his cup in a single draught, with no apparent ill effects.

'Champion tea, Mrs. Mullet,' he said, closing his notebook. He gathered his papers, and with a pleasant nod in my direction, walked back out into the auditorium.

The man must have a stomach like a ship's boiler, I thought.

'Now then, dear, as I was saying,' Mrs. Mullet said, 'there's no use you goin' back to Culverhouse Farm tonight. It's rainin' cats and dogs--has been for an hour or more. The river will be mortal high--not safe to cross. 'Sides, no one would expect you to sleep in a tent in a wet field with the situation bein' what it is, if you take my meanin'. Alf's brought a brolly that's big enough for the three of us, and we're just across the way. Our Agnes's room hasn't been slept in since she left home to take up Pitman shorthand six years ago come November thirteenth. Alf and me have kept it a kind of a shrine, like. Has its own hot plate and a goose-down mattress. And don't say no, 'cause I won't hear you.'

Nialla's eyes were suddenly brimming with tears, and for the life of me, I could not tell if they were tears of grief or joy.

I'd have given a guinea to know what words passed between Father and Dogger in the backseat of the taxicab, but the simple truth is that I dropped off. With the heater turned full up against the chill of the cold night rain, and the windscreen wipers making their quiet swish- swash in the darkness, the urge to sleep was irresistible. Not even an owl could have stayed awake.

When Father roused me at the door of Buckshaw, I stumbled into the house and up the stairs to bed--too tired even to bother undressing.

I must have fallen asleep with my eyes open.