The Weed That Strings the Hangman's Bag

the fact that Cynthia was running a white-gloved forefinger along the wooden rack that held scattered copies of the Hymnary and the Book of Common Prayer. In fact, the vicar made no reference to the matter at all, until he had finished the sermon.

'In view of the tragic circumstances of last evening,' he said in a hushed and solemn voice, 'the police have requested that the parish hall be made available to them until their work is complete. Consequently, our customary refreshments, for this morning only, will be served at the vicarage. Those of you who wish to do so are cordially invited to join us after the service. And now may God the Father, God the Son, and God the Holy Ghost ...'

Just like that! No thoughts on 'the stranger in our midst,' such as he had delivered when Horace Bonepenny was murdered at Buckshaw. No ruminations on the immortality of the soul ... Nothing.

To be perfectly honest, I felt more than a little cheated.

It is never possible, at least at St. Tancred's, to burst forth from the church into the sunshine like a cork from a bottle. One must always pause at the door to shake hands with the vicar, and to make some obligatory remark about the sermon, the weather, or the crops.

Father chose the sermon, and Daffy and Feely both chose the weather--the swine!--with Daffy commenting on the remarkable clarity of the air and Feely on its warmth. That left me with little choice, and the vicar was already clasping my hand.

'How's Meg getting on?' I asked. To tell the truth, I'd forgotten all about Mad Meg until that very moment, and the question just popped into my head.

Did the vicar's face go slightly white, or had I just fancied it?

He looked to the left and then to the right, very quickly. Cynthia was hovering outside among the gravestones, already halfway along the path to the vicarage.

'I'm afraid I can't tell you,' he said. 'You see, she was--'

'Vicar! I have a bone to pick with you, you know!'

It was Bunny Spirling. Bunny was one of the Spirlings of Nautilus Old Hall who, as Father once remarked, had gone to the dogs by way of the horses.

Because Bunny was shaped rather like the capital letter D, no one could get past him, and the vicar was now wedged firmly between Bunny's ample tummy and the Gothic door frame. Aunt Felicity and Dogger, I supposed, were still penned up somewhere inside the vestibule, queuing like crewmen on a sunken submarine for their turn at the escape hatch.

As Bunny proceeded to pick his bone (something about tithing and the shocking disrepair of the padding in the kneeling benches), I saw my opportunity to escape.

'Oh, dear,' I remarked to Father, 'it looks as though the vicar has been detained. I'll run ahead to the vicarage and see if I can make myself useful with the cups and saucers.'

There's not a father on earth who has it in him to refuse such a charitable child, and I was off like a hare.

'Morning!' I shouted to Cynthia as I flew past.

I vaulted over the stile and ran round to the front of the vicarage. The door stood open, and I could hear voices in the kitchen at the back of the house. The Women's Institute, I decided: Several of them would have slipped out of the service early to put the kettle on.

I stood in the dim hallway, listening. Time was short, but it would never do to be caught snooping. With one last look down the stretch of polished brown linoleum, I stepped into the vicar's study and closed the door behind me.

Meg, of course, was long gone, but the afghan with which the vicar had covered her yesterday still lay crumpled on the horsehair sofa, as if Meg had only just tossed it aside, got up, and left the room, leaving in her wake--to put it nicely--a woodsy smell: the smell of damp leaves, dark earth, and something-less-than-perfect personal hygiene.

But before I could put my mind to work, the door was flung open.

'What are you doing in here?'

Needless to say, it was Cynthia. She closed the door craftily behind her.

'Oh, hello, Mrs. Richardson,' I said. 'I just looked in to see if Meg was still here. Not that she would be, of course, but I worry about her, you see, and ...'

When you're stumped for words, use your hands. This was a dodge that had never failed me in the past, and I hoped that it would not now.

I snatched at the wadded afghan and began to fold it. As I did so, something dropped with a barely audible plop to the carpet.

'I just thought I'd help tidy up, then see if they can put me to work in the kitchen.

'Drat!' I said, as I let a corner of the afghan escape my fingers. 'Oh, sorry, Mrs. Richardson, I'm afraid I'm quite clumsy. We're so spoiled at Buckshaw, you know.'

Awkwardly, I spread out the afghan on the floor, crouched in front of it, and began folding again. Under cover of its colorful woolen squares--and using my body to block Cynthia's view--I ran my fingers across the carpet.

I felt it at once: a cold, flat, metallic object. Using my thumb as a clamp, I pressed it firmly into my palm. As long as I kept my hands moving, all would be well. That was the way the sleight-of-hand magicians worked. I could always pocket the thing later.

'Here, give me that,' Cynthia said.

I panicked! She had caught me out after all.

As she stepped into the room, I began a frantic jitterbug, kicking up my legs and throwing my elbows out like pikestaffs.