The Weed That Strings the Hangman's Bag

he broke off at once and came striding across the stage behind the puppet theater.

'You oughtn't to be in here. Didn't you see the signs?'

'Sorry,' I said, without answering his question. 'I came in the back way.'

'No signs in the rear, Sergeant?' the Inspector asked Graves.

'Sorry, sir,' the sergeant said with a sheepish grin. 'I'll see to it right away.'

'Too late now,' the Inspector said. 'The damage is done.'

Sergeant Graves lost the grin and his brow furrowed. 'Sorry, sir,' he said. 'Entirely my fault.'

'Well,' the Inspector went on, 'since we're almost finished, it's not a complete disaster. But keep it in mind for next time.'

'Yes, sir.'

'Now, then,' the Inspector said, turning to me, 'what are you doing here? And don't give me any guff about tea.'

I had learned from past experience that it was best to be frank with the Inspector--at least in replying to direct questions. One could always be helpful, I reminded myself, without spilling one's guts.

'I was making notes upon a few points.'

I hadn't made notes, in fact, but now that I'd thought of it, I realized it was a good idea. I'd see to it tonight.

'Notes? Why on earth would you do that?'

Because I could think of nothing to say, I said nothing. I could hardly tell the man that Dogger thought it was murder.

'And now, I'm afraid, I'm going to have to ask you to leave, Flavia.'

As he spoke, I looked round desperately for something--anything!--to seize upon.

And suddenly I saw it! I almost whooped with joy. My heart welled up inside me and I could hardly keep from laughing as I spoke.

'Edgar Allan Poe!' I said aloud. 'The Purloined Letter.'

The Inspector stared at me as if I'd gone mad.

'Are you familiar with the story, Inspector?' I asked. Daffy had read it aloud to us on Christmas Eve.

'Isn't everyone?' he said. 'Now, please, if you'll be so good--'

'Then you'll remember where the letter was hidden: on the mantelpiece--in plain sight--dangling from a dirty blue ribbon.'

'Of course,' he said, with a brief but indulgent smile.

I pointed to the wooden rail of the puppet stage, which was no more than a foot above his head.

'Has the current been switched off?' I asked.

'We're not idiots, Flavia.'

'Then,' I said, reaching up and almost touching the thing, 'perhaps we should tell the vicar we've found his lost bicycle clip.'

* SIXTEEN *

IT WAS DIFFICULT, AT first, to see the thing. Black metal on black painted wood was nearly invisible. If it hadn't been for the patterned spray of carbon, I shouldn't have noticed it at all.

Black on black on black. I was proud of myself.

The bicycle clip was pushed down over a wooden strut, as if the strut were an ankle. Beneath it ran a length of electric flex, which connected a row of toggle switches above the stage to the colored footlights below. Even from where I stood, I could see the glint of copper wire where a section of the flex had been stripped of its insulation.

'Good Lord!' the Inspector said. 'Whatever makes you think this belongs to the vicar?'

'Several things,' I told him, ticking them off on my fingers. 'In the first place, I heard him say on Thursday afternoon that he had lost his bicycle clip. In the second place, I know for a fact that it wasn't here yesterday afternoon before the show. Rupert let me have a good look round just before the matinee. And finally, it has the vicar's initials on it. Look here: If you squat a bit and look edge-on, you can see them: D.R.-- Denwyn Richardson. Cynthia scratched them on with a needle because he's forever losing things.'

'And you're quite sure the clip wasn't here on Saturday afternoon?'

'Positive. I was holding on to that very spot on the railing when Rupert took me up on the bridge--to show me how Galligantus worked.'

'I beg your pardon?' The look on the Inspector's face was a puzzle.

'Galligantus. That's the name of the giant in Jack and the Beanstalk. Here, I'll show you. Is it all right to climb up there?' I asked, pointing to the bridge.

'It's extremely irregular, but carry on.'