The Weed That Strings the Hangman's Bag

'I was billeted, along with about forty other girls, at a Land Army hostel between here and Hinley, and that was where I first laid eyes on Rupert. Like a bee to honey that man was, make no mistake about it. He was rambling hither and yon about the countryside every summer with his little puppet show--getting back to his roots, he called it--and whenever I saw him, he seemed to have a new assistant. And she was always a bit of a knockout, if you get my meaning.'

'Not long after I came to work at Culverhouse Farm, Rupert showed up for a fresh supply of smoking material. I recognized him at once as the little lame chap who was always chatting us up at the hostel, or the pub, of a weekend.

'I swore from the outset that I wouldn't get involved with him myself; I'd leave it to the other girls to take him down a notch or two. But then--'

Her gaze drifted off into another time.

So Nialla had been right! Rupert had gone off in search of Sally on the day they arrived. The pieces were beginning to fall into place.

Although the fog had now thinned a little, it was still quite dense, wrapping Sally and me in a misty cocoon of oddly reassuring silence. Unless they had come across us by accident, no one would know we were up here at the top of Jubilee Field. No one could have overheard us unless they had come up the length of the field from the bottom, or crept stealthily down from the wood above.

'Oh, Rupert was a charmer, make no mistake about that,' Sally went on. 'He could charm the--no, I mustn't say that in polite company, must I? He could charm the chickens out of the trees--and especially the hens.

'He'd start with Shakespeare, and then move on to things he'd heard in music halls. If Romeo and Juliet didn't do the job, he'd try his naughty recitations.

'And he got away with it, too--at least, mostly he did. Until he tried it on with Gordon's wife.'

Grace Ingleby? I let out an involuntary whistle.

'That must have been quite a long time ago,' I said. I knew that it sounded callous, although I didn't mean it that way.

'Years ago,' Sally said. 'Before Robin died. Before she went all strange. Although you wouldn't think it to look at her now, she used to be quite a stunner.'

'She seems very sad,' I said.

'Sad? Sad's not the word for it, Flavia. Broken is more like it. That little boy was her whole world, and the day he died, the sun went out.'

'You were here then?' I asked gently. 'It must have been very difficult for you.'

She went on as if she hadn't heard me. 'Gordon and Grace had told Robin more than once about their idyllic honeymoon by the sea, and it was something he'd always wanted to do: the sand, the seashells, the pail, the shovel, the sandcastles, the ices, the bathing machines.

'He used to dream about it. 'I dreamed the tide was coming in, Sally!' he told me once, 'and I was bobbing on the sea like a pink balloon!' Poor little tyke.'

She wiped away a tear with the rough sleeve of her overall. 'God! Why am I telling you all this? I must be daft.'

'It's all right,' I said. 'I promise I won't breathe a word. I'm very good at keeping things to myself.'

As a token of goodwill, I went through the motions of cross-my-heart-and-hope-to-die, but without actually saying the words.

After a quick and oddly shy glance at me, Sally went on with her story:

'Somehow they'd managed to put a bit aside for Robin's birthday. Because the harvest was so near, Gordon couldn't get away, but they agreed that Grace would take Robin to the seaside for a few days. It was the first time the two of them, mother and son, had ever been anywhere together without Gordon, and the first time Grace had taken a holiday since she was a girl.

'The weather was hot, even for late August. Grace hired a beach chair and bought a magazine. She watched Robin with his little pail, mudlarking along the water's edge. He was quite safe, she knew. She had warned him about the danger of the tides, and Robin was a most obedient little boy.

'She drifted off to sleep and slept for ages. She hadn't realized how utterly exhausted she was until she awoke and saw how far the sun had moved. The tide had gone out, and Robin was nowhere in sight. Had he disobeyed her warnings and been swept out to sea? Surely someone would have seen him. Surely someone would have wakened her.'

'Did Grace tell you this?' I asked.

'Good God, no! It all came out at the inquest. They had to pry it out of her in tiny, broken pieces. Her nerves were something shocking.

'She'd wasted too much time, she said, running up and down the beach, calling out Robin's name. She ran along the edge of the water, hoping for a glimpse of his little red bathing suit; hoping to see his face among the children who were dabbling near the shore.

'Then up and down the beach again, begging the bathers to tell her if they'd seen a little boy with blond hair. It was hopeless, of course. There might have been dozens of children on the beach who answered to that description.

'And then, through sun-dazzled eyes, she saw it: a crowd gathered in the shade beneath the promenade. She burst into tears and began walking towards them, knowing what she would find: Robin had drowned, and the knot of people had gathered round to gawk. She had already begun to hate them.

'But as she drew closer, a wave of laughter went up, and she shoved her way through to the center of the crowd, not caring what they thought.

'It was a Punch and Judy show. And there, seated on the sand, tears of laughter running down his face, was