The Weed That Strings the Hangman's Bag

'Well, it looks as if the rain has stopped,' I said. 'I must really be getting along. I expect my clothes are dry enough to get me home, and I wouldn't want Father to be worried. He has so much on his mind nowadays.'

I was well aware that everyone in Bishop's Lacey knew about Father's financial difficulties. Late-paid bills in a village were as good as a signal rocket in the night. I might as well chalk up a few points for deportment.

'Such a thoughtful child, you are, Flavia,' she said. 'Have another horehound.'

Minutes later, I was dressed and at the door. Outside, the sun had come out, and a perfect rainbow arched across the sky.

'Thank you for a lovely chat, Miss Cool, and for the horehound. It will be my treat next time--I insist.'

'Ride home safely, dear,' she told me. 'Mind the puddles. And keep it under your hat--about the stamps, I mean. We're not supposed to let the defectives circulate.'

I gave her a ghastly conspiratorial wink and a twiddle of the fingers.

She hadn't answered my question about whether Robin was fond of horehound sticks, but then it didn't really matter, did it?

* TWENTY-ONE *

I GAVE GLADYS a jolly good shaking, and raindrops went flying off her frame like water from a shaggy dog. I was about to shove off for home when something in the window of the undertaker's shop caught my eye: no more than a slight movement, really.

Although it had been in business at the same location since the time of George the Third, the shop of Sowbell & Sons stood as discreet and aloof in the high street as if it were waiting for an omnibus. It was quite unusual, actually, to see anyone enter or leave the place.

I sauntered a little closer for a look, feigning a great interest in the black-edged obituary cards that were on display in the plate-glass window. Although none of the dead (Dennison Chatfield, Arthur Bronson- Willowes, Margaret Beatrice Peddle) were people whose names I recognized, I pored over their names intently, giving each one a rueful shake of my head.

By moving my eyes from left to right, as if I were reading the small print on the cards, and yet shifting my focus through to the shop's dim interior, I could see someone inside waving his hands as he talked. His yellow silk shirt and mauve cravat were what had caught my eye: It was Mutt Wilmott!

Before reason could apply the brakes, I had burst into the shop.

'Oh, hello, Mr. Sowbell,' I said. 'I hope I'm not interrupting anything. I just wanted to stop by and let you know that our little chemical experiment worked out quite admirably in the end.'

I'm afraid this was varnishing the facts a little. The truth was that I had buttonholed him in St. Tancred's churchyard one Sunday after Morning Prayer, to ask his professional opinion--as an expert in preservatives, as it were--about whether a reliable embalming fluid could be inexpensively obtained by collecting, macerating, boiling, and distilling the formic acid from large numbers of red ants (formica rufa).

He had fingered his long jaw, scratched his head, and stared up into the branches of the yew trees for quite some time before saying he'd never really thought about it.

'It's something I'd have to look up, Miss Flavia,' he said.

But I knew he would never actually do so, and I was right. The older craftsmen can be awfully tight-lipped when it comes to discussing the tricks of the trade.

He was standing now in the shadows near a dark-paneled door that led to some undoubtedly grisly back room: a room I'd give a guinea to see.

'Flavia.' He nodded--somewhat warily, I thought.

'I'm afraid you'll have to excuse us,' he said. 'We're in the midst of rather a--'

'Well, well,' Mutt Wilmott interrupted, 'I do believe it's Rupert's ubiquitous young protegee, Miss ...'

'De Luce,' I said.

'Yes, of course--de Luce.' He smiled condescendingly, as if he'd known it all along; as if he were only teasing.

I have to admit that, like Rupert, the man had an absolutely marvelous professional speaking voice: a rich, mellifluous flow of words that came forth as if he had a wooden organ pipe for a larynx. The BBC must breed these people on a secret farm.

'As one of Rupert's young protegees, so to speak,' Mutt went on, 'you'll perhaps be comforted to learn that Auntie--as we insiders call the British Broadcasting Corporation--is laying on the sort of funeral that one of her brightest stars deserves. Not quite Westminster Abbey, you understand, but the next best thing. Once Mr. Sowbell here, gets the ... ah ... remains back to London, the public grieving can begin: the lying in state, the floral tributes, the ruddy-faced mother of ten from Weston-super-Mare, kneeling at the bier alongside her tear-drenched children, and all with the television cameras looking on. No less a personage than the Director General himself has suggested that it might be a poignant touch to have Snoddy the Squirrel stand vigil at the foot of the coffin, mounted upon an empty glove.'

'He's here?' I asked, with a gesture towards the back room. 'Rupert's still here?'

'He's in good hands.' Mutt Wilmott nodded, and Mr. Sowbell, with a smirk, made a humble little bow of acknowledgment.

I have never wanted anything more in my life than I wanted at that moment to ask if I could have a look at the corpse, but for once, my normally nimble mind failed me. I could not think of a single plausible reason for having a squint at Rupert's remains--as Mutt Wilmott had called them--nor could I think of an implausible one.

'How's Nialla taking it?' I asked, making a wild stab in the dark.

Mutt frowned.