The Weed That Strings the Hangman's Bag

'Nialla? She's taken herself off somewhere,' he said. 'No one seems to know where.'

'Perhaps she took a room at the Thirteen Drakes,' I suggested. 'She might have needed a hot bath.'

I was hoping Mutt would take the bait, and he did.

'She's not at the Thirteen Drakes,' he replied. 'I've been bivouacked there myself since I first arrived.'

So! As I had suspected, Mutt Wilmott had been within walking distance of St. Tancred's, before, during, and perhaps after Rupert was murdered.

'Well,' I said, 'sorry to have bothered you.'

They had their heads together before I was out the door.

As they so often do in summer, the skies had quickly cleared. The dark overcast had moved off to the east and the birds were singing like billy-oh. Although it was still quite early in the day, and in spite of the fresh air and the warm sunshine, I found myself yawning like a cat as I rode along the lanes towards Buckshaw. Perhaps it was because I had been up before dawn; perhaps because I had been up too late the night before.

Whatever the case, I was suddenly quite fagged out. Daffy had once remarked that Samuel Pepys, the diarist, was forever climbing into bed, and Father was always going on about the remarkable restorative power of a brief nap. For once, I understood how they felt.

But how to get into the house unseen? Mrs. Mullet guarded the kitchen like a Foo Dog at the tomb of a Chinese emperor, yet if I used the front door, I ran the risk of being set upon by Aunt Felicity and assigned unwelcome duties for whatever remained of the day.

The coach house was the only place where one could easily come and go without being seen or disturbed.

I parked Gladys behind one of the great chestnut trees that lined the drive, and made my way stealthily round the side of the house.

A door in the far side of the coach house opened into what had once been a small paddock. I scaled the fence, lifted the wrought-iron latch, and slipped noiselessly inside.

Although my eyes were somewhat dazzled from the light outside, I could still make out the dark, looming form of Harriet's vintage Rolls-Royce, a Phantom II, its nickel radiator gleaming dully in the gloom. No more than a diffused and feeble light managed to find its way in through the small, dusty windows, and I knew I would have to watch my step.

Sometimes I came here to brood. I would climb aboard this palace on wheels, and in its comforting interior, I would sit in creamy leather, pretending I was Harriet, just about to engage the gears and drive off to a better life.

I took hold of the door handle and turned it quietly. If Dogger was nearby, I knew he'd be alerted by the slightest sound, and would come running to see who was burgling the coach house. God bless the good ship Rolls-Royce, and all who sail in her, I thought as the heavy door swung open in utter silence, and I hauled myself up into the driver's seat.

I inhaled the plush motorcar scent, as Harriet must once have done, and prepared to curl myself up into a ball. With any luck, and the near-darkness, I'd be asleep in less than a minute. There would be time enough later to think about murder.

As I stretched luxuriously, my fingers touched something: the skin of a human leg, by the feel of it. Before I could let out a scream, someone clapped a hand tightly over my mouth.

'Keep still!' a voice hissed into my ear.

My eyes rolled like a horse's in a slaughterhouse. Even in that dim light I could see the face of the person who was stifling me.

It was Nialla.

My first inclination was to bite off one of her fingers: I have a phobia about being physically restrained, and there are times when my reflexes are faster than reason.

'Don't make a sound!' she whispered, giving me a little shake. 'I need your help.'

Damn! She had given the female password--spoken those magic words that stretched back through the mists of time to a bond made in some primordial swamp. I was in her power. I went instantly limp and nodded my head. She removed her hand.

'Are the police looking for me?' she asked.

'I--I don't think so. I don't know,' I said. 'I'm not exactly one of their confidantes.'

I was still a little miffed at being seized and shaken.

'Oh, come off it, Flavia,' she said. 'Don't go all shirty on me. I need to know. Are they looking for me?'

'I haven't seen the police since Saturday night, right after Rupert was--after Rupert--'

Although I have no qualms about the word, I couldn't bring myself to say it to Nialla's face.

'Murdered,' she said, falling back into her seat. 'Nor have I. That Inspector simply wouldn't stop asking me questions. It was horrid.'

'Murdered?' I spat out the word as if the thought had never crossed my mind. 'What makes you think Rupert was murdered?'

'It's what everyone thinks: the police, and now you. You just said 'right after Rupert was--' That implies something, doesn't it? Murdered ... killed, what difference does it make? You certainly weren't about to say 'right after Rupert died,' and don't pretend you were. I'm not a fool, Flavia, so please don't keep treating me as if I were.'

'Perhaps it was an accident,' I said, stalling to get my thoughts organized.

'Would the police have spent half the night grilling the audience, if they thought it was an accident?'