The Weed That Strings the Hangman's Bag

Guides:'Once a jolly swagman camped by a billabong,

Under the shade of a coolibah tree,

And he sang as he watched and waited till his billy boiled,

'Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me?''

I strolled square-shouldered into the greenhouse.

'G'day, mate!' I said, with a hearty, Down-Under grin.

'McCorquedale? Is that you?' Dogger called out, his voice as thin and wispy as the wind in the strings of an old harp. 'Is Bennett with you? Have you got your tongues back?'

His head was cocked to one side, listening, his wrist held up to shield his eyes, which were turned blindly up to the glare of the greenhouse glass.

I felt as if I had blundered into a sanctuary, and the flesh crawled on the back of my neck.

'It's me, Dogger--Flavia,' I managed.

His brows knitted themselves into a look of puzzlement. 'Flavia?'

My name issued from his throat like a whisper from an abandoned well.

I could see that he was already fighting his way back from whatever had seized him, the light in his eyes coming back only warily from the depths to the surface, like golden fish in an ornamental pool.

'Miss Flavia?'

'I'm sorry,' I said, taking the knife from his shaking hands. 'Have I broken it? I borrowed it yesterday to cut a bit of twine, and I might have jammed the blade. If I did, I'll buy you a new one.'

This was sheer fantasy--I hadn't touched the thing--but I have learned that under certain circumstances, a fib is not only permissible, but can even be an act of perfect grace. I took the knife from his hands, opened it fully, and began rubbing it in smooth circles on the surface of the stone.

'No, it's fine,' I said. 'Phew! I'd have been in big trouble if I'd jiggered your best knife, wouldn't I?'

I snapped the blade shut and handed it back. Dogger took it from me, his fingers now much more sure of themselves.

I turned over an empty pail and sat on it as we shared a silence.

'It was good of you to think of feeding Nialla,' I said, after a while.

'She needs a friend,' he said. 'She's--'

'Pregnant,' I blurted.

'Yes.'

'But how did you know that? Surely she didn't tell you?'

'Excessive salivation,' Dogger said, '... and telangiectasia.'

'Tel-what?'

'Telangiectasia,' he said in a mechanical voice, as if he were reading from an invisible book. '... Spider veins in proximity to the mouth, nose, and chin. Uncommon, but not unknown in early pregnancy.'

'You amaze me, Dogger,' I said. 'How on earth do you know these things?'

'They float in my head,' he replied quietly, 'like corks upon the sea. I've read books, I think. I've had a lot of time on my hands.'

'Ah!' I said. It was the most I'd heard him say in ages.

But Dogger's former captivity was not a topic for open discussion, and I knew that it was time to change the subject.

'Do you think she did it?' I asked. 'Killed Rupert, I mean?'

Dogger knitted his eyebrows, as if thinking came to him only with the greatest effort.

'The police will think that,' he said, nodding slowly. 'Yes, that's what the police will think. They'll soon be along.'

As it turned out, he was right.

'It is a well-known fact,' Aunt Felicity trumpeted, 'that the Black Death was brought into England by lawyers. Shakespeare said we ought to have hanged the lot of them, and in light of modern sanitary reform, we now know that he was right. This will never do, Haviland!'

She stuffed a handful of papers into a dusty hatbox and clapped the lid on. 'It's a perfect disgrace,' she added, 'the way you've let things slide. Unless something turns up, you'll soon have no option but to sell up Buckshaw and take a cold-water flat in Battersea.'

'Hello, all,' I said, strolling into the library, pretending for the second time in less than half an hour that I was oblivious to what was going on.

'Ah, Flavia,' Father said. 'I think Mrs. Mullet requires an extra pair of hands in the kitchen.'

'Of course,' I said. 'And shall I then be allowed to go to the ball?'

Father looked puzzled. My witty repartee was completely lost on him.

'Flavia!' Aunt Felicity said. 'That's no way for a child to speak to a parent. I should have thought that you'd outgrown that saucy attitude by now. I don't know why you let these girls get away with it, Haviland.'

Father moved towards the window and stared out across the ornamental lake towards the folly. He was taking refuge, as he often does, in letting his eyes, at least, escape an unpleasant situation.