Nialla, for instance.
On the one hand, she was captive to a traveling puppeteer; a young woman who, other than the baby she was now carrying, had no family to speak of; a young woman who allowed herself to be beaten by a semi-invalid lover; a young woman now left with no money and no visible means of support. And yet, in rather a complicated way that I did not entirely understand, she did not have my complete sympathy.
Was it because she had run away from the scene of the crime, so to speak, and hidden in the coach house at Buckshaw? I could see her wanting to be alone, but she had hardly chosen the best time to do so.
Where was she now? I wondered. Had Inspector Hewitt arrested her and dragged her to a cell in Hinley?
I wrote
And then there was Mutt Wilmott: a larger-than-life character, who seemed to have stepped right out of an Orson Welles film. Not to put too fine a point on it: Mutt had arrived, Rupert had died; Mutt had vanished after quarreling with Rupert, and was next seen arranging to have the body in question shipped up to London for a state funeral.
Was Mutt an assassin, hired by the BBC? Had Rupert's set-to with the mysterious Tony pushed 'Auntie'--and her Director General--too far? Was Rupert's messy end on the stage of a rustic puppet theater really no more than the conclusion of a bitter contractual dispute?
What about Grace Ingleby? To be honest, the dark little woman gave me the creeps. Her shrine to a dead child in an abandoned birdhouse was enough to spook anyone--and now Mrs. Mullet was hinting that the farmer's wife was more than just a landlady to Dieter.
And Dieter! For all his Nordic godliness and passion for English literature, it seemed that he had conspired with his captors to grow and supply cannabis to what Sally Straw had called 'a regular little army of others.' Who were they? I wondered.
Rupert, of course, had been chief among them, and had visited the Ingleby farm with the regularity of a tram- car for many years. He had been a ladies' man--there was no doubt about it (Sally again). Of whom had he run afoul? Who wanted him dead badly enough to actually do him in?
As for Sally, both Rupert and Dieter had been keen on her. Had Rupert been shoved off into eternity by a rival in love?
Sally seemed central: She had been at the Ingleby farm for years. It was clear that she had a crush on Dieter, although whether her passions were wholly returned was another matter entirely.
And then there was Gordon Ingleby. Gordon the linen-draped saint who did for those in pain what no doctor was willing to do; Gordon the market gardener; Gordon the father of the dead child in the woods.
To say nothing of Mad Meg, who had been in Gibbet Wood when Robin died, or at least, not long afterwards.
And Cynthia--dear Cynthia Richardson, the vicar's wife, whose only passion was her hatred of sin. The sudden appearance of a pair of promiscuous puppeteers who proposed to put on a show in her husband's parish hall must have seared her soul like the lake of fire in the Book of Revelation.
In spite of all that, Cynthia's soul was no hotbed of Christian charity. What was it Meg had said when I asked about her nap at the vicarage? That Cynthia had taken away her bracelet and then turned her out because she was dirty. No doubt she was referring to Nialla's butterfly compact, but if that were the case, why had I found it tangled in the afghan in the study? Had Cynthia taken the compact from Meg and then, caught in the act by one of the dozens of villagers milling about the vicarage, hidden it away to be retrieved for her own later use?
It seemed unlikely: If there was one sin of which Cynthia Richardson was not guilty, that sin was vanity. Just one look at her was enough to know that makeup had never soiled that pale ferret face; jewelry had never dangled from that scrawny neck or brightened up those matchstick wrists. To put it politely, the woman was as plain as a pudding.
I sharpened my pencil and added six names to my list:
I drew a line, and below it, printed in capital letters: AFFAIRS----LOOK UP!!!
Although I had a sketchy idea of what went on between two people having an affair, I did not actually know the precise mechanical details. Once, when Father had gone away for several days to a stamp exhibition in Glasgow, Daffy had insisted upon reading
At the time, I had nearly died of boredom, although it has since become one of my favorite books, containing, as it does in its final chapters, what must be the finest and most exciting description of death by arsenic in all of literature. I had particularly relished the way in which the poisoned Emma had 'raised herself like a galvanized corpse.' But now I realized that I had been so gripped by the excitement of poor Madame Bovary's suicide that I had failed to take in the fine points of her several affairs. All I could remember was that, alone with Rodolphe by the lily pond, surrounded by duckweeds and jumping frogs, Emma Bovary--in tears, hiding her face, and with a long shudder--'gave herself up to him.'
Whatever that meant. I would ask Dogger.
'Dogger,' I said, when I found him at last, hacking away at the weeds in the kitchen garden with a long-handled hoe, 'have you read
Dogger paused in his work and extracted a handkerchief from the bib pocket of his overalls. He gave his face a thorough mopping before he replied.
'A French novel, is it not?' he asked.
'Flaubert.'
'Ah,' Dogger said, and shoved the handkerchief back into his pocket. 'The one in which a most unhappy person poisons herself with arsenic.'
'Arsenic from a blue jar!' I blurted, hopping from one foot to the other with excitement.
'Yes,' Dogger said, 'from a blue jar. Blue, not because of any danger of decomposition or oxidation of the
