The Weed That Strings the Hangman's Bag

forgotten how small he really was.

Was I frightened out of my wits? I'm afraid not. Since the day I had found a body in the kitchen garden at Buckshaw, I had developed a fascination with death, with a particular emphasis on the chemistry of putrefaction.

In fact, I had already begun making notes for a definitive work which I would call De Luce on Decomposition, in which I would outline, step by step, the process of human cadaveric decay.

How exciting it was to reflect upon the fact that, within minutes of death, the organs of the body, lacking oxygen, begin to digest themselves! Ammonia levels start to rise and, with the assistance of bacterial action, methane (better known as marsh gas) is produced, along with hydrogen sulfide, carbon dioxide, and mercaptan, a captivating sulfur-alcohol in whose structure sulfur takes the place of oxygen--which accounts for its putrid smell.

How curious it was, I thought, that we humans had taken millions of years to crawl up out of the swamps and yet, within minutes of death, we were already tobogganing back down the slope.

My keen sense of smell told me that Mr. Sowbell had used a formalin-based embalming fluid on Rupert (a two- percent solution of formaldehyde seemed most likely, with a slight bouquet of something else: chloroform, by the smell of it) and by the slight green tint at the end of Rupert's nose, I could tell that the undertaker had skimped on the ingredients. One could only hope that the lying-in-state at the BBC would be a closed-coffin affair.

Better hurry up, though, I thought. Mr. Sowbell might walk in at any moment.

Rupert's pale hands were folded across his abdomen, with the right hand uppermost. I took hold of his fingers (it was like lifting linked sausages from the icebox) and pulled upwards.

To my amazement, his left hand came with it, and I saw at once that they had been cunningly sewn together. By twisting the cold hands and bending down for a better look beneath them, I saw what I was looking for: a blackened channel that ran from the base of his left thumb to the tips of his first and second fingers.

In spite of Mr. Sowbell's embalming efforts, Rupert was still giving off rather a scorched smell. And there could be no doubt about it: The burn on the palm of his left hand was the precise width of the lever that operated Galligantus.

A floorboard creaked.

As I closed the coffin lid, the door opened and Mr. Sowbell walked into the room. I hadn't heard him coming.

Because I was still in a half-crouch from inspecting Rupert's burned fingers, I was able to come slowly to a standing position.

'Amen,' I said, crossing myself extravagantly.

'What on earth--?' said Mr. Sowbell.

'Oh, hello, Mr. Sowbell,' I said in an appropriately hushed tone. 'I just dropped in to pay my respects. There was no one here, but I thought a quiet prayer would be in order.

'Mr. Porson had no friends in Bishop's Lacey, you know,' I added, pulling a handkerchief from my pocket and wiping away an imaginary tear. 'It seemed such a shame, and I thought it would do no harm if I--I'm sorry if--'

'There, there,' he said. 'Death comes to us all, you know, old and young alike....'

Was he threatening me, or was my imagination overheated?

'And even though we expect it,' he went on, 'it always comes as a shock in the end.'

It certainly had for Rupert--but was the man being facetious?

Evidently not, for his long face maintained its professional polish.

'And now if you will excuse me,' he said. 'I must prepare him for his final journey.'

Final journey? Where did they get this claptrap? Was there a phrasebook published for the undertaking trade?

I gave him my ten-years-old-going-on-eleven smile, and faked a flustered exit.

The bell above the door of the St. Nicholas Tea Room jangled merrily as I stepped inside. The establishment, a bit of a climb at the top of the stairs, was owned by none other than Miss Lavinia and Miss Aurelia, the Puddock sisters: those same two relics who had provided the musical prelude to Rupert's spectacular demise.

Miss Lavinia, in a nook at the far side of the room, seemed to be locked in mortal combat with a large silver samovar. In spite of the simplicity of its task, which was the boiling of water, this Heath Robinson contraption was a bulbous squid of tubes, valves, and gauges, which spat hot water as it gurgled and hissed away like a cornered dragon.

'No tea, I'm afraid,' she said over her shoulder. She could not yet see who had entered the shop.

'Anything I can do to help, Miss Puddock?' I offered cheerily.

She let out a little shriek as her hand strayed accidentally into a jet of hot steam, and the china cup she was holding crashed to the floor, where it flew into a hundred pale pieces.

'Oh, it's the little de Luce girl,' she said, spinning round. 'My goodness! You gave me quite a fright. I wasn't expecting to hear your voice.'

Because I could see that she'd scalded her hand, I fought back my baser urges.

'Anything I can do to help?' I repeated.

'Oh, dear,' she said, flustered beyond reason. 'Peter always chooses to act up when Aurelia's not here. She's so much better with him than I am.'

'Peter?' I asked.