The Weed That Strings the Hangman's Bag

Dogger and Mrs. Mullet went discreetly about their duties, leaving only Aunt Felicity to protest weakly.

'Really, Ophelia,' she huffed, 'you are most ungrateful. I wanted to have a closer look at the coffin handles. My charlady's son Arnold works as a set dresser at the BBC, and his services were especially requested. They gave him a guinea to ferret out some photogenic fittings.'

'Sorry, Aunt Felicity,' Feely said vaguely, 'but funerals give me such awful gooseflesh--even on the television. I simply can't bear to watch them.'

For a moment, a coolish silence hung in the air, indicating that Aunt Felicity was not so easily mollified.

'I know,' Feely added brightly. 'Let me offer everyone a chocolate.'

And she went for an end-table drawer.

Visions of some Victorian hell flapped instantly into my mind: the caves, the flames, the burning pits, the lost souls queued up--much like those mourners outside Broadcasting House--all of them waiting to be flung by an avenging angel into the fire and molten brimstone.

Brimstone, after all, was sulfur (chemical symbol S), with whose dioxide I had stuffed the sweets. Bitten into, they would--well, that would hardly bear thinking about.

Feely was already walking towards the vicar, ripping the cellophane from the box of ancient chocolates Ned had left on the doorstep; the box with which I had so lovingly tampered.

'Vicar? Aunt Felicity?' she said, removing the lid and holding the box out at arm's length. 'Have a chocolate. The almond nougats are particularly interesting.'

I couldn't let this happen, but what was I to do? It was obvious that Feely had taken my earlier, blurted warning as no more than a stupid bluff.

Now the vicar was reaching for a sweet, his fingers, like the planchette on a Ouija board, hovering above the chocolates, as if some unseen spirit might direct him to the tastiest confection.

'I have dibs on the almond nougats!' I shouted. 'You promised, Feely!'

I lunged forward and snatched the chocolate from the vicar's fingers, and at the same instant, contrived to stumble on the edge of the carpet, my flailing hands dashing the box from Feely's hands.

'You beast!' Feely shouted. 'You filthy little beast!'

It was just like old times!

Before she could recover her wits, I had trodden on the box, and in a clumsy, windmilling--but beautifully choreographed--attempt to regain my balance, had managed to grind the whole sticky mess into the Axminster carpet.

Dieter, I noticed, had a broad grin on his face, as if it were all jolly good fun. Feely saw it, too, and I could tell that she was torn between her duchess act and swatting my face.

Meanwhile, the hydrogen sulfide fumes, which my trampling of the chocolates had released, had begun their deadly work. The room was suddenly filled with the smell of rotten eggs--and what a stench! It smelled as if a sick brontosaurus had broken wind, and I remember wondering for an instant if the drawing room would ever be the same.

All of this happened in less time than it takes to tell, and my rapid-fire reflections were broken into by the sound of Father's voice.

'Flavia,' he said, in that low, flat tone he uses to express fury, 'go to your room. At once.' His finger trembled as he pointed.

There was no point in arguing. With shoulders hunched, as if walking in deep snow, I trudged towards the door.

Other than Father, everyone in the room was pretending that nothing had happened. Dieter was fiddling with his collar, Feely was rearranging her skirt as she perched beside him on the sofa, and Daffy was already reaching for a dog-eared copy of King Solomon's Mines. Even Aunt Felicity was glaring fiercely at a loose thread on the sleeve of her tweed jacket, and the vicar, who had drifted across to the French doors, stood gazing out with pretended interest in the ornamental lake and the folly beyond.

Halfway across the room, I stopped and retraced my steps. I had almost forgotten something. Digging into my pocket, I pulled out the envelope of extra-perforated stamps Miss Cool had given me, and handed it to Father.

'These are for you. I hope you like them,' I said. Without looking at it, Father took the envelope from my hand, his quivering finger still pointing. I slunk across the room.

I paused at the door ... and turned.

'If anyone wants me,' I said, 'I shall be upstairs, weeping at the bottom of my closet.'

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

WHAT BETTER PLACE FOR a confession than at the end of a mystery novel? According to the great Eric Partridge, the words knowledge and acknowledgment come from the Middle English verb knawlechen, which means not only knowledge, but also confession or admission. So I'd better admit straightaway that I'm working with the assistance of a goodly number of partners in crime.

First and foremost among these conspirators are my editors: Bill Massey of Orion Books; Kate Miciak of the Random House Publishing Group; and Kristin Cochrane of Doubleday Canada. For their unwavering faith in Flavia from the very outset, I am forever in their debt. Bill, Kate, and Kristin have become family.

Again, my dear friends Dr. John and Janet Harland have contributed beyond measure. From brilliant ideas to animated discussions over happy meals, they have never failed to be the best of patient friends.

At Orion Books, in London, Natalie Braine, Helen Richardson, and Juliet Ewers are always marvels of friendly efficiency.