2 The Weed That Strings the Hangman’s Bag: A Flavia De Luce Mystery (17 page)

“Mundy has already taken them home,” he said.

“I’ll be ready in a jiff,” I said, walking towards the W.C. No one, anywhere, at any time in history, has ever stopped a female en route to the Baffins.

At the last moment, I changed direction and slipped into the kitchen, where I found Mrs. Mullet in full command. She had made a huge pot of tea, and had placed steaming cups in front of Nialla and Sergeant Woolmer, who sat at a side table.

Nialla saw me before the sergeant did, and her eyes flashed—but only for an instant—like a startled animal. She gave me an almost imperceptible shake of the head, but its meaning was clear.

Women’s wireless at work. I rubbed my nose casually to let her know that the message had been received.

“Thank you, Miss Gilfoyle,” the sergeant said. “You’ve been most helpful.”

Gilfoyle? Was that Nialla’s name? It was the first time I’d heard it.

Sergeant Woolmer drained his cup in a single draught, with no apparent ill effects.

“Champion tea, Mrs. Mullet,” he said, closing his notebook. He gathered his papers, and with a pleasant nod in my direction, walked back out into the auditorium.

The man must have a stomach like a ship’s boiler, I thought.

“Now then, dear, as I was saying,” Mrs. Mullet said, “there’s no use you goin’ back to Culverhouse Farm tonight. It’s rainin’ cats and dogs—has been for an hour or more. The river will be mortal high—not safe to cross. ’Sides, no one would expect you to sleep in a tent in a wet field with the situation bein’ what it is, if you take my meanin’. Alf’s brought a brolly that’s big enough for the three of us, and we’re just across the way. Our Agnes’s room hasn’t been slept in since she left home to take up Pitman shorthand six years ago come November thirteenth. Alf and me have kept it a kind of a shrine, like. Has its own hot plate and a goose-down mattress. And don’t say no, ’cause I won’t hear you.”

Nialla’s eyes were suddenly brimming with tears, and for the life of me, I could not tell if they were tears of grief or joy.

I’d have given a guinea to know what words passed between Father and Dogger in the backseat of the taxicab, but the simple truth is that I dropped off. With the heater turned full up against the chill of the cold night rain, and the windscreen wipers making their quiet swish-swash in the darkness, the urge to sleep was irresistible. Not even an owl could have stayed awake.

When Father roused me at the door of Buckshaw, I stumbled into the house and up the stairs to bed—too tired even to bother undressing.

I must have fallen asleep with my eyes open.

• FOURTEEN •

THE SUN WAS STREAMING splendidly in at my casement window; the birds in the chestnuts were singing their little throats out. The first thought that came flashing into my mind was of Rupert’s face: his lips pulled slightly back, his teeth showing obscenely.

I rolled over onto my back and stared at the ceiling. I always find that a blank screen helps clarify one’s thoughts marvelously; helps bring them into focus.

In death Rupert had looked, I decided, remarkably like the dead dog I had once almost stepped on in a field behind the Thirteen Drakes, its fog-filled eyes staring, its yellowed fangs bared in a frozen grimace. (Although with Rupert, there had been no flies, and his teeth were quite presentable, actually.)

Somehow, the dog reminded me of something—but what?

Of course! Mutt Wilmott! The Thirteen Drakes! Mutt Wilmott would be staying at the Thirteen Drakes!

If Mrs. Mullet were to be believed, it had begun raining shortly after the evening performance began. Mutt had been there at about six-forty—say, six forty-five—I had seen him with my own eyes. He would hardly have set out for London in such a downpour. No, had he planned to leave, he would have done so before the show. It seemed obvious that he still had business to conclude with Rupert.

Ergo: He was, at this very instant, eating bacon and eggs at the Thirteen Drakes, Bishop Lacey’s sole hostelry.

Fortunately, I was already dressed.

There was a cryptlike silence in the house as I crept down the east staircase. Last night’s excitement had drained everyone of their energy and they were, I guessed, still snoring away in their respective rooms like a pack of convalescent vampires.

As I was slipping out the kitchen door, however, I came to an abrupt halt. On the wooden stand beside the door, tucked between the two full bottles the milk float had left on our doorstep at dawn, was a package.

It was a pustulent purple color, with projecting top and bottom rims. The clear cellophane in which it was wrapped had protected it from last night’s rain. On the lid, in gold letters, were the words Milady Chocolates—Finest Assorted—2 lb. Duchess Selection. Wrapped around it lengthwise was a ribbon the color of a faded red rose. The label was still attached like the Mad Hatter’s hat: 10/6.

I had seen this box before. In fact, I had seen it just a few days ago in the flyblown window of Miss Cool’s confectionery shop cum post office in the high street, where it had languished since time immemorial—perhaps since the war, or even longer. And I realized at once how it had made its way to the back door at Buckshaw: Ned Cropper.

Ned earned £7 a week doing chores for Tully Stoker at the Thirteen Drakes, and he was smitten with, among others, my sister Ophelia. Even though he had accompanied Tully’s daughter, Mary, to Jack and the Beanstalk last night, it had not kept him from leaving his midnight love token on our doorstep, as an adoring tomcat drops a mouse at its owner’s feet.

The chocolates were so old, I thought, they were most likely full to bursting with countless varieties of interesting molds, but unfortunately there was no time to investigate. Reluctantly, I returned to the kitchen and stuffed the box in the top compartment of the ice cabinet. I would deal with Feely later.

“Ned!”

I gave him a smile, and a wave with my fingers spread generously apart, the way royalty is taught to do. With his sleeves rolled up and brilliantined hair like a wet haystack, Ned was high atop the steep-pitched roof of the Thirteen Drakes, his heels braced against a chimney pot, using a brush to slather hot pitch onto tiles that looked as if they’d been up there since King Alfred burned the cakes.

“Come down!” I shouted.

“Can’t, Flavia. Got a leak in the kitchen. Tully wants this done before the Inspector shows up. Said he’d be here bright and early.

“Tully says he’s counting on the early part, anyhow,” he added. “… Whatever that means.”

“I have to talk to you,” I said, dropping my voice to a loud stage whisper. “I can’t very well go shouting it up to the housetops.”

“You’ll have to come up.” He pointed to a ladder that leaned against the wall. “Mind your step.”

The ladder was as old as the inn, or so it seemed to me. It tottered and twisted as I climbed, creaking and groaning horribly. The ascent seemed to take forever, and I tried not to look down.

“It’s about last night, isn’t it?” Ned asked, as I neared the top.

Double damnation! If I was so transparent that even someone like Ned could see through me, I might as well leave it to the police.

“No,” I said, “as a matter of fact it isn’t, Mister Smart-Pants. A certain person asked me to thank you for your lovely gift.”

“She did?” Ned said, his features broadening into a classic village idiot grin. The Folklore Society would have had him in front of a cine-camera before you could turn round three times and spit across the wind.

“She’d have come herself, but she’s being detained in her tower by her wicked father who feeds her on floor sweepings and disgusting table scraps.”

“Haw!” Ned said. “She didn’t look too underfed last night.” His features darkened, as if he had only just remembered what had taken place.

“Pretty sad, that puppet man,” he said. “I feel sorry for him.”

“I’m glad you do, Ned. He hadn’t many friends in the world, you know. It might be nice if you expressed your condolences to Mr. Wilmott. Someone said he’s staying here.”

This was a lie, but a well-intentioned one.

“Is he? Dunno. All I know right now is ‘Roof! Roof! Roof!’—sounds like a dog when you say it like that, doesn’t it? ‘Roof! Roof! Roof!’”

I shook my head and started down the shaky ladder.

“Look at yourself!” Ned said. “You’re covered with tar.”

“Like a roof,” I said, getting a look at my filthy hands and my dress. Ned hooted with laughter and I managed a pathetic grin.

I could cheerfully have fed him to the pigs.

“It won’t come off, you know. You’ll still have it plastered all over you when you’re an old lady.”

I wondered where Ned had picked up this rustic folklore—it was probably from Tully. I knew for a fact that Michael Faraday had synthesized tetrachloroethene in the 1820s by heating hexachloroethane and piping off the chlorine as it decomposed. The resulting solvent would remove tar from fabric like stink. Unfortunately—much as I should like to have done—I hadn’t the time to repeat Faraday’s discovery. Instead, I would have to fall back on mayonnaise, as recommended in The Butler and Footman’s Vade Mecum, which I had come across one rainy day while snooping through the pantry at Buckshaw.

“Perhaps Mary would know. Is she somewhere about?”

I didn’t dare barge in and ask Tully about a paying guest. To be perfectly honest, I was afraid of him, although it’s difficult to say why with any certainty.

“Mary? She’s taken the week’s wash to the laundry, then she’ll most likely be off to church.”

Church! Baste me with butter! I’d forgotten all about church. Father would be going purple!

“Thanks, Ned,” I shouted, grabbing Gladys from the bicycle stand. “See you!”

“Not if I see you first.” Ned laughed, and like Santa Claus, turned to his work.

As I had feared, Father was standing at the front door glaring at his watch as I slid to a stop.

“Sorry!” I said. He didn’t even bother asking.

Through the open door I flew and into the front hall. Daffy was sitting halfway up the west staircase with a book open in her lap. Feely wasn’t down yet.

I charged up the east staircase to my bedroom, threw on my Sunday dress like a quick-change artist, scrubbed my face with a cloth, and within two minutes by the clock—barring a bit of tar on the end of my pigtails—I was ready for morning prayer.

It was then that I remembered the chocolates. I’d better retrieve them before Mrs. Mullet began to concoct her dreadful Sunday ices. If I didn’t, there would be a host of cheeky questions to answer.

I tiptoed down the back stairs to the kitchen, and peered around the corner. Something nasty was just coming to the boil on the back of the cooker, but there was no one in sight.

I retrieved the chocolates from the ice cabinet and was back upstairs before you could say “Jack and the Beanstalk.”

As I opened my laboratory door, my eye was arrested by a glint of glassware, which was reflecting a wayward sunbeam from the window. It was a lovely device called a Kipp’s apparatus: one of Tar de Luce’s splendid pieces of Victorian laboratory glass.

“A thing of beauty is a joy forever,” the poet Keats had once written—or so Daffy had told me. There couldn’t be a shred of doubt that Keats had written the line while contemplating a Kipp’s apparatus: a device used to extract the gas resulting from a chemical reaction.

In form, it was essentially two clear glass balls mounted one above the other, a short tube connecting them, with a stoppered glass gooseneck projecting from the top globe, and a vent tube with a glass stopcock sticking out of the bottom one.

My plan took form instantly: a sure sign of divine inspiration. But I had only minutes to work before Father would come storming in to drag me down the stairs.

First, I took from a drawer one of Father’s old razors—one I had nicked for an earlier experiment. I carefully slipped the faded ribbon from the chocolate box, turned it upside down, and made a careful, dead straight incision in the cellophane along the line where the ribbon had lain. A slit in the bottom and each end was all that was needed for the wrapping to open up like an oyster shell. Replacing it would be child’s play.

That done, I carefully lifted the lid on the box and peered inside.

Perfect! The creams looked to be in pristine condition. I had suspected that age might have taken its toll—that opening the box might yield a sight similar to the one I had once seen in the churchyard when Mr. Haskins, the sexton, while digging a new grave, had accidentally broken through into another that was already occupied.

But then it had occurred to me that the chocolates, having been hermetically sealed—to say nothing of the preservatives that might have been added—might still seem fresh to the naked eye. Luck was on my side.

I had chosen my method because of its ability to take place at normal temperatures. Although there were other procedures that would have resulted in the same product, the one I selected was this: Into the bottom sphere of the Kipp’s apparatus, I measured a quantity of ordinary iron sulfide. Into the top bulb, I carefully tipped a dilute sulfuric acid, using a glass rod to make sure that the liquid went straight into the target vessel.

I watched as the reaction began in the bottom container: a lovely chemical hubbub that invariably takes place when anything containing sulfur—including the human body—decomposes. When I judged it complete, I opened the bottom valve and let the gas escape into a rubber-stoppered flask.

Next came the part I loved best: Taking a large brass-bound glass syringe from one of Uncle Tar’s desk drawers (I had often wondered if he used it to inject himself with a seven-percent solution of cocaine, like Sherlock Holmes), I shoved its needle through the rubber stopper, depressed the plunger, and then pulled it up again.

I now had a needle charged with hydrogen sulfide gas. Just one more step to go.

Sticking the needle through the rubber stopper of a test tube, I rammed the plunger down as hard as I could with both thumbs. Only fourteen atmospheric pressures were required to precipitate the gas into a liquid and, as I knew it would, it worked the first time.

I now had a test tube containing perfectly clear hydrogen sulfide in its liquid form. All that remained was to retract the plunger again, and watch it rise up into the glass of the syringe.