The Weed That Strings the Hangman's Bag

by Alan Bradley

  Now another camera was showing a little girl as she approached the bier … hesitantly … tentatively—pushed forward in a series of thrusts by a self-conscious mother. The child wiped away a tear before placing a wreath of wildflowers at the rail in front of the coffin.

  The scene was cut to a close-up of a full-grown woman, weeping.

  Next, a man in funereal black stepped forward. He plucked three roses from the wall of floral tributes, and presented each one delicately: one to the child, one to the mother, and the third to the weeping woman. Having done so, he pulled forth a large white handkerchief, turned away from the camera, and blew his nose with griefstricken energy.

  It was Mutt Wilmott! He was stage-managing the whole thing! Just as he’d said he would! Mutt Wilmott: to the eyes of the world, a broken man.

  Even at a time of national mourning, Mutt was on the spot to provide the memorable moments—the unforgettable images required by death. I almost jumped to my feet and applauded. I knew that the people who witnessed these simple devotions, either in person or on the television screen, would go on talking about them until they sat toothless on a wooden bench, in a cottage dooryard, waiting for their hearts to stop beating.

  “Mutt Wilmott,” the Dimbleby voice went on, “producer of Rupert Porson’s The Magic Kingdom. We are told that he was devastated when news came of the puppeteer’s death; that he was rushed to hospital for treatment of cardiac palpitations, but in spite of it—and against his doctor’s orders—he insisted onbeing here today to pay tribute to his late colleague … although we are told on good authority that an ambulance is standing by at the ready, should it be needed….”

  The view from a camera we had not seen before was now cut in. Shooting from a high angle, as if from a rotunda, the view came down and down into the studio, as it might be seen through the eyes of a descending angel, getting closer and closer to the coffin until, at its very foot, it came to rest upon a remarkable figure that could have been none other than Snoddy the Squirrel.

  Mounted on a wooden post perhaps, the hand puppet, with its little leather ears, protruding teeth, and question mark of a bushy tail, had been carefully arranged to gaze sadly down upon the coffin of its master, its squirrel paws crossed reverently, its squirrel head bent in an attitude of humble prayer.

  There were often times—and this was one of them—when, as if in the sudden, blinding flash of a news photographer’s camera—I saw it all. Death was no more than a simple masquerade—and so, moreover, was Life!—and both of them were artfully arranged by something or other: some backstage celestial Mutt Wilmott.

  We were puppets, all of us, set in action upon the stage by God—or Fate—or Chemistry, call it what you will, where we would be pulled on like gloves upon the hands, and manipulated by the Rupert Porsons and Mutt Wilmotts of the world. Or the Ophelia and Daphne de Luces.

  I wanted to let out a whoop!

  How I wished that Nialla were here, so that I could share my discovery with her. After all, no one deserved it more. But by now, for all I knew, she was already steering the decrepit Austin van up the slopes of some Welsh mountain to some Welsh village, where, with the assistance of some hastily rustled-up, real-life Mother Goose, she would unpack her wooden crates and, later tonight, raise the curtain for the gawking villagers in some far-flung St. David’s Hall, on her own personal vision of Jack and the Beanstalk.

  With Rupert gone, which of us now was the Galligantus? I wondered. Which of us was now the monster that would come tumbling unexpectedly out of the skies and into the lives of others?

  “Heartfelt tributes continue to pour in from Land’s End to John O’Groats,” the announcer was saying, “and from abroad.” He paused and gave out a little sigh, as if he had been overwhelmed by the moment.

  “Here in London, and in spite of the downpour, the queue continues to grow, stretching as far as All Souls Church, and beyond into Langham Place. From above the door of Broadcasting House, the statues of Prospero and Ariel look down upon the hordes of mourners, watching, as if they too share in the common grief.

  “Immediately following today’s ceremonies at Broadcasting House,” he went on bravely, “Rupert Porson’s coffin will be taken to Waterloo Station, and from there to its place of interment at Brookwood Cemetery, in Surrey.”

  By now, even Feely could see that we had had enough.

  “Enough of this maudlin trash!” she announced, striding across the room and flipping off the switch. The picture on the television tube retracted to a tiny point of light—and vanished.

  “Throw open the curtains, Daffy,” she ordered, and Daffy sprang to her command. “This is so tiresome—all of it. Let’s have some light for a change.”

  What she really wanted, of course, was to have a better squint at Dieter. Too vain to wear her spectacles, Feely had probably seen no more of Rupert’s funeral than a dishwater blur. And isn’t it pointless being admired at close range by an anxious swain if one is unable to see said swain’s rapture?

  I couldn’t help but notice that Father seemed to have overlooked the way in which our first television viewing had been so abruptly terminated, and that he was already slipping away into his own private world.

  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.

  My literary agent, Denise Bukowski, has worked diligently to tell the world about Flavia. Also at the Bukowski Agency, Jericho Buendia, David Whiteside, and Susan Morris have freed me from worrying about the thousands of tiny details.

  My deep indebtedness to Nicole, of Apple, whose magic wand turned what might have been a tragedy into a perfect triumph of online support. Thanks again, Nicole!

  At Random House, in New York City, Kate Miciak, Nita Taublib, Loyale Coles, Randall Klein, Gina Wachtel, Theresa Zoro, Gina Centrello, and Alison Masciovecchio provided a touching welcome that I will never forget. And having Susan Corcoran as one’s publicist is every author’s dream. And thanks to my copy editor, Connie Munro.

  Thanks also to the American Booksellers Association for inviting me to their Indie Lunch at Book Expo America. Happily, I found myself seated at a table with Stanley Hadsell, of Market Block Books in Troy, New York, who epitomizes independent bookselling. We could have talked all night.

  To Ann Kingman and Michael Kindness of “Books on the Nightstand,” for their early and abiding faith. When I ran into Michael unexpectedly at BEA, I found out that in spite of living in the smallest town in the smallest county in the smallest state, he’s one of Flavia’s biggest fans.

  In Houston, David Thompson and McKenna Jordan, Brenda Jordan, Michelle McNamara, and Kathryn Priest of Murder By the Book, made me understand instantly why so many people love Texas so much. Now I do, too.

  Sarah Borders and Jennifer Schwartz of the Houston Public Library did double duty in arranging a question-and-answer session.

  Special thanks to Jonathan Topper of Topper Stamps and Postal History in Houston, who took the time to spice up the evening with a fascinating display of Penny Blacks.

  And to John Demers of Delicious Mischief, who managed to turn a steeplechase interview into a sheer delight.

  Also in Houston, Random House representatives Liz Sullivan and Gianna LaMorte made me feel at home.

  To that legend among booksellers, Barbara Peters of The Poisoned Pen in Scottsdale, Arizona, my profound thanks for being the perfect hostess. Although she’s younger than I am, Barbara is nevertheless my long-lost twin.

  Patrick Milliken, John Goodwin, and Will Hanisko, also of The Poisoned Pen, kindly allowed me a peek behind the scenes of a busy bookstore and plied me with refreshments.

  Thanks, too, to Lesa Holstine and Cathy Johnson, for a very special evening during which we talked happily about everything under the sun.

  Kim Garza at the Tempe Public Library put together a delightful afternoon of animated discussion. I still carry in my mind the image of all those happy faces. Thank you, Tempe!

  In Westminster, Maryland, Lori Zook, Cheryl Kelly, Judy Pohlhaus, Camille Marchi, Ginny Mortorff, Wanda Rawlings, Pam Kaufman, Stacey Carlini, Sherry Drechsler plied me with soft drinks, cakes, and JuJubes (which, when we got around to recalling candy treats of long-gone movie matinees, they also taught me to pronounce correctly: It’s “JOO-joo-bays,” not “JOO-joobs”).

  Meanwhile, at Doubleday Canada, my publicist Sharon Klein has been a perfect dynamo. I must also admit that I’m in awe of Doubleday Canada’s team, including Martha Leonard, as well as Heather Sanderson and Sharmila Mohammed of the Digital Team, who have brought the Flavia Fan Club to life and provided a cosy haven for visitors. And I’d be remiss indeed if I failed to extend special thanks to Brad Martin, President and CEO of Random House of Canada, who has championed Flavia from her very beginnings.

  In spite of the worst blizzard of the year, Bryce Zorn and Curtis Weston of Chapters in Kelowna, British Columbia, managed a full house for the Canadian launch of the first book in this series, The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie. Thanks also to Paul Hasselback, who saw me safely home through black ice and all the windblown drifts.

  Trish Kells of Random House Canada, who arranged a memorable book event in Vancouver, also acted as chauffeur and laughed at my jokes in spite of the rain.

  Deb McVitie of 32 Books in North Vancouver was the charming sponsor of my first away-from-home reading and book signing. My co-readers, Hannah Holborn and Andrea Gunraj, helped to make it an unforgettable evening. If Hannah and Andrea are indicative of our up-and-coming young writers, we have no need whatsoever to worry about the future.

  And finally, to my wife, Shirley, whose love, company, and patient support have allowed me the luxury of writing. Amadeus and Cleo have helped a lot, too.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ALAN BRADLEY was born in Toronto and grew up in Cobourg, Ontario. Prior to taking early retirement in 1994 to write, he was Director of Television Engineering at the University of Saskatchewan media center for twenty-five years. His versatility has earned him awards for his children’s books, radio broadcasts of his short stories, and national print for his journalism. He also co-authored Ms. Holmes of Baker Street, to great acclaim and much controversy, followed by a poignant memoir, The Shoebox Bible. Now the internationally bestselling author of The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie, Bradley lives with his wife and two calculating cats in Malta, where he is at work on the third Flavia de Luce mystery.

  Copyright © 2010 Alan Bradley

  All rights reserved. The use of any part of this publication, reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, or stored in a retrieval system without the prior written co
nsent of the publisher—or, in the case of photocopying or other reprographic copying, a license from the Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency—is an infringement of the copyright law.

  Doubleday Canada and colophon are trademarks.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Bradley, Alan, 1938–

  The weed that strings the hangman’s bag / Alan Bradley.

  (Flavia de Luce ; 2)

  eISBN: 978-0-307-37472-1

  I. Title. II. Series: Bradley, Alan, 1938-. Flavia de Luce ; 2.

  PS8603.R3315W44 2010 C813′.6 C2009-903901-X

  The Weed That Strings the Hangman’s Bag is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Published in Canada by Doubleday Canada,

  a division of Random House of Canada Limited

  Visit Random House of Canada Limited’s website: www.randomhouse.ca

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