the Weed That Strings the Hangman's Bag (2010) by Bradley Alan

Author:Bradley, Alan [Alan, Bradley,]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Delacorte Press
Published: 2011-01-14T19:19:41.046000+00:00

The double doors in the porch of the parish hall were draped with a rope, from which hung a notice: Police Line—Do Not Cross.

I didn’t: I walked round the back of the building and went in by one of the exits.

It was pitch dark inside. At the far end of the corridor, I knew, was the door that opened into the auditorium. To my right were the several steps that led up to the stage.

I could hear the rumble of men’s voices, and although I strained my ears to the utmost, I could not make out what they were saying. The black velvet curtains that lined the stage must be absorbing their words.

Unable to make any sense of the murmur, and because I didn’t want to risk being caught eavesdropping, I clattered noisily up the stairs.

“Hullo!” I shouted. “Anyone for tea?”

Inspector Hewitt was standing in a pool of light talking to sergeants Woolmer and Graves. At the sight of me, he broke off at once and came striding across the stage behind the puppet theater.

“You oughtn’t to be in here. Didn’t you see the signs?”

“Sorry,” I said, without answering his question. “I came in the back way.”

“No signs in the rear, Sergeant?” the Inspector asked Graves.

“Sorry, sir,” the sergeant said with a sheepish grin. “I’ll see to it right away.”

“Too late now,” the Inspector said. “The damage is done.”

Sergeant Graves lost the grin and his brow furrowed. “Sorry, sir,” he said. “Entirely my fault.”

“Well,” the Inspector went on, “since we’re almost finished, it’s not a complete disaster. But keep it in mind for next time.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now, then,” the Inspector said, turning to me, “what are you doing here? And don’t give me any guff about tea.”

I had learned from past experience that it was best to be frank with the Inspector—at least in replying to direct questions. One could always be helpful, I reminded myself, without spilling one’s guts.

“I was making notes upon a few points.”

I hadn’t made notes, in fact, but now that I’d thought of it, I realized it was a good idea. I’d see to it tonight.

“Notes? Why on earth would you do that?”

Because I could think of nothing to say, I said nothing. I could hardly tell the man that Dogger thought it was murder.

“And now, I’m afraid, I’m going to have to ask you to leave, Flavia.”

As he spoke, I looked round desperately for something—anything!—to seize upon.

And suddenly I saw it! I almost whooped with joy. My heart welled up inside me and I could hardly keep from laughing as I spoke.

“Edgar Allan Poe!” I said aloud. “The Purloined Letter.”

The Inspector stared at me as if I’d gone mad.

“Are you familiar with the story, Inspector?” I asked. Daffy had read it aloud to us on Christmas Eve.

“Isn’t everyone?” he said. “Now, please, if you’ll be so good—”

“Then you’ll remember where the letter was hidden: on the mantelpiece—in plain sight—dangling from a dirty blue ribbon.”

“Of course,” he said, with a brief but indulgent smile.

I pointed to the wooden rail of the puppet stage, which was no more than a foot above his head.

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