"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."
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.
ALAN BRADLEY was born in Toronto and grew up in Cobourg, Ontario. Prior to taking early retirement to write in 1994, 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.
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.
Copyright (c) 2010 by Alan Bradley
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Delacorte Press, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
DELACORTE PRESS is a registered trademark of Random House, Inc., and the colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.
Map by Simon Sullivan
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Bradley, C. Alan
The weed that strings the hangman's bag: a Flavia de Luce mystery/
Alan Bradley.
p. cm.
eISBN: 978-0-440-33917-5
1. Detectives — England — Fiction. 2. Murder — Investigation — Fiction.
3. England — Fiction. I. Title.
PR9199.4.B7324W44 2010
813'.6 — dc22 2009043002
www.bantamdell.com
v3.0
Table of Contents
Cover
Other Books by this Author
Title Page
Dedication
Map
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Copyright
