Alan Bradley - The Weed That Strings the Hangmans Bag
"That's why he threatened her. He told her that if she didn't do as he wanted, he would spill the beans to Gordon — sorry, I mean that he would inform Gordon that he'd been carrying on an affair with his wife. Grace would lose both her son and her husband. She was already half mad with grief and fear, so it was probably quite easy to manipulate her.
"Because she's so small, she was able to put on Robin's rubber boots to carry his body up to Gibbet Wood. She's remarkably strong for her size. I found that out when she hauled me up into the dovecote chamber. After she'd hung Robin's body from the tree, she put the boots on his feet, and went home the long way round, barefoot."
Inspector Hewitt nodded and scribbled a note in his microscopic handwriting.
"Mad Meg came upon the body hanging there, and thought it was the Devil's work. I've already given you the page from my notebook, so you've seen the drawing she made. She's quite good, actually, don't you think?"
"Um," the Inspector said. It was a bad habit he was picking up by associating too much with Dr. Darby.
"That's why she was afraid to touch him, or even tell anyone. Robin's body hung there in Gibbet Wood until Dieter found it.
"Last Saturday at the church hall, when Meg saw Robin's face on Jack, the puppet, she thought the Devil had brought the dead boy back to life, shrunk him, and put him to work on the stage. Meg has her times very badly mixed up. You can tell that from the drawing: The Robin hanging from the tree is a sight she saw five years ago. The vicar taking his clothes off in the wood is something she saw last Thursday."
The vicar went beet red, and ran a finger round the inside of his clerical collar. "Yes, well ... you see — "
"Oh, I knew you had come a cropper, Vicar," I said. "I knew it the instant I saw you in the graveyard — the day you met Rupert and Nialla, remember? Your trouser leg was ripped, you were covered with chalky smudges from the road at Culverhouse Farm, and you'd lost your bicycle clip."
"So I had," the vicar said. "My trousers got caught up in the ruddy chain and I was catapulted into the ditch."
"Which explains why you went in among the trees of Gibbet Wood — to take off your clothes — to try to clean them up. You were afraid of what Cynthia would say — sorry, Mrs. Richardson, I mean. You said as much in the churchyard. Something about Cynthia having you on the carpet."
The vicar remained silent, and I don't think I ever admired him more than I did in that moment.
"Because you've been going to Culverhouse Farm at least once a week since Robin died five years ago, Cynthia — Mrs. Richardson, I mean — had somehow got the idea that there was more in your meetings with Grace Ingleby than met the eye. That's why you've recently been keeping your visits secret."
"I'm not really at liberty to discuss that," the vicar said. "The wearing of the dog collar puts paid to any tendency one has to be a chatterbox. But I must put in, in her defense, that Cynthia is very loyal. Her life is not always an easy one."
"Nor is Grace Ingleby's," I pointed out.
"No, nor is Grace's."
"At any rate," I went on, "Meg lives in an old shack, somewhere in the depths of Gibbet Wood. She doesn't miss much that goes on there."
Or anywhere else, I wanted to add. It had only just occurred to me that it was almost certainly Meg that Rupert and Nialla had heard prowling round near their tent in the churchyard.
"She saw you taking your trousers off beside the old gallows at the very spot where she had seen Robin hanging. That's why she drew you into her picture."
"I see," said the vicar. "At least, I think I see."
"Meg picked up your trouser clip in the road, meaning to use it for one of those dangling sculpture things of hers, but she recognized it as yours, and — "
"It has my initials on it," the vicar said. "Cynthia scratched them on."
"Meg can't read," I said, "but she's very observant. Look at the detail in her drawing. She even remembered the little Church of England pin in your lapel."
"Good heavens," the vicar said, coming round to peer over Inspector Hewitt's shoulder. "So she did."
"She came here on Saturday afternoon to return the trouser clip, and while she was looking for you, she happened to wander into the parish hall during Rupert's performance. When she saw the shrunken Robin on the stage, she went into a right old squiff. You and Nialla carried her off to the vicarage and tucked her in on your couch in the study. That's when the clip — and Nialla's compact — fell out of her pocket. I found the compact on the floor behind the couch the next day. I didn't find the bicycle clip because Grace Ingleby had already picked it up the day before."
"Hold on," the Inspector said. "No one's claiming to have seen Mrs. Ingleby anywhere near the vicarage — or the parish hall — on Saturday afternoon."
"Nor did they," I said. "What they did say was that the egg lady had been there."
Had Inspector Hewitt been the sort of man whose mouth was prone to falling open when astonished, he'd have been gaping like a gargoyle.
"Good Lord," he said flatly. "Who told you that?"
"Mrs. Roberts and Miss Roper," I said. "They were in the vicarage kitchen after church yesterday. I assumed you had questioned them."
"I believe we did," Inspector Hewitt said, cocking an eyebrow at Sergeant Graves, who flipped back through the pages of his notebook.
"Yes, sir," said Sergeant Graves. "They both gave in statements, but there was nothing said about egg ladies."
"The egg lady was Grace Ingleby, of course," I said helpfully. "She came down from Culverhouse Farm late on Saturday afternoon with eggs for the vicarage. There was no one else around. Something made her go into the vicar's study. Perhaps she heard Meg snoring, I don't know. But she found the bicycle clip on the floor, picked it up, and pocketed it."
"How can you be so sure?" asked Inspector Hewitt.
"I can't be sure," I said. "What I can be sure of, because he told me so, is that the vicar lost his bicycle clip last Thursday ..."
The vicar nodded in agreement.
"... on the road at Gibbet Hill ... and that you and I, Inspector, found it on Sunday morning clamped to the rail of the puppet theater. The rest is mere guesswork."
The Inspector scratched at his nose, made another note, and looked up at me as if he had been shortchanged.
"Which brings us neatly back to Rupert Porson," he said.
"Yes," I replied. "Which brings us neatly back to Rupert Porson."
"About whom you are about to enlighten us."
I ignored his twitting and went on. "Grace had known Rupert for years. Perhaps since even before she met Gordon. For all I know, she might even have traveled with him at one time as his assistant."
I knew by the sudden closed look on Inspector Hewitt's face that I had hit the nail on the head. Bravo, Flavia! I thought. Go to the head of the class!
There were times when I surprised even myself.
"And even if she hadn't," I added, "she'd certainly attended some of the shows he put on round the countryside. She'd have paid particular attention to the electrical rigging. Since Rupert manufactured all of his own lighting equipment, I can hardly believe that he wouldn't have taken the opportunity to show off the details to a fellow electrician. He was rather vain about his skills, you know.
"I expect Grace took the keys from the vicarage and walked straightaway through the churchyard, to the parish hall. The afternoon performance was over by that time; the audience had gone, and so had Rupert. There was little chance of her being seen. Even if she had been spotted, no one would have paid her the slightest attention, would they? After all, she was just the egg lady. Besides, she and her husband are parishioners of St. Tancred's, so no one would have given her a second look.
"She went into the hall, and using the corridor to the left, and locking the door behind her, went up the two short flights of steps to the stage.
"She climbed up onto the bridge of the puppet stage, and scraped away the insulation from the wiring, using the bicycle clip as a kind of spoke-shave. Then she slipped the clip over the wooden framework of the stage, touching the bared electrical wire on the one side and the metal rod that released Galligantus on the other. Bob's your uncle! That's all there was to it. If you've had a close look at the clip, you've likely already found a small abrasion mark on the inside center — and perhaps slight traces of copper."
"S'truth!" Sergeant Woolmer let slip, and Inspector Hewitt shot him a look.
"Unlike most of the other suspects — except Dieter, of course, who built wireless sets as a boy in Germany — Grace Ingleby had the necessary electrical training. Before the war, before marrying Gordon, she worked in a factory installing radio sets in Spitfires. I've been told that her IQ is nearly equal in number to the Psalms."
"Dammit!" Inspector Hewitt shouted, leaping to his feet. "Sorry, Vicar. But why haven't we found these things out, Sergeant?"
He glared from one of his men to the other, including both in his exasperation.
"With respect, sir," Sergeant Woolmer ventured, "it could be because we're not Miss de Luce."
It was a bold thing to say, and a rash one. If what I'd seen in the pictures at the cinema were true, it was the sort of remark that could result in the sergeant becoming a road-mender before sunset.
After a nerve-racking silence, the Inspector said, "You're right, of course, Sergeant. We don't have the same entree to the homes and hearths of Bishop's Lacey, do we? It's an area in which we could do better. Make a note of it."
No wonder his subordinates adored him!
"Yes, sir," said Sergeant Graves, scribbling something in his notebook.
"Then," I went on, "having set the trap, Grace went out by the hallway door at the right of the stage, and she locked that one, too — probably to keep anyone from going backstage and discovering what she had done. Not that anyone would, of course, but I expect she was under a great deal of stress. She's been planning to take her revenge on Rupert for a long time. It wasn't until she spotted the vicar's trouser clip on the floor that she saw exactly how it could be done. As I've said, she's a very intelligent woman."
"But," Inspector Hewitt said, "if both doors were locked, how did Porson get up onto the stage for the performance? He couldn't have locked himself in because he didn't have the key."
"He used that little staircase in front of the stage," I said. "It's not as steep as the two in the side halls, and it's only a single flight. Narrow stairs were difficult for Rupert because of his leg brace, and he took the shortest route. I noticed that about him last Thursday when he was checking the hall's acoustics."
"Quite an ingenious theory," Inspector Hewitt remarked. "But it doesn't explain everything. How, for instance, would the alleged murderer know that such a gimcrack bit of tin would result in Porson's death?"
"Because Rupert always leaned on a rail of iron piping as he operated the puppets. With all the lighting equipment that was hung backstage, the railing had to be grounded through the mains. The instant Rupert touched the live Galligantus lever, his lower body pressed tight against the rail as it was, with his right leg clamped in an iron brace, the current would have shot straight up his arm and through — "
"His heart," said the Inspector. "Yes, I see."
"Rather like Saint Lawrence," I said, "who, as you know, was done to death on a grill."
"Thank you, Flavia," Inspector Hewitt said. "I think you've made your point."
"Yes," I said, rather smugly, "so do I. Will that be all, then?"
Sergeant Graves was grinning away over his notebook like Scrooge over his ledgers.
Inspector Hewitt wrinkled his brow in a look that I had seen before: a look of exasperated curiosity held in firm check by years of training and a strong sense of duty.
"I think so, yes — except for one or two small points, perhaps."
I gave him that beaming, superior smile: all teeth and thin lips. I almost hated myself for doing it.
"Yes, Inspector?"
He walked to the window, his hands clasped behind his back, as I had seen him do before on several occasions. At last he turned: "Perhaps I'm a bit of a dim bulb," he said.
If he was waiting for me to contradict him, he'd be waiting until the cows came home in purple pajamas.
"Your observations on the death of Rupert Porson have been most illuminating. But try as I may, I have failed utterly to follow your reasoning in the death of Robin Ingleby.
"The boots, yes ... perhaps. It's a possibility, I admit, but far from a certainty. Slender evidence when it comes to court. If the case is reopened, that is. But we shall require far more than a pair of child's boots if we are to prevail again upon their Lordships."
His tone was almost pleading. I had already decided that there were certain observations that would remain forever locked away in my brain: choice nuggets of deduction that I would keep for my own private delectation. After all, the Inspector had far more resources at his disposal than I did.
But then I thought of his beautiful wife, Antigone. Whatever would she think of me if she found that I had thwarted him? One thing was certain: It would scotch any idea I might have had of sipping tea in the garden of their tastefully decorated maisonette.
"Very well," I said reluctantly. "There are a few more points. The first is this: When Dieter went running back to the farmyard, having just discovered Robin's dead body hanging in Gibbet Wood, the windows of the house were empty. No one was awaiting his arrival, as might have been expected. Surely the mother of a missing child would be frantic, waiting for the slightest scrap of news? But Grace Ingleby wasn't keeping watch at the windows. And why not? The reason is a simple one: She already knew that Robin was dead."
Somewhere behind me, the vicar gasped.
"I see." Inspector Hewitt nodded. "An ingenious theory ... most ingenious. But still hardly enough to build a case upon."
"Granted," I agreed, "but there's more."
I looked from one of them to another: the vicar, Inspector Hewitt, and Sergeant Graves, their eager faces thrust forward, hanging upon my every word. Even the hulking Sergeant Woolmer slowed his polishing of the intricate lens.
"Robin Ingleby's hair was always a haystack," I told them. "'Tousled' is perhaps the proper word. You can see it in his photos. And yet when he was found hanging from the timbers of the old gallows, his hair was as neatly combed as if he'd just climbed down from the barber's chair. Meg captured it perfectly in her drawing. See?"
There was an intake of breath as everyone huddled over the page from my notebook.
"It was something that only a mother would do," I said. "She couldn't resist. Grace Ingleby wanted her son to be presentable when he was found, hanging by the neck, dead in Gibbet Wood."
