Read Online 2 The Weed That Strings the Hangman’s Bag: A Flavia De Luce Mystery by Alan Bradley - Free Book Online
Authors: Alan Bradley
Ads: Link
bodies of Blitz victims in the wartime issues of the Picture Post. But in a vicar’s wife … ?
All of this ran through my mind as she carried on a whispered consultation with her husband. And then, with no more than a lightning glance inside—she was gone.
“Excellent,” the vicar said, breaking into a smile as he walked slowly towards us. “The Inglebys, it seems, have returned my call.”
The Inglebys, Gordon and Grace, owned Culverhouse Farm, a patchwork quilt of mixed fields and ancient woods that lay to the north and west of St. Tancred’s.
“Gordon’s kindly offered you a place to pitch your tent at the bottom of Jubilee Field—a lovely spot. It’s on the riverbank, not far from here. Walking distance, really. You’ll have plenty of fresh eggs, the shade of incomparable willows, and the company of kingfishers.”
“Sounds perfect,” Nialla said. “A little bit of heaven.”
“Cynthia tells me that Mrs. Archer rang up, too. Not such cheerful news on that front, I’m afraid. Bert’s away to Cowley, on a course at the Morris factory, and won’t be home until tomorrow night. Is your van in any sort of running order?”
I knew by the worried look on the vicar’s face that he was having visions of a van marked “Porson’s Puppets” parked at the door of the church come Sunday morning.
“A mile or so shouldn’t be a problem,” Rupert said, appearing suddenly at the side of the stage. “She’ll run better now she’s unloaded, and I can always baby the choke.”
A shadow flitted across my mind, but I let it pass.
“Splendid,” said the vicar. “Flavia, dear, I wonder if you’d mind going along for the ride? You can show them the way.”
• SIX •
OF COURSE WE HAD to go the long way round.
Had we gone on foot, it would have been no more than a shady stroll across the stepping-stones behind the church, along the riverbank by way of the old towpath that marked the southern boundary of Malplaquet Farm, and over the stile into Jubilee Field.
But by road, because there was no bridge nearby, Culverhouse Farm could be reached only by driving west towards Hinley, then, a mile west of Bishop’s Lacey, turning off and winding tortuously up the steep west side of Gibbet Hill on a road whose dust was now rising up behind us in white billows. We were halfway to the top, skirting Gibbet Wood in a lane so narrow that its hedgerows scratched and tore at the sides of the jolting van.
“Don’t mind my hip bones,” Nialla said, laughing.
We were squeezed as tightly together in the front seat as worms in an angler’s tin. With Rupert driving, Nialla and I were almost sitting on one another’s lap, each with an arm across the other’s shoulders.
The Austin backfired fiercely as Rupert, according to some ancient and secret formula known only to him, fiddled alternately with the choke and the throttle.
“These Inglebys, now,” he shouted above the incessant string of explosions. “Tell us something about them.”
The Inglebys were rather morose individuals who kept mostly to themselves. From time to time I had seen Gordon Ingleby dropping off Grace, his tiny, doll-like wife, at the village market where, dressed always in black, she sold eggs and butter with little enthusiasm beneath a striped canopy. I knew, as did everyone else in Bishop’s Lacey, that the Inglebys’ seclusion had begun with the tragic death of their only child, Robin. Before that, they had been friendly and outgoing people, but ever since had turned inward. Even though five years had passed, the village still allowed them their grief.
“They farm,” I said.
“Ah!” said Rupert, as if I had just rhymed off the entire Ingleby family history from the time of William the Conqueror.
The van bucked and jerked as we climbed ever higher, and Nialla and I had to brace our palms against the dashboard to keep from knocking our heads together.
“Grim old place, this,” she said, nodding to the dense woods on our left.
All of this ran through my mind as she carried on a whispered consultation with her husband. And then, with no more than a lightning glance inside—she was gone.
“Excellent,” the vicar said, breaking into a smile as he walked slowly towards us. “The Inglebys, it seems, have returned my call.”
The Inglebys, Gordon and Grace, owned Culverhouse Farm, a patchwork quilt of mixed fields and ancient woods that lay to the north and west of St. Tancred’s.
“Gordon’s kindly offered you a place to pitch your tent at the bottom of Jubilee Field—a lovely spot. It’s on the riverbank, not far from here. Walking distance, really. You’ll have plenty of fresh eggs, the shade of incomparable willows, and the company of kingfishers.”
“Sounds perfect,” Nialla said. “A little bit of heaven.”
“Cynthia tells me that Mrs. Archer rang up, too. Not such cheerful news on that front, I’m afraid. Bert’s away to Cowley, on a course at the Morris factory, and won’t be home until tomorrow night. Is your van in any sort of running order?”
I knew by the worried look on the vicar’s face that he was having visions of a van marked “Porson’s Puppets” parked at the door of the church come Sunday morning.
“A mile or so shouldn’t be a problem,” Rupert said, appearing suddenly at the side of the stage. “She’ll run better now she’s unloaded, and I can always baby the choke.”
A shadow flitted across my mind, but I let it pass.
“Splendid,” said the vicar. “Flavia, dear, I wonder if you’d mind going along for the ride? You can show them the way.”
• SIX •
OF COURSE WE HAD to go the long way round.
Had we gone on foot, it would have been no more than a shady stroll across the stepping-stones behind the church, along the riverbank by way of the old towpath that marked the southern boundary of Malplaquet Farm, and over the stile into Jubilee Field.
But by road, because there was no bridge nearby, Culverhouse Farm could be reached only by driving west towards Hinley, then, a mile west of Bishop’s Lacey, turning off and winding tortuously up the steep west side of Gibbet Hill on a road whose dust was now rising up behind us in white billows. We were halfway to the top, skirting Gibbet Wood in a lane so narrow that its hedgerows scratched and tore at the sides of the jolting van.
“Don’t mind my hip bones,” Nialla said, laughing.
We were squeezed as tightly together in the front seat as worms in an angler’s tin. With Rupert driving, Nialla and I were almost sitting on one another’s lap, each with an arm across the other’s shoulders.
The Austin backfired fiercely as Rupert, according to some ancient and secret formula known only to him, fiddled alternately with the choke and the throttle.
“These Inglebys, now,” he shouted above the incessant string of explosions. “Tell us something about them.”
The Inglebys were rather morose individuals who kept mostly to themselves. From time to time I had seen Gordon Ingleby dropping off Grace, his tiny, doll-like wife, at the village market where, dressed always in black, she sold eggs and butter with little enthusiasm beneath a striped canopy. I knew, as did everyone else in Bishop’s Lacey, that the Inglebys’ seclusion had begun with the tragic death of their only child, Robin. Before that, they had been friendly and outgoing people, but ever since had turned inward. Even though five years had passed, the village still allowed them their grief.
“They farm,” I said.
“Ah!” said Rupert, as if I had just rhymed off the entire Ingleby family history from the time of William the Conqueror.
The van bucked and jerked as we climbed ever higher, and Nialla and I had to brace our palms against the dashboard to keep from knocking our heads together.
“Grim old place, this,” she said, nodding to the dense woods on our left.
Similar Books
