Read Online 2 The Weed That Strings the Hangman’s Bag: A Flavia De Luce Mystery by Alan Bradley - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Alan Bradley
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Even the few flecks of sunlight that did manage to penetrate the dense foliage seemed to be swallowed up in the dim world of the ancient trunks.
“It’s called Gibbet Wood,” I said. “There used to be a village nearby called Wapp’s Hill, until about the eighteenth century, I think, but there’s nothing left of it now. The gallows was at the old crossroads at the center of the wood. If you climb up that path you can still see the timbers. They’re quite rotten, though.”
“Ugh,” Nialla said. “No, thank you.”
I decided it was best, at least for the time being, not to tell her that it was at the crossroads in Gibbet Wood that Robin Ingleby had been found hanging.
“Good Lord!” Rupert said. “What in hell is that?”
He pointed to something dangling from a tree branch—something moving in the morning breeze.
“Mad Meg’s been here,” I said. “She picks up empty tins and rubbish along the roads and strings them on bits of cord. She likes shiny things. She’s rather like a magpie.”
A pie plate, a rusty Bovril tin, a bit of silver from a radiator shell, and a bent soup spoon, like some grotesque Gothic fishing lure, twisted slowly this way and that in the sun.
Rupert shook his head and turned his attention back to the choke and the throttle. As we reached the peak of Gibbet Hill, the motor emitted a most frightful bang, and with a sucking gurgle, died. The van jerked to a halt as Rupert threw on the hand brake.
I could see by the deep lines on his face that he was nearly exhausted. He pounded at the steering wheel with his fists.
“Don’t say it,” Nialla said. “We have company.”
I thought for a moment she was referring to me, but her finger was pointing through the windscreen to the side of the lane, where a dark, grimy face peered out at us from the depths of a hedgerow.
“It’s Mad Meg,” I said. “She lives in there somewhere—somewhere in the wood.”
As Meg came scuttling alongside the van, I felt Nialla shrink back.
“Don’t worry, she’s really quite harmless.”
Meg, in a tattered outfit of rusty black bombazine, looked like a vulture that had been sucked up by a tornado and spat back out. A red glass cherry bobbed cheerfully from a wire on her black flowerpot hat.
“Ay, harmless,” Meg said, conversationally, at the open window. “‘Be ye therefore wise as serpents, and harmless as doves.’ Hello, Flavia.”
“These are my friends, Meg—Rupert and Nialla.”
In view of the fact that we were crammed together cheek-by-jowl in the Austin, I thought it would be all right to call Rupert by his Christian name.
Meg took her time staring at Nialla. She reached out a filthy finger and touched Nialla’s lipstick. Nialla cringed slightly, but covered it nicely with a tiny counterfeit sneeze.
“It’s Tangee,” she said brightly. “Theatrical Red. Changes color when you put it on. Here, give it a try.”
It was a magnificent job of acting, and I had to give her top marks for the way in which she disguised her fear with an open and cheery manner.
I had to shift a bit so that she could fish in her pocket for the lipstick. As she held it out, Meg’s filthy fingers snapped the golden tube from her hand. Without taking her eyes from Nialla’s face, Meg painted a broad swathe of the stuff across her chapped and dirty lips, pressing them together as if she were drinking from a straw.
“Lovely!” Nialla said. “Gorgeous!”
Again she reached into her pocket and extracted an enamel powder compact, an exquisite thing of flame orange cloisonné, shaped like a butterfly. She flipped it open to reveal the little round mirror in the lid, and after a quick glance at herself, handed it over to Meg.
“Here, have a look.”
In a flash, Meg had seized the compact and was scrutinizing herself in the glass, turning her head animatedly from side to side. Satisfied with what she saw, she rewarded us with a broad grin that revealed the black gaps left by several missing
“It’s called Gibbet Wood,” I said. “There used to be a village nearby called Wapp’s Hill, until about the eighteenth century, I think, but there’s nothing left of it now. The gallows was at the old crossroads at the center of the wood. If you climb up that path you can still see the timbers. They’re quite rotten, though.”
“Ugh,” Nialla said. “No, thank you.”
I decided it was best, at least for the time being, not to tell her that it was at the crossroads in Gibbet Wood that Robin Ingleby had been found hanging.
“Good Lord!” Rupert said. “What in hell is that?”
He pointed to something dangling from a tree branch—something moving in the morning breeze.
“Mad Meg’s been here,” I said. “She picks up empty tins and rubbish along the roads and strings them on bits of cord. She likes shiny things. She’s rather like a magpie.”
A pie plate, a rusty Bovril tin, a bit of silver from a radiator shell, and a bent soup spoon, like some grotesque Gothic fishing lure, twisted slowly this way and that in the sun.
Rupert shook his head and turned his attention back to the choke and the throttle. As we reached the peak of Gibbet Hill, the motor emitted a most frightful bang, and with a sucking gurgle, died. The van jerked to a halt as Rupert threw on the hand brake.
I could see by the deep lines on his face that he was nearly exhausted. He pounded at the steering wheel with his fists.
“Don’t say it,” Nialla said. “We have company.”
I thought for a moment she was referring to me, but her finger was pointing through the windscreen to the side of the lane, where a dark, grimy face peered out at us from the depths of a hedgerow.
“It’s Mad Meg,” I said. “She lives in there somewhere—somewhere in the wood.”
As Meg came scuttling alongside the van, I felt Nialla shrink back.
“Don’t worry, she’s really quite harmless.”
Meg, in a tattered outfit of rusty black bombazine, looked like a vulture that had been sucked up by a tornado and spat back out. A red glass cherry bobbed cheerfully from a wire on her black flowerpot hat.
“Ay, harmless,” Meg said, conversationally, at the open window. “‘Be ye therefore wise as serpents, and harmless as doves.’ Hello, Flavia.”
“These are my friends, Meg—Rupert and Nialla.”
In view of the fact that we were crammed together cheek-by-jowl in the Austin, I thought it would be all right to call Rupert by his Christian name.
Meg took her time staring at Nialla. She reached out a filthy finger and touched Nialla’s lipstick. Nialla cringed slightly, but covered it nicely with a tiny counterfeit sneeze.
“It’s Tangee,” she said brightly. “Theatrical Red. Changes color when you put it on. Here, give it a try.”
It was a magnificent job of acting, and I had to give her top marks for the way in which she disguised her fear with an open and cheery manner.
I had to shift a bit so that she could fish in her pocket for the lipstick. As she held it out, Meg’s filthy fingers snapped the golden tube from her hand. Without taking her eyes from Nialla’s face, Meg painted a broad swathe of the stuff across her chapped and dirty lips, pressing them together as if she were drinking from a straw.
“Lovely!” Nialla said. “Gorgeous!”
Again she reached into her pocket and extracted an enamel powder compact, an exquisite thing of flame orange cloisonné, shaped like a butterfly. She flipped it open to reveal the little round mirror in the lid, and after a quick glance at herself, handed it over to Meg.
“Here, have a look.”
In a flash, Meg had seized the compact and was scrutinizing herself in the glass, turning her head animatedly from side to side. Satisfied with what she saw, she rewarded us with a broad grin that revealed the black gaps left by several missing
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