2 The Weed That Strings the Hangman’s Bag: A Flavia De Luce Mystery by Alan Bradley

sight. Peering round the trunk of an ash, I found myself at the edge of a large clearing that lay at the very heart of Gibbet Wood.
    Here, a garden had been cultivated, and a man with a battered hat and working clothes, was hoeing away industriously among the rows of widely spaced plants.
    “Well, they’re all over the bloody place,” he was saying to someone I could not yet see.
    “… Behind every fence post … hiding under every bloody hayrick.”
    As he removed his hat to mop his face and the top of his head with a colored handkerchief, I saw that the speaker was Gordon Ingleby.
    His lips, set in a weathered face, were the startling crimson hue of what Father called “the sanguine temperament,” and as I watched, he wiped away the spittle that had come with his angry words.
    “Ah! ‘The heavens set spies upon us,’” said the other person in a dramatic voice: a voice I recognized at once as Rupert’s.
    He was lounging in the shade beneath a bush, smoking a cigarette.
    My heart nearly stopped in my chest! Had he spotted me?
    Best to keep still, I decided. Don’t move a muscle. If I’m caught, I’ll pretend I came looking for Rupert and became lost in the woods, like Goldilocks. Because there was something in them that had the ring of truth, people always fell for fairy-tale excuses.
    “Squire Morton was round again last week talking a lot of rubbish to Dieter. Prying’s more like it.”
    “You’re smarter than the lot of them, Gordon. They’ve all got bricks for brains.”
    “Maybe so,” Gordon replied, “and maybe not. But like I told you, this is the end of the line. This is where Gordon gets off.”
    “But what about me, Gord? What about the rest of us? Are we just to be left hanging?”
    “You bastard!” Gordon shouted, raising his hoe in the air like a battle-ax, and taking a couple of threatening steps. He was instantly livid.
    Rupert scrambled awkwardly to his feet, holding out one hand defensively in front of him. “I’m sorry, Gord. I didn’t mean it. It’s just an expression. I didn’t think.”
    “No, you didn’t think, did you? You never do. You don’t know what it’s like living in my skin day and night—living with a dead woman, and the ghost of a dangling kid.”
    A dead woman? Could he be talking about Mrs. Ingleby?
    Well, whatever the case, one thing seemed perfectly clear: This was not a conversation between two men who had met for the first time this morning. By the sound of it, Gordon and Rupert had known one another for a very long time indeed.
    They stood there for a few moments, staring at one another, not knowing what to say.
    “Best be getting back,” Rupert said at last. “Nialla frets.” He turned and walked to the far side of the clearing, then vanished into the wood.
    When he had gone, Gordon wiped his face again, and I saw that his hands were shaking as he pulled a sack of tobacco and a packet of cigarette papers from his shirt pocket. He rolled a clumsy cigarette, spilling shreds of tobacco in his haste, then dug into his trouser pocket for a brass lighter, and lit up, inhaling the smoke with a deep sucking and exhaling so slowly I was sure he must be suffocating.
    In a surprisingly short time he had finished. Grinding the butt into the soil with the heel of his boot, he shouldered his hoe and was gone.
    I waited for about ten minutes to be sure that he wasn’t coming back, then went quickly to the spot where he had been standing. From the earth beneath his heel print, I had no difficulty in retrieving the soggy remains of his cigarette. I broke a couple of leaves from one of the plants and, using them as a makeshift pot holder, picked up the butt, double-rolled it in a fresh leaf, and shoved the thing into the bottom of my pocket. Rupert, too, had left several fag ends beneath the bush where he had been sitting. These I retrieved also, and added to the others. Only then did I retrace my steps through the wood and back across the shoulder of Gibbet