2 The Weed That Strings the Hangman’s Bag: A Flavia De Luce Mystery Read Online Free PDF

first-year ballet students tripped across the boards in their recital of The Golden Apples of the Sun, in which Pomona (Deirdre Skidmore, in insect netting) wooed the reluctant Hyas (a red-faced Gerald Plunkett in improvised tights cut from a pair of winter-weight long johns), by presenting him with an ever-growing assortment of papier-mâché fruit.
    “Stage right,” I said. “Behind the black tormentor curtains.”
    Rupert blinked once or twice, shot me a barbed look, and clattered back up the narrow steps to the stage. For a few moments we could hear him muttering away to himself up there, punctuated by the metallic sounds of panels being opened and slammed, and switches clicked on and off.
    “Don’t mind him,” Nialla whispered. “He’s always nervous as a cat from the minute a show’s booked until the final curtain falls. After that, he’s generally as right as rain.”
    As Rupert tinkered with the electricity, Nialla began unfastening several bundles of smooth wooden posts, which were bound tightly together with leather straps.
    “The stage,” she told me. “It all fits together with bolts and butterfly nuts. Rupert designed and built it all himself. Mind your fingers.”
    I had stepped forward to help her with some of the longer pieces.
    “I can do it myself, thanks,” she said. “I’ve done it hundreds of times—got it down to a science. Only thing that needs two to lift is the floor.”
    A rustling sound behind me made me turn around. There stood the vicar with rather an unhappy look on his face.
    “Not good news, I’m afraid,” he said. “Mrs. Archer tells me that Bert has gone up to London for a training course and won’t be back until tomorrow, and there’s no answer at Culverhouse Farm, where I had hoped to put you up. But then Mrs. I doesn’t often answer the telephone when she’s home alone. She’ll be bringing the eggs down on Saturday, but by then it will be far too late. I’d offer the vicarage, of course, but Cynthia has quite forcibly reminded me that we’re in the midst of painting the guest rooms: beds taken down and stowed in the hallways, armoires blockading the landings, and so forth. Maddening, really.”
    “Don’t fret, Vicar,” Rupert said from the stage.
    I nearly jumped out of my skin. I’d forgotten he was there.
    “We’ll camp where we are, in the churchyard. We’ve a good tent in the van, with wool rugs and a rubber groundsheet, a little Primus stove, and beans in a tin for breakfast. We’ll be as cozy as bugs in a blanket.”
    “Well,” the vicar said, “if it were solely up to me, I—”
    “Ah,” Rupert said, raising a finger. “I know what you’re thinking: Can’t have gypsies camping among the graves. Respect for the dear departed, and all that.”
    “Well,” said the vicar, “there might be a modicum of truth in that, but—”
    “We’ll set up in an unoccupied corner, won’t we? No desecration, that way. Shan’t be the first time we’ve slept in a churchyard, will it, Nialla?”
    Nialla colored slightly and became fascinated with something on the floor.
    “Well, I suppose it’s settled then,” the vicar said. “We don’t really have a great deal of choice, do we? Besides, it’s only for one night. What harm can there be in that?
    “Dear me!” he said, glancing at his wristwatch. “How tempus does fugit! I gave Cynthia my solemn promise to return straightaway. She’s preparing an early supper, you see. We always have an early supper on Thursdays, because of choir practice. I’d invite you to join us for potluck, but—”
    “Not at all,” Rupert interrupted. “We’ve imposed enough for one day, Vicar. Besides, believe it or not, Nialla’s a dab hand with bacon and eggs over a churchyard bonfire. We shall eat like Corsican bandits and sleep like the dead.”
    Nialla sat down far too gently on an unopened box, and I could see that she was suddenly exhausted. Dark circles seemed to have formed under her eyes as quickly as