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

a violin case.
    “Play dat Moonlight Snotta thing by Louie B.,” I’d snarl in my raspy mobster’s voice, wandering into the room when she was practicing at the keyboard. A moment later I’d be in full flight, with Feely in hot pursuit and sheet music floating to the carpet.
    Now, Feely was busily arranging herself in an artistic full-length pose on the chesterfield, like a film star. Daffy dropped down sideways into an overstuffed armchair with her legs hanging out over the side.
    Father switched on the wireless, and sat down in a plain wooden chair, his back ramrod straight. As the valves were warming up, I did a handspring across the carpet, walked back across the room on my hands, and dropped into a cross-legged Buddha position with what I hoped was an inscrutable look on my face.
    Father shot me a withering look, but with the program already beginning, he decided to say nothing.
    After a long and boring spoken introduction by an announcer, which seemed likely to run on into the next century, the Fifth Symphony began at last.
    Duh-duh-duh-DAH.
    I cupped my chin in my hands, propped my elbows on my knees, and gave myself over to the music.
    Father had told us that the appreciation of music was of paramount importance in the education of a decent woman. Those were his exact words, and I had come to appreciate that there was music suitable for meditation, music for writing, and music for relaxation.
    With my eyes half closed, I turned my face towards the windows. From my vantage point on the floor, I could see both ends of the terrace reflected in the glass of the French doors, which stood ajar, and unless my eyes were playing me tricks, something had moved out there: Some dark form had passed by outside the window.
    I didn’t dare leap up to look, though. Father insisted on intent listening. Even so much as a tapping toe would meet instantly with a wicked glare and an accusatory downward-jabbing finger.
    I leaned slightly forward, and saw that a man dressed all in black had just sat down on a bench beneath the rose bushes. He was leaning back, eyes closed, listening to the music as it came floating out through the open doors. It was Dogger.
    Dogger was Father’s Man with a capital M: gardener, chauffeur, valet, estate manager, and odd-job man. As I have said before, he had done it all.
    Dogger’s experiences as a prisoner of war had left something broken inside him: something that from time to time, with a ferocity beyond belief, went ripping and tearing at his brains like some ravenous beast, leaving him a trembling wreck.
    But tonight he was at peace. Tonight he had dressed for the symphony in a dark suit and what might have been a regimental tie, and his shoes had been polished until they shone like mirrors. He sat motionless on the bench beneath the roses, his eyes closed, his face upturned like one of the contented Coptic saints I had seen in the art pages of Country Life, his shock of white hair lit from behind by an unearthly beam from the setting sun. It was pleasant to know that he was there.
    I stretched contentedly, and turned my attention back to Beethoven and his mighty Fifth.
    Although he was a very great musician, and a wizard composer of symphonies, Beethoven was quite often a dismal failure when it came to ending them. The Fifth was a perfect case in point.
    I remembered that the end of the thing, the allegro, was one of those times when Beethoven just couldn’t seem to find the “off” switch.
    Dum … dum … dum-dum-dum, it would go, and you would think it was over.
    But no—
    Dum, dah, dum, dah, dum, dah, dum, dah, dum, dah, dum—DAH dum.
    You’d go to get up and stretch, sighing with satisfaction at the great work you’d just listened to, and suddenly:
    DAH dum. DAH dum. DAH dum. And so forth. DAH dum.
    It was like a bit of flypaper stuck to your finger that you couldn’t shake off. The bloody thing clung to life like a limpet.
    I remembered that Beethoven’s symphonies had sometimes