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

the house like an over-stoked destroyer. I had the feeling I hadn’t heard the last of it.
    Well, too late now. Beethoven was—at last—winding his weary way homeward, like Thomas Gray’s ploughman, leaving the world to darkness and to me—and to Father.
    “Flavia, a word, if you please,” he said, switching off the wireless with an ominous click.
    Feely and Daffy got up from their respective places and went out of the room in silence, pausing only long enough at the door to shoot me a pair of their patented “Now you’re in for it!” grimaces.
    “Damn it all, Flavia,” Father said when they had gone. “You knew as well as I that we had an appointment for your teeth this afternoon.”
    For my teeth! He made it sound as if the National Health were issuing me a full set of plaster dentures.
    But what he said was true enough: I had recently destroyed a perfectly good set of wire braces by straightening them to pick a lock. Father had grumbled, of course, but had made another appointment to have me netted and dragged back up to London, to that third-floor ironmonger’s shop in Farringdon Street, where I would be strapped to a board like Boris Karloff as various bits of ironmongery were shoved into my mouth, screwed in, and bolted to my gums.
    “I forgot,” I said. “I’m sorry. You should have reminded me at breakfast.”
    Father blinked. He had not expected such a vigorous—or such a neatly deflected!—response. Although he had been a career army officer, when it came to household maneuvers, he was little more than a babe-in-arms.
    “Perhaps we could go tomorrow,” I added brightly.
    Although it may not seem so at first glance, this was a masterstroke. Father despised the telephone with a passion beyond all belief. He viewed the thing—“the instrument,” as he called it—not just as a letting-down of the side by the post office, but as an outright attack on the traditions of the Royal Mail in general, and the use of postage stamps in particular. Accordingly he refused, point-blank, to use it in any but the direst of circumstances. I knew that it would take him weeks, if not months, to pick the thing up again. Even if he wrote to the dentist, it would take time for the necessary back-and-forth to be completed. In the meantime, I was off the hook.
    “And remember,” Father said, almost as an afterthought, “that your aunt Felicity is arriving tomorrow.”
    My heart sank like Professor Picard’s bathyscaphe.
    Father’s sister descended upon us every summer from her home in Hampstead. Although she had no children of her own (perhaps because she had never married) she had, nevertheless, quite startling views upon the proper upbringing of children: views that she never tired of stating in a loud voice.
    “Children ought to be horsewhipped,” she used to say, “unless they are going in for politics or the Bar, in which case they ought in addition to be drowned.” Which quite nicely summed up her entire philosophy. Still, like all harsh and bullying tyrants, she had a few drops of sentimentality secreted somewhere inside that would come bubbling to the surface now and then (most often at Christmas but sometimes, belatedly, for birthdays), when she would inflict her handpicked gifts upon us.
    Daffy, for instance, who would be devouring Melmoth the Wanderer, or Nightmare Abbey, would receive from Aunt Felicity a copy of The Girl’s Jumbo Book, and Feely, who never gave a thought to anything much beyond cosmetics and her own pimply hide, would rip open her parcel to find a pair of gutta-percha motoring galoshes (“Ideal for Country Breakdowns”).
    And yet once, when we had poked fun at Aunt Felicity in front of Father, he had become instantly as angry as I had ever seen him. But he quickly gained control of himself, touching a finger to the corner of his eye to stop a twitching nerve.
    “Has it ever occurred to you,” he asked, in that horrible level voice, “that your aunt Felicity is not what she