Hangman's Rope

“What’s that on the mantelpiece, little girl?”

Mr. Brunner had always made me nervous- his unctuous flattery to my mother and me on his way into my father’s study had always seemed slightly creepy, but I didn’t want him to tell Father that I’d been rude to him.

“A rope,” I said, not looking up at him but keeping my eyes on the needlepoint I’d been working on.

“A rope, sir.”

“Sir,” I repeated obediently.

“And what manner of rope would it be, for it to be placed in such a prominent location?”

“Father keeps collectibles there, sir, see the porcelain vases? He’s getting through his Chinese pottery phase, Mother says, and he’s buying historical things.”

“So what would be so historical about that section of rope, my little tyke?” Mr. Brunner patted me on the head. “I am so curious.”

I ducked out from underneath his hand. “Mother said it was a part of a rope that hung someone. I guess they must have been famous, but she didn’t tell me who it was. Why don’t you ask Father?”

Mr. Brunner straightened, looking thoughtful. “No, I don’t think I’ll do that. Why don’t you find out for me?”

“Me?” I was surprised, and dropped my needle. When I’d retrieved it from the floor, I looked up to see him looking at me thoughtfully.

“Yes, you. I’d consider it a favor. Would you like a nice present in return?”

“I suppose,” I said doubtfully. “Would Father mind?”