Nancy Atherton (2 page)

While Peggy continued to drone, my gaze traveled to the portrait of the queen, hung in a place of honor above the schoolroom’s

double doors. I usually felt a small, Anglophilic tingle when I beheld England’s gracious monarch decked out in royal regalia, but

I’d seen the schoolroom portrait so often that it no longer worked

its magic.

Sighing, I looked down at my idle hands. If asked, I would have

been forced to confess that I had no one but myself to blame for

my growing sense of ennui. After the fiasco with the vampire in

October, I’d sworn to keep my feet fi rmly on the ground, and on

the ground I’d kept them for seven months, successfully stifling an

6 Nancy Atherton

inborn and nearly irresistible inclination to let my vivid imagination run away with me.

When Sally Pyne’s gilded antique biscuit barrel had gone missing in January, I’d clamped down on my desire to nab the thief and

left it to Sally to remember—two days later—that she’d loaned

her precious barrel to Mr. Barlow, who’d played one of the Three

Wise Men in the Nativity play and needed a fancy container for the

frankincense.

Similarly, when a stranger spent a cold February morning taking photographs of every nook and cranny in Finch, I
did not
allow

myself to envision him as a predatory land developer, a fast-talking

film location scout, or a devious foreign spy, and when I learned

that he was, in fact, a real estate agent acting on behalf of clients

who were about to buy long-vacant Crabtree Cottage, I
refused
to

wonder whether or not those clients had sinister ties to the woman

who’d died there.

It was just as well, because the clients turned out to be Grant

Tavistock and Charles Bellingham, who were sitting just below

me, in the front row of folding chairs. The newest residents of

Crabtree Cottage were a perfectly friendly pair of middle-aged art

appraisers who’d never heard of Prunella Hooper or her tragic demise, and who were so eager to fit into their new community that

they’d actually
volunteered
to clean up after the bring-and-buy sale.

As I surveyed their shining faces, I thought pityingly,
They’ll learn
.

“. . . cacti and succulents belong to separate and distinct plant

categories and will be judged accordingly, with no exceptions. . . .”

My mind drifted lazily from cacti to flowers to the beautiful

bouquet Annelise had carried down the aisle. Annelise’s wedding

had definitely helped me to keep my treacherous imagination in

check. With her mother’s permission, I’d thrown myself into every

phase of the preparations, attending to each detail with such

single-minded devotion that I had no energy to spare for phantom

biscuit-barrel thieves or mysterious strangers.

The wedding had taken place on the third Saturday in May—a

Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon

7

mere nine days ago, I thought, glancing wanly at the schoolroom’s

well-thumbed wall calendar—at St. Margaret’s Catholic Church in

Upper Deeping. Thanks to my impeccable planning, it had gone off

without a hitch, but now that it was over, I couldn’t help feeling a

bit deflated.

What did I have to look forward to, I asked myself, but the

summer fete, the bring-and-buy sale, the gymkhana, the art show,

the flower show, the dog show, and the tidy cottage competition? A

sensible woman would have thanked her lucky stars to live in such

a lively community, but when Peggy asked if there was any other

business, I could scarcely keep myself from yawning. Everyone in

the schoolroom knew that Peggy’s question was meaningless because there was
never
“any other business” at the May meeting.

Which was why everyone—except Peggy—jerked to sudden,

rapt attention when Mr. Malvern raised a hesitant hand and lumbered slowly to his feet.

Horace Malvern lived next door to me, on a vast estate known

as Fivefold Farm. His property ran along the southern edge of

mine, and I’d never had the least cause to regret it. He was a model

neighbor—a respectable, hardworking, middle-aged farmer whose

behavior had, until the moment he’d raised his hand, been as predictable as spring rain. I couldn’t imagine what other business he

had to offer.

I stared at him incredulously for a moment, then swung around

to look at Peggy Taxman, who still had her nose buried in her

notes. It wasn’t until Mr. Malvern gave a rather pointed cough that

Peggy looked up from her clipboard, peered suspiciously around

the room, and fixed her gimlet gaze on the burly farmer.

“What is it, Horace?” she snapped waspishly. “Be quick. I can’t

abide time-wasters.”

Mr. Malvern shuffled his large feet uncomfortably, then muttered something gruffly to the fl oor.

“Speak up, Horace,” Peggy ordered. “No one can hear you.”

Mr. Malvern cleared his throat and, with a brief glance over his

8 Nancy Atherton

right shoulder, said forthrightly, “My nephew would like to make

an announcement.”

“Your nephew?” said Peggy, clearly taken aback.

“That’s right,” said Mr. Malvern, nodding. “Calvin, my brother

Martin’s boy, would like to make an announcement.” Without further ado, he turned toward the double doors and whistled shrilly,

then sat down again and ducked his head.

The double doors were flung open, and a lithe figure clad in the

belled cap and the diamond-patterned costume of a medieval court

jester catapulted down the central aisle in a lightning-fast series of

handsprings, backflips, somersaults, and cartwheels. He came to

rest on bended knee at the foot of the stage, just below Peggy Taxman, with his arms outstretched and his bells jingling.

The jester’s knee had barely touched the floor when a pair of

young men dressed in plumed caps, yellow tights, and bright red

tabards took up positions on either side of the doors, raised long,

slender trumpets to their lips, and blew an elaborate fanfare. As

the last note of the fanfare faded, they turned as one to address the

room.

“Arise, gentle folk!” they bellowed in unison. “Hence cometh

our excellent and most gracious ruler, the lord of laughter and the

monarch of mirth, His Majesty, King Wilfred the Good!”

Sixty-seven jaws dropped simultaneously as King Wilfred the

Good strode into the schoolhouse.

Two

K ing Wilfred paused just inside the doorway, planted his

hands on his hips, and beamed benevolently around the

room. He was in his late twenties, I guessed, tall and

heavyset, with twinkling blue eyes, a full beard, and a cascade of

light brown curls that tumbled to his shoulders. I wouldn’t have

looked at him twice if he’d been wearing a T-shirt and jeans, but the

clothes he had on deserved a prolonged second glance. As he stood

near the doorway, arms akimbo and head held high, I couldn’t help

wondering if he’d spent the day ransacking Henry VIII’s closet.

He wore a sleeveless, ermine-trimmed surcoat of plum velvet

over a gold-shot brocade tunic with long, puffed sleeves, a stiff lace

collar, and a belt made of braided silver cord. His stout legs were

clad in white tights, with an embroidered garter above each knee,

and his surprisingly dainty feet were shod in soft-soled suede ankle

boots. Heavy gold rings adorned his thick fingers and a chunky gold

chain hung around his neck, embellished with a ruby-encrusted

pendant. Set among his light brown curls was a shiny golden crown

whose tall points were dotted with gemstones that seemed too

sparkly to be real.

The trumpeters doffed their plumed caps and bowed deeply at his

entrance, while the jester curled into a ball and rolled to one side of

the stage, to crouch beneath an alarmed-looking Mr. Wetherhead.

The only villager to “arise” was Sally Pyne, who’d jumped to her feet

at the trumpeters’ command, then hastily resumed her seat, blushing

furiously. The rest of us sat openmouthed and staring, as if we’d been

turned to stone.

“All hail good King Wilfred!” the trumpeters chorused, rising

from their bows.

10 Nancy Atherton

“Pray silence, good heralds,” the king responded, with a nonchalant wave of his hand. “We see that our magnificence has temporarily robbed our subjects of speech and rendered their limbs

useless. We will not, therefore, stand upon ceremony.”

The jester rose from his crouch, held an imaginary telescope to

his eye, and scanned the room in a sweeping motion that ended at

Mr. Wetherhead’s startled face.

“Looks to me like no one’s standing,” the jester announced,

“upon ceremony or otherwise.”

Mr. Wetherhead twitched nervously and shrank back in his chair.

“Well said, Fool,” said King Wilfred, chuckling merrily as he

approached the stage. “And foolishly said well, for a fool may well

say wisely what a wise man cannot say, and wise man may say foolishly what a fool may—”

“Calvin Malvern!”
The name exploded from Peggy Taxman as

though it had been shot from a cannon. “Is it you under all that

hair?”

King Wilfred removed his crown with a flourish and shook his

curls back from his round face. “It is I, Calvin Malvern, at your service, Auntie Peggy.”

“I’m not your aunt, you pea-witted nincompoop,” Peggy thundered.

“I think of you as my aunt,” Calvin assured her. “After the many

pleasant hours I spent in your shop when I was but a wee lad—”

“I chased you out of the Emporium more times than I can

count, you young rascal,” Peggy interrupted.

“But you were always pleased to see me when I came back,” Calvin countered, smiling angelically.

“That’s as may be,” Peggy retorted, “but I’m certainly not pleased

to see you now. How dare you disrupt my meeting?”

“Forgive me,” said Calvin. “I was under the impression that

you’d called for other business.”

“Other business does not include prancing in here like a puff edup popinjay and spouting poetical nonsense,” Peggy growled. “What

Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon

11

your poor father would think if he could see you strutting around

like an overdressed peacock . . .”

“He’d think I was doing something useful with my life,” said

Calvin.

“Useful?” Peggy snorted derisively. “Run along, Calvin. Take

your little friends and play dress-up somewhere else. The grownups have work to do.”

Mr. Wetherhead gave a terrified squeal as the jester vaulted

onto the stage and bent low to peer at the laptop’s screen.

“May it please the court,” the jester cried, raising a rigid index

finger. “I see nothing in the minutes that limits ‘other business’ to

that offered by boring blokes in business suits.” He pointed the finger accusingly at Peggy. “You must let the peacock squeak, er, I

mean, speak!”

Dick Peacock chuckled and Christine Peacock snickered as a

ripple of amusement ran through the schoolhouse. I was sitting too

close to Peggy to risk outright laughter, but I caught the jester’s eye

and smiled furtively.

“We may as well hear what Cal has to say, now he’s here,” called

Mr. Barlow from the back of the room.

“Hear, hear!” called Lilian Bunting from the front row.

“Let King Wilfred speak,” called Miranda Morrow, shaking her

strawberry-blond hair back from her freckled face.

Others soon chimed in. While the rest of the villagers spoke up

in Calvin’s defense, Horace Malvern stared stoically at the floor

and said nothing. It was impossible to tell whether he was upset,

embarrassed, or simply bewildered by his nephew’s antics, but his

silence seemed to imply that all was not well between them.

Peggy’s silence had a distinctly ominous edge to it, but she was a

seasoned politician and she could read a crowd’s mood accurately,

when she chose to. She waited until the groundswell of support had

reached a raucous rumble, then placed her clipboard on the table,

banged the gavel twice for order, and folded her arms across her

impressive bosom.

12 Nancy Atherton

“The chair will give you ten minutes,” she declared, nodding

curtly to Calvin.

Calvin bowed to her, murmuring, “As generous as always, Auntie Peggy.”

A titter went through the room, accompanied by a buzz of excitement rarely heard at a May meeting. Lilian Bunting and I exchanged gleefully mystified glances, then gave our full attention to

Calvin. I had no idea what he was about to say, but it had to be

more entertaining than Peggy’s guidelines on stanchion storage.

I expected Calvin to replace his crown and revert to the persona of King Wilfred while making his mysterious announcement.

Instead, he handed the crown to the jester, who won a huge roar of

laughter by pretending to put it on Peggy’s head before leaping

nimbly from the stage to sit cross-legged at Charles Bellingham’s

feet. Calvin allowed the room to settle down, then began to speak

in the artfully modulated tones of a trained actor—or a snake-oil

salesman.

“My friends,” he said. “Have you ever dreamed of traveling back

in time? Have you ever yearned to return to an age when simple

folk danced gayly on the green while lords quaffed and knights

fought and troubadours sang sweetly of chivalrous deeds? Have you