Nancy Atherton (20 page)

“The motion is carried,” said Emma. “We’d better get going. It’s

already half past nine. I want to make sure that the ponies have been

looked after properly, and I’d like the children to practice carrying

the pennons before they ride in the king’s pro cession this afternoon.”

“I’ll round up the twins,” I said.

“I’ll fetch our garb,” said Bill.

I felt a twinge of regret as I saw them off, but it was a very small

one. Although I regretted putting my investigation on hold, my priorities were clear. My village needed me. I wouldn’t have been able

to look my neighbors in the face if I’d gone to the fair while they

floundered beneath a mountain of trash.

“What happened to the window in the Emporium?” I asked,

after I’d rejoined my friends.

“It was struck by a flying mango,” Charles answered. “Five or

six little darlings had a food fight in front of the Emporium with

whatever they could nick from the greengrocer’s bins.”

“Their parents paid for the produce and the damage to Peggy’s

window,” Mr. Barlow told me, “but they didn’t stay behind to clear

up the mess.”

“I’m afraid that task has been left to us,” said Lilian.

“Ladies and gentlemen, if I may have your attention?”

Peggy Taxman’s voice was loud enough to wake the dead, but they

stayed put, while every living soul in the cemetery swung around to

face her. She stood on the church steps, her hands on her hips, her

Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon

129

massive bosom heaving with righteous indignation. The morning sun

glinting on her rhinestone-studded glasses made it seem as though

sparks were flying from her eyes.

“I told you a month ago that it would be a mistake to let Calvin

Malvern impose his will on our community,” she thundered. “I told

you that nothing good would come of it. I predicted chaos and

calamity . . .”

“And profits for the Emporium,” Sally interpolated under her

breath.

“. . . and ruin for our village, but would you listen? No, you

would not. Some of you have been so foolish as to welcome these

undesirables into your homes.”

“Don’t you dare criticize my wizard!” Sally shouted, stamping

her foot angrily. “Magus Silveroak is a perfect gentleman.” In an

aside to our circle, she explained, “The name on his credit card is

Gary Pelham, but he likes to be called by his wizard name. It helps

him to stay in character.”

“It’s the same with Merlot,” Christine commented. “The name

on
his
credit card is Albert Moysey, but he won’t answer to anything but Merlot. And I won’t have a word said against our magician
or
our jugglers,” she went on in a much louder voice. “They had

nothing to do with what happened yesterday.”

Newcomers to the village invariably kept their opinions to

themselves in Peggy’s presence, but Grant Tavistock set a new prece dent by speaking up in defense of the guest he and Charles had

welcomed to Crabtree Cottage.

“You can leave our mime out of it, too,” he called. “Simon was

devastated when he returned from the fair last night and saw the

state of the village.” He read the question in our eyes and added quietly, “His name is Simon Maris, but since he’s a mime, he doesn’t

really answer to anything.”

We nodded, our curiosity satisfied, and turned our attention to

Peggy Taxman, who was looking daggers at our circle of dissidents.

“You’re missing the point,” she bellowed. “The fair itself brought

130 Nancy Atherton

this blight upon our village. If it weren’t for the fair, Finch would

still be a haven of peace and tranquillity. Because of the fair, many

of us have lost whatever chance we might have had to win the tidy

cottage competition.”

The startled gasp that traveled through the churchyard indicated that I wasn’t the only one who’d forgotten about the tidy cottage competition.

“The judging was to take place this afternoon,” Lilian murmured.

“It’ll have to be canceled,” said Sally. “You can’t see half of the

cottages for the rubbish.”

“We’ll never shift it all by this afternoon,” Mr. Barlow said

gloomily.

“A time-honored village tradition has been disrupted because of

the fair,” Peggy continued. “Our lives have been blighted by the

fair. If we’d shown some backbone at the May meeting, we could

have prevented—” She broke off suddenly and peered toward the

village green.

Every head capable of movement in the churchyard swiveled to

look in the same direction.

“Do you hear . . . music?” I asked hesitantly.

“It sounds like drums and . . . bagpipes,” Mr. Barlow said,

cocking an ear toward the village green.

“Definitely bagpipes,” said Lilian.

“Come on,” I said, starting for the lych-gate. “Let’s find out what’s

going on.”

“You can’t leave!” Peggy roared, as her audience followed me

into the lane. “You haven’t heard my plans yet!”

“I don’t know what she’s worried about,” Sally muttered. “If she

stays here, we’ll still be able to hear her on the green.”

Lilian and I stifled uncharitable chuckles and kept walking. By

the time we reached the green, we’d been joined by nearly every

villager who hadn’t attended the early service at St. George’s. A

Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon

131

few who were trudging along in bathrobes and bedroom slippers

grumbled that they wouldn’t have bothered to set their alarm

clocks if they’d known the Scots were going to invade.

Miranda Morrow never went to church, but she was on her

knees nonetheless, replanting the trampled fl ower beds around the

war memorial. She waved a muddy trowel at us when we arrived.

“We have visitors!” she announced cheerfully.

Her words weren’t entirely necessary, because we couldn’t have

missed the visitors if we’d tried. Forty men from the fair were arrayed in ranks at the bottom of the humpbacked bridge. The first

row was made up of foot soldiers in leather jerkins, the second, of

courtiers in fine velvets and silks. The last two contained a mixed

bag of pirates, Vikings, monks, beggars, and bards.

Most of them looked bleary-eyed, as if they’d stayed up late the

night before, quaffing. I couldn’t imagine how they’d managed the

long slog from Bishop’s Wood to the village until I saw two of Horace Malvern’s farm trucks parked in front of the tearoom and realized that they’d used modern transport.

Six drummers stood before the assembled men, beating a stirring rhythm on hip-slung marching drums.

“They’re called tabors,” Lilian informed me.

“What are?” I asked.

“The drums,” she replied.

The drummers were flanked by a pair of pipers wearing kilts in

muted shades of brown and gray. Their bagpipes were smaller and

simpler than the pipes I’d seen in Scotland, and the sound they

produced wasn’t quite as deafening.

A short, round-bellied man stood before the drummers, facing

us. Like the soldiers, he was wearing a leather jerkin, but his black

cape and the black ostrich plume in his cap suggested that he might

be their leader. He waited until our group had come to a somewhat

befuddled halt in front of the war memorial, then raised his hand to

stop the music and strode across the green to meet us.

132 Nancy Atherton

“I am Sir James le Victorieux, Knight of the Southern Cross,

and the king’s field marshal,” he announced. “I come to parley with

your ruler.”

The villagers parted automatically to let Peggy Taxman through.

She stepped forward and faced the fi eld marshal unflinchingly.

“My lady.” Sir James doffed his feathered cap and revealed a

balding pate. “I am commissioned by His Royal Highness, King

Wilfred the Good, to offer our services to you. My liege lord has

commanded us to restore your charming hamlet to its original,

untrammeled condition. I await your permission to proceed.”

Peggy surveyed him from head to foot, then snapped, “Well,

don’t stand there like a booby. Get to work!”

The corners of Sir James’s mouth twitched, as if he found Peggy

comical rather than intimidating, but he wisely chose to contain his

merriment as he acknowledged her order. He turned to face his

men, raised his right arm, and brought it down in a chopping motion.

Those of us gathered around the war memorial watched in

stunned amazement as the performers responded to the field marshal’s signal. They broke ranks to form squads, retrieved garbage

bags and cleaning paraphernalia from Mr. Malvern’s farm trucks,

and began to move through the heart of the village, clearing debris

as they went.

It was as though a bearded, hungover, and sweaty maid service

had arrived to clean and polish Finch until it shone. One squad did

nothing but gather soda cans. Another picked up beer bottles. Yet

another collected paper trash, and the pirates removed everything

else. A bard armed with a bucket and a mop cleaned the tearoom’s

doorstep while a Viking scrubbed the schoolhouse doors. A pair of

beggars measured the Emporium’s broken display window.

“I’ll brew some coffee,” Christine Peacock said quietly. “They

look as if they could use it.”

“A cup of tea never goes amiss,” Sally Pyne observed. “And I

think they’ll welcome a bite to eat when they’re done.”

Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon

133

In less than ten minutes, Lilian Bunting, Peggy Taxman, and I

were the only villagers remaining on the green. The rest—even

the ones in bathrobes—had gone off to prepare a buffet-style meal

for the hardworking squads and set it up in the schoolhouse.

“Oh, my,” I said softly. “I don’t know who I love more at this

moment—King Wilfred’s men or my neighbors.”

Peggy Taxman snorted derisively. “What’s so wonderful about

the king’s men? They’re only doing what they ought. As for our

neighbors . . . hasn’t it dawned on anyone that we’ll have to go

through the whole pro cess over and over again every weekend from

now until the fair closes?”

A truck’s door opened and Horace Malvern climbed down from

the cab, a cell phone pressed to his ear. He shoved the phone into

his pocket as he hastened toward us.

“Lori, Lilian, Peggy,” he said, nodding to each of us in turn. His

brow was furrowed and his ruddy face was even redder than usual.

“I’m sorry about all of this. I should have seen it coming.”

“
I
saw it coming,” Peggy reminded him.

“That you did.” Mr. Malvern paused to glance at his watch, then

looked toward Fivefold Farm, frowning.

“Is something wrong, Mr. Malvern?” I asked, suddenly alert.

“It’s gone five past ten,” he said. “We should have heard the cannon by now.”

“I didn’t realize that it could be heard from here,” said Lilian.

“I heard it yesterday,” Peggy told her. “And I was at the counter

inside the Emporium.”

I felt a flutter of unease as I followed Mr. Malvern’s gaze, but

quickly realized that I was being overly suspicious. I had no reason

to worry about a silent weapon. If someone had tried to use the

cannon to kill King Wilfred, it would have gone off with a big

bang.

“I’ve called in a few favors,” Mr. Malvern said, shrugging off the

distraction, “and I’ve made some arrangements that should keep

the village from being overrun from now on.”

134 Nancy Atherton

“What sort of arrangements?” Peggy asked coldly.

“Police officers will set up two drink-driving checkpoints,” he

replied, “one at the fair’s car park and one here, in the village.

They’ll administer breath tests to anyone who appears to be over

the limit. As well, the county is going to put a road crew to work

repairing your lane, Lori.”

“My lane doesn’t need to be repaired,” I said.

“I know it doesn’t,” Mr. Malvern said patiently, “but the roadwork signs will discourage most drivers from using it as a throughway.”

“Brilliant!” I said, beaming at him.

Mr. Malvern scratched the back of his neck and sighed. “You’ll

still have some extra traffic. We won’t be able to keep all of the

fair’s patrons out of Finch—”

“Nor would we want to,” Peggy interrupted. “The decent ones

are good for business.”

“—but we’ll keep out most of the yobbos,” Mr. Malvern concluded. “There’s nothing like the sight of a few coppers to keep folk

on the straight and narrow.”

“If Finch awarded medals for problem-solving,” Lilian declared,

“you’d receive one, Horace. I’m going straight home to put Teddy’s

mind at ease. He’ll want to offer up prayers of thanksgiving for our

industrious helpers and our kind and thoughtful friend.” She patted

Mr. Malvern’s shoulder and turned toward the vicarage.

“If you’ll excuse me, I have other business to attend to,” Peggy

said loftily. “I won’t congratulate you, Horace, until we see if your

plans work.”

“I wouldn’t expect her to,” said Mr. Malvern after she’d disappeared into the Emporium. “Nor would I expect her to thank Magus Silveroak for ringing my nephew from the tearoom last night to

tell him that the village had been trashed. And I certainly wouldn’t

expect her to thank my nephew for sending his men to lend a hand

with the cleanup.”

Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon