Nancy Atherton (21 page)

135

“This was Calvin’s idea?” I said, gesturing to the work crews.

“He put it to the fellows and they agreed to help,” said Mr.

Malvern.

“No coercion?” I said.

Mr. Malvern gave me a sidelong, disbelieving look. “Coercion

doesn’t work on chaps like these, Lori. If they don’t want to do

something, they don’t do it. If you push them, they move on. No,

Cal just talked to them, got them to see things from his point of

view. He grew up here, remember. Finch means a lot to him. And

he wants to stay on Peggy’s good side. If she went to the press to

complain, it could spell trouble for the fair.”

“He’s looking out for Finch’s interests as well as his own,” I

said.

“Aye,” said Mr. Malvern. “He’s got a good heart, does Cal.”

“So do you,” I said. “In my book, you’re a knight in shining armor.”

“I’m a burgher,” he corrected. “What ever that is. Will we see

you today at the fair, or are you going to boycott it?”

“You’ll see me there,” I said. “I’m going to change into my costume as soon as I get home.”

“I’ll stay here until the men finish,” he said. “But I’ll see you

later.”

“See you later,” I said, and headed for the Range Rover.

After speaking with Mr. Malvern, I was convinced that the

saboteur was trying to kill or injure Calvin Malvern for personal

rather than professional reasons. Calvin might run a tight ship,

but he ran it by using persuasion rather than coercion, because

he had no other choice. Harsh tactics didn’t work with Ren fest

people. If they disliked an employer, they simply moved on to

another gig.

The saboteur, therefore, wasn’t a disgruntled employee. He

was someone who had a private quarrel with the king. Edmond

Deland, a young man seething with jealousy, resentment, and the

136 Nancy Atherton

heartache of unrequited love, fit the profile. He wouldn’t rest until

he’d destroyed his rival.

And I wouldn’t rest until I’d stopped him. Nodding grimly, I

climbed into the Rover and started for home. I couldn’t wait to get

to the fair and start interrogating the food vendors. Thanks to Sir

James le Victorieux and his motley band of heroes, I could pursue

my investigation with a clear conscience.

Fourteen

Ichanged into my wench attire—my disguise, as I now

thought of it—in less than fifteen minutes, but it took me

another twenty to work up the courage to wear it outside of

the cottage. The soft leather flats were a great improvement over

the sandals I’d worn the day before, the muffin cap was adorable,

and the flowing skirts allowed for ample freedom of movement,

but the low-cut, body-shaping bodice gave me pause. Every time I

took a breath, I wished I had a shawl.

I reminded myself forcibly that there was enough cleavage on

display at the fair for mine to go unnoticed, and that Bill had forfeited any right he’d ever had to object to my garb. If my cool medieval dude of a husband opened his mouth to complain about

wifely overexposure, I’d simply point to his clinging tights and remind him of what the pot called the kettle.

Fortified, I hung Harold le Rouge’s splendid knife on my leather

belt, slipped a few small necessities into the belt pouch Sally Pyne

had provided, and stepped out into the sunshine. The weather was

so lovely, and I was so wary of being caught in another traffi

c jam,

that I decided on the spot to leave the Mini at home and walk to the

fair. It would take me less than an hour to reach Bishop’s Wood on

foot, via Mr. Malvern’s pastures, and if I needed a lift home later

on, I could always catch a ride with one of my neighbors. I was certain that most of them would return to the fair, if for no other

reason than to show their gratitude to King Wilfred for helping

Finch in its hour of need.

I closed the cottage’s front door, went around to the back garden, hitched up my skirts, and climbed over the stile. Had it been

earlier in the morning, I would have been worried about disturbing

138 Nancy Atherton

Jinks or intruding on his privacy, but I’d gotten such a late start

that I didn’t expect to find him at home. By midmorning, the royal

jester would no doubt be at work, entertaining fairgoers with his

wit and his amazing tumbling runs.

I’d refrained from poking my nose over the stile ever since

Jinks had moved into Mr. Malvern’s cow pasture. Once I’d climbed

down from the stile, however, it seemed only natural to look

around. Jinks’s camper-van was very small and rather rusty, but

the bright yellow curtains in the windows and the lawn chair sitting beside it gave it a homey look. I would have found it trying to

spend a whole summer in such cramped quarters, but I imagined

that Jinks was used to it by now. If he didn’t love the vagabond life,

I reasoned, he would have found another line of work long ago.

Mr. Malvern’s dairy herd had worn a smooth path along the

hedgerow dividing my property from his. I followed the track,

clambering over a few gates along the way, until I reached the edge

of the fair’s extremely crowded parking lot.

The parking lot was a sign of things to come. I had to wait in one

long line to buy my ticket and a second to pass through the gatehouse. The delay would have been frustrating if I hadn’t put the time

to good use, studying the section of wall that had nearly brought

about the king’s downfall. The parapet had been seamlessly repaired

and it showed no signs of more “accidental” breakage, so I assumed

that the opening ceremonies had taken place without incident. I

hadn’t expected it to be otherwise. The saboteur would have aroused

serious suspicion if he’d pulled the same stunt twice.

When I finally passed through the main entrance, I found myself

adrift in a sea of people. Gate house Square was bursting at the

seams with chattering fairgoers, and the winding lanes leading off of

it appeared to be more congested than they had been the day before.

If, as Aunt Dimity had suggested, the saboteur was trying to scare

people away from King Wilfred’s Faire, he was failing miserably.

By the time I reached Pudding Lane, the food vendors were too

busy catering to the needs of their customers to spend time gossiping

Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon

139

with me. I consoled myself with a honey cake, resolved to return for

another try later in the day, and went in search of the quiet lane in

which I’d first seen the madrigal singers.

I hoped the lane would still be quiet, because I wanted to renew

my brief acquaintance with the crystal-ball vendor. She’d seemed like

a friendly, talkative soul when she’d answered my questions about little Mirabel. If her booth wasn’t swamped by aspiring fortune-tellers, I

was certain that she’d be willing to continue our conversation.

I thought it would be easy to retrace my steps to the crystal-ball

stall, but it wasn’t. The noise, the bustle, and the fair’s infinite distractions made it challenging to plot a steady course though the

labyrinth of crisscrossing lanes. A program book with its handy

map would have helped, but I’d left Saturday’s edition at home and

refused Sunday’s because it was too big to fi t into my belt pouch.

My progress was impeded by the crowds, but it was brought to

a complete halt by a Cyrano de Bergerac clone, who waylaid me at

the junction of Harmony Lane and Broad Street. After presenting

me with a long-stemmed red rose, the flamboyant dandy went

down on one knee to recite a poem in praise of my eyes, while fixing his gaze firmly on my chest. His utterly shameless flirtation attracted a small gathering of amused spectators who seemed to

think I was in on the act. By the time he pressed his lips—and his

oversized nose—to my hand, I was convinced that my disguise was

working. With a little luck, and a little medieval attitude, I’d be

able to infiltrate any part of the fair I chose.

I was still searching for the crystal-ball stall when Peggy Taxman’s unmistakable roar smote my ears.

“Water! Water! Ice-cold water! Get thy water here!”

Her stentorian cry stopped me in my tracks. I shot a furtive

look over my shoulder and saw Peggy standing before a small stall

not twenty feet away from me. My disguise must have fooled her,

because her eyes swept over me without betraying a fl icker of recognition. Relieved, I scurried to hide behind a tree, then peeked

cautiously around the trunk to watch her hawk her wares.

140 Nancy Atherton

“Precious ointment for thy skin!” she bellowed, holding up a

tube of sunblock. “Protect thine epidermis from the orb’s baleful

rays!”

Peggy’s stall was possibly the most popular one at the fair, in

large part because she’d stocked it with items that were useful rather

than decorative. Sun visors, sunblock, lip balm, disposable cameras,

bug spray, packets of tissue, and bottles of hand sanitizer seemed to

fly off the shelves, and she could hardly keep up with the demand

for bottled water.

In addition to meeting her public’s material needs, Peggy gave

them a memorable show. Whether she meant to be or not, she was

a superb performer, a sort of iron-lunged medieval carnival barker.

People lingered after making their purchases, as if they found the

sheer volume of her cries entertaining, though they may have been

impressed by her appearance as well. Peggy filled her yellow-andblue-striped bodice to its furthest extent, but instead of looking ridiculous, she looked majestic. Her statuesque figure, commanding

presence, and practical products attracted a steady stream of buyers

to her stall.

“Don’t know how long those laces will hold,” said a quiet voice

behind me.

I turned to find Sally Pyne peering past me at Peggy.

“They’re made of nylon, but even nylon has its limits,” she went

on. She took a step back and regarded me critically, while making

sure we were still hidden by the tree. “You fill out your top nicely,

Lori—not too much, not too little.”

“Sally,”
I protested, folding my arms across my chest.

“Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed,” she chided. “I saw that chap

with the fake nose giving you the business.”

In hopes of diverting her attention from my more conspicuous

charms, I surveyed her cotton blouse, baggy shorts, and sneakers, and

asked, “Why aren’t you wearing a costume?”

“I’ve been too busy making clothes for other people to make anything for myself,” she replied. “Besides, I’m comfy as I am.” She stuck

Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon

141

her hands in her pockets and rocked back on her heels. “Have you

heard about King Wilfred’s crown?”

My jaw dropped as an earthshaking insight exploded in my brain.

It was so glaringly obvious that I felt like a complete dunderhead for

not seeing it sooner. The good people of Finch were veritable bloodhounds when it came to sniffing out juicy gobbets of information.

They were observant, attentive, relentless, and always eager to pass

along what they’d learned. I didn’t need to interrogate strangers in

order to find out what was going on at the fair. All I had to do was

chat with my neighbors.

“No,” I said, leaning toward Sally. “I haven’t heard about King

Wilfred’s crown.”

Sally leaned toward me and lowered her voice. “He’s wearing a

different one today. Word has it that the pointy one he wore yesterday has gone missing.”

“Missing?” I repeated suggestively.

“Stolen,” she confirmed. “Worth a tidy sum, they say.”

“You’re kidding,” I said. “It looked like a piece of costume jewelry

to me.”

“Most of the stones are paste,” Sally conceded. “But the sapphire

and the diamonds are real. He took ’em from his mother’s engagement ring and put ’em in the crown, in memory of her. So they say.”

“Poor Calvin,” I said, shaking my head sadly. “Has he notified the

police?”

“No,” said Sally. “Calvin doesn’t want the police nosing around

the camp. They might not like some of the things they find there.”

She winked. “Unconventional tobacco, that sort of thing.”

Mr. Barlow appeared at Sally’s elbow. He seemed to materialize

out of nowhere, but he, too, was careful to put the tree between

himself and Peggy Taxman. Like Sally, Mr. Barlow was dressed in

everyday summer clothing, but apparently neither of them needed

to disguise themselves in order to garner gossip.

“I expect you’ve told Lori about the crown,” he said to Sally.

“I was just telling her,” she said.

142 Nancy Atherton

“It’s appalling,” I said. “Absolutely appalling.”

“Wait till you hear about the cannon,” said Mr. Barlow.

“I was getting to that,” Sally said, frowning irritably.

“What happened to the cannon?” I asked.

“Someone tampered with it,” said Mr. Barlow. “That’s why it

didn’t go off this morning.”

“So they say,” Sally put in.

“Good grief,” I said. “How was it tampered with?”

“Someone fiddled with the barrel,” said Mr. Barlow. “If it had

gone off, it would have blown the cannoneers to kingdom come.”

“That’s not what I heard,” Sally objected. “I heard that someone

filled the barrel with cannonballs and aimed it at the gate house.”