Nancy Atherton (23 page)

“Better not,” he said. “It brings back too many painful memories

of my school days.” He winced slightly as we stepped over a log.

“Painful memories?” I teased.

“Painful knees,” he replied, pausing to rub his left leg. “I misjudged a landing during the pro cession. My joints aren’t what they

used to be.”

“Whose are?” I said as we walked on. “Lucky for you, it’s Sunday. You’ll have the rest of the week to recuperate.”

“I seem to spend more and more time recuperating,” he said,

with a wry smile.

“In that case,” I said, “why don’t you let me set up an appointment for you with my neighbor, Miranda Morrow? She’s an excellent massage therapist and a certified homeopathic healer. She’ll

have you feeling right as rain before you know it.”

“Thank you, from the bottom of my knees,” he said. “Unfortunately, they’ll be far away from Finch during the coming week.

They’re traveling with me to Cheltenham, to stay at a friend’s fl at.

I’ll be spending weekdays there throughout the summer.”

“I’m glad,” I said.

“Are you?” he asked. “Why?”

“I saw your camper,” I told him. “It’s okay for weekend stays, but

I wouldn’t want to spend an entire summer in it.”

“Nor would I, which is why I’ve made other arrangements.” Jinks

came to a sudden halt. “Well? What do you think? Will it do for our

picnic?”

We stood near the edge of a sparkling brook that ran through a

sylvan glade. Sunlight streamed through leaves that hadn’t yet lost

their springtime suppleness and water gurgled and splashed over

smooth, mossy stones, providing a natural music that was far easier

on the ears—and the nerves—than the fair’s constant din. Wildflowers grew among the long grasses, filling the air with sweet,

subtle fragrances, and small birds twittered in the trees.

150 Nancy Atherton

“It’s lovely,” I said. “Is this your secret place?”

“It’s our secret, now,” he said.

“If Bishop’s Wood were farther away from Finch,” I said, “I’d

agree with you. But most of my neighbors have probably picnicked

in this very spot at one time or another. I know for a fact that

Miranda Morrow collects herbs in these woods.”

“We’ll just have to pretend, then,” said Jinks. “We’ll make believe we’re the first humans to set foot here. We’ll be the Adam

and Eve of Bishop’s Wood.”

“If I see a snake, I’m leaving,” I declared.

When Jinks placed the picnic basket on the ground, he groaned

and grabbed his back, so I ordered him to sit on a fallen tree and let

me take care of the heavy work. While he dug his knuckles into his

twinging muscles, I spread the cloth on the ground and set out the

food and drink he’d brought from the encampment—cold chicken,

ripe strawberries, dried figs, honey cakes, a round loaf of bread, a

generous wedge of Cheddar, and a bottle of Riesling.

“The wine’s from my own cellar,” he announced, lowering himself gingerly onto the cloth. “Trust me, it’s possible to grow tired of

quaffing ale.” He opened the bottle with a corkscrew, filled two

plastic cups with wine, and handed one to me. “A toast, my lady?”

“To King Wilfred,” I said, raising my glass. “Long may he reign.”

“To the king,” said Jinks. He touched his glass to mine, then set

it aside and reached for a chicken breast. As he chewed his first

bite, he let his green eyes travel well south of my chin. “I’ve been

meaning to compliment you on your garb. It’s most becoming.”

“Thanks,” I said, without a trace of self-consciousness. Jinks had

been working at Ren fests for so long that he had to be used to seeing dresses like mine. “I wanted to be a noblewoman, but my seamstress didn’t have enough time to make a fancy dress, so I ended up

as a wench.”

“Noblewomen are tedious,” he said dismissively. “You’re much

better off as a wench. Less dignity, perhaps, but more license, and

I know which one I prefer. Wench roles usually go to our more

Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon

151

buxom cast members, but not always. Wenching, you see, is a state

of mind. And, as you demonstrate so admirably, one can achieve

marvelous effects with a fi tted bodice.”

“It’s not bad,” I said, glancing downward. “Bill hasn’t seen my

garb yet, but I think he’ll like it.”

“If he doesn’t, he’s a bigger fool than I am.” Jinks dropped his gaze

for a moment, then looked up again to continue his analysis of my

appearance. “Technically, you shouldn’t wear your hair short—even

nuns had long hair in medieval times—but your curls are so adorable

that we’ll let it pass. Also, you’ve used the old Rennie trick of—”

“Rennie?” I broke in.

“A hard-core Ren fest participant,” he translated, “one who travels from fair to fair throughout the year, who sees it as a way of life

rather than a hobby. You are a mundane—an outsider, a member of

the public—though no one could tell by looking at you. You’ve used

the classic Rennie trick of disguising your short hair with a cap,

which is exactly the right thing to do.”

“The credit should go to my seamstress,” I said. “She made the

costume.”

“But you give it its lovely shape,” he said.

“Enough,” I said, shaking a chicken leg at him. “I’m happy to

know that you approve of my costume, and I realize that fl attery is

part of your act, but you’ve exceeded the quota of compliments

you’re allowed to give to a married woman.”

“Is there a quota?” he asked innocently.

“There certainly is, and you’ve sailed right over it,” I said. “Let’s

move on to another subject, shall we? Is it true that someone stole

Calvin’s crown?”

Jinks choked on a sip of Riesling, wiped his mouth with the

back of his hand, and gazed at me incredulously. “You’ve heard

about the crown? My word. News does travel fast at a Ren fest.”

“Sounds like Finch,” I said. “Is it true, then? Was the crown

stolen?”

“It’s missing,” Jinks allowed. “Whether it was stolen or merely

152 Nancy Atherton

misplaced remains to be seen. No one burgled Cal’s motor home,

so my money is on misplacement.”

“How could Calvin misplace his crown?” I asked. “It’s set with

his mother’s jewels.”

“By my troth,” Jinks said, his eyes widening with delight. “You

are
in the know, aren’t you?”

“I keep my ears open,” I acknowledged modestly. “And I’m still

waiting to hear your answer. How could Calvin misplace something that means so much to him?”

“After an evening of quaffing, one can easily misplace anything

that isn’t actually attached to one’s body.” Jinks stretched out on his

side, propped his head on his hand, and began nibbling a fig. “We

searched the camp this morning, before the fair opened, but we

didn’t find it.”

“You don’t seem too worried about it,” I said.

“I’m not,” he admitted, popping the rest of the fig into his mouth.

“Pranks and practical jokes are a staple of camp life, Lori. I fully

expect the crown to turn up next weekend, on one of the ponies.”

“Do you think the quintain incident started out as a practical

joke?” I asked.

“No, I don’t,” he replied more seriously. “Our cast members

may share a rather sophomoric sense of humor, but they know better than to muck about with the equipment in the arena. It’s too

dangerous. A defective rope is to blame for the quintain accident.”

“Are you sure about that?” I asked. “Did someone examine the

rope after the accident?”

“Yes, of course,” said Jinks. “Edmond brought it back to camp—”

“
Edmond
brought the rope to camp?” I interrupted.

“Of course. He’s the general dogsbody. It’s his job to straighten

the arena after the show. When he’d fi nished, he brought the broken rope to the encampment, where we all had a look at it.” Jinks’s

eyes narrowed and he peered up at me inquisitively. “Why are you

taking such a great interest in the rope, Lori?”

“I’m not sure,” I said, ducking my head to avoid his penetrating

Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon

153

gaze. “It just seems as if Calvin’s been having an unusual run of bad

luck since the fair opened.”

“And you suspect . . . what?” Jinks asked.

I slipped Harold le Rouge’s knife from its sheath and busied myself with cutting up the generous wedge of cheese.

“Lori,” Jinks said, his voice laden with disbelief, “you’re not

suggesting that someone is trying to bump off our beloved monarch, are you?”

I could feel the entire top half of my body blush.

“You witnessed a series of accidents and deduced that a . . . a

pretender to the throne is attempting . . . regicide?” Jinks rolled

onto his back and began howling with laughter. “Ring the alarm

bells! Call out the watch! Raise the hue and cry! The king’s life is

imperiled by felons most foul!” After a few minutes of unrestrained

chortling, he caught his breath and heaved an amused sigh. “Oh,

Lori, you belong in my world. You have precisely the right sort of

imagination.”

My head snapped up.

“I’m
not
imagining things,” I said through gritted teeth, and

then it was off to the races. “I hear someone using a handsaw three

hours before the fair opens—
one
person using
one
saw— and the

next thing I know, the parapet falls apart. And it just happens to be

the parapet Calvin leans on during the opening ceremony. Then

he’s nearly decapitated by the sandbag and I examine the rope and

it just happens to look as if someone sliced into with a knife. Then

his crown disappears and someone tampers with the cannon

and . . . and . . .” I thumped the ground with my fist. “
I’m not

making things up!”

“No, no, of course you’re not.” Jinks sat up with a groan and

held a placating hand out to me. “But who would want to harm our

merry monarch? Cal is the kindest boss in the world. Everyone

loves him.” His hand fell and his tone softened to a patronizing

purr. “Isn’t it possible that you may be reading a little too much

into things?”

154 Nancy Atherton

“It’s . . . possible,” I conceded stiffl

y.

“The saw, for example,” he went on. “Is it really so shocking

that you heard it when you did? Builders were up all night putting

last-minute touches on various projects. The paint was still wet on

the gate house when the opening ceremonies began, and the walkway was a long way from finished. All of the parapets were held in

place by temporary struts. Calvin should have known better than

to put his weight on any of them.”

“All of the parapets were weak?” I said, with a doubtful frown.

“You told me that the walkway was perfectly safe.”

“I didn’t want you to spend your first day at the fair worrying

about whether or not the gate house would collapse,” said Jinks.

“The truth is, it was still a work in progress.”

“But the quintain’s a different matter,” I argued. “Someone

could have sabotaged it after the knights left for the opening ceremonies, when the arena was deserted.”

“The arena is never deserted,” Jinks pointed out, smiling patiently. “There’s always a gaggle of girls hanging around the marquee, hoping for a chance to flirt with the squires or the soldiers or

the knights. Deadly weapons are babe magnets, apparently.”

“My husband didn’t mention a gaggle of girls,” I said.

“Wise man,” Jinks muttered.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I demanded.

“Wives don’t always approve of groupies,” he said carefully, peering skyward.

“Oh,” I said, thinking of Bill’s tights. “I see.”

“Be that as it may,” Jinks went on hastily, “a quintain would be a

highly unreliable murder weapon. It would be too diffi

cult to predict when the rope would break, and it would have to break at exactly the right moment to send the sandbag sailing toward a specific

target. I don’t see how it could be done.”

“Maybe the saboteur was trying to scare the king,” I said.

“No one was trying to scare the king,” Jinks countered. “When

we examined the rope’s shipping crate, we discovered several nails

Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon

155

that hadn’t been hammered into place correctly. The pointy ends

were protruding inside the crate. No one cut the rope intentionally, Lori. It was damaged during shipment by the nails in a poorly

made crate.”

“And the cannon?” I said.

Jinks pursed his crooked lips. “We think it was someone’s idea

of a joke. A stupid, dangerous joke, but a joke nonetheless.”

I frowned. “You just told me that Rennies know better than to

pull dangerous stunts.”

“We don’t think a Rennie is responsible for this one,” he said

grimly. “Two teenaged boys—fairgoers, not cast members—were

seen near the cannon yesterday afternoon. They were asked to

leave, but they may have returned later on. We believe they’re responsible for the prank.” He reached for a honey cake. “It wasn’t

aimed at the king, by the way. If anyone had been hurt, it would

have been the artillery team. Fortunately, they’re too conscientious to fire a gun without inspecting it first.”

Silence fell between us. While Jinks savored his sweet confection, I turned his explanations over in my mind. I would have found

them reassuring if they’d accounted for all of the facts, but it was