Nancy Atherton (29 page)

who practiced tai chi in his underpants on a village green was asking

to be giggled at. Beyond the wizard, closer to the war memorial, two

jugglers were keeping an apple, two bananas, and three honeydew

melons flying rhythmically between them. Beyond the jugglers, yet

another solitary figure was behaving very strangely indeed.

“Is he having a seizure?” I asked.

“No,” said Emma. “He’s a mime.”

“Ah,” I said, as understanding blossomed. “He’s staying with

Grant and Charles. What do you suppose he’s doing?”

“He’s walking an imaginary dog, of course,” Emma said.

“It must be a big dog,” I commented. “It almost pulled him over

just then.”

Grog, the Peacocks’ basset hound, was watching the proceedings

190 Nancy Atherton

from his usual spot near the pub’s front door. He seemed fascinated

by the mime’s jerky and irregular movements, but unthreatened by

the imaginary dog. After ten seconds or so, he put his head on his

paws and dozed off. The pub’s sign, I noted approvingly, was hanging

evenly from new chains, and no one was swinging from it.

George Wetherhead and Mr. Barlow sat on the bench near the

war memorial, sharing a bag of crisps and observing the jugglers.

Buster, Mr. Barlow’s cairn terrier, was helping the performers to

hone their concentration skills by bouncing between them and occasionally nipping at their toes. We waved to our neighbors as we

drove by and they waved back.

“I’m glad to see that Mr. Wetherhead is out and about,” I said.

“It took Lilian Bunting an hour to convince him that it was safe

for him to come to evensong yesterday,” said Emma. “She had to

walk with him from his house to St. George’s, then walk home

with him afterward.”

“Bench therapy seems to be helping his recovery,” I observed.

“There’s nothing like fresh air and a shared bag of chips to calm the

nerves.”

I parked the Rover on the verge near Briar Cottage. Miranda

Morrow greeted us at her front door, received Emma’s thank-you

gift with evident pleasure, and assured me that she would be able

to whip up a supply of poultices at a moment’s notice.

“They work best when they’re fresh,” she advised me. “But I can

bring them to you anytime, night or day. Ring me, and I’ll be there.”

“I don’t think a midnight delivery will be necessary,” I assured her.

“Anytime, day or night,” Miranda reiterated. “If Bill breaks Randy

Jack’s nose, I’ll give him a lifetime supply of poultices, gratis.”

“I take it you’re not a Randy Jack fan,” I said.

“With good reason, I’m sure,” said Emma.

“What happened?” I asked.

“He has bad karma,” said Miranda, “and he tried to share it

with me.”

“Welcome to the club,” said Emma.

Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon

191

Miranda tossed her strawberry-blond hair. “If Bill breaks Randy

Jack’s jaw, I’ll throw in a year’s worth of therapeutic massages for

you as well as him.”

“Bill will need a year’s worth of therapeutic massages if he goes

up against Randy Jack,” I said. “My husband’s a lover, not a fighter.”

“Lovers make the best fighters,” said Miranda. “Haven’t you noticed?”

Emma shook her head wonderingly as we retreated through

Briar Cottage’s tangled front garden.

“You’d never know that Miranda is a pacifist,” she said.

“Randy Jack can turn any woman into a rabid ax murderer,” I said

blithely. “It’s a gift.”

We strolled over to the war memorial to examine the replanted

flower beds. To our surprise, they looked much as they had before

the rampaging tourists had ruined them. Instead of adding her own

creative touches—and unusual herbs—to the display, Miranda had

followed Emma’s original plan and planted a patriotic mix of red

geraniums, blue petunias, and white lobelia.

“Maybe she’s playing it safe out of deference to Mr. Malvern’s

weekend police patrol,” I speculated.

“Let’s hope they don’t decide to take a garden tour,” said Emma.

The jugglers had stretched out on the grass to take a break, so

Mr. Barlow and Mr. Wetherhead rose from their bench and joined

us at the war memorial. Buster sniffed the new flowers while the

two men informed us that Sunday’s tourist invasion had been kept

in check by an alert and imposing police constable.

“Six-foot-six, if he’s an inch, and built like a bull,” said Mr. Barlow. “When Constable Huntzicker directed folk to take their rubbish

home with them or put it in the bins, he didn’t even have to raise his

voice.”

“The Sciaparelli boys were back on the door at the pub,” said

Mr. Wetherhead, smoothing the few strands of hair that covered

his otherwise bald head. “But they didn’t have much to do. Constable Huntzicker kept everyone in good order.”

192 Nancy Atherton

“You missed a fine time at the pub last night,” Mr. Barlow informed us. “It was fair bursting with fair folk. Dick and Chris could

hardly keep up with the dinner rush. Good business for them, but

bad business for the fair folk.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Food poisoning at the banquet table,” said Mr. Wetherhead

importantly. “King Wilfred was taken off to hospital.”

I gasped and swung around to face him squarely. “Is he all right?”

“He’s fine and dandy,” said Mr. Barlow at my shoulder. “Pumped

him clean and sent him back to his motor home this morning.”

“Did anyone else get sick?” I asked sharply.

“Three courtiers and Sir James le Victorieux had rummy tummies after the banquet,” Mr. Wetherhead replied, “but they weren’t

as sick as poor Calvin.”

“The rest of the king’s court played it safe by eating at the pub

last night,” said Mr. Barlow. “It was quite a scene. They sang and danced

and told funny stories until closing time. Knew songs I’d never

heard before—old ones, from Queen Bess’s time. I reckon it would

be a fine thing if they came back again tonight.”

I glanced uneasily in the direction of Bishop’s Wood. It seemed

obvious to me that the alleged food poisoning incident had in reality been yet another attempt on Calvin’s life. While my neighbors

continued to discuss the lively scene at the pub, I considered offering my findings directly to Horace Malvern’s private investigator. It

was entirely possible that, when Bill had relayed my story to Mr.

Malvern, he’d accidentally left out a crucial detail that would crack

the case wide open. Without my fi rsthand account to aid him, the

investigator might not be able to keep King Wilfred alive long

enough to reign over the fair’s second weekend.

I was still pondering my decision when Lilian and Theodore

Bunting walked over from the vicarage to find out what was happening at the war memorial. The vicar had evidently bounced back

from Saturday’s ordeal. He looked as though the end of the world

was the furthest thing from his mind.

Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon

193

“Good morning, all,” he said. “I hope the jugglers haven’t finished practicing. I was rather looking forward to watching them.”

“Teddy’s as fond of jugglers as I am of magicians,” Lilian told us.

“Does anyone know who won the tidy cottage competition?”

Emma inquired.

“Ta-da!” Grant Tavistock called. He and Goya, his golden Pomeranian, scurried from Crabtree Cottage to the war memorial.

“Charles and I won! As new residents, we didn’t think we’d be in

the running, but apparently our begonias put us over the top.”

“Are you still bragging about our begonias?” scolded Charles,

trotting across the lane with Matisse, his friendly little Maltese.

“Still?” said Grant, taken aback. “We won the prize
yesterday,

Charles. If you’d read the fine print you’d know that we’re entitled

to one week’s worth of bragging rights.”

“I always forget to read the fine print,” Charles said apologetically.

“Brag on!”

He and Grant released their dogs to play with Buster. Grog,

sensing a party, padded over from the pub to frisk with his friends.

Sally Pyne, no doubt sensing the same thing, emerged from the tearoom and hastened toward the war memorial. A moment later,

Christine and Dick Peacock followed Grog’s example and left the

pub to join our merry band.

“Have you heard?” Charles said excitedly after the latecomers

had arrived. “King Wilfred has offered to hold the village dog show

at the fair.”

“Everyone’s heard,” said Sally. “Which is why I now have a dozen

orders for medieval
dog
garb.”

The dog owners in the group flushed simultaneously and avoided

one another’s eyes. I turned to Emma, who owned an elderly black

Labrador retriever, and raised my eyebrows.

“Don’t look at me,” she said. “Hamlet’s too mature for beauty

contests.”

“I wish Peggy would get off her high horse and accept Calvin’s

offer,” Sally grumbled. “If we don’t hold village events at the fair

194 Nancy Atherton

this summer, there won’t be any village events. She’s already canceled the bring-and-buy sale.”

“Why?” asked Emma.

“Lack of interest,” said Lilian. “On Peggy’s part, that is.”

“That’s right,” said Sally. “She can’t run the bring-and-buy if she’s at

the fair, and she’s not about to close that stall of hers. It’s a gold mine.”

“Thankfully,” said Lilian, “Calvin’s generous donation to the

church roof fund will more than offset the lack of proceeds from

the bring-and-buy. Sir Peregrine delivered the first check last night.

He called it a tithe.”

Information was flying so thick and fast that an inexperienced

gossipmonger would have needed a tape recorder to remember it all.

Distracted as I was by thoughts of Calvin’s threatened demise, I had

to focus hard in order to keep up.

“I was pleasantly surprised to see so many of you in church yesterday,” said the vicar. “Attendance was down at the morning service, but the early service and evensong were, as they say, sold out.

I hope the trend will continue throughout the summer.”

“Our jugglers will be there next Sunday,” Christine Peacock

piped up. “They told me they like costume drama.”

“How very . . . ecumenical of them,” the vicar faltered.

“I wouldn’t count on seeing our magician,” said Dick.

“I do envy you your magician,” said Lilian, turning shining eyes

on the publican. “Merlot the Magnificent pulled scarves from my

ears on Saturday. I have no idea how the trick was done, but it was

such fun. Is it true that he’s going to give an impromptu performance on the green this afternoon?”

“If he’s awake by then,” Christine muttered.

She gave the reclining jugglers a wary, sidelong glance, and our

group closed ranks. The well-practiced maneuver came into play

whenever a speaker needed to lower his or her voice in order to impart sensitive news.

“They don’t call him Merlot for nothing,” Christine informed

us quietly. “He knows how to make wine disappear.”

Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon

195

An appreciative “Ooh” went through the group.

“I found twelve empty bottles in his room when I cleaned it

yesterday afternoon,” said Christine. “Twelve empty bottles! He’d

only been there for two nights!”

“Poor man,” Lilian said sadly. “He did seem a bit fragile on Sunday. He winced whenever the town crier announced the time.”

“It’s a miracle he didn’t fall off the stage,” said Christine, folding

her arms. “And those jugglers—the noises coming from their room

all night long . . .” She clucked her tongue.

The closed ranks suddenly closed further. I could almost see my

neighbors’ ears prick up.

“What sort of . . . noises?” Sally asked carefully.

“Thuds, bumps, bangs . . .” Christine shook her head. “It sounds as

though they spend half the night chucking things round their room.”

“Practice makes perfect,” the vicar pointed out.

“It also makes for broken lamps,” Dick retorted, “as well as a

good deal of annoying racket. They can take their dratted practice

outside from now on.”

Christine turned to Charles and Grant. “How are things working out with your mime? You must not even know he’s there.”

Our newest neighbors exchanged dismayed glances.

“That’s the problem,” said Grant in a slightly desperate undertone. “We never know
where
he is. I nearly tripped over him in the

parlor last night. He was miming a dying swan. I think. It may have

been a cat coughing up a hair ball.”

“He mimes
everything
,” Charles went on. “It took me twenty

minutes to figure out that he wanted Bovril for his toast. How in

God’s name was I supposed to decipher his artistic visual interpretation of
beef extract
? I finally had to make him write it down.”

“I dread to think of what he’ll do when he needs more loo paper,” said Grant, shuddering.

Snorts of laughter escaped most of us, but they were quickly

suppressed. Grant and Charles appeared to be genuinely distressed,

and no one wanted to hurt their feelings.

196 Nancy Atherton

“It sounds as though I’ve struck lucky this time,” Sally said complacently. “Magus Silveroak is a charming houseguest.”

The rest of us turned as one to gaze at the underdressed wizard.

I wasn’t sure about the others, but my mind was reeling with wild