Nancy Atherton (28 page)

that has led you astray from time to time.

“It hasn’t led me astray this time,” I said. “Someone really is trying to kill King Wilfred.”

I understand the reason for your elation, but I’m afraid I can’t share it.

In truth, I wish with all my heart that you were wrong. Has the saboteur

been arrested?

“Not yet,” I said. “I don’t know if he’ll ever be arrested. But I’m

sure he’ll be caught soon. Let me explain. . . .”

I gave Aunt Dimity a lengthy and detailed recapitulation of my

conversation with Bill, including everything I’d told him about my

day as well as everything Horace Malvern had told him about the

behind-the-scenes drama at the fair. After Aunt Dimity’s unnecessary comment about my unfortunate interactions with good-looking

men, I was tempted to skip over the part about Randy Jack, but

since I’d been an incredibly unwilling recipient of his amorous attentions, I decided that it would be safe to leave it in.

Predictably, Aunt Dimity zeroed in on the Randy Jack episode

as soon as I’d finished my account, but her take on it seemed to

come out of left fi eld.

I’m glad you were able to repel Sir Jacques’ attack, but I wish you’d been

equally firm with the jester.

“What do you mean?” I asked, bewildered.

He took you to an isolated location, poured wine for you, paid you too

many compliments . . . Need I go on?

“No, but for the first time in living memory, I think
you’re
the

one who’s reading too much into a situation,” I said, laughing. “Let

me make a few things clear, Dimity. First, Jinks is a highly recognizable performer. People expect him to be funny all the time. If he

tried to eat lunch inside the fairground, he’d be constantly harassed

by fans. Second, he made no attempt to get me drunk. He poured

184 Nancy Atherton

one small glass of wine for me, and he didn’t try to refill it when I

wasn’t looking. Third, I was grateful to him for critiquing my garb.

Fourth, I didn’t take his compliments seriously. They’re part of his

job. He dispenses them automatically, and when I asked him to stop,

he stopped. End of story.”

But will it be the end of the story? Handsome men aren’t your only

weakness, Lori. You’re also attracted to men who make you laugh.

“Well, I’m not attracted to Jinks,” I said firmly. “After seeing my

husband in his medieval dude garb, I doubt that I’ll ever look twice

at another man.”

Hope springs eternal.

“You seem to be missing the big picture, Dimity,” I said. “It isn’t

about me. It’s about Calvin and Edmond and little Mirabel.”

I must confess that I feel sorry for each of them. It goes without saying that

Edmond must be stopped, but he can hardly be blamed for wanting to protect a girl

as foolish and naive as Mirabel. As for Mirabel . . . I agree with you, Lori. She’s

blinded by the stars in her eyes. I fear that she’s in for a very rude awakening.

“And Calvin?” I said.

He should have his face roundly slapped for toying with Mirabel’s aff ec-

tions, but he doesn’t deserve a death sentence.

“I don’t think he realizes that he’s doing anything wrong,” I said

thoughtfully. “According to Edmond, he has a reputation for taking

advantage of new cast members. I’m willing to bet that, in his

mind, he’s just following his usual routine and enjoying a bit of slap

and tickle with the new girl in town.”

In that case, Mirabel isn’t the only one in for a rude awakening.

“He’ll find it hard to believe that someone on his payroll hates

him enough to want him dead,” I said, nodding. “Calvin sees himself as a merry monarch. He thinks everyone loves him.”

He appears to be as delusional as Sir Jacques.

“No one is as delusional as Sir Jacques,” I countered vehemently.

“Randy Jack honestly believed that, once I’d tasted his ‘delights,’

I’d come running back for more.” I shuddered hard enough to make

the journal shake. “Ick, ick, ick, and yuck.”

Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon

185

Men who consider themselves irresistible seldom are.

I stared into the fire, pushing away the memory of Sir Jacques’s

breath, but remembering the strength of his arms.

“I wish I hadn’t told Bill about Sir Jacques,” I said worriedly. “I’m

afraid he’ll do something heroic, like give Randy Jack a black eye.”

Would that be such a bad thing?

“Bill is a fine fi gure of a man,” I allowed, “but he’s a lawyer. He

wields words, not swords. Randy Jack is built like a tank, and he

practices armed combat every day. Bill’s heart would be in the

right place, but I’m fairly certain that Randy Jack would knock his

head into the next county.”

Would it matter?
Without warning, Aunt Dimity departed from

her usual format and wrote a passage from a poem on the page.

How can man die better

Than facing fearful odds

For the ashes of his fathers,

And the temples of his gods?

Macauley’s immortal words aren’t entirely applicable to Bill’s

circumstance—I don’t want Sir Jacques to kill him, for example, and ashes

and temples don’t really come into it—but the sentiment holds true. Bill’s

willingness to risk almost certain injury lends nobility to his effort, what-

ever the outcome. There’s nothing noble about entering a fight one knows

one can win. Knights must sometimes pit themselves against dragons, re-

gardless of the fearful odds. I’m not advising you to encourage him, Lori,

but if Bill decides to defend your honor, I’d suggest you stand back and let

him get on with it. You never know. He might surprise you. Knights have

been known to slay dragons.

I rested my elbow on the arm of the chair, propped my chin in

my hand, and sighed mournfully. Though I disliked Aunt Dimity’s

advice, it made a certain kind of sense. I’d jokingly given Bill my

permission to punch Randy Jack’s lights out, but he didn’t need my

permission. He was my husband, and he was also a man. There was

186 Nancy Atherton

a clause in our marriage contract that gave him the right to protect

his wife, and there was a cog in his brain that gave him a burning

need to fight for his woman. I cringed to think of the awful things

that could happen to him in such an unequal match, but if he

wanted to engage in a physical altercation with the man who’d assaulted me, I wouldn’t get in his way.

“I’ll put an ice pack in the freezer before I go to bed tonight,” I

said. “And I’ll put Miranda Morrow on alert when I go into Finch

tomorrow, in case we need some of her herbal poultices. They

work really well on bruises and sprains.”

Very wise.

I looked down at the journal with a faint smile. “It’ll be strange

to go back to the village, after spending so much time at the fair.

Everything and everyone will seem so . . . normal.” I fell silent for

a moment, absorbing the thought, then caught my breath as another

one fl ashed in my brain. “Oh, my gosh, I wonder who won the tidy

cottage competition.”

You’ll find out tomorrow, while you find out about Mr. Wetherhead and

the vicar and Peggy Taxman’s window and the pub’s sign and the thank-you

owed to Miranda Morrow. I’m looking forward to hearing your description of

the new flower beds. Her taste in plants is so original.

“If I’m going to spend a whole day catching up on village gossip,” I said, “I’d better head for bed.”

I was about to make a similar suggestion. As you know, gossip-gathering

can be quite taxing. Sleep well, my dear. And congratulations. You may have

failed to catch a vampire, but if you’re lucky, you’ll be on hand to watch your

knight in shining armor slay a dragon.

“If
Bill’s
lucky, you mean,” I murmured. After the lines of

royal-blue ink had faded from the page, I looked up at King Reginald

and groaned softly. It wasn’t easy, being a damsel in distress.

Twenty

Since Bill hadn’t so much as looked at his ever-present pile of

paperwork over the weekend, he left for the offi

ce earlier

than usual on Monday morning. The twins and I had breakfast on our own, then climbed into the Range Rover and headed for

Anscombe Manor. I dropped them off at the stables for their riding

lessons with Kit Smith and was pulling the car around to drive

back toward the lane when Emma Harris dashed out of the manor

house, carrying a cardboard box and calling for me to wait. I hit

the brakes and lowered my window.

She paused at the window to catch her breath before asking, “If

you’re going to Finch, do you mind if I ride with you? I haven’t unhooked the horse trailer yet, and I don’t want to drive into Finch

with it still attached to the truck.”

“Hop in,” I told her.

She walked around the Rover and hauled herself into the passenger seat. I waited until she’d shifted the cardboard box in her

lap and fastened her seat belt, then rolled slowly down the long,

curving drive that led to our quiet lane.

“What’s in the box?” I inquired.

“Blackberry jam,” she replied.

My best friend was one of those profoundly depressing people

who are not only good at everything they do, but who find the time

to do everything they’re good at. Like me, Emma was an American

living in England, but unlike me, Emma designed computer programs, ran a stables, tended an enormous garden, helped her husband run his architectural restoration business, and bottled her

own fruit, among many other things.

“To whom are you bearing gifts?” I asked.

188 Nancy Atherton

“Miranda Morrow,” she answered. “I want to thank her for refurbishing the flower beds the tourists destroyed on Saturday. I

can’t wait to see what she’s planted. I don’t know if any of the new

plants will be legal, but I’m sure they’ll be pretty.”

Emma didn’t need to explain herself. Everyone in Finch knew

that a wide variety of interesting herbs lurked in the junglelike

gardens surrounding Miranda Morrow’s cottage. No one minded,

because there wasn’t a villager alive who hadn’t benefited at one

time or another from her herbal teas, poultices, massage oils, and

tisanes. I knew that Aunt Dimity, for one, would appreciate Emma’s neighborly gesture.

“What a coincidence,” I said. “I’m going to Briar Cottage, too. I

may need a few of Miranda’s poultices before the week is out.” I

told Emma about my wrestling match with Sir Jacques, and about

my fears for Bill’s health and welfare should he choose to retaliate.

“If Bill takes a swing at Randy Jack, I’ll be there to cheer him

on,” Emma said firmly. “Jack made a pass at me, too. He thought

my riding crop was alluring until I smacked him across the face

with it.”

“Good grief,” I said. “Is any woman safe from him?”

“If I were Horace Malvern,” said Emma, “I’d hide the cows.”

We laughed until we reached the Pym sisters’ house and I asked

Emma if she knew when they’d be back from their seaside jaunt.

“Next week,” she replied. “I think Ruth and Louise will like

King Wilfred’s Faire.”

“They’ll love it,” I agreed. “Can’t you just see them, dripping in

velvet and gold?”

We paused to savor the mental image of the two ancient, genteel, and utterly identical twin sisters wearing the finest, most elegant medieval garb Sally Pyne could create for them.

“Calvin is bound to ask them to be part of his court,” I said.

“Ruth and Louise are natural aristocrats.”

“Queens to the core,” Emma agreed.

When we drove over the humpbacked bridge, my first reaction

Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon

189

was one of relief to see that the Emporium’s broken window had

been replaced, and that the village in general looked as neat as a pin.

My second reaction was a bit more complicated.

“What on earth . . . ?” I muttered.

A lone figure stood in the center of the village green. He was

quite tall and so lean that every tendon, ligament, and muscle in his

body seemed to stand out individually, as if he were a walking

anatomy lesson. His grizzled hair fell past his shoulders and his gray

beard hung to his collarbones. He wore a silver chain with a

half-moon pendant suspended around his neck.

“I believe,” Emma said hesitantly, “it’s a wizard . . . doing tai chi.”

“I believe you’re right,” I said, nodding slowly. “The pointy

purple hat is a dead giveaway.”

“I guess he finds clothes restrictive,” Emma observed. “Or

maybe an evil wizard made them disappear.”

“It would explain why he’s out there in his underpants,” I said

equably.

“And his hat,” Emma put in helpfully. “Don’t forget the hat.”

“He’s lodging in Sally Pyne’s spare room,” I said.

“How exciting for Sally,” said Emma.

We didn’t even try to hide our giggles as we drove past. Anyone