by Deryn Lake
The police had questioned him, of course, but the farmer had sworn that the young man had slept in his barn all night, that the new clothes he wore had been given to him by the farmer’s son. They had been suspicious – very – but had not been able to make a case. As for the bloodstained clothes, they had sunk beneath the waters of one of Sussex’s reservoirs, helped on their journey by a brick, and young Dickie Donkin had ambled out of the police station and on with his lovely, singing, journey through life with never a backward glance.
FIVE
It was the day before the Lakehurst Medieval Fair and Mr Grimm’s Men were having a very jovial rehearsal. This was in the courtyard of The White Hart in Foxfield and was accompanied by beer drinking and a great deal of hearty laughter. To regard them from a distance one could admit to thinking them a scary-looking bunch. For not only did they wear the black tattercoats but also their faces were blacked up, hidden, nothing but a pair of eyes gazing out on the locals who had come to cheer them on. Atop this fantastical garb they wore black top hats with a mass of long feathers sticking up beyond the crown. The older villagers, whose parents remembered them pre-war, had passed down a tradition that one should never look a member of the morris team full in the face for fear of bad luck, but to the local youth, with their Mohican haircuts and their louche girlfriends, that was all a load of bull.
The morris musicians – two drums, a fiddle and an accordion – changed rhythm and Mr Grimm’s Men engaged in a fierce overhead battle, beating sticks one against the other in a menacing manner. An old-timer, who happened to smoke a pipe and thus was banished out of doors, dropped his gaze and stared into his beer tankard at this point.
‘What’s up?’ asked Kyle, a pimply boy of about nineteen.
‘Don’t like it when they do this part,’ the old man muttered, still looking down.
‘Don’t tell me you believe all that Satan rubbish, Stanley?’
‘This be the calling up. And I never watches that.’
‘You’ve had too many pints, that’s your trouble.’
‘You’ll learn, young feller. Never watch Mr Grimm’s Men when they do the summoning.’
Kyle laughed and turned back to his fellow louts but Stanley kept his head down until that particular dance was over.
The dancing session done, Chris O’Hare marched his men into the hostelry and claimed the round of free beer provided by the landlord. The morris dancers’ blackened lips fastened themselves round the rim of their pints and all supped deeply. There were twelve of them, ranging in size and age from Little Willie, aged twenty-one, to Old Elvis, aged sixty-three. In between those two were a variety of men all drawn together by a love of exhibitionism and a general enthusiasm for dancing and showing off. There was a Will and a Harry, a Joe and a Larry, not to mention Dan, Fred, John, Tom, Len and Keith. Despite the rumours, only a few of them were interested in the Black Arts, led by the redoubtable Chris O’Hare, who had dabbled with a bit of serious witchcraft in his time.
Without his black make-up he looked a little devilish, being blond as vanilla with a pallid skin and enormous, slanting tiger’s eyes. For some reason women found him irresistible and flung themselves at him, which some thought was due to a spell he had cast in his youth. He remained unmarried and an experienced, excellent lover, well-hung.
‘How many times do we have to dance at this Lakehurst thing?’ Harry asked him.
Chris turned his tawny gaze in the man’s direction. ‘I reckon about twice. Morning and afternoon. But the vicar wants us to mingle with the crowd and be jolly.’
‘I wouldn’t mind mingling with Patsy Quinn.’
‘Don’t worry, Will. Chris will beat you to it.’
‘If I can be bothered,’ the devilish Mr O’Hare answered, and gave them all a broad grin to show there was no offence.
Mr Grimm’s Men were making jeering noises when the longbow team from The Closed Loop came in. There were just four of them, all amateurs, who spent their non-working hours taking part in the recreation of famous battles and giving demonstrations in the art of archery. They were all members of the far larger and far more famous group, but had nothing against taking part in a local charity show. They were greeted fondly, having met on various occasions.
‘How do, Reg? How’s it going then?’
‘Very well, I think. We’ve got the safety arrows ready for the general public to have a go and we’re doing two demonstrations by ourselves.’
‘What time are you getting there?’
‘Just after nine. We want to have a look at Patsy Quinn.’
‘Who doesn’t?’ remarked Chris O’Hare, and the new arrivals were treated to a free round of drinks by the landlord, a jolly chap called Charlie.
The vicar had hoped for a quiet night in but the telephone rang constantly. Earlier in the day he had walked up to the field and been very gladdened to see the Women’s Institute out in force, arranging stalls and putting up bunting that might be considered to have a medieval look. He had worked with them for a couple of hours and during that time could have sworn that he glimpsed Dickie in the trees that grew nearby. But when he looked again there had been nothing there. Other than that, there had been no incidents and when he gazed round the field at six thirty, with the WI packing up and asking him what he thought, he could not praise them enough. He had called in at the Great House on his journey back, hoping he might see Kasper.
Jack Boggis was in his usual chair, talking, for once, to a rather elegant, grey-haired woman who seemed to have a mind very much of her own.
‘I don’t know about you, Mrs Platt, but I’m not certain whether all this archery business is any good for youngsters. I mean, when I were a lad my father used to cuff me over the head and tell me to get on with it.’
‘With what?’ asked his companion in an extremely educated voice.
‘Well, with life. We didn’t have any medieval nonsense to fill our heads. We used to have to concentrate on the three Rs.’
Mrs Platt had looked down her nose, an achievement that the vicar frankly envied.
‘But surely you studied history?’
‘Yes, but …’
‘There is no but about it. The children will be given the opportunity to study the living past when they are allowed to participate in the longbow demonstration.’
Jack had supped his ale, his face going a little grey as he wondered how to counter this unexpected attack. His companion meanwhile had taken an elegant sip from her glass of dry white wine. The vicar, much amused, silently watched them.
‘So I take it you will not be going to the Medieval Fair, Mr Boggis?’
‘Well,’ Jack answered uncomfortably, ‘I might look in on it for half an hour.’
‘I should hope so indeed. I think it will be highly educational and interesting. Besides, it is in a very good cause.’
‘What’s that?’
‘The church tower fund,’ answered Nick, leaning towards Jack’s table.
‘My God, haven’t you restored that by now? You’ve been raising money since the millennium.’
‘Hardly. I started the appeal and I’ve only been here four years. We’ll be glad to see you there, Mr Boggis. Anything to help support the tower.’
Jack clutched at his dignity, attempting to look benign and failing. ‘As I said to Mrs Platt, I might look in for a short while.’
‘We’ll be delighted to see you,’ answered the vicar cheerily, and turned back to his pint.
Kasper had not appeared and Nick had finished his drink and hurried home, Jack Boggis still arguing with Mrs Platt and being thwarted at every turn.
No sooner had he sat down to supper than the phone started to ring, mostly people asking last-minute questions about the fair. Finally at nine o’clock it went for the last time – and this was a call that the vicar was delighted to receive. It was from Olivia Beauchamp, down in Sussex for the weekend from her flat in Chiswick. At one stage Nick had had rather romantic leanings towards the violinist but these had b
een eroded over the months and now here he was, aged thirty, and still unmarried.
‘Nick,’ she said in her husky, sexy voice, ‘how are you?’
‘My dear girl, how lovely to hear from you. Have you been away?’
‘Yes, I’ve been doing a few concerts in eastern Europe. But I’m back now for several months.’
‘Good, you must let me take you out to lunch. It would be so nice to see you again.’
It was at exactly this point that Nick heard a man’s subdued cough in the background. So the delicious Olivia was not alone. He paused and heard her whisper, ‘You did that on purpose,’ followed by a definite rumble of a laugh.
‘Am I interrupting anything?’ Nick asked politely.
Olivia laughed, out loud this time. ‘No, I’ve just got a friend round for a drink. I really rang up to ask about the fair. What would be the best time to arrive?’
‘Well, it’s being opened at ten o’clock by Patsy Quinn …’
‘Complete with piercings?’
‘And tattooed up to the eyeballs. But I mustn’t be unkind. Her grandmother lives in Lakehurst and she will be a big attraction for the teenagers. After that short ceremony, I presume I shall accompany her round the fair and that will be that. So come whenever you like. There will be morris dancing and archery and a fortune teller throughout the day.’
‘I’ll probably come about twelve.’
This time Nick heard the sound of someone getting up from a chair and knew from the very way it was done that it was not Olivia. His curiosity was as high as a UFO.
‘That would be lovely,’ he said, longing to add ‘Bring your friend’ but not quite having the nerve.
‘See you tomorrow then.’
‘I look forward to it.’
He put the receiver down and went to the kitchen where he made himself a cup of blackberry tea, puzzling over who Olivia’s friend had been. Probably a Slovakian pianist, he thought, and with this happy idea made his way upstairs to bed. Just before he slept, Nick opened the window and looked out at the moon. It was waxing and was almost full. He strained his ears because from the lane at the back of the garden he could hear somebody singing.
I passed by your window in the cool of the night,
The lilies were watching, so still and so white.
Nick recognized the voice instantly and called out, ‘Goodnight, Dickie.’
There was no reply, just the sound of someone creeping quietly away.
SIX
It was the day of the Medieval Fair and Nick rose at seven, showered, then dressed very carefully. He put on what he thought of as his tropical suit, a light-blue cotton cloth, which for some reason looked very dashing with a pale shirt and a dog collar. He also, as the weather was extremely fine, put on a panama hat and felt very sophisticated as he drove his car to the car park by the Commemoration Hall. From there it was a route march, down the winding path, then a short walk to the field where Nick saw hordes of women setting up stalls with enormous enthusiasm. He did a quick tour of inspection then hurried back to the car park, just praying that Patsy Quinn was wearing sensible shoes and would not have to stagger down the path on seven-inch heels. On the way he passed Sir Rufus Beaudegrave, complete with Ekaterina and the two elder daughters, all dressed in medieval costume.
‘You look terrific,’ Nick said, raising his panama.
And Iolanthe in particular was utterly beautiful, her great mane of red hair – exactly the same colour as Rufus’s – falling about her shoulders, a somewhat inadequate cap pulled on over the top, her figure neat and delicate beneath the folds of her costume. Araminta, though so dark and different, was equally striking, while the great ageless beauty of Ekaterina, dressed in a Russian costume representing a Tsarina of centuries ago, glowed with the happiness of her situation.
The vicar spoke in all sincerity. ‘You are a very lucky man, Rufus.’
‘I know,’ the other answered from beneath the folds of a wooden stall table which he was manhandling down the path.
‘Can I give you any help with that?’
‘No, I’ll manage,’ Rufus gasped. ‘You’d better get back to the car park. There’s quite a crowd gathering to stare at Patsy Quinn.’
Nick hurried to the top of the path to see that there were already about fifty people forming an untidy crowd round the place where the cars drew up. Of Miss Quinn herself there was no sign.
Mr Grimm’s Men were already assembled and Nick felt a sensation like a shiver at his spine as he looked at them, standing so still and silent, not jostling like the rest of the mob but just waiting quietly in their tattered black coats and top hats, their features disguised, their instruments mute. Momentarily the thought that they might still be practising the ancient arts went through his mind with horrid clarity.
Noisily, the four archers arrived, breaking his mood, and Nick started to play his part, shaking hands and talking to children, who were arriving with their parents, Miss Dunkley gallantly driving a minibus loaded with them. He noticed that the dignified Mrs Platt, she who had put Jack Boggis in his place, was standing by herself, looking both calm and composed. He went up to her.
‘How very nice to see you again. Thank you for coming.’
‘My pleasure. Actually, I’m waiting for Patsy Quinn.’
‘I didn’t think you’d be interested in her kind of singing.’
‘Oh, but I am. Very. You see she’s my granddaughter.’
Nick looked astonished. ‘Really? I had no idea.’
‘I thought you’d be surprised. But we are all musical, you know. I used to be a very good pianist. But here she comes.’
The vicar afterwards thought, to his intense shame, that he had been expecting anything between a rock chick to a latter-day punk to a heavily pierced and tattooed being who stared out at him from eyes drooping with false lashes and kohl. Instead, a lovely girl stepped out of the small blue car and gave a deep bow to the crowd, who roared in one voice. Nick was frankly astonished.
She was beautiful in quite a different way, with short hair cut close to the shape of her head. A pair of amber eyes, dancing with light and widely set, looked out at Nick from beneath a pair of dark eyebrows; her nose was beautifully shaped, her lips full without that horrid fashion of appearing puffy and swollen. She wore make-up, skilfully applied. She was, in short, a gorgeous charmer. But one feature she had, which was quite inexplicable, was that she appeared to walk in a glow, for there was a goldenness about her that was quite breathtaking. Mrs Platt stepped forward.
‘Hello, darling. How lovely to see you.’
Nick should have spoken but felt breathless and foolish so just stood silently while Patsy turned to the crowd who were surging round.
‘How nice to see you all.’
Her voice was clear as a flute, with no annoying Estuary accent.
She started to sign autographs and pose for photographs and in Nick’s mind a thousand mobile phones were raised to snap her.
‘I hope you’re all coming to the fair,’ she called and turning to the vicar gave him a long, luxurious wink. To say that he almost fainted would have been a great exaggeration but he did have a definite churning in his stomach.
‘And now I’ve got to do my job and start the festivities,’ she said.
Nick at last moved forward. ‘If you would like to take my arm, Miss Quinn.’
‘How delightfully old fashioned – and how delightful.’
Arm in arm they walked down the path with a photographer from the local press running backwards in front of them. Eventually he slipped over a mound and both the vicar and Patsy Quinn had to help him up and restore his camera to him. He was somewhat elderly and sweating rather heavily. Patsy posed for one photograph on the promise that he would leave them alone if she did. Thankfully, he agreed, and stood aside while she took the vicar’s arm once more and made her way to the fair.
Glancing round swiftly, Nick saw that all was ready, stall keepers standing behind their counters, maypole beribbo
ned and fine, the archers’ targets lined up and pristine.
‘Excuse me a moment,’ said Miss Quinn. ‘Granny, have you got that bag I brought?’
‘Right here, darling.’
‘Then forgive a brief absence, Vicar. I’ve got a costume I want to put on. Where would be convenient?’
‘In the beer tent. I’ll ask the staff to step out for a moment.’
The crowd meanwhile were swarming down the path, children running, adults scurrying, the archers strolling and all to the accompaniment of the rhythmic beating of a drum. Looking to the back of the crowd the vicar could see Mr Grimm’s Men, dark and sombre, their pheasant-feather headdresses lit up by the morning sun, making their way towards the fair. He wondered which one was the tiger-eyed Chris O’Hare.
Patsy Quinn stepped out of the beer tent to a smattering of applause from the stallholders. She had changed into a delicate medieval costume and looked exactly like Queen Guinevere, with a golden headpiece set on her brow and a purple overdress covering an underslip in pale lilac. There was only one more beautiful woman present, Ekaterina, and even she was challenged.
‘I say. Bravo,’ cried Nick and clapped enthusiastically.
The descending crowd joined in and so it was in the midst of thunderous applause and Mrs Platt wiping a moistness from her eyes that Patsy Quinn declared the fête open and immediately started to progress round the stalls. It was at the Beaudegrave Castle Produce stall that she spent most of her time, talking to the two elder girls and having a chat with Ekaterina. Nick thought how nice it would be if life could be like this all the time, full of colour and fun with everybody relaxed and enjoying themselves. But then he considered all the suffering and the pain caused by one nation to another in the name of religion and suddenly felt cross with his inability to do anything about it, other than try to be a good parish priest, a very small person in a very big and dangerous world.
