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 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
I changed 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 traffic 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 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. Gatehouse 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 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 fit 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 flicker of recognition. Relieved, I scurried to hide behind a tree, then peeked cautiously around the trunk to watch her hawk her wares.
“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-and-blue-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 sur
veyed 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 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 blood-hounds 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.
“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 gatehouse.”
“Whatever the case,” said Mr. Barlow, frowning skeptically at Sally, “Horace Malvern was fit to be tied. Says he won’t have the dratted thing used again. Wants it off his property before someone gets hurt.”
“Where is it now?” I asked.
“Seems they dragged it off to that camp of theirs,” said Mr. Barlow, nodding vaguely in the direction of the encampment.
“Shouldn’t have brought it here in the first place,” Sally opined. “Dangerous things, cannon.”
“They’re not dangerous if they’re handled properly,” said Mr. Barlow.
“They are if they’re tampered with,” retorted Sally.
“If they’ve been tampered with, they haven’t been handled properly,” Mr. Barlow explained.
I sensed a Finch-style tug-of-war argument coming on and quickly excused myself.
“Sorry,” I said, handing the long-stemmed rose to Sally. “I have to run. I told Bill and the boys I’d meet them at the petting zoo.”
“Good to see you, Lori,” said Mr. Barlow.
“Though we’re not used to seeing quite so much of you,” Sally said archly.
Their sniggers followed me as I fled, red-faced, up the next lane. Sally’s saucy comment had reminded me that there were drawbacks to speaking with neighbors, but my mortification was forgotten when I lifted my gaze from the ground and saw in the distance the glitter of a vagrant sunbeam striking a crystal ball. I hurried forward, spotted the stall filled with bronze dragons, and knew that I’d found the quiet lane at last.
The crystal-ball vendor was holding an animated discussion with a young woman wearing a turban, a spangled bolero, and a pair of genie pants. I assumed that the young woman was a customer and hung back, waiting for her to finish, but my attention was quickly drawn to a flurry of whispers coming from the gap between two stalls on my left.
My busybody instincts kicked into gear. Without hesitation, I sidled over to the gap to eavesdrop on the whisperers. In less than a second, I knew that I’d struck gold. Edmond and Mirabel were engaged in a hushed but spirited argument, and they weren’t bothering to use medieval patois.
“I don’t care if you ever look at me again,” Edmond was saying. “I just don’t want you to be hurt.”
“I’m not going to be hurt,” said Mirabel.
“You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into,” said Edmond. “He has a reputation—”
“A man like him can’t help having a reputation,” Mirabel interrupted. “I simply refuse to believe most of the stories I’ve heard about him.”
“They’re all true,” Edmond insisted. “I’ve seen him use other girls the same way. He always picks the youngest and most inexperienced cast member.”
“I’m twenty years old, Edmond,” Mirabel said heatedly. “I’m not a child.”
“I know,” said Edmond, “but you’re new to this sort of thing.
It’s easy to get caught up in the fantasy.”
“I think I can tell the difference between reality and fantasy, thank you very much,” Mirabel snapped.
“If you could, you’d realize that he’s toying with you,” said Edmond. “It’s a game to him. It’s not real. He’s playing a role, and part of his role is to sweep girls off their feet.”
“I rather enjoy being swept off my feet,” Mirabel said airily.
“You won’t when you land on your face,” Edmond warned sternly. “He’ll use you, then he’ll toss you aside.”
“You’re talking about his past,” said Mirabel. “I happen to know that he’s changed.”
“Is that what he told you?” Edmond gave a strangled groan of exasperation. “It’s the oldest line in the world.”
“He means it this time,” said Mirabel.
“You’re deluding yourself,” said Edmond. “Please, Janet—”
“I’m not Janet,” she scolded. “I’m Mirabel.”
“You’re Janet Watkins,” Edmond stated doggedly. “You were born and raised in Nottingham and you’ll go back there when the summer’s over because it’s your home, it’s where you belong. Mirabel is a role you play.”
“Do you know what your problem is, Edmond?” Mirabel said, her voice rising. “You’re boring. Here we are, in the most romantic place in the world, and you act as though it’s just another job. Look at you, in your jeans and your boring shirt. You’re ordinary. You have no imagination. You don’t have an ounce of poetry in your soul. You’d never throw me over your shoulder and carry me off to your castle. You’d ask me to sit in your wheelbarrow and trundle me off to your bungalow. Now, will you please get on with your work and stop following me around like a pathetic puppy? I can look after myself.”
I heard the swish of Mirabel’s skirts and swung around to face the nearest stall. While I pretended to examine a display of grotesque gargoyles, Mirabel stormed past me to join the other madrigal singers, who’d assembled in front of the bronze dragons. Some of the girls appeared to commiserate with her, but the tallest one quickly called them to order. A moment later, the
lane was filled with their exquisite harmony.
I was about to peek between the stalls, to see if Edmond had lingered, when he emerged from the shadows to cast a hopeless look in Mirabel’s direction. She missed a note, glared at him, and went on singing with a furious gusto that made the tallest girl put a hand on her shoulder, as if to calm her down. Edmond bowed his head and clenched his jaw as if he were in pain, then turned on his heel and slipped silently back through the gap.
I followed him. If he’d been desperate enough to steal the king’s crown and tamper with the cannon before his confrontation with Mirabel, there was no telling what he’d do after it. He might retreat to a private hideaway to lick his wounds, or he might behave like a cornered animal and lash out. Whatever he did, I wanted to be on hand to witness it.
Aunt Dimity had cautioned me against putting myself in harm’s way, and I had every intention of heeding her warning. Edmond was a strapping young man and I was handicapped by long skirts and a bodice that might burst under stress, so I wouldn’t hurl myself in front of him if he decided to attack the king outright, nor would I wrestle him to the ground to keep him from committing a fresh act of sabotage. I would, however, shout a word of warning to foil a physical assault, if necessary, and I would do my best to prevent any act of sabotage from succeeding.
Edmond seemed to be too absorbed in his own misery to notice the strange woman flitting from stall to stall behind him. It was hardly surprising. Mirabel hadn’t simply rejected him, she’d slammed his good intentions to the ground and stomped on them. Her final riposte had been crushing enough to send anyone into a tailspin. If Edmond hadn’t already won my vote for Most Likely to Murder, my heart would have gone out to him.
The dark-haired young handyman walked with his head down, but he appeared to have a definite destination in mind because he never paused to double-check his location or stand irresolute at a crossroads. He cut between stalls several times, and though many vendors and performers called out friendly greetings to him as he passed, he didn’t respond to any of them.
Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon Page 15
