Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon

by Nancy Atherton

  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.”

  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 figure 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, whatever the outcome. There’s nothing noble about entering a fight one knows one can win. Knights must sometimes pit themselves against dragons, regardless 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 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 flashed 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 office 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.

  “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 Em-ma’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 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 anat
omy 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 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 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.

  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.”

  “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 firsthand 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.

  “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 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.”