Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon

by Nancy Atherton

  Mirabel, by contrast, was on the warpath. She’d left the gallery as soon as she’d spotted Sir Jacques nursing his bloody nose near the marquee. While the rest of us watched from beneath the canopy, she marched over to give the Dragon Knight a piece of her very strong mind. She kept her voice down, to avoid spooking the herd, but I could still hear every word she said—as could Edmond, who couldn’t take his adoring eyes off of her.

  “You coward,” she began. “You bully. You sniveling, milk-livered measle. You kicked my poor Edmond when he was down, and you were so busy saving your own skin that you left me to die in the arena. You’ll never be half the man my Edmond is. He was right about you all along. I was too caught up in”—she flung out a slender arm in a gesture that encompassed the whole fair—“all of this to see it before, but I see it now, and you can be sure that I’ll tell other girls about you. You’re a liar, a cheat, and a dastardly scoundrel, and I hope Perry thumps you the next time you sneak up on him after the joust.” She raised a dainty fist. “Get out of my sight, maggot, before I blacken your other eye.”

  A rousing cheer went up from every damsel, noblewoman, and wench within earshot. Sir Jacques dabbed at his nose with a crumpled black dragon pennon and wisely retreated to the safety of the marquee. Mirabel spun on her heel and returned to the gallery, where Edmond was waiting for her.

  “I’m so sorry, Edmond,” she said, her hazel eyes filling with tears. “I’ve been such a fool, and I’ve treated you so badly. Can you ever forgive me?”

  Edmond, still clutching his ribs, cupped her face in one hand and smiled down at her. “Do you know where the name Mirabel comes from? It’s from ‘mirabilis’—wonderful, glorious. That’s what you are to me. It’s what you’ve always been.”

  A sob escaped Mirabel as she placed her head, quite gently, against Edmond’s chest. She allowed herself to rest there for a few brief seconds, then straightened her diminutive shoulders, dried her eyes on her apron, and put her arm around Edmond’s slim waist.

  “Let’s get you to hospital,” she said. “Someone needs to take a look at your ribs.”

  I think Edmond would have gone with her if she’d proposed a trip to the moon, so I was glad she’d made a sensible suggestion. As soon as he came down from cloud nine, he was going to need some serious medication.

  “Do you think I should explain about the wench in his tent?” I whispered to Bill.

  “I do not,” he replied firmly. “It’ll be good for Mirabel to believe that Edmond has a scoundrelly streak in him. It’ll be good for Edmond, too, in the long run.”

  “By the way,” I said, kissing his bruised knuckles, “I’m really very extraordinarily immensely proud of you. You put yourself at risk to save at least three lives, including mine, and as if that weren’t enough, you vanquished the Dragon Knight. Where did you learn to fight like that?”

  “I was captain of the boxing team at prep school,” he said. “And the fencing team and the archery team. I was president of the chess club, too, so I know how to defend my queen.”

  “My hero,” I murmured, snuggling against him.

  “Uh-oh,” said Bill, gazing out over the arena. “Horace Malvern has arrived and he doesn’t look happy.”

  I raised my head in time to see Mr. Malvern cruise up to the arena on his red ATV. It was a sight to remember, since he was clad in the doublet, surcoat, gold chain, velvet hat, and manly tights of what was, presumably, his burgher costume. When he saw Bill, he drove over to the gallery. His mouth was clamped in a thin line and he looked furious.

  “What happened?” Bill asked.

  “Someone opened the gates between here and the south paddock, then let a bloody great Alsatian loose on the herd,” Mr. Malvern replied grimly. “I don’t know where the dog came from or who brought it here.”

  “I do,” said Bill. “I know where the dog came from and I know who opened the gate. I know who sabotaged the parapet and the quintain rope. I know who stole the crown and poisoned your nephew. I know just about everything, now.”

  “Bill?” I squinted up at him in confusion. “What in heaven’s name are you talking about?”

  “Remember Horace Malvern’s private investigator?” he said, gazing steadily into my eyes. “You’re looking at him.”

  Twenty-two

  I sat in King Wilfred’s gilded throne and watched from the royal gallery as Horace Malvern and the five cow-savvy foot soldiers turned the herd around and got it moving toward the south paddock at an easy, shuffling pace. I hardly raised an eyebrow when it dawned on me that the five brave men whose quick thinking and stalwart actions had prevented the cows from wreaking further havoc on the fairground were the same five men who’d grunted and grinned goatishly at me in front of the black dragon pavilion. I didn’t think anything would surprise me anymore.

  My husband, the PI, sat in an ordinary courtier’s chair, talking on his cell phone. I’d given up eavesdropping on the conversation because the only words he’d uttered so far were “Yes,” “No,” and “Good.” It wasn’t much to work with.

  Calvin, who’d been frightened out of his wits by the stampede, had repaired to his motor home to quaff a cup of herbal tea and settle his nerves. Sir James and the brawny courtier, whose Rennie name was Lord Llewellyn of Llandudno, had gone with him. I had a sneaking suspicion that they were acting as his bodyguards.

  The Rennies had straggled back to the encampment, and Mirabel had taken Edmond to the hospital in Upper Deeping, so once the cows were gone, Bill and I had the arena to ourselves. Bill had asked Horace Malvern, Calvin, Sir James, and Lord Llewellyn to return to the royal gallery in a half hour, at which point he would, presumably, dazzle everyone by explaining everything. I was forced to presume because he’d refused to explain a single thing to me.

  “Why should he take me into his confidence?” I muttered glumly. “I’m only his wife.”

  “Did you say something, Lori?” Bill asked, covering the phone with his hand.

  “Yes,” I replied. “But you don’t want to hear it.”

  “Okay,” said Bill, and returned to his conversation.

  I didn’t mind that Bill had concealed his activities from me—much. I understood better than most people that it was sometimes necessary to skate delicate circles around the absolute truth. Now that his investigation appeared to be over, however, I would have appreciated a personal preview of his findings. I was dying to know if I’d gotten anything right.

  My love triangle had fallen to pieces before my eyes. Mirabel hadn’t been King Wilfred’s plaything, she’d been infatuated by the classic bad boy, Randy Jack. If Edmond had wanted to kill anyone, it would have been the noxious knight, not the merry monarch. I was still fairly certain that I’d been right about the attempts on Calvin’s life, but I had no idea who was behind them or what the guilty party’s motivation had been. I seriously considered beating Bill over the head with his cell phone until he gave me the answers I craved, but decided in the end that it would be a poor way to repay him for saving my life.

  Bill ended his mysterious phone call and asked me to help him arrange the chairs in a circle. By the time we’d finished shouldering the heavy throne into place, the others had arrived. Bill waited until the Malverns, Sir James, Lord Llewellyn, and I were seated, then took the floor.

  “As you know,” he began, “several unfortunate incidents have occurred recently at King Wilfred’s Faire. The parapet on the gatehouse gave way and Calvin nearly fell twenty feet to the ground. The quintain’s rope broke and a sandbag narrowly missed Calvin’s head. Someone tampered with the cannon, then pointed it at the gatehouse, upon which Calvin stands during opening ceremonies. Calvin’s favorite crown disappeared. After the royal banquet, Calvin became so ill that he had to be rushed to the hospital. Today, a herd of cattle was driven into the arena, where Calvin was rehearsing a brand-new routine with the knights. Do you detect a common thread in the aforementioned incidents, Calvin?”

  “I seem to be the featured player in all o
f them,” Calvin admitted, shifting his pudgy body uncomfortably on the throne. “But they could have been accidents, couldn’t they?”

  “They could have been,” Bill allowed. “But they weren’t.”

  “A jape, then,” Calvin suggested. “A jest. A series of merry pranks gone awry.”

  “No one’s laughing,” Bill said firmly. “Your uncle was so concerned for your safety that he tried to persuade you to take certain precautions, but you refused. He asked you to report the incidents to the proper authorities. Again, you refused. As a last resort, he came to me. He asked me to use my contacts and my Internet skills to run background checks on your employees.” Bill looked directly at me. “He also asked me not to talk about it, because he didn’t want word of it getting back to you.”

  I gave him a small, grudging nod. I couldn’t blame Bill for following Horace Malvern’s instructions. I was well aware of my chatterbox tendencies. If he’d confided in me, I probably would have told Emma, who would have told her husband, who might have mentioned it to Mr. Barlow, who would have passed it on to . . . and so on. Since the village grapevine had sent tendrils into the fairground in the form of Peggy Taxman and all the other villagers who attended the fair, news about Bill’s activities would have reached Calvin’s ear faster than a flying sandbag.

  Calvin frowned. “No offense, Bill, but I don’t think I approve of you running background checks on my employees.”

  “I’m not seeking your approval,” Bill said flatly. “I’m trying to save your life.” He strolled to the railing at the edge of the gallery and looked toward Pudding Lane. “In many ways King Wilfred’s Faire is more like a village than a business. Workers come and go as they please at all times of the day and night. They have easy access to all parts of the fairground and the encampment. No one questions anyone’s right to be anywhere, because the fair is run on trust. If someone is working on the gatehouse walkway early in the morning, it’s generally assumed that he has a good reason to be there, whether he’s a builder or not.”

  “Can’t have people punching time clocks at a Ren fest,” Calvin protested. “That sort of thing doesn’t work with artists. But everyone pitches in to get the grounds ready, because we’re all in the same boat. If it sinks, we all go under, so when we need to, we put our hands to the oars and jolly well pull together.”

  “I understand the philosophy,” said Bill. “Our perpetrator does, too. He was counting on it, in fact. He was free to commit his acts of sabotage and theft because he knew he could appear in strange places at odd hours without arousing anyone’s suspicions.”

  Sir James spoke up. “The point Bill’s making, Calvin, is that each of the fair’s hundred-plus employees was a suspect. Background checks take time. It would have taken him months to identify the perpetrator if we hadn’t narrowed the field of suspects.”

  “We?” I said, eyeing him curiously.

  “Lord Belvedere, Lord Llewellyn, and I have experience in criminal investigations,” Sir James informed me. “We retired from the Yard a few years ago.”

  “The Yard?” I said, my eyes widening. “Scotland Yard?”

  “Correct,” said Sir James. “We’ve participated in historical reenactments for many years, but when Calvin approached us, we decided to give the Ren fest idea a go.”

  “Why didn’t you guys run the background checks?” I asked.

  “We couldn’t spare the time,” Sir James replied. “We play high-profile roles at the fair. If we’d failed to show up for performances or rehearsals, we might have put the perpetrator on his guard.”

  “What’s more, you would have disappointed our audiences,” Calvin put in. “Rule number one at a Ren fest: Don’t disappoint the punters.”

  “Be that as it may,” Sir James said, with a slightly exasperated glance at his king, “Lord Belvedere examined the evidence and determined that none of the accidents had, in fact, been accidents. At the same time, Lord Llewellyn and I conducted extensive on-site interviews with employees. Those interviews repeatedly placed one person in the right places at the right times.” He nodded at Bill. “Over to you, sir.”

  “With that person in mind,” Bill went on, “I made inquiries, conducted online searches, spoke with friends and colleagues, twisted a few arms, bent a few rules”—he paused to take a breath—“and eventually unearthed several highly suggestive facts.” He leaned against the railing and folded his arms. “Calvin? How did you come up with the money to pay for King Wilfred’s Faire?”

  “I used my inheritance to make a few investments when I was in America,” Calvin replied proudly. “They paid off handsomely.”

  Bill nodded. “Did you also take out a life insurance policy when you were in America?”

  “I did,” said Calvin.

  Horace Malvern groaned and put a hand to his forehead, but Bill pressed on.

  “Did you make these decisions on your own, Calvin, or did you have a financial advisor?” he asked.

  “I had an advisor, of course,” said Calvin, with a genial, self-deprecating grin. “I’ve no head for figures at all.”

  “Do you know a man named Rowan Grove?” Bill asked.

  I started, and my mind leaped instantly to a scene in my back garden and a voice saying: A weedy child with a silly name learns early on to fight with words rather than with fists. I stared hard at Bill. I felt as if he’d thrown a glass of ice water in my face.

  “Never heard of the chap,” Calvin declared.

  “That’s strange,” said Bill, “because the name appears on many of the papers you signed. Rowan Grove controls your investment portfolio. Rowan Grove has access to your bank accounts. Rowan Grove is the sole beneficiary on your life insurance policy. You’ll be interested to know that Rowan Grove is listed as your primary financial advisor.”

  “That can’t be right,” Calvin objected. “I’ve never met the fellow.

  My financial advisor is Jinks.” He beamed at the rest of us. “Terribly clever chap, old Jinks. He was taking a postgraduate degree in finance at the University of Wisconsin. Gave it all up when he discovered Ren fests, of course, but he never lost his magic touch with money. Couldn’t have done half so well without him.”

  “Calvin,” Bill said gently. “Jinks’s legal name is Rowan Grove.”

  “Sorry?” Calvin said, as if he hadn’t caught Bill’s words.

  “When you die, Jinks will receive a handsome payout from your insurance company.” Bill spoke slowly and carefully, as if he were explaining the situation to a child. “He’ll also have complete control of your assets. It won’t come as a shock to me to learn that he’s been siphoning money from your accounts for years.”

  “Jinks told me he had no idea how much Calvin was worth,” I said.

  “He lied,” said Bill.

  “Look here,” Calvin rumbled, eyeing Bill truculently, “if you’re suggesting that Jinks has had anything to do with the confounded run of bad luck I’ve been having, you’re quite mistaken. I’ve known him since I sold turkey legs at the Ren fest in Wisconsin. We’ve traveled all over America together—staying up till all hours, sleeping rough, getting up the next day to perform. That sort of thing forges a bond of friendship mundanes simply can’t understand. Jinks is like a brother to me.”

  “He didn’t drink to your health,” I said, half to myself.

  “Eh?” said Calvin, turning to me.

  “It didn’t mean anything to me at the time, but now . . .” I looked at Calvin’s troubled face and forced myself to go on. “I drank a toast to you when I had lunch with Jinks on Sunday.” I raised an invisible glass. “ ‘To King Wilfred. Long may he reign.’ ” I let my hand fall as the significance of the moment struck home. “Jinks raised his glass, too, but he didn’t drink from it.”

  “Perhaps he wasn’t thirsty,” Calvin offered.

  “Toasts aren’t about thirst,” I mumbled, unable to meet his eyes.

  “I’m afraid Jinks used you for his own purposes, Calvin,” Bill said. “He gained your t
rust, then took advantage of you.”

  “See sense, Cal,” Mr. Malvern scolded, peering sternly at his nephew. “Jinks will get a packet of cash when you pop your clogs. If that’s not motivation for murder, I don’t know what is.”

  Sir James nodded. “We have eyewitnesses who saw him fiddle with the parapet, cut the quintain rope, steal your crown, put rocks in the cannon—”

  “Rocks?” I interrupted. “The famous ‘projectiles’ were rocks?”

  “Mossy ones,” Sir James confirmed. “They could have come from a local river or stream.”

  “Or from the brook next to our picnic spot.” I could hardly believe what I was saying. I looked to Bill for support, but he’d turned his back on me to peer up Pudding Lane. “Jinks couldn’t have poisoned Calvin, though, or started the stampede. He hasn’t been here since the fair closed on Sunday.”

  “That’s right,” Calvin said, his cherubic face brightening. “He’s been in Cheltenham.”

  “He came back,” said Bill, still looking toward Pudding Lane. “If you don’t believe us, Calvin, you can ask Jinks. Here he is now.”

  I swiveled in my chair to follow Bill’s gaze. Lord Belvedere and Jinks had just emerged from Pudding Lane and were walking toward the royal gallery. Lord Belvedere was dressed in twill trousers and a plain, button-down white shirt. Jinks was wearing the same tie-dyed T-shirt and torn jeans he’d worn the first time we’d met, when he’d sailed over the stile and into the twins’ sandbox, hoping I’d remember him.

  “Evening, all,” he called, smiling his crooked smile. “His Lordship rousted me out of the pub in Finch to attend this meeting, so it had better be worth my while.”

  “Finch?” Calvin said weakly. “I thought you were in Cheltenham.”

  “I was,” said Jinks. “But I came back early. I get restless if I dwell among mundanes for too long.” He hopped nimbly onto the platform. “So . . . what’s up? Have you finally come to your senses and given me a starring role in the joust?”