EQMM, September-October 2007

by Dell Magazine Authors

  But Jay Max was nuts, right? Maybe his viewfinder framed nothing more dangerous than herds of Disneyland tourists. And maybe doors without peepholes are a good thing, keeping voyeurs like me ignorant of all the scary monsters lurking on the other side, just waiting to be invited in.

  Maybe.

  But I still haven't learned my lesson, not really. As I lean back and shut my eyes, the old curiosity starts to gnaw, an incurable itch under my skin.

  With a long night ahead, I'm left to ponder that third can of film, tucked deep in the pocket of my jeans, bound for points east and unknown.

  (c)2007 by Mark Barsotti

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  PARSON PENNYWICK AND THE WHIRLIGIG by Amy Myers

  * * * *

  Art by Ron Bucalo

  * * * *

  Some Amy Myers fans may be unaware that she also writes as Harriet Hudson, a pseudonym she reserves for sagas and historical fiction. Of course, many of her Amy Myers mysteries—like this one—also have historical settings. Ms. Myers has two new books coming out in the U.S. this year: Murder and the Golden Goblet (Severn House) and Tom Wasp and the Murdered Stunner (Tekno Books).

  "Music, Mr. Primrose, if you please,” roared Squire Holby, and our village fiddler seized his instrument. “Parson Pennywick, lead the way."

  I obeyed all too eagerly and hastened out of the house to the lawns of Diplock Hall. It was a pretty sight that summer evening, with lamps already flickering even though it was not yet dark. The lawns were to be our dancing floor, and the scythes and rollers had clearly been busy that day to make them so smooth.

  Our squire has regular Evenings of Conviviality, as he calls them, but tonight's was of greater importance than usual. His generosity is well known in our Kentish village of Cuckoo Lees. His jovial figure brings cheer where there was gloom, he has a heart for the misfortunes of others, and his tables groan with splendid food ... no wonder, for his cook is sister to my own housekeeper, my dear Dorcas.

  Nevertheless, I feared that conviviality had now vanished from the evening. Despite the squire's valiant attempt to mend fences, they were already smashed beyond hope of recovery, and I worried about what the evening might still bring.

  * * * *

  "I'll send a gig for you, Caleb,” the squire had said to me after matins on Sunday last, when I had hesitated over the invitation. Riding home over our uneven country paths after one of Squire's gatherings holds little pleasure for elderly parsons of fifty years and more, especially one whose horse has grown old with him. “What?” he continued, as he saw my doubt, “Not have the parson present to hear my Evelina betrothed to young Mr. Dacres of Ten Trees? Zounds, man, unthinkable."

  For the said parson, it had also been unthinkable that the lovely Evelina might be leaving Diplock Hall and Cuckoo Lees. I had known her all her life, and the sight of her in the spring of life cheered any day. As the years pass and one's own spring is far behind, one needs such reminders of youth. Then I had reproached myself for selfishness. Ten Trees lies but in the next parish, although it is not one of my own five benefices.

  But Thomas Dacres? I had heard nothing against the young man, nor his father William, a solid enough gentleman of great wealth. But Thomas's mother, a lady known for her kind heart, died some years ago, and when William remarried it was not wisely. It was said that riches alone had been Constance Dacres's reason for marrying the ageing widower.

  I had reluctantly agreed to attend this evening, but asked doubtfully: “Do you think the marriage will take place, Squire?"

  Squire Holby came straight to the point. “That witch interferes over my dead body. William Dacres has sanctioned the match, and even she cannot gainsay that."

  "That Constance Dacres is a witch, I do not doubt,” I replied, “but only through her power over men's baser desires."

  The squire grew purple—with rage, I then thought. “She's an evil wanton, and there's plenty in Cuckoo Lees who'd agree with me. But as for this marriage, it should suit her well. Her power over William will be complete when Thomas leaves Ten Trees for Weldon House.” This was a delightful but small house, he explained, on the Ten Trees estate.

  "And that is Thomas's property?"

  The squire looked uneasy. “It will be on his marriage, as will a large settlement from his mother. I'll not be able to do the same by Evelina, more's the pity. Of course, Weldon House..."

  "Yes, Squire?” I urged him when he paused. I feared there was worse to come.

  There was. “My Evelina said the witch—I crave your pardon, Caleb—Mrs. Dacres would have the Widow Paxton live there to rid her from Ten Trees. The house is small, however, and would not house three."

  I was aghast. The Widow Paxton was the first Mrs. Dacres's mother, of whom William Dacres was very fond. She is an old lady, not long for this world, and needed the comfort of Ten Trees. “But you have William's blessing for the marriage?” I said firmly.

  "I do, and—” the squire regained his usual optimistic joviality—"never fear over Constance Dacres. Who could not love my Evelina?"

  Tonight, I fear, the answer had become all too clear.

  * * * *

  Before leaving for Diplock Hall, I had dined lightly at four on a stew of carp, a veal pie, and a lemon syllabub, as the invitation had been for seven o'clock. Wine and ramequins of cheese were served as we arrived, for supper would not be for some two hours. We were thus a merry group of some twenty to thirty souls at this informal gathering of friends, although I noticed that Mr. and Mrs. William Dacres were not yet present. Dogs ran to sniff each new arrival, Mrs. Holby's pet cat watched the proceedings from the safety of a cabinet top, and even a parrot was heard to squawk his approval at the jollity. I had begun to relax, convincing myself that the Dacreses were absent through some trivial happening. The squire had had the happy notion of sending for the village fiddler to play for dancing; his son came too, trundling a music box so that we should not lack for rhythm if Mr. Primose momentarily ceased for a glass of the squire's brandy. Of which there was plenty!

  "Miss Evelina,” I had remarked in admiration, “you are tonic enough for us all."

  "Even better than rhubarb, Parson?” she teased me, since my faith in this curative is well known. She was clad in a silk gown of the palest pink, with matching petticoat. A blushing Thomas was at her side, as pink as her robe, with his hair drawn back, quite in the mode. No wigs for the young of today, not even a peruke. For all that, he was a fine-looking lad, and I wished her well, assuming then that Constance, as well as William, had given them her blessing, even if a reluctant one on her part.

  How could I have been so naive? William and Constance Dacres had just arrived. It was William I saw first, as the doors to the dining room opened. A quiet, solemn man, tonight he looked unhappy and strained. Then I saw the tall, slender figure of his wife at his side, who smiled as graciously as if she, and not Evelina, were the centre of today's rejoicing. Her dress proclaimed it, too. None of our country styles here. No quilted padded skirts for Mrs. Dacres. That striped brocade gown and jacket seized the eye with their apparent simplicity, but like their wearer they were, as Dorcas would no doubt have told me, most artfully conceived.

  Thomas had turned white, and so I swear did half of the gentlemen in the room, and not with admiration for Constance Dacres's undoubted beauty. William Dacres must surely already have been well aware of his wife's flouting of the requirement for fidelity in marriage. Dorcas told me that her current paramour was rumoured to be Mr. Christopher Collett, a learned and most serious young lawyer, and present this evening. He is married to a lady somewhat older than himself who has brought riches to the union. His predecessor in Mrs. Dacres's “favours” was also present, Mr. Gerald Farrow, of prosperous estate and recently married to a young and pretty wife, Emily. I feared what might lie ahead. At court in London, such matters are managed—or dismissed—with more aplomb than in our little community in Cuckoo Lees.

  It is difficult even now to explain what mad
e Constance's beauty seem as hard as the ice of winter. When I thought of the first Mrs. Dacres, I wept for what was gone and for the foolishness of men such as William who seek too quickly to replace what can never be replaced and thus fall victim to the outward show.

  "So I am to have a stepdaughter.” She spoke seductively and I thought all was well as she inspected Evelina from head to toe. The unlucky girl gracefully sank to the floor in a curtsey. As she rose, however, Mrs. Dacres rapped out:

  "I think not."

  "Mrs. Dacres!” her husband pleaded. “I pray you, not here."

  "And why not? It cannot be. Thomas is underage, and that is that. I am sure you would agree, Squire Holby.” The gentleness in the voice gave way to iron.

  The squire grew purple in the face. “My daughter, ma'am, is worthy of the Prince of Wales himself."

  "Then let him have her."

  At this breach of courtesy, let alone justice, I waited for her husband to step forward to stop such outrageousness, and declare that Thomas had his permission to wed. To my distress and alarm, neither he nor anyone else spoke; not Thomas, not the squire. It was up to me, their parson, to speak out. I approached the witch myself, fervently wishing I had thought to pack bell, book, and candle in the gig.

  "Madam, if you have just cause to speak out against this marriage, then tell us now, or let your husband speak for you."

  "Against this marriage?” Her laughter rippled out. “Parson, he is but twenty years old. To come into his inheritance from his mother, he requires his father's permission to wed. And that he does not have."

  "Egad, is this true, sir?” the squire thundered at William Dacres. I saw him flush, I saw him step forward as though he would speak, then I saw him stare as if bewitched by his wife, as no doubt he was.

  "Perhaps it is best...” He could not finish or even look at his son.

  Constance laughed. “Five years, Thomas, until you are twenty-five. It will pass quickly enough."

  Thomas looked at her, and I saw hatred in his eyes. I am ashamed to say it occurred to me that perhaps the witch had flaunted herself at him, only for Thomas to reject her.

  "And in the meanwhile,” she continued, not laughing now, “take care, all of you. Many gentlemen who are here tonight shall rue the day they met me, and some, Parson, will look to their livelihood."

  I was in no doubt that this was a direct threat against myself, as well as others. There was much at stake, and not only for myself. To keep its secrets, in which the squire and I are heavily involved, Cuckoo Lees depends on trust between one and another and seldom is there a cuckoo in the nest. Whatever the risk, however, this cuckoo had to be ousted. I could hear uneasy murmurings of “witch,” I could see fear on many faces. I am not a brave man, but I stood there to represent a far greater being than myself, and He will not be browbeaten.

  Without ado, I stepped in front of Mrs. Dacres and took Miss Evelina's silk-gloved hand gently in mine. Then I took Thomas's in my other hand and joined them together with mine clasped over them.

  There was total hush. “Whom God wishes to join together,” I declared quietly, “let no man put asunder."

  A tense silence, and then a roar of approval and relief from the assembled guests. Squire Holby took his cue from me.

  "Music, Mr. Primrose, if you please,” he had roared, and our Evening of Conviviality staggered into life again as we hurried towards the lawns.

  * * * *

  The rowdiness and exuberance of the dancers was unexpectedly all the greater in the face of the threat to it. We danced most energetically, we laughed, we joked, we swung our partners with enthusiasm, the squire's dogs ran amongst us, barking with excitement as though they would join in, serving men dexterously wove their way through to bring drinks, and the fiddler played as though Rome itself burned. The minuet, even a quadrille, we attacked all the familiar dances with gusto, if not grace, for lawns are more suited to the old country dances, from The Chirping of the Lark to The Parson's Farewell—often demanded by the squire as a jest against me.

  Only Mrs. Dacres did not join in, but watched from the doorway to the house. I saw no one approach her, perhaps because no one wished to dance with her; not even her husband had requested that dubious pleasure. I thought little of it. We would dance, at nine we would take supper, and in my delight at dancing with Miss Evelina herself, I half forgot Mrs. Dacres, assuming in my foolish arrogance that I had saved the evening and the marriage.

  "And now the finishing dance,” roared Squire Holby, as nine o'clock struck and the smell of hot dishes of supper began to waft out to us. He was well in his cups by now and who could blame him? “What shall it be?” he demanded.

  There was only one answer. At Diplock Hall, there was only one finishing dance permitted. With one voice we all cried out: “Sir Roger de Coverley."

  What other country dance could be better to seal an evening of bonhomie? Who could not but remain in good humour with his neighbours after dizzily whirling round with nimble feet and swinging his partner with joyous zest? Who could not but be merry as coats and skirts flew and ankles peeped?

  It is thought by some that the dance is named after the jovial and eccentric “Sir Roger de Coverley” who, over sixty years ago, was created in Joseph Addison's essays for The Spectator magazine. History prefers to complicate matters, however. In the essays, “Sir Roger” claimed it was his grandfather invented the dance, but the “Roger of Coverley” existed in the dance manuals long before “Sir Roger” willy-nilly became confused with the story, although its figures and steps continually change over the years.

  To my mind, it is still the finest country dance of them all, and it is said even the court of King George enjoys it. When my dear wife Bertha was alive I loved to swing her round, then pass round each lady in the whirligig (as Bertha used to call it to my amusement), as she did the same down the gentlemen's line. How I enjoyed taking her hand to turn in the centre each time, until the last couple in the set was reached and we paused to lead the promenade back to our new positions.

  I had thought Bertha would be my partner for life until she was gently taken from me, and now I live on without her, working in my parish, in my garden, and on my glebe land, which my man Barnabas manages, and cared for by Dorcas, my housekeeper, who comforts me by day, and often also when darkness falls.

  Our sets were six couples in length, and to my horror I saw the squire, no doubt even further in his cups, escorting Constance Dacres to join the head of one set. To my amazement, William Dacres was next to the squire in the gentlemen's line, opposite his partner Mrs. Meek, our doctor's wife. Next to his father was Thomas Dacres, not to be parted from his Evelina. Thus the family seemed reunited. Then came Christopher Collett, no doubt bitterly regretting having been drawn into Constance's spider's web, opposite his wife; then came Gerald Farrow, no doubt shivering in his shoes at the prospect of revelations about his past indiscretion. His wife Emily faced him, but next to her at the end of the set on the ladies’ side, I saw to my consternation that the Widow Paxton stood awaiting a partner. Much against my will, since I had no wish to meet Constance Dacres in a merry dance, I realised I should in courtesy take my place as the widow's partner.

  At least the music would, I trusted, concentrate the dancers’ minds on their feet and not on Mrs. Dacres's threats, since it is a fast-moving dance in which wits and limbs must move quickly together. Then I remembered that only some of the dancers at any one time would be moving quickly, and that for the other couples there would be time to brood on Mrs. Dacres, while waiting for her and the squire to perform the whirligig down the line towards them.

  There would be no trouble, I tried to comfort myself. The squire would have his position as our magistrate to consider, as I had my parson's office. Mr. Primrose began the well-known tune, which set all our feet a-tapping, and for a while I forgot my worries.

  "Tallyho,” roared Squire Holby as he honoured his partner—which must have been hard for him today—at the top of our set. As
the unfortunate gentleman at the bottom of the set, I advanced to take the hand of Constance Dacres in the middle of the set; it felt for a moment like a snake curling in my palm as we circled round. Then I was back in my place, only to have to advance thus thrice more, until I was released by the advent of the whirligig figure. As she laughed and twinkled in merriment at me, she seemed a different woman from the one who had opposed me in the dining room, and yet each time I escaped the witch to retreat to my own position a great relief flooded over me.

  I watched her with her partner the squire, turning with their right hands in the middle of the set, then she passed to the gentlemen's side for the whirligig and he to the ladies'. First in line was her husband:

  "Come, my dear,” I heard her say. “Is this not a splendid dance?"

  William Dacres did not reply, but stolidly turned with her in her wake after she passed on his left and then danced to the centre to meet the squire again. Then to young Thomas: I saw him shrink away as she quietly spoke into his ear while circling round him. Back to the centre again to take the squire's right hand. Impossible now to look at that innocent-looking face and believe she had wickedness in her heart.

  "Christopher,” she cried gaily as she circled round him, “how long a while since I have seen thee last."

  His terrified expression, as he turned and for a moment was facing me, told me all I wished to know. Back to the centre for Constance Dacres. Then the next gentleman in the whirligig:

  "Gerald,” she said loudly, “have you not missed me?"

  I did not see his face as he turned, close as he was to me, but I could imagine it. Back to the centre and the squire's right hand. She would be with me in less time than it takes to think these words, let alone record them. I drew on all my resolve. I was a man of God, His cross would protect me against the deeds of the devil. And here she was, those eyes staring expressionless into mine.

  "Parson Pennywick,” she began, but did not continue, to my relief. She seemed still as we circled together, a ghost in flight as she went to take the squire's hand for the last spin of the whirligig. They half-turned, leaving her to dance on past the Widow Paxton to take her place in the line next to her, as the squire came to stand by me. It was time for them to begin the promenade.