Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon Read online

  Eleven

  I tripped over the ottoman in my haste to reach the blue journal, so I changed direction and headed for the mantelshelf lamps instead. Once I could see properly, I lit a fire in the hearth and stood quietly for a moment, allowing the study’s familiar stillness to seep into me.

  “I have to be cool, calm, and collected when I present my case to Dimity,” I explained to Reginald. “Otherwise, she’ll think I’ve embarked on another vampire hunt. I’d say that I have to be like Emma, but after seeing her at the fair today, I’m no longer sure that she’s a good role model for me. She seems to have a more active imagination than I gave her credit for.”

  My pink bunny regarded me sympathetically. The encouraging gleam in his black button eyes let me know that, whatever happened, he was on my side. His unswerving loyalty was like a tonic for my agitated soul. I reached for the blue journal with a steady hand.

  I sat in the tall leather armchair before the hearth, put my tender feet on the ottoman, and rested the journal in my lap. After taking a slow breath, I opened the journal and said, “Dimity? I’m back from the fair.”

  Welcome home, my dear. The looping lines of royal-blue ink curled across the page as fluidly as quicksilver. Was it as interesting as you hoped it would be?

  “Oh, yes,” I said. “It was interesting.”

  I’m so glad. Tell me everything.

  “It’s like another world. . . .” I began.

  I went on to describe the fair in great detail, leaving out nothing but the events that concerned me most. I created a comprehensive picture of the fair’s physical appearance—the gatehouse, the winding lanes, the stalls, the open-air stages, the joust arena—as well as an impression of its festive atmosphere. I told her about the opening ceremony and the cannon blast, the water-balloon juggler and the belly dancers, the walking tree and the madrigal singers. I marveled over the variety of items for sale in the stalls and remarked on the evocative patois spoken by the vendors.

  I took her up Pudding Lane and down Broad Street, pausing to praise the twins’ mostly dignified performance in the king’s procession and to convey my reaction to seeing Emma ride past in her finery. I brought her to the hillside picnic area, to eat honey cakes with me and Lilian while Rob and Will circled the arena, their unicorn pennons flying. I let her hear the crowd roar when the knights demonstrated their skill at arms, and I helped her to feel the ground tremble as the horses pounded toward each other in the joust. Finally, I introduced her to my ultra-studly husband, took her through the marquee, and entered the stabling area, where my narrative came to a temporary halt.

  My word. The fair has certainly provided you with the change of pace you desired, Lori. It’s more stimulating than the dog show, the bring-and-buy sale, and the flower show combined, unless you include the year when Patricia Shuttleworth’s flea-bitten old pug won the dog show—what a kerfuffle!—but that was before your time. The fair sounds as if it fulfilled all of your wishes and then some. You must be exhausted, my dear.

  “I won’t be swimming the English Channel tomorrow,” I told her, “but I’ll get by.”

  I must confess that I’m not as surprised by Emma’s transformation as you were. She is a gardener, after all, and gardeners are dreamers at heart. How else would they be able to look at a handful of seeds and envision a perennial border in all its glory?

  “I’ve never thought of it that way,” I conceded.

  Bill’s conversion, on the other hand, was wholly surprising, though I suppose we should have suspected him of protesting a bit too much. Most men would be peacocks if they were allowed to display their feathers, but I’m afraid they’re discouraged from doing so in this day and age. I’m sure he’s enjoying his “cool medieval dude” attire more than he ever thought he would.

  “I’m enjoying it quite a bit myself,” I said, recalling the pleasant scene in the front hall.

  Of course you are. You’re blessed with an extremely attractive husband. It would have been a waste to swaddle him in a friar’s robe. Thank you for giving me such a vivid account of your day, Lori. I feel as if I’ve experienced every facet of King Wilfred’s marvelous fair. But now you must toddle off to bed. If you’re going to attend the fair again tomorrow, you’ll need your rest.

  I cleared my throat. “I haven’t finished telling you about my day, Dimity.”

  I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to cut you off. Please, go on.

  “A couple of unusual things happened at the fair,” I said.

  More unusual than a walking tree?

  “Yes, because the walking tree was just a guy on stilts,” I replied. “The things I’m about to describe are real.” I glanced at Reginald for courage, then hunkered down in my chair and tried to sound like a jaded newspaper reporter. “I have a story to tell you. It’s all about love. If it’s true, which I think it is, then King Wilfred’s Faire is going to need a new handyman. Or possibly a new king. It depends on what happens first.”

  An excellent introduction, Lori. My interest is thoroughly piqued.

  “My story involves a handsaw, a broken parapet, a flying sandbag, and a severed rope.” I paused. “And a love triangle.”

  Oh, hurrah! I knew you wouldn’t fail me, my dear. Please, proceed with your thrilling tale. I’m on tenterhooks!

  Aunt Dimity’s response contained more than a hint of sarcasm, but I didn’t let it faze me. I’d sailed over the edge of reason so often that it would have been foolishly optimistic of me to expect a more sober reaction. Her playful tone made me more determined than ever to prove to her that I wasn’t imagining things.

  “Early this morning, before the fair opened, I heard the sound of a single handsaw coming from the direction of Bishop’s Wood,” I said. “If I’d heard a lot of saws, I wouldn’t have thought twice about it, but the sound of one saw indicated that one person was working on one specific project.”

  It also indicates that someone was working in the early hours, when the fair’s grounds were deserted.

  “That’s right.” Mildly encouraged by Aunt Dimity’s offering, I continued, “During the opening ceremonies, a section of the gatehouse’s parapet broke away from the walkway wall. The parapet broke away when King Wilfred leaned on it. If Lord Belvedere hadn’t grabbed the king’s surcoat and hauled him back onto the walkway, the king would have fallen twenty feet to the ground.”

  Good gracious. How very distressing.

  “It becomes more distressing,” I said, “when one assumes that the king rehearses the opening ceremony, and that he goes through the same routine every morning. In other words, he leans on the same parapet in every performance.”

  A fairly safe assumption, I would say. Are you asking me to make a connection between the solitary handsaw and the broken parapet?

  “Not yet,” I said, refusing to be rushed. “I didn’t connect the two until a young man named Edmond Deland arrived on the scene to clear away the debris. Edmond is the fair’s maintenance man, but he doesn’t dress in period attire. In fact, he seems to be the only employee who wears normal clothing to work.”

  Does his attire suggest a failure to enter wholeheartedly into the spirit of the fair?

  “I believe it does,” I said. “Furthermore, his reaction to the parapet incident struck me as . . . odd. When he spotted the debris, he looked sullen. When he peered up at the gap in the wall, he appeared to be angry and disappointed. And I couldn’t help noticing that he had a handsaw in his wheelbarrow.”

  Ah, I see! You believe that Edmond Deland used his handsaw to damage the parapet early in the morning, in hopes of disrupting the opening ceremonies. When the ceremonies went on as planned, he was angry and disappointed, because his scheme had failed. Am I on the right track?

  “Almost,” I said. “I’m now going to skip ahead a bit. Do you remember the madrigal singers I mentioned?”

  How could I forget little Mirabel, the pretty girl with hazel eyes and the voice of an angel?

  “While I was listening to the madri
gal singers,” I said, “I saw Edmond Deland again, half hidden in the shadows between two stalls. He stood as still as a statue and gazed only at Mirabel, as if he worshipped the ground she walked on. I promise you, Dimity, his longing for her was almost palpable. She seemed to be unaware of him, and he didn’t draw attention to himself.”

  Any sensible observer would conclude that Edmond Deland is hopelessly in love with little Mirabel. Et voilà—we have two sides of our love triangle! Who completes it, I wonder?

  “I’m getting to that,” I said patiently. “As I told you earlier, the sound of trumpets announced the start of the king’s procession. Mirabel got very excited when she heard the trumpets, and the group promptly moved from their quiet alleyway to Broad Street. It seemed to me as if they moved in order to allow Mirabel to watch the procession.”

  How did Edmond react to their departure?

  “When he heard the trumpets, he looked absolutely furious,” I said. “He didn’t say a word, but he stomped off in a huff. I followed Mirabel.”

  Naturally.

  “She could hardly keep still during the early parts of the procession,” I said. “She was all aflutter, as if she were waiting for the man of her dreams to come into view. When she saw King Wilfred, she gasped, and when he blew a kiss to her, she blushed like the setting sun and dropped a curtsy to him. If the other singers hadn’t dragged her away, I think she might have followed the king up Broad Street.”

  The king, therefore, is the third person in our love triangle.

  “Which makes him Edmond’s rival,” I pointed out.

  So it does. Does the king realize that he’s the rival of an angry young man with a handsaw?

  “I don’t know,” I said. “But I can tell you what happened next.”

  I quickly related the quintain incident, underscoring Bill’s assertion that it was an exceptionally rare occurrence. I went on to describe my discovery of the partially severed rope as well as my failed attempt to retrieve it, then sat back and waited for Aunt Dimity to draw her own conclusions. She didn’t take long.

  Correct me if I’m wrong, Lori, but you seem to be suggesting that Edmond’s goal isn’t merely to disrupt the fair, but to murder his chief rival.

  “I realize that it sounds far-fetched,” I said calmly. “And I may be jumping to a few thousand conclusions, but yes, I believe that Edmond Deland is trying to kill King Wilfred.”

  It’s a very serious accusation.

  “I know it is, but think about it, Dimity,” I said. “Edmond is an ideal suspect. He has access to every square inch of the fair, night and day. He has the tools he’d need to sabotage the parapet as well as the quintain. He can also get rid of the evidence easily, because it’s his job to keep the grounds clean.”

  I don’t doubt that Edmond has the means and the opportunity to carry out the deeds you’ve ascribed to him. I do, however, question his motivation.

  “He’s insane with jealousy,” I said.

  He’d have to be insane, to be jealous of Calvin Malvern. The Calvin I knew was an affable, pudgy daydreamer. I find it difficult to think of him as the answer to a maiden’s prayers.

  “Ren fests are all about role-playing,” I explained. “At the fair, Tommy Grout, ordinary teenager, becomes Harold le Rouge, squire to the noble Sir Peregrine. Similarly, Calvin Malvern, pudgy daydreamer, becomes King Wilfred, lecherous swain.”

  Why must he be lecherous?

  “Oh, sorry,” I said, sitting up straighter. “I forgot to tell you about Bill’s naked bottom.”

  I’m not entirely certain that I want to hear about Bill’s naked bottom.

  “I’m not talking about his personal bottom,” I said hastily. “I’m talking about the naked bottom he saw when he and the twins were crossing the performers’ encampment on their way to the king’s evening feast.”

  I’m at once baffled and intrigued. Are the performers nudists?

  “Not exactly.” I cleared my throat again, then asked hesitantly, “Have you ever heard of free love?”

  For goodness’ sake, Lori, free love wasn’t invented yesterday, as so many of you children seem to think. I believe the term was coined in the 1860s, though it didn’t have quite the same meaning then. Nevertheless, I’m well acquainted with its modern meaning. What part does free love play in your story?

  “According to Bill, free love is, if you’ll forgive the expression, rampant in the encampment,” I replied. “Edmond is so conservative that he won’t even wear a costume while he’s at work. I can’t imagine that he would approve of the behavior Bill witnessed in the camp. Calvin, on the other hand, is in love with Ren fests. He probably includes hanky-panky in his job description.” Another idea darted into my head and I ran with it. “It would explain why Calvin is spending the summer in a luxurious motor home instead of in his uncle’s farmhouse. Horace Malvern wouldn’t allow things like that to happen under his roof.”

  I take your point. Calvin Malvern might not indulge in naughty shenanigans, but King Wilfred wouldn’t hesitate to take advantage of an impressionable young madrigal singer.

  “I’m just guessing,” I said cautiously, “but I think Edmond is a romantic. I think he wants to rescue his innocent angel from the king’s lewd clutches, and at the same time punish the king for trifling with her.”

  Murder is a rather extreme form of punishment.

  “Love has been known to push people to extremes,” I said wisely.

  There was a long pause before the graceful handwriting continued.

  Well, well, well. . . . You did leave a few interesting details out of your initial account, Lori. What a very busy day you’ve had.

  “I know what you’re going to tell me, Dimity,” I said. “You’re going to tell me that I’ve gone off half-cocked again, that I’m reading too much into the situation, and that my conclusions are based on too few facts. Before you do, though, ask yourself one question: What are the odds against King Wilfred having two bizarre, near-fatal accidents in one day?”

  I’m not sure they’re as high as you seem to think they are. As Lilian Bunting pointed out to you, King Wilfred’s Faire is a complex form of theater. Things are bound to go wrong from time to time in any theatrical venture.

  “But would you expect spectacularly bad things to happen to the same person twice in one day?” I pressed.

  Perhaps not. But I wouldn’t expect someone like Edmond to engineer spectacularly bad things. If your observations are correct, his murder attempts haven’t taken place in dark corners, but in full view of large audiences. Would a conservative young man have such a flair for drama?

  “It’s not about drama,” I countered. “Edmond is being pragmatic.

  Sabotage allows him to be somewhere else when the so-called accidents happen. He’s cleverly distancing himself from the crime scenes.”

  But would a romantic young man use sabotage as a means of achieving his goals? Wouldn’t he simply snatch up a sword and fight for his angel’s honor? Heaven knows, there are enough swords lying about for him to use.

  “If Edmond attacked the king openly, he’d be carted off to jail,” I said. “Edmond can’t defend Mirabel’s honor if he’s behind bars.”

  True.

  I pursed my lips and sighed wearily. “I don’t have all of the answers, Dimity. But my gut tells me that something funny is going on at the fair.”

  Something funny . . . and potentially deadly. Perhaps it isn’t good to be king.

  I read her words twice before asking tentatively, “Do you think I may be on to something?”

  I wouldn’t go so far as to accuse anyone of attempted murder just yet. We may be dealing with a case of malicious mischief. Someone may wish to frighten people away from the fair by making it seem unsafe.

  “Why would someone do that?” I asked.

  I can think of a dozen reasons—spite, envy, jealousy, greed, vengeance. Your task will be to discover the correct one.

  “Will it?” I said, my spirits rising.

 
Indeed, it will. I believe that the situation merits further investigation.

  “You do?” I said, blinking at the journal in happy disbelief.

  I most certainly do. I’m glad that you’re attending the fair again tomorrow. It will give you the opportunity to gather more information. I, for one, would like to know who was wielding the solitary handsaw this morning and what he or she was doing with it. If someone was seen making unnecessary alterations to the parapet, we may have our culprit.

  “I’ll ask around,” I said.

  I’d also like to know more about the quintain. Do the knights practice their skills before displaying them to the public? If so, the saboteur must have tampered with the rope after the practice session, but before the fair opened.

  “If he damaged the rope before the practice session, it would have broken too soon,” I said, nodding eagerly. “And if he damaged it while the fair was in progress, he would have run too great a risk of being seen. The fair was crawling with people almost as soon as the gates opened, and most of them were just wandering around, taking in the sights.”

  Our culprit may have been seen by one of the performers. Try to find a witness who can place him in the arena within the proper time frame, preferably with a sharp knife in his hand.

  “I’ll do my best,” I assured her.

  I would also urge you to wear your costume tomorrow.

  “After seeing Bill and Emma, I don’t need urging,” I said. “I felt like a party pooper today.”

  I want you to feel like a performer tomorrow. Find out if anyone involved in the fair has a grudge against King Wilfred. People will confide in you more readily if they think you’re a cast member. Let your costume be your disguise. It may even gain you access to the encampment.

  “I’ll outwench the wenches,” I promised. “But I’ll keep my clothes on in the encampment.”

  I’m relieved to hear it. I need hardly tell you to keep an ear open for general gossip.

  “I’m going to have lunch with Jinks the jester tomorrow,” I said. “He’s promised to clue me in on the scuttlebutt.”