Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon

by Nancy Atherton

  “England is stuffed to the gills with historical festivals,” I pointed out. “Why did he feel the need to import one from America?”

  “The missus and I asked Cal the same thing,” said Mr. Malvern. “He told us that the English are . . .” He screwed up his face, as if he were trying to recall his nephew’s exact words. “The English are obsessed with reenactments—the accurate recreation of historic moments or periods. Cal doesn’t give a flying cowpat—if you’ll pardon the expression—about getting every detail precisely right. He doesn’t mind if people show up dressed as wood sprites or Viking raiders, as long as they enjoy themselves. As he said at the meeting, his fair is about fun, not authenticity. That’s what sets it apart from most English festivals.”

  “I think it’s a brilliant idea.” I glanced surreptitiously at Bill before asking, “Will you wear a costume to the fair, Mr. Malvern?”

  “I’m going to be a burgher, whatever that is.” Mr. Malvern shrugged philosophically. “Cal had the costume made specially for me. I can hardly throw it back in his face.”

  I smiled. “It sounds to me as if you have a hard time turning down any of Calvin’s requests.”

  “I’ve a soft spot for the lad, there’s no denying it,” Mr. Malvern admitted. “He’s got something of my brother’s look about him. I see it now and again. And he has a good heart.”

  “He’s a breath of fresh air,” I declared. “I think King Wilfred’s Faire is the best thing to happen to Finch since Kit Smith returned to Anscombe Manor. And I’m not alone, Mr. Malvern. Everyone loves the idea.”

  “So long as you two do, I’m content,” the farmer said. “If you’d said a word against it, I’d’ve shut the thing down like that”—he snapped his fingers—“but as long as you’re not bothered by it, I’ll let it go ahead as planned.”

  I gave him a startled, sidelong glance. While I appreciated his solicitude, I was taken aback by his apparent willingness to close the fair on the eve of its opening. It was almost as if he’d come to the cottage looking for an excuse to call the whole thing off. As he finished drinking his tea, I remembered my first impression of him at the May meeting. I’d sensed then that something was amiss between him and his nephew. I wondered now if I’d been right.

  “Forgive me for prying, Mr. Malvern,” I said, “but is everything all right between you and Calvin? When the villagers ganged up on him at the May meeting, you seemed to take a long time to come to his defense.”

  “Everything’s fine between me and Cal,” said Mr. Malvern. “If I was a bit slow off the mark at the meeting, it’s because I was embarrassed by the way Cal engineered his announcement. I’m not as fond of the spotlight as he is.” He hesitated, then went on. “But I won’t deny that I’m a bit worried about this fair of his.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  Mr. Malvern rubbed the back of his neck and frowned down at the table, then heaved a sigh and said slowly, “As I told you, Cal never was much of a scholar. He barely scraped passing marks in maths when he was at school. After he moved to Oxford, he was so bad at sticking to a budget that he had to borrow money from me more often than not, just to make ends meet. He’s never had a head for numbers.”

  “I see your problem,” Bill said, nodding. “It’s difficult to run a business if one doesn’t have a head for numbers.”

  “If you ask me, it’s damned near impossible,” said Mr. Malvern. “How did he manage to save enough money to bankroll the fair? A leopard doesn’t change its spots by spending a few years overseas.”

  “He has his inheritance,” I said.

  “Yes, but he must have burned through a good bit of it while he was living in America,” said Mr. Malvern. “Now he’s paying for permits and work crews and building materials and performers and God alone knows what else. Since he came home, he’s been throwing money around like he owns a bank.” Mr. Malvern drummed his fingers on the table. “I’d like to know more about his financial situation. I don’t understand it, and what I don’t understand worries me.”

  “I wouldn’t worry too much,” I counseled. “I’m sure the fair will be a huge success and Calvin will earn back every penny he’s put into it. I can’t wait for the gates to open.”

  “Nor can I,” Bill chimed in. “And Will and Rob are desperate to see the knights on horseback. I have a feeling that the fair will attract a lot of families.”

  “It’ll have to.” Mr. Malvern got to his feet, and Bill and I rose with him. “I’d best be on my way. I’m sure you have things to do.”

  “It’s always a pleasure to see you, Mr. Malvern,” said Bill.

  “Come again whenever you like,” I added.

  “Thank you, and thanks for the tea.” Mr. Malvern donned his cap, shook hands with Bill, and tipped his cap to me. “I’ll be off, then. No need to see me out. I know the way.”

  “What a nice man,” I mused aloud after Mr. Malvern had departed. “Do you think he’s right to worry about Calvin’s business dealings?”

  “I have no idea,” said Bill. “But I’m not going to let it spoil my enjoyment of the fair.”

  “Me, neither. Eat, drink, and be merry, that’s my motto for the summer.” I glanced at my watch and began stacking dishes. “But for now, I’d better clear the table. It’s nearly time to pick up Will and Rob.”

  “Relax,” said Bill. “I have to go in to the office to take care of a few things. I’ll pick up the boys on my way home.”

  “You’re a prince,” I said.

  “I’m a dad,” Bill corrected. He gave me a quick kiss and walked swiftly into the cottage. A moment later, I heard the Range Rover back down our graveled drive. Since the Rover was equipped with booster seats, we always used it to transport the twins.

  I was no longer in a hurry to clear the table, so I sat down and poured myself another cup of tea, to help lubricate my brain while I mulled over everything Mr. Malvern had told us. I’d just taken a large sip when a voice spoke to me from the stile in the tall hedgerow that grew along the garden’s southern edge.

  “Hullo, neighbor! Mind if I drop in?”

  Before I could swallow, a lithe young man clad in torn blue jeans, a tie-dyed T-shirt, and black Wellington boots sailed headfirst over the stile and landed on his knees in the twins’ sandbox.

  “Jinks the jester,” he announced. “At your service.”

  Five

  I promptly sprayed a mouthful of tepid tea across the teak table. The young man was at my side instantly, patting my back while I coughed and spluttered.

  “Sorry,” he said. “Truly sorry. Immensely sorry.”

  “Don’t you . . . know how . . . to use a . . . d-doorbell?” I managed, clapping a half-soaked napkin to my dripping chin.

  “I’m very, very sorry,” he said. “I should have gone to the front door, I know, but the stile was so handy that I—”

  “Handy?” I cut him off without mercy, dropped the soggy napkin on the table, and glared at him. “Handy to what? The only thing on the far side of the stile is a cow pasture.”

  “The cows have been moved to make room for me,” he explained.

  “And who are you?” I demanded.

  “Jinks the jester,” he repeated with a bow. “Jinks as in hijinks, by the way, not Jinx as in hex, which, I’m sure you’ll agree, would be an inappropriate name for a merrymaking jester. I was at the village meeting last month. I thought you might remember me.”

  I glanced toward the stile, retraced the arc the young man had followed as he’d soared through the air, and stared at him as realization dawned. “You were with Calvin Malvern. You did handsprings down the aisle.”

  “Correct,” he said.

  “I didn’t recognize you without your costume,” I said ruefully.

  “But I suppose your grand entrance should have given me a clue.”

  “I really am incredibly sorry.” He rocked back on his heels as he surveyed his surroundings. “Lovely place you have here.”

  “Never mind my lovely place,” I s
colded. “What are you doing in the cow pasture? Horace Malvern told us that the performers’ camp would be east of Bishop’s Wood.”

  “I need room to practice my tumbling passes,” he explained. “Since the main camp will be jammed with tents and caravans when the rest of the players arrive, Mr. Malvern very kindly allowed me to park my caravan away from the others.”

  “I hope you have a good shower in your caravan,” I grumbled. “If you’re doing handsprings in a cow pasture, you’ll need one.”

  “Mr. Malvern also provided me with a shovel and a rake,” said the young man. “I’ve spent the past two days putting them to good use.” He pointed his toe, to display a pristine boot, and fluttered his eyelashes at me. “I come in peace, to build a bridge between our warring nations.”

  An undignified snort of laughter escaped me, but I was still annoyed with him. I nodded meaningfully at the breakfast dishes and said, “You may as well make yourself useful, as long as you’re here. Help me clear the table.”

  He leaped into action, carrying dishes into the kitchen for me to load into the dishwasher and scrubbing the teak table until he’d erased all evidence of the accident his arrival had caused. Stanley made a brief appearance in the kitchen, drawn, no doubt, by the sound of a male voice, but when he realized that it didn’t belong to Bill, he gave a soft hiss and vanished.

  I studied Jinks in silence while we worked, and concluded that he wasn’t quite as young as his clothing—and his behavior—suggested. To judge by the lines around his eyes and a few telltale strands of gray in his auburn hair, he was closer to Bill’s age than Calvin Malvern’s—in his late thirties.

  He wore his hair in a curly ponytail and he had the lean, muscular build of an athlete, but he wasn’t remotely handsome. His eyes were an odd shade of olive-green, his long nose curved slightly to the left, his mouth was crooked, and he had a narrow, pointed chin. He would never be a leading man, I decided as I left the kitchen and returned to the back garden, but he possessed his own brand of attractiveness. His green eyes were large and expressive, and his smile held a hint of mischief that I found endearing.

  He waited for me to offer him a chair before taking a seat at the table. I sat across from him and regarded him curiously.

  “What’s your real name?” I asked. “I can’t keep calling you Jinks.”

  “I’d rather you did,” he said. “My parents were going through a very silly phase when they christened me.”

  “Rainbow?” I guessed, eyeing his tie-dyed T-shirt and his ripped jeans. “Sunflower? Whalesong?”

  “It’s not as bad as that,” he said, laughing. “My given name is Rowan.”

  “What’s wrong with Rowan?” I asked.

  “My surname name is Grove,” he replied.

  “Rowan Grove.” I nodded. “I see. Well, it could have been worse.

  They could have called you—”

  “Oak, pine, beech,” he broke in. “Yes, I’ve heard it all before, especially during my formative years. Little boys can be brutal, given a target. I have the scars to prove it. Which is why I prefer Jinks. If I must have a silly name, I’d rather choose it myself.”

  “Jinks it is, then,” I said.

  “And you are . . . ?” he asked.

  “Lori Shepherd,” I said. “And you can’t come up with a sheep joke I haven’t heard, so don’t even try.”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it,” said Jinks, shrinking away from me in mock terror. “May I call you Lori?”

  “Yes, of course,” I said. “It’s what everyone calls me. Why don’t you use your real name? It’s organic, unusual, poetic—just right for a Renaissance fair, I would have thought.”

  “It may be all of those things,” he said doubtfully, “but we’re not allowed to use our real names. We’re required to assume names that suit our personas. It adds to the fair’s ambience and, frankly, it makes our jobs easier. John Smith may be a shy, retiring computer programmer in his everyday life, but when he dons his garb and changes his name to Cyrano”—Jinks raised his arms and struck a fencer’s pose—“he becomes a dashing romantic hero.”

  “Like an actor in a play,” I said, intrigued.

  “Like an actor in a play without a script,” Jinks clarified. “Most of us improvise our parts. It’s great fun.”

  “I imagine it would be,” I said. “Why did you choose to be a jester?”

  “Isn’t it obvious?” he asked. “I have a face only a jester’s mother could love.” He crossed his eyes and puckered his crooked mouth, then smiled and went on. “I was also a star gymnast when I was at school. And I have a ready wit. A weedy child with a silly name learns early on to fight with words rather than with fists.”

  “I think words are always better than fists,” I said.

  “You’re not a ten-year-old boy.” Jinks allowed his gaze to wander freely over me for a moment, then said brightly, “Nor are you English, if your accent’s anything to go by. Where are you from?”

  “I’m from the States,” I replied. “I was born and raised in Chicago.”

  “I know it well,” he said. “I met Calvin at a Renaissance festival less than an hour’s drive from the Windy City.”

  My eyebrows rose. “Did you work at the Ren fest in Wisconsin?”

  He nodded. “I waited tables at a restaurant in Milwaukee during the week and worked the fair on weekends, but I drove down to Chicago whenever I could.”

  “But you’re English,” I said. “How did you end up in Wisconsin? Did you discover the Ren fest on the Internet, like Calvin?”

  Jinks wrinkled his forehead and squinted at the sky. “It happened so long ago that I can hardly remember. I believe I was studying for an advanced degree at the University of Wisconsin at the time. One fine summer day some friends and I attended a fair we’d read about in a local newspaper. They went home afterwards, like sensible boys and girls, but I stayed on . . . and on . . . and on . . .” He threw back his head and laughed.

  I gazed at him uncertainly. “You dropped out of university to become a . . . a jester?”

  “I ran away with the circus,” he acknowledged cheerfully. “And I’ve never regretted it. Fantasy feeds my soul. A university degree would have been wasted on me.”

  “Don’t let my sons hear you say that,” I said urgently. “I want them to stay in school.”

  “My lips are sealed,” said Jinks, drawing a finger across his lips. “How, may I ask, did a Chicago girl end up living in England?”

  Since I had no desire to discuss Aunt Dimity with him or any other stranger, I said only, “A friend left the cottage to me in her will, and my husband and I thought it would be a good place to raise our children.”

  “How many children do you have?” he inquired politely.

  “I have two six-year-old boys,” I replied. “They’re twins.”

  Jinks placed his folded hands on the table and said gravely, “If I promise not to ruin their university careers, will you promise to bring them to the fair?”

  “I couldn’t keep them away if I tried,” I said, laughing at his somber expression. “They’ve spent the past month on horseback, spearing little plastic rings with wooden poles. They wanted to spear other riders, too—purely for the sake of research, you understand—but their riding instructor wouldn’t allow it.”

  “Spoilsport,” Jinks scoffed. “Every boy should be allowed to behave like a barbarian once in a while.”

  “And you have the scars to prove it,” I said dryly.

  He fell back in his chair, gasping, and clasped his hands to his breast, as if I’d stabbed him.

  “Touché,” he croaked.

  I chuckled appreciatively, then asked, “What brought you back to England?”

  “Cal,” he replied, straightening. “When he revealed his grand plan to create a Ren fest on the other side of the pond, I asked if I could tag along. Ten years of listening to Americans speak in dreadful, faux-English accents made me long to hear the real thing again. No offense.”

&nb
sp; “None taken,” I said. “Faux-English accents set my teeth on edge, too. Are all of the fair’s performers from America?”

  “No, indeed,” he said. “Our new cast is exclusively from the UK. Cal spent the last six months in England, Scotland, and Wales, recruiting street performers, reenactors, artisans, artists, and food vendors. He’s quite a good pitchman, you know.”

  “I do know,” I said, nodding. “My neighbors are a tough audience, but he won them over without working up a sweat.”

  “Kings do not sweat, Lori,” Jinks intoned pompously. “Kings perspire. They also stay in rather luxurious caravans while the rest of us camp in less regal style. It is indeed good to be king.”

  “Why isn’t Calvin staying in his uncle’s house?” I asked.

  “He wants to be in the thick of things,” Jinks replied. “A wise king stays in touch with his subjects.” He placed an invisible crown on his head, straightened his spine, and raised his right hand in a stiff, formal wave.

  I smiled perfunctorily, but my mind was on other things. Calvin’s choice of accommodations puzzled me. His uncle’s farmhouse was large and comfortable, and close enough to the performers’ camp to allow him to be “in touch with his subjects.” Why, then, had he felt the need to purchase a luxurious motor home? It seemed like an unnecessary extravagance, unless Calvin was much better off than his uncle thought he was. As Jinks lowered his hand and leaned back in his chair, I wondered if he could shed some light on the state of Calvin’s finances.

  “It seems to me that you’d have to be as rich as a king to pay for a Ren fest,” I commented. “It must be an expensive proposition.”

  “A full-blown Ren fest can be expensive,” Jinks allowed, “but King Wilfred’s Faire isn’t going to be full-blown. We’ll feature one joust per day as opposed to two, and the stalls and stages have been built to last only until the end of the summer. Temporary buildings cost much less to construct than permanent ones, and the cost will be defrayed by the fees the food vendors and the craftspeople will pay to use the stalls.”

  “What about the performers’ payroll?” I asked. “It must cost a pretty penny to employ so many people.”