It was the day before the Lakehurst Medieval Fair and Mr Grimm’s Men were having a very jovial rehearsal. This was in the courtyard of The White Hart in Foxfield and was accompanied by beer drinking and a great deal of hearty laughter. To regard them from a distance one could admit to thinking them a scary-looking bunch. For not only did they wear the black tattercoats but also their faces were blacked up, hidden, nothing but a pair of eyes gazing out on the locals who had come to cheer them on. Atop this fantastical garb they wore black top hats with a mass of long feathers sticking up beyond the crown. The older villagers, whose parents remembered them pre-war, had passed down a tradition that one should never look a member of the morris team full in the face for fear of bad luck, but to the local youth, with their Mohican haircuts and their louche girlfriends, that was all a load of bull.
The morris musicians – two drums, a fiddle and an accordion – changed rhythm and Mr Grimm’s Men engaged in a fierce overhead battle, beating sticks one against the other in a menacing manner. An old-timer, who happened to smoke a pipe and thus was banished out of doors, dropped his gaze and stared into his beer tankard at this point.
‘What’s up?’ asked Kyle, a pimply boy of about nineteen.
‘Don’t like it when they do this part,’ the old man muttered, still looking down.
‘Don’t tell me you believe all that Satan rubbish, Stanley?’
‘This be the calling up. And I never watches that.’
‘You’ve had too many pints, that’s your trouble.’
‘You’ll learn, young feller. Never watch Mr Grimm’s Men when they do the summoning.’
Kyle laughed and turned back to his fellow louts but Stanley kept his head down until that particular dance was over.
The dancing session done, Chris O’Hare marched his men into the hostelry and claimed the round of free beer provided by the landlord. The morris dancers’ blackened lips fastened themselves round the rim of their pints and all supped deeply. There were twelve of them, ranging in size and age from Little Willie, aged twenty-one, to Old Elvis, aged sixty-three. In between those two were a variety of men all drawn together by a love of exhibitionism and a general enthusiasm for dancing and showing off. There was a Will and a Harry, a Joe and a Larry, not to mention Dan, Fred, John, Tom, Len and Keith. Despite the rumours, only a few of them were interested in the Black Arts, led by the redoubtable Chris O’Hare, who had dabbled with a bit of serious witchcraft in his time.
Without his black make-up he looked a little devilish, being blond as vanilla with a pallid skin and enormous, slanting tiger’s eyes. For some reason women found him irresistible and flung themselves at him, which some thought was due to a spell he had cast in his youth. He remained unmarried and an experienced, excellent lover, well-hung.
‘How many times do we have to dance at this Lakehurst thing?’ Harry asked him.
Chris turned his tawny gaze in the man’s direction. ‘I reckon about twice. Morning and afternoon. But the vicar wants us to mingle with the crowd and be jolly.’
‘I wouldn’t mind mingling with Patsy Quinn.’
‘Don’t worry, Will. Chris will beat you to it.’
‘If I can be bothered,’ the devilish Mr O’Hare answered, and gave them all a broad grin to show there was no offence.
Mr Grimm’s Men were making jeering noises when the longbow team from The Closed Loop came in. There were just four of them, all amateurs, who spent their non-working hours taking part in the recreation of famous battles and giving demonstrations in the art of archery. They were all members of the far larger and far more famous group, but had nothing against taking part in a local charity show. They were greeted fondly, having met on various occasions.
‘How do, Reg? How’s it going then?’
‘Very well, I think. We’ve got the safety arrows ready for the general public to have a go and we’re doing two demonstrations by ourselves.’
‘What time are you getting there?’
‘Just after nine. We want to have a look at Patsy Quinn.’
‘Who doesn’t?’ remarked Chris O’Hare, and the new arrivals were treated to a free round of drinks by the landlord, a jolly chap called Charlie.
The vicar had hoped for a quiet night in but the telephone rang constantly. Earlier in the day he had walked up to the field and been very gladdened to see the Women’s Institute out in force, arranging stalls and putting up bunting that might be considered to have a medieval look. He had worked with them for a couple of hours and during that time could have sworn that he glimpsed Dickie in the trees that grew nearby. But when he looked again there had been nothing there. Other than that, there had been no incidents and when he gazed round the field at six thirty, with the WI packing up and asking him what he thought, he could not praise them enough. He had called in at the Great House on his journey back, hoping he might see Kasper.
Jack Boggis was in his usual chair, talking, for once, to a rather elegant, grey-haired woman who seemed to have a mind very much of her own.
‘I don’t know about you, Mrs Platt, but I’m not certain whether all this archery business is any good for youngsters. I mean, when I were a lad my father used to cuff me over the head and tell me to get on with it.’
‘With what?’ asked his companion in an extremely educated voice.
‘Well, with life. We didn’t have any medieval nonsense to fill our heads. We used to have to concentrate on the three Rs.’
Mrs Platt had looked down her nose, an achievement that the vicar frankly envied.
‘But surely you studied history?’
‘Yes, but …’
‘There is no but about it. The children will be given the opportunity to study the living past when they are allowed to participate in the longbow demonstration.’
Jack had supped his ale, his face going a little grey as he wondered how to counter this unexpected attack. His companion meanwhile had taken an elegant sip from her glass of dry white wine. The vicar, much amused, silently watched them.
‘So I take it you will not be going to the Medieval Fair, Mr Boggis?’
‘Well,’ Jack answered uncomfortably, ‘I might look in on it for half an hour.’
‘I should hope so indeed. I think it will be highly educational and interesting. Besides, it is in a very good cause.’
‘What’s that?’
‘The church tower fund,’ answered Nick, leaning towards Jack’s table.
‘My God, haven’t you restored that by now? You’ve been raising money since the millennium.’
‘Hardly. I started the appeal and I’ve only been here four years. We’ll be glad to see you there, Mr Boggis. Anything to help support the tower.’
Jack clutched at his dignity, attempting to look benign and failing. ‘As I said to Mrs Platt, I might look in for a short while.’
‘We’ll be delighted to see you,’ answered the vicar cheerily, and turned back to his pint.
Kasper had not appeared and Nick had finished his drink and hurried home, Jack Boggis still arguing with Mrs Platt and being thwarted at every turn.
No sooner had he sat down to supper than the phone started to ring, mostly people asking last-minute questions about the fair. Finally at nine o’clock it went for the last time – and this was a call that the vicar was delighted to receive. It was from Olivia Beauchamp, down in Sussex for the weekend from her flat in Chiswick. At one stage Nick had had rather romantic leanings towards the violinist but these had been eroded over the months and now here he was, aged thirty, and still unmarried.
‘Nick,’ she said in her husky, sexy voice, ‘how are you?’
‘My dear girl, how lovely to hear from you. Have you been away?’
‘Yes, I’ve been doing a few concerts in eastern Europe. But I’m back now for several months.’
‘Good, you must let me take you out to lunch. It would be so nice to see you again.’
It was at exactly this point that Nick heard a man’s subdued cough in the background. So the delicious Olivia was not alone. He paused and heard her whisper, ‘You did that on purpose,’ followed by a definite rumble of a laugh.
‘Am I interrupting anything?’ Nick asked politely.
Olivia laughed, out loud this time. ‘No, I’ve just got a friend round for a drink. I really rang up to ask about the fair. What would be the best time to arrive?’
‘Well, it’s being opened at ten o’clock by Patsy Quinn …’
‘Complete with piercings?’
‘And tattooed up to the eyeballs. But I mustn’t be unkind. Her grandmother lives in Lakehurst and she will be a big attraction for the teenagers. After that short ceremony, I presume I shall accompany her round the fair and that will be that. So come whenever you like. There will be morris dancing and archery and a fortune teller throughout the day.’
‘I’ll probably come about twelve.’
This time Nick heard the sound of someone getting up from a chair and knew from the very way it was done that it was not Olivia. His curiosity was as high as a UFO.
‘That would be lovely,’ he said, longing to add ‘Bring your friend’ but not quite having the nerve.
‘See you tomorrow then.’
‘I look forward to it.’
He put the receiver down and went to the kitchen where he made himself a cup of blackberry tea, puzzling over who Olivia’s friend had been. Probably a Slovakian pianist, he thought, and with this happy idea made his way upstairs to bed. Just before he slept, Nick opened the window and looked out at the moon. It was waxing and was almost full. He strained his ears because from the lane at the back of the garden he could hear somebody singing.
I passed by your window in the cool of the night,
The lilies were watching, so still and so white.
Nick recognized the voice instantly and called out, ‘Goodnight, Dickie.’
There was no reply, just the sound of someone creeping quietly away.