Miles looked rather blankly at Melrose, as if murder had its place, after all, and, like the Winterbournes, should keep off when it wasn't absolutely wanted. "Oh, well . . . I imagine it'll be sorted out. . . . Derek's over there, doing an A-one job at the Bottle Toss. Clever boy."
Melrose wondered how clever one had to be to stand up rows of bottles so people could throw hoops at them.
" . . . And Sylvia's already sold at least fifty pounds' worth at the Jumble." He pointed toward a clutch of women squawking like chickens. Sylvia was probably knocking up the prices on everything.
As they strolled through the gathering crowd, Sir Miles took a swipe with his stick at a child whose fingers were sticky with cotton-candy and who had had the gall to get too near to Sir Miles's plus-fours. With his argyle socks and plaid beret, he was looking quite jaunty. The effect of this bit of Aubrey Beardsley in Littlebourne was somewhat dashed by the dab of crusted egg yolk on the cashmere sweater. "So, where are you off to?" he asked Melrose, as if they'd only just met on a railway platform.
"Thought perhaps I'd try the tea pavilion."
Again, Sir Miles winked. "Thought you would, my boy, thought you would."
II
"I was just thinking," said Polly Praed, her violet eyes alight as she handed over a cup of tea to Melrose, "of the most marvelous way to murder Derek Bodenheim."
"Join me for tea and tell me all about it."
She shook her head. "Thanks, but I've got to serve. But just listen: you see, Derek, the oaf, is in charge of the Bottle Toss, isn't he? Everyone brings a bottle full of something, but no one knows what. There's only the name on each of the bottles to tell you who brought it. Well, of course, the murderer simply puts a sham name-excuse me . . . " Polly moved down the table to help some children-or hinder them-who were trying to get at the cake plates. Having disposed of them, she came back, and picked up the thread of her story. " . . . a sham name. Now, that bottle contains strychnine. Derek tosses the hoop and it lands on that one and Bob's your uncle. Can't you imagine-?"
"Wait a minute, how do you know he'd land the hoop on that bottle?"
" . . . imagine him lying there, writhing on the ground. Strychnine does such ghastly things to one-excuse me." Happily she poured out three cups of tea, which were collected by three ladies who looked at them with disapproval.
"That's a quaint way of going about it," he said, drinking his tea and trying to ignore the beckoning hand of Julia Bodenheim, sitting at one of the tables.
"Quaint? I thought it excruciatingly horrible, myself. I like the image, you see. All of the bottles neatly lined up, all different colors. And then the innocent-seeming church fête where one would hardly expect anything like that to-excuse me." Farther down the table went Polly, and Melrose could no longer ignore the fingers of Julia, diddling at the air as if she were practicing scales.
When he appeared at her table, she said, "Please do sit down, Lord Ardry."
"Just plain Melrose Plant. I don't have a title."
Her smile was conspiratorial, as if that Melrose Plant were like the fake name on Polly's bottle. "Of course. It's all rather hideously boring, isn't it?"
"The fête? I've always found them interesting. One could make quite a study of human nature here."
Julia sighed. "Perhaps you haven't been subjected to them every year. I can't think why Mummy will insist on taking charge of the damned things, as it puts me and Derek in the most awful position . . . " She rambled on as Melrose wondered what position she could be talking about since she seemed to be nothing but sitting here drinking tea and smoking Balkan Sobranies. As Julia talked herself blue, Melrose let his mind wander off to Katie's map. Where had she found it? Through the open flap of the tent he saw that the phaeton had started up again and was moving out of the pool of shadow at the far end of the churchyard. Emily would certainly die with her boots on, since she never took them off.
Ten more minutes was about all Melrose could endure of Julia's life story, the only interesting part of which was a fall from a 'chaser which had broken her jaw, rendering speech impossible. He tried to extricate himself by saying he was going to have his fortune told.
"By old Augusta, you mean? Whatever for?"
"To see if some mysterious woman is going to enter my life." He tried for an enigmatic smile. She loved it. As he turned to go, Melrose asked her suddenly, "Tell me, Miss Bodenheim-did you know Lord Kennington's secretary very well at all?"
"Trev-?" She stopped before the name was completely out and he thought a shadow passed over her face. "No. No, of course not. We had very little to do with the Kenningtons, and certainly not with the secretary."
Melrose considered. "Your brother did, though, didn't he?"
She frowned. "What on earth's all that to you? How do you know about all that business?"
"Oh . . . chitchat, chitchat. Since I'm thinking of buying the place, well . . . you know."
It was doubtful she did. But the slight flush left her face as she regained her composure-or, rather, the Bodenheim arrogance which was supposed to pass for it-and said, "I hope you'll be more sociable than she ever was."
Melrose hoped he wouldn't.
III
Madame Zostra, with her crystal ball, jeweled turban, and redoubtable accent was not much like that same Augusta Craigie who followed her sister about like a lapdog. Perhaps the costume permitted her to reveal some cutthroat self, for she had no compunction about grinding all of Melrose's hopes for the future into the ground. Fortune-tellers (he had always thought) were there to make one feel happy and hopeful: beautiful strangers and money and exotic ports-of-call were supposed to fall into one's lap as easily as autumn leaves. But having crossed Madame Zostra's palm with silver, all Melrose could look forward to was a life of ravaged dreams. He wouldn't make a fortune, but lose one, very probably at the hands of a dangerous (not beautiful) stranger, who would fall across his path, not like a scattering of leaves, but like a dead tree.
Melrose left the tent and did not wonder at the lack of customers outside. Word must have got round that to enter this tent was truly to abandon hope. If the fête's fortune were left to Madame Zostra's fund-raising abilities, the church window would have to wait until hell froze over. That appeared to be where all of her clients were headed, anyway.
Sylvia Bodenheim was in her métier at the Bring 'n Buy, haggling with a thin woman over the price of a ratty-looking shawl knitted by Sylvia's own hand. As Sylvia was also manning the Jumble table, set up in a booth next door, she was having the time of her life flying betwixt the two like a great scavenger bird.
The Bake Sale was lorded over by Miss Pettigrew of the Magic Muffin. Ramrod straight she stood, arms splayed either side of her wares. They all looked pretty much as if they'd come from the same batter. There was a decided muffin-y scent in the air, a strange mixture of carrot and cinnamon.
The small carousel of four horses, two pigs, a lamb and a goose was grinding out some unidentifiable tune as it circled very slowly, and the tots on the faded painted animals whipped them along with imaginary crops. Aside from Emily's phaeton rides (which Melrose observed circling the outer edge of the church grounds), the carousel was the most popular of the attractions. Melrose watched the golden horse, glowing in a shaft of sun, trotting the carriage along. He saw two small heads poke out, apparently yelling something to friends on the carousel as they passed. Almost as quickly, they pulled their heads back in when the driver, whip in hand, turned toward them.
IV
Derek Bodenheim was gathering up the small plastic hoops used for the Bottle Toss as Melrose approached. Ignoring Derek's surly look, Melrose said happily, "Think I'll have a go. How much?"
"Three for twenty-five."
He handed over the money and received in return three hoops. He missed all three and requested three more. By the time Melrose had missed his twelfth shot at ringing a bottle, Derek's surly attitude had changed to his more familiar, supercilious one.
"Guess I'm not exactly a dab hand at this sort of thing," said Melrose, modestly. In truth, he was a dab hand at anything like quoits, horseshoes, darts-whatever demanded judging distances. But he had managed to put Derek more in the mood for a bit of a chat.
"It's quite simple, really, if you've any coordination," said Derek, with his usual nobility of spirit. "Mainwaring got three in a row."
Melrose expressed astonishment at Mainwaring's prowess and asked, "What's in the bottles?"
"Wine, whiskey, hair tonic-"
Strychnine, thought Melrose, smiling. "I'm not any good at games demanding physical dexterity. Chess, now. That's more my game." Melrose hadn't played it since he was ten years old. "Something that requires concentration . . . and a little imagination." He looked off toward the Penny Toss and saw Emily squandering her newfound riches. Away across the churchyard, the horse cropped grass. Rest time. "Someone was telling me about a game that's all the rage, called ‘Wizards.' Ever play it?"
Derek's expression didn't change as he said, "When I'm up at Cambridge. It's quite fun. Very complicated. Takes a lot of imagination and you sort of make it up as you go along."