She was on her hands and knees in Immy’s room searching for a lost lace glove, although she had a sneaking suspicion that the culprit may be a four-legged long-haired miniature dachshund.

  “The door—was that the door?” James repeated.

  Daphne retreated her head from beneath Immy’s bed and strained to listen. Sure enough, she could hear the tinkling of their ridiculously delicate Georgian doorbell that worked with the assistance of a small brass bell pulled by a string. They could only hear it fifty percent of the time, depending on what part of the Cranberry Farmhouse they were in, but its authenticity and history added to the charm of the house. As ineffectual as it could be at times, they would never swap it for a more modern alternative.

  Trrrrrrrringgg, it went.

  “Damn,” she grumbled to herself. “I’ll get it then!” she called up to James with only a hint of sarcasm. They were both busy, she knew, but he had heard it first.

  Daphne leaped down the stairs two at a time, aware that she had told the children not to descend this way on more than a dozen occasions. She looked up as she reached the bottom, to make sure that none of them could use the evidence against her.

  “I’m just coming,” she called out to the other side of the heavy double doors.

  The faux patient smile that she had plastered to her face soon turned to shock as she saw who was responsible for the ringing. She had assumed that it would be Doctor Oates, but there stood the one person whom she had least expected.

  A distinctly nervous and bashful-looking Minerva Leek was on her front doorstep. She was holding the hand of a child whom Daphne could only assume was Silvanus since his head was covered in a medieval knight’s helmet and he wore a full suit of cardboard armor covering his little body.

  “Hello, Daphne,” she said with palpable embarrassment. “I’m so sorry that I didn’t return your calls.”

  Daphne was aware that her mouth was literally hanging open in shock. She had called Minerva so many times and left her so many messages that she had begun to think that their friendship was a figment of her own imagination and desperation to connect with someone—anyone. Yet, here was her “friend” with tears in eyes which were just about to flow down onto the dark circled rings that lay beneath her red, puffy eyes. Her hair, disheveled and hastily scraped back behind her ears, looked as though it hadn’t seen a brush in weeks. She kept her head slightly bowed, her red-rimmed eyes flickering up occasionally as she spoke with a voice that was thick and heavy, filled with sadness, shame and regret.

  Daphne was still quite unable to speak. She wasn’t angry at Minerva, simply shocked to find her on the doorstep.

  Minerva, sensing that she had caught her friend off guard, held her hand out towards Daphne’s shoulder. “I’m so, so sorry,” she repeated again quietly. “I didn’t mean to leave your messages unanswered. I just didn’t know what to say. It’s been such an awful time—I just had to get away, and . . . and . . . I also needed to get some legal advice. Away from here . . .”

  Daphne was about to say something, but Minerva’s eyes glanced down to Silvanus’s head. Silvanus who was squirming and shifting around while attached to his mother’s hand. She had never seen him so agitatedly excited. He was obviously desperate to see his friends.

  “Mummeeeeeee!” Daphne heard from the top of the stairs “I found the glove, Byron had it in his bask—SILVER!”

  There was a heavy clamoring down the stairs while Immy, closely followed by an equally-as-excited Fynn and Archie, came barreling down the stairs and launched themselves at their friend. A yapping Byron followed on afterwards, jumping up while desperately attempting to include some welcoming licks in the happy reunion.

  It was a few minutes of thunderous laughter and enthusiastic shouting before, through the chaos, Daphne turned back to Minerva and said apologetically, “We need to talk, but I have to get the children to the floats first.”

  “Yes, yes, of course,” replied Minerva. “But, Daphne, would you please do me a favor? Could you possibly take Silvanus with you? I don’t want to spoil his day by drawing unwanted attention to myself, and I think it would be easier for him to blend in if he arrived with you. I’ll be there discreetly in the background, of course. I didn’t want to come back in this way or to do it like this, but he was so upset about missing the carnival, and he missed his friends so desperately that I . . . I couldn’t bear to disappoint him . . . not again . . .”

  Daphne could see the tears once more forming in her friend’s eyes and she felt a wave of compassion. No matter what she herself was feeling right now, no matter how disappointed she was in Minerva for not letting her know what was going on, she couldn’t deny her—or her son for that matter—the chance of doing something fun.

  “Of course he can come along with us. The children would love it—they’d insist anyway.”

  Daphne looked over at her own children playing happily with Silvanus and immediately understood the choice of costume. Whether Silvanus knew it or not, Minerva had been cleverly discreet by dressing her son up as a medieval knight in armor complete with a fully enclosed helmet. His distinctively narrow and pale face was totally concealed. It was a genius idea for Silvanus to feel like he was part of it all without prompting questions about where he or his mother had been. Or so Minerva hoped.

  * * *

  The day since then had gone incredibly smoothly—the sun had shone brightly, the predicted winds hadn’t been too strong, the atmosphere had been buoyant and the crowds bountiful. There were only a few items left on the program of events and the day was almost winding down. The three Brewster children had been having a whale of a time, completely at ease in their “not so” new community in the English countryside. Silvanus had had a marvelous time too. His helmet had stayed firmly on—even when Daphne handed him a hotdog and she’d watched with impressed amusement as each bite had disappeared into his helmet as if by magic. James was crowing about his part in “Pudding Corner Eight” claiming the winning title in the dads’ tug of war—insisting seriously that it was all “in the angle—and not just the grip.” Daphne had completed her shift on the tea tent and had managed to win a coffee and walnut cake in the tombola which—in the absence of any coffee and walnut cake lovers in her family—she intended to donate to Doctor Ptolemy Oates, who, despite his age, seemed to be working all hours. They had invited him to accompany them to the Pepperbridge village fete, but he had good-naturedly declined, stating laughingly that his days of dancing the maypole at village fetes were long over.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, now we come to the final event of what has been an absolutely wonderful day at the Pepperbridge annual school fete and carnival—wouldn’t you all agree!”

  The compere spoke into the microphone and was met with loud and enthusiastic cheering as dozens of sun-kissed faces, both young and old, stared back into the large showring which had been the center stage for most of the day’s big events.

  “Can all the children joining in the primary-age fancy dress competition enter the showring now please!”

  Daphne was leaning against James’s arms contentedly. It really had been a lovely day, but she was looking forward to a few hours’ peace with a nice, chilled glass of wine and her feet up on the sofa. She would have to speak with Minerva soon of course, but for now she would enjoy the final moments of this quaint country carnival before heading home. Archie was sitting on the grass at her feet, and she could see Fynn still dressed as a playing card in her tights playing a particularly boisterous game of “tag” with a few friends off to the side behind the large crowd now gathering at the ring.

  “Where’s Immy?” she looked down and asked Archie.

  “She went to the fancy dress,” he offered, staring intently at a bug that was crawling over his thumb.

  Daphne looked up just in time to see her daughter boldly making her way through the rows of villagers sitting in deck chairs towards the showring for the final competition of the day. She smiled to herself. She had brought up three very self-assured children who thankfully found it easy to make friends wherever they went. There wasn’t a shy bone in Immy’s body.

  “Oh my gosh. Where’s Silvanus?!” Daphne stood bolt upright and started to scan the area. A little way behind her confident daughter, who was skipping happily along wearing her sparkling tiara, lace gloves and princess dress, was an equally joyful skipping medieval knight. His helmet was still covering his face as he was walked, like all the other children, towards the center of the ring where the compere stood next to the guest of honor, who was about to judge the competition. For a split second, Daphne felt that the scene resembled “The Pied Piper,” where the village children were led blindly off towards the mysterious pipe music and into the emptiness of the night. Except instead of a pied piper, there was Augusta Papplewick, looking very serious in her duties as she stood, clipboard in hand, examining each child as they walked past her.

  Daphne looked around her panicked. She’d noticed Minerva hovering discreetly on the outskirts of the large field where the fete was being held. Silvanus had even run up to her a few times, but Daphne was quite sure that no one else had noticed. Scanning the edge of the crowd, it didn’t take her long to lock eyes with a terrified-looking Minerva. They both knew that it wouldn’t end well if Augusta realized that Silvanus was there.

  The two women turned their eyes back to the ring. The kids were all lined up, and Augusta was walking along the children of varying heights and ages. Augusta kept scanning the line, keeping everyone in suspense before turning to walk back towards the compere. There was a slightly awkward pause as Augusta began to speak, and they realized that she needed to be mic’d up.

  “Just a second, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls. Our guest of honor, Mrs. Augusta Papplewick, will be announcing the winners in just a minute.”

  A moment later, Augusta had a microphone clipped to her blouse lapel, and was speaking to the crowd.

  She had maintained the role of guest of honor for so many years that her speech thanking all parents and children alike for their incredible work on this year’s annual fete was meticulously delivered and performed without the need of a script or prompt cards.

  “It gives me great pleasure to be here in attendance at the 125th annual Pepperbridge School fete, although I must hasten to add that I have not been present at all 125 of them!” There was a polite tittering from the parents at the predictable joke that she made every year, and then silence as she went on, adding a somber dedication to her late husband, whom she knew “would be looking down and wishing everyone well.” Then all that was left was to hand out the three prizes in reverse order.

  Daphne glanced towards where she had last locked eyes with Minerva, but this time her friend was nowhere to be seen. She turned back to the ring in time to see a small boy dressed as a rooster walking up to receive the third-place prize of a book token. The child shook hands with Augusta under the guidance of an adult who was presumably the mother, then a photograph was taken with Augusta and the little boy was walked to one side.

  Daphne’s heart was beating fast as she gripped James’s hand. By now, James had been filled in on the close call that was unfolding slowly and painfully in front of them, and they both held their breath as Augusta called out the second prize.

  “Second prize goes to—STONEHENGE!” Augusta pointed to a girl who stood within a papier-mâché replica of the heritage site, her torso encased in the middle third of three sarsen standing stones topped with a horizontal cardboard lintel. Despite her angst, Daphne had to admit that the costume was incredibly impressive. The child, with her face painted gray to match the stones, walked up to Augusta, grinning broadly as she accepted her book token prize and took a picture with the judge.

  “We have one final prize to hand out, but before I do, may I just take this opportunity to say that each one of you is a winner. You have all made a marvelous effort and I am sure that your parents, parent figures and grandparents are all extremely proud of you. Well done!” There was another burst of applause from the audience. “And now, the moment that we’ve all been waiting for. The winner is . . . drumroll please!” Augusta paused for emphasis as Daphne’s intestines felt like they were being twisted.

  Please God let this be over soon so that we can go home! She squeezed her eyes shut and crossed her fingers behind her back, acknowledging without embarrassment that she was resorting to childish tactics to get her through.

  “The winner is—our wonderful MEDIEVAL KNIGHT IN SHINING ARMOR!” Augusta boomed through the microphone.

  There was much cheering and clapping as all eyes turned to the awkward-looking child in the knight’s costume who seemed to be refusing to budge an inch. Daphne saw Immy look towards Silvanus, urging him to go up for his prize. The little boy walked slowly towards Augusta, his helmet still firmly over his head. Daphne’s heart hammered as she watched it unfold in slow motion.

  Augusta bent down and held out her hand in order to formally shake the boy’s hand.

  “Well done, young man, I presume, or are you a young lady?” The audience tittered as they watched the “sweet” exchange.

  “I’m a boy,” Silvanus said quietly.

  “Ahh—a boy, I see, then well done, young man, it is then. Where are your parents?, Augusta bent back up to look around for any parents or guardians. No one seemed to be coming forward, so instead she went back to the child. “Now we just need to take a photograph and then I can let you all go.” Augusta addressed all the children. “Now, take your helmet off and hold it next to you so that we can get a nice picture for the paper.”

  “No,” replied Silvanus.

  Watching the exchange, Daphne was sure her racing heart could be heard from the stage.

  “I said, take your helmet off for the photographer.” Augusta had now slipped into command mode.

  Silvanus shook his head and once again refused the request.

  “I said TAKE IT OFF!”

  Daphne had edged closer to the ring, preparing herself to rush in to rescue Silvanus. She had no idea where Minerva was but she wanted to be ready. Even the crowd and most of the children had hushed their chatter around the ring, realizing with quiet fascination that Augusta was about to lose her temper, enthralled to see what would happen next.

  Once again Silvanus refused and it was obvious from his body language that he was about to turn and run, when suddenly Augusta, in an uncontrolled fit of anger, clasped her hands around the boy’s head and yanked off the helmet. The audience gasped in shock as the small boy stood wide-eyed, looking up at Augusta, and Augusta, aghast, looked down at the small boy.

  When she finally registered that the child who had challenged her authority was the son of Minerva Leek, she let out a screech that, with the stereophonic help of the microphone on her lapel, sounded so deranged and distorted that the entire field stopped what they were doing and looked towards her, many clamping their hands to their ears.

  “YOUUUUU!” she screamed.

  She grabbed Silvanus’s shoulder and managed to catch his escaping sleeve just as both Daphne and Minerva practically pole-vaulted from opposite ends of the showring.

  “CALL THE POLICE!” Augusta yelled. “SOMEBODY CALL THE POLICE! THIS BOY’S MOTHER IS A MURDERER!” She was still gripping the small boy’s shoulder, and he began to cry in shock as well as pain.

  Daphne reached him first, tearing him from the grasp of Augusta, while on her other side Minerva grabbed Augusta’s arm and shouted, “LET GO OF MY SON!”

  There was a collective gasp around the arena as the residents of Pepperbridge watched the dramatic scene unfold. Of course, being a tight-knit community, there had been a multitude of conflicts and feuds in the villages over the years, but never had one been played out so publicly—in the middle of a showring . . . in front of an audience . . . with microphones!

  Augusta, forced to release Silvanus as Daphne pulled him from her grasp, swung around and turned to face Minerva with an expression contorted with fury.

  “YOU! YOU WHORE!” she screamed, raising her hand to slap the younger woman with as much force as she could muster. Her face was still a mask of hatred, distorted to the point of being almost unrecognizable as the prim and proper maven of respectability that she normally presented to the world.

  Minerva flinched slightly but said nothing, managing to catch Augusta’s hand just before it made contact with her face. She held it there as Augusta struggled, continuing to scream at the top of her lungs, which in turn was emphasized by the microphone blasting each of Augusta’s words in glorious stereo.

  “YOU KILLED HIM! YOU SEDUCED HIM AND THEN YOU KILLED HIM—YOU SCHEMING BITCH! YOU TOOK MY HUSBAND AWAY FROM ME AND NOW YOU WANT TO TAKE MY HOME AND EVERYTHING ELSE! WASN’T SLEEPING WITH HIM ENOUGH? WASN’T BEING HIS MISTRESS ENOUGH?” Spittle was visibly flying from her mouth. All thoughts of keeping up appearances had been cast aside as Augusta flung her accusations and insults at Minerva without a care for who might be witnessing her uncontrollable and verging-on-violent outburst.

  The crowd had remained silent throughout. Their heads turned in mesmerized wonder from one woman to the other— as though mimicking an audience viewing the most thrilling tennis performance.

  It was Minerva’s turn to respond now. She was desperately trying to keep Augusta’s hands from clawing at her face, but each time she attempted to release her grip, Augusta’s remarkably strong hand, despite its diminutive size, boomeranged back towards her.

  “Augusta, I was not having an affair with Charles.” Minerva was trying to speak calmy and normally, but she was also trying to keep Augusta’s flailing arms down by her side.

  Daphne had run out of the showring with Silvanus under her arm and a shocked Immy following swiftly behind. She’d reached James, who was standing with the other two children, looking on horror-struck at the commotion.

  “Take the children home to ours. I’ll come back with Minerva.” Daphne looked pointedly from James to Silvanus, who was currently quivering in her arms.

  James nodded and they transferred Silvanus gently from Daphne’s arms to James’s, with Immy holding on to her friend’s arm supportively on the other side. The small boy clung on to James willingly, refusing to look up, but happy to be led out of the crowd to safety.

 

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