Opinion in The Viking was pessimistic. Alfred, as he served Emmy’s breakfast egg, remarked that it had started just the same way four years back, that time there’d been the thunderstorm and the refreshment tent got struck by lightning. Mabel, polishing glasses and tables in the bar, said they’d never had a fine day for the Fête yet, not that she could remember, so she didn’t see why they should start now.
“Them’s the sort of clouds that build up for heavy rain,” she said sagely, adding, “My boy friend’s in the American Air Force up Norfolk way. That’s how I know, see.”
Under the dampening influence of these prognostications, Emmy decided to prepare for the worst. She put on a woolen suit, with which she wore sensible, mudproof shoes and a stout raincoat; but she enlivened this rather somber outfit with a pair of brightly-patterned stockings, which combined the twin merits of warmth and cheerfulness. By nine o’clock, she was ready, and waiting at the main door of The Viking for Isobel Thompson to pick her up.
Isobel, by contrast, was on the side of the optimists. As she braked her battered Ford outside the Inn, Emmy saw that she was wearing a sleeveless cotton shift, no stockings, and sandals. This seemed to Emmy to be tempting fate, and she said as much; but Isobel maintained that having the car she could always nip home and get something warmer if the need arose, and that meanwhile there was always so much rushing around to be done that coolness and comfort were paramount considerations.
“You’ll just swelter,” she added.
“I can’t see why guessing the Vicar’s weight should be energetic,” said Emmy, as she climbed into the car.
“Just you wait,” said Isobel ominously. They drove up to the Grange.
The scene of confusion which Henry had interrupted on Thursday, as the various festive ingredients were carried into the house, was as nothing compared with Saturday morning, when they were all brought out again. A contingent of masculine helpers was engaged in setting up the trestle tables which were to serve as booths, and — as frequently happens on such occasions — were proving more trouble than they were worth. Thumbs were being hit by hammers and fingers caught in collapsible furniture, and what with the swearing and the sweating and the dropping and the breaking and the trampling and the misplacing, Violet Manciple was already beginning to consider sacking the male workers, which was exactly what the male workers were hoping for. They always bet confidently to be discharged with ignominy — and snug in the bar of The Viking by eleven-thirty, which was opening time.
Meanwhile, scurrying female helpers trotted like so many ants in and out of the house and the garage, carrying armfuls of assorted objects, which they laid down in disorganized piles on the lawn. Violet herself was already dangerously near to distraction. Like an oracle besieged by overzealous devotees, she was surrounded by a swarm of importunate ladies, each demanding guidance as to where this was to go, or what was to be done with that, or when something else was expected to arrive, or who was responsible for what. Violet kept them at bay by brandishing a fistful of lists and instructions, as though they were magic talismans; but it was clear that she was fighting a losing battle and must soon be overwhelmed.
She caught sight of Emmy and Isobel, and waved a list at them over the heads of the pack. Then, somehow disentangling herself, she made her way over to them.
“How very kind of you, Mrs. Tibbett. Really, I didn’t expect you to give up your morning as well. I do appreciate it.” She beamed at Emmy. “Isobel, of course, is always a tower of strength. Isobel, dear, if you want to save my life, go and stop Harry Penfold from putting up the Hoop-la in the middle of George’s favorite rosebed. He simply won’t listen to me, and you’re so tactful. And then, would you help Mrs. Richards get the jams and preserves nicely set out? You always make that booth look so pretty. Thank you, dear.”
“What shall I do, Mrs. Manciple?” Emmy asked.
“Well, now, if you go indoors, you’ll find Maud with the sheets.”
“The sheets?”
“We use old sheets as tablecloths for the trestles in the refreshment tent. You pin them in a special way. Maud will show you. And then there are all the glasses and teacups to be set out. No, Mrs. Berridge, that ash tray is jumble. Everything for the Lucky Dip is wrapped, because of the bran…” Violet was submerged again.
Emmy made her way with some difficulty into the house. In the hall she nearly collided with Julian, who was carrying a large barrel full of bran, which was presumably the Lucky Dip.
“Hello, Mrs. Tibbett,” he said. “I hear your husband’s gone back to London.”
“Yes.”
“Don’t blame him. This place is more like a sinking ship than a human habitation. Heaven help the poor sailors.” He disappeared with his load into the garden.
Frank Mason came out of the study. His red hair was standing spikily on end, and he carried a lot of assorted bric-a-brac on a battered tray. He was saying, “I know it was there.”
“Well, it’s not there now, young man. You can see that for yourself.” Ramona’s voice from inside the study was commanding and displeased.
“It’s very important,” Frank shouted over his shoulder to her.
“Everything is important on the day of the Fête,” said Ramona. She appeared in the study doorway, her face invisible behind an armful of old clothes. “Can you take these, Maud dear?”
“No, Aunt Ramona, I can’t,” said Maud firmly. She was in the hall, trying to fold a sheet several times larger than herself.
“Let me, Lady Manciple,” said Emmy.
“Oh, thank you. How kind.” Ramona thrust the unappetizing pile into Emmy’s arms. “Down the lawn and under the sycamore. They should have the booth up by now.”
As Emmy went into the garden she heard Maud say, “What was Frank so worked up about?”
“Oh, some book or other…” Ramona’s voice was lost.
The booth under the sycamore tree was not up. That is to say, Emmy arrived in time to watch the collapse of its collapsible legs. It subsided to the ground with a certain slow dignity, neatly nipping the fingers of a male helper as it went. There were bellows of rage and pain, and shouts for adhesive tape. Resigned, Emmy laid her cargo in yet another heap on the grass nearby, and went back to help Maud with the sheets. It was ten o’clock.
***
At ten past ten, the quiet, assured man in the anonymous government office was saying, “We’ll try to help you, of course, Chief Inspector, but it may not be easy. They’re a funny lot, these newly independent countries. And, as you know, the present regime leans heavily toward the East. We are — ” he cleared his throat — “not exactly persona grata in Bugolaland these days.”
“But some of the old colonial families must have stayed on, surely,” said Henry. “Working for the new regime, I mean.”
“Oh, yes. Yes, indeed. When I said we, I meant we rather precisely. Information is not easy to obtain.”
“The information I’m after isn’t secret in any way,” said Henry. “Just a question of consulting records.”
“You don’t know these laddies,” said the man sadly.
“And if my hunch should be right, your department should be very interested,” Henry added.
The man sighed. “It takes a lot to interest us, you know,” he said. He pulled a scribbling pad toward him, and carefully removed the cap from his fountain pen. “Fire away then. Full details of the information you want…”
***
Half-past eleven. The jumble booth was up; the Hoop-la had been removed from the rosebed, the fortune teller’s tent had fallen down for the second time, nearly suffocating Ramona who, as the annual incumbent, had been inside inspecting her quarters. The male helpers had been dismissed, to everyone’s relief, and were even now outside The Viking in a solid phalanx, waiting for the bar door to open.