At half-past two, Lord and Lady Fenshire came out through the French windows into the garden accompanied by Sir John Adamson and Violet Manciple. Amid a little burst of applause they mounted the rickety rostrum which had been constructed with much acrimony that morning by men who were now happily sozzled in The Viking.
“I am delighted,” said Lady Fenshire penetratingly, “to declare well and truly open the annual Fête of the Village of Cregwell.”
“One, two, three,” said a loud and slightly slurred voice, and with a crash of cymbals and a wail of trombones, the Cregwell band launched into their highly personal rendering of “Anchors Aweigh.” At the same moment it began to rain in earnest. It was exactly two-thirty-two.
***
At two-thirty-five the quiet man said, “Seems you’re in luck, Tibbett. We’ve been able to trace the information you wanted. Not through Bugolaland at all; they were most unhelpful, but one expects that nowadays. However, it seems that there are libraries in this country which preserve old copies of newspapers. I believe you said your clipping was from the Bugolaland Times of twenty years ago.”
“That’s right.”
“Well, this one is from the East Bugolaland Mail, the local paper of the region where the family lived, so the account is more detailed. It’s not an official record, of course, but it makes it quite clear that the little boy was killed along with his parents — all three of them in that car smash. Read it for yourself. What you intend to make of it, I can’t imagine.”
***
“One hundred and forty-nine pounds, two ounces,” said the stout lady slowly. The Vicar, who was standing rather self-consciously on a small platform made out of seed boxes, looked pleased.
“One hundred and forty-nine pounds, two ounces,” Emmy repeated, writing on a slip of paper. “Your name, please?”
“Mrs. Barton, Hole End Farm.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Barton. Here’s your stub. Sixpence, please.”
The man with her — presumably Mr. Barton — was a small, stringy creature who might have been a superannuated jockey. He said loudly, “A hundred and sixty-two pounds.” The Vicar’s face dropped. Emmy filled in the form, and the couple departed.
The Vicar said to Emmy in a stage whisper, “Actually, Mrs. Tibbett, I weigh…”
“Don’t tell me, please,” Emmy begged. “I might give something away if I knew.”
“I was only going to say,” said the Vicar with dignity, “that I weigh less than a hundred and sixty pounds.” He sighed, looked down at his comfortably rounded silhouette, and added, “I play some cricket in the summer. Not enough, I fear.”
“Most people have guessed around a hundred and forty-five pounds,” said Emmy comfortingly.
“A hundred and forty-five pounds, ten ounces is the average estimate,” said the Vicar, who had acute hearing. “I have been working it out in my head. A hundred and forty-five pounds, ten ounces. It is a lesson in humility.”
A small girl in a dirty cotton dress came up and said importantly, “Here’s sixpence, and my mum says two hundred and twenty pounds and three ounce.”
“Two hundred and twenty pounds?” echoed Emmy. “Are you sure?”
“That’s what my mum says. Two hundred and twenty pounds, three ounce,” she added at the top of her voice. Several passers-by showed a tendency to giggle. The Vicar went very red.
Emmy made out the slip of paper, took the sixpence, and dismissed the small girl. Then she said to the Vicar, “The child obviously doesn’t know the difference between a pound and a…”
“That has nothing to do with it,” replied the Vicar with some heat. “That was Elsie Beddows, and I have recently had cause to take issue with her mother on the subject of her Sunday School attendance. Elsie’s, of course. This is her way of scoring a cheap revenge. Really, I question whether I should have exposed myself to this sort of thing, even in aid of the church roof.”
He was interrupted by the arrival of a small, hard-bitten man in corduroy breeches and leggings. He was chewing a straw, and looked as though he had spent a lifetime on and around racetracks. He appraised the Vicar in silence for some time, chewing steadily. Then he walked around and studied him from the back. Finally, he squatted down on his haunches and ran his eye expertly up the ecclesiastical curves, missing nothing. At last he said, “A hundred and fifty-one pounds and six.”
“One hundred and fifty-one pounds, six ounces?” said Emmy.
“S’right.”
“Your name, please?”
“Harrow. Sam Harrow.”
“You are not from these parts, my man,” remarked the Vicar.
Sam Harrow regarded him coldly. “I work the fairs,” he said. “Buying and selling. Horses, mostly. Having a flutter. Nothing worth having here, but I was in Kingsmarsh for the market.” He fixed the Vicar with a wicked eye. “I don’t make mistakes,” he said. He pocketed his stub and walked off.
The Vicar said to Emmy, “It’s this suit, I fear. Made some years ago, when I was stouter. It gives an — em — misleading impression.” He laughed with embarrassment. “You never want to judge a parcel by its wrapping, you know.”
It was at this moment that Isobel Thompson arrived. “Tea break,” she said cheerfully to Emmy.
“Oh really, Isobel, I…”
“No argument,” said Isobel. “Violet has taken over the jumble, I am to relieve you for half an hour, and you are to get yourself some tea. And I’d hurry, if I were you,” she added.
Indeed, the rain had begun to fail again in large splashy drops. Emmy noticed that Isobel was now wearing a raincoat over her cotton dress. Emmy said gratefully, “Thank you. In that case, I’ll go at once.”
“I think,” said the Vicar plaintively, “that I should put on my mackintosh.”
“That would be most unfair, Mr. Dishforth,” said Isobel, cheerfully but firmly. “You must let the customers get a good look at you.”
“You make me sound like a freak at a sideshow, Mrs. Thompson.”
“Well, freak or not, you’re certainly a sideshow,” said Isobel. “And think of the church roof.”
“Your husband wouldn’t approve of my catching my death of cold.”
“I don’t mind holding an umbrella over your head, but you are not to put on a raincoat. Mrs. Manciple said so.”
“Really, Mrs. Manciple has no authority to…”
Emmy left them to it and made her way to the shelter of the refreshment marquee.
As she sipped a cup of hot, strong tea, and ate one of Mrs. Richards’ excellent cakes, something that the Vicar had said came suddenly back into her mind. And with it, inspiration. She looked around, hoping to see Frank Mason; but there was no sign of him. She peeped out through the tent flap. It was raining harder than ever, and Emmy did not feel inclined to waste her precious half-hour’s respite trudging in the damp. She did, however, see Maud, and called to her.