Vaughan froze.
‘There. You’re not going anywhere now, are you?’ She released her hold and dropped the pretence of reading his palm. Her voice had a triumphant note in it, and the significance of the oddness of her voice and the strength of her grip suddenly occurred to him. It wasn’t a woman at all.
‘Got your attention now, haven’t I? The child in your house – the one that has made your lady wife so happy – is not your child.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘That’s my business. The thing is, I could ask you the very same question: how do you know it? But notice that I don’t ask you. And why don’t I ask you? For the very simple reason that I don’t need to. Because I know the answer already.’
Vaughan felt himself come adrift, knew there was nothing to hold on to and gave in to the tug of a cold undercurrent.
‘What do you want?’ His voice was feeble and he heard it from a great distance.
‘For the fortune-telling? Nothing. I’m too honest to charge for telling a man what he already knows. But what about your wife? Would she like her fortune told?’
‘No!’ Vaughan burst out.
‘I thought not.’
‘What do you want? How much?’
‘My, you are in a rush. Do you do all your business at this speed? No, let’s take our time to consider. Understand what are the things that really matter. Events later this afternoon, for instance …’
‘What events?’
‘Suppose there was to be an event … My advice to you – I offer it freely, Mr Vaughan – would be to stay well out of things. Not involve yourself.’
‘What are you going to do?’
‘Me?’ The voice was one of injured innocence. ‘I shan’t do a thing, Mr Vaughan. And nor will you, if you want your wife kept out of our little secret.’
The tent was suddenly airless.
‘There’ll be time later to work out the terms of our arrangement,’ the man in the veil said, with an air of finality. ‘I’ll be in touch.’
Vaughan rose, desperate for air, and this time met with no obstacles as he made his way outside.
Back in the open air, Vaughan walked in agitation, without knowing where he was going. Such was the churn of his thoughts that he was incapable of putting two ideas in a row, let alone coming to any kind of conclusion. He perceived the crowds around him only dimly. But then the musicians and the hawkers fell silent. Conversations fell away. Even Vaughan in his disturbed state became aware that something was happening. Reopening his eyes to the outer world, he realized that everybody had stopped their aimless milling and come to a standstill. All were looking in the same direction.
A woman’s voice screamed in panic. ‘Get away! Away with you!’
It was Helena.
Vaughan sprinted.
Meanwhile, the Armstrong family had also decided to come to the fair. Robert Armstrong was looking unusually ebullient, as he walked with Bess at his side and six of his seven children around them. He had a letter from Robin in his pocket. The letter was contrite. In it, Robin begged forgiveness. He apologized a dozen times for attempting to strike his father. He promised to make amends. He expressed every desire to live a better life, to give up the gambling and the drink and his ne’er-do-well friends at the Dragon. He would come and meet them at the fair, and show his father how sincere was his remorse.
‘He does not mention Alice,’ Bess had said, reading over his shoulder and frowning.
‘With everything else he intends to put right, the question of the child must surely be resolved too,’ her husband had replied.
From his great height, Armstrong scanned the crowd for his eldest son. They had not found him yet, but he was probably here, looking for them in the crowd; they would be bound to come across him sooner or later.
Armstrong bought knives for his middle boys, hair ribbons and brooches for the bigger girls, and for the little ones, figurines of animals carved in oak: a cow, a sheep and a pig. They ate hot pork patties, and although the meat wasn’t anywhere near as good as Armstrong’s own, it still had a good flavour from being cooked in the open air.
Armstrong left his wife and children clapping their hands in time to the music played by the one-man band, and wandered on to the photographer’s stand, where he found Rita. She always attended the solstice fair. There would be insect bites, heatstroke and alcohol-induced stupors to deal with, but while waiting to be needed, she generally helped out at one of the most popular stands to allow as many people as possible to see her and know where to find her in need. She was helping organize the queue of customers for booth portraits today and taking appointments in Daunt’s diary for future sittings.
‘That is Mr Henry Daunt, I think?’ he asked her. ‘He looks better than the last time I saw him.’
‘He has healed, but there’s still a scar underneath his beard. It’s Mr Armstrong, isn’t it?’
‘That’s right.’
Armstrong studied the prints for sale: river scenes, boating teams, local churches and picturesque places. He expressed an interest in having a family photograph taken.
‘You could have your photograph taken today, if you would like. I’ll add you to the list and tell you what time to come back for it.’
He gave a regretful shake of the head. ‘My eldest isn’t here yet, and I would like a photograph of us all at home, at the farm.’
‘Then Mr Daunt can visit you, and then he would have the time to take a series of photographs, indoors and out. Let me look at his diary and see what day would suit you.’
As she spoke, Armstrong ran his eye over the panel of prints showing scenes from previous fairs. Morris dancers, teams of rowers, hawkers of goods, tug-o’-war giants …
They began to talk about dates, but Armstrong abruptly cut himself off with an ‘Oh!’ that made Rita look up sharply.
He was staring at one photograph in particular with an air of great shock.
‘Are you all right, Mr Armstrong?’
He was deaf to her words.
‘Mr Armstrong?’
She sat him down in her seat, and pressed a glass of water into his hand.
‘I’m all right! I’m all right! Where was that photograph taken? How long ago?’
Rita checked the index number and looked it up in Daunt’s log.
‘It’s the fair at Lechlade, three years ago.’
‘Who took this photograph? Was it Mr Daunt himself?’
‘It was.’
‘I must consult him.’
‘He is in the darkroom on his boat at the moment. He cannot be disturbed – the light would destroy the photograph he is developing.’
‘Then let me buy this photograph and I will come back and speak to him later.’
He pressed the coins into Rita’s hand, did not wait to have his purchase wrapped, and hurried away, clutching it in both hands.
Armstrong was unable to take his eyes from the photograph, but after nearly tripping on the guy rope to one of the tents, he realized he must put it away and make a concerted effort to find his wife and children. He put the frame away, took a deep breath and set to looking about him. Then came the second surprise of the day.
Turning out of a tent where he had hoped to spot Bess, it was not his wife but Mrs Eavis, the landlady from the ‘bad house’ where Robin’s wife had ended her days, who surged into view. He saw her first in profile: her blade of a nose was unmistakeable. She was back from her holiday! He could have sworn she’d seen him too, for her face turned in his direction and he thought he detected a flicker of her eye. But apparently not, for though he called her name, she turned and walked purposefully away.