Nancy Atherton by Aunt Dimity [14] Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon

to the list of
    those that had inspired his dream, but the lurid paintings turned
    my smile into a broad grin. I felt as if I were being rewarded for my
    patience, as if the ferocious dragon and the noble unicorn were
    mere hints of still more splendid surprises to come.
    I followed the arrow directing me onto a newly graded dirt
    road to my left and drove along it until a spiky-haired young woman
    in disappointingly modern blue jeans and a boring white T-shirt
    waved me into the pasture that had become a parking lot. When I
    saw the number of cars that were already parked there, I wished I’d
    left the cottage earlier.
    I was in such a hurry to catch up with the rest of the fairgoers
    that I almost forgot to lock the Mini. I never locked it when I was at
    home or in Finch, but the sight of unfamiliar cars on my lane served
    as a salutary reminder that I was no longer surrounded by people I
    knew and trusted.
    I could see from the car park that Bishop’s Wood had been enclosed by a ten-foot-tall wooden security fence intended, no doubt,
    to keep freeloaders at bay. The most dramatic piece of construction
    wasn’t apparent until I’d joined the hundred or so onlookers who
    were waiting for the fair to begin. Calvin Malvern’s builders hadn’t
    created a moated castle or a fire-breathing dragon, but they’d done
    a marvelous job of recreating a grand, medieval gate house.
    58 Nancy Atherton
    The imposing structure was hung with colorful banners, surmounted by a crenellated walkway, and flanked by two square,
    battlemented towers that were at least thirty feet tall. A small door
    halfway up each tower gave access to the walkway, and fl ags flying
    from the tops of the towers suggested that their roofs were accessible through trapdoors. The gate house was pierced at ground level
    by three wide, round-headed wooden doors placed side by side
    beneath a large gilded wooden sign whose red and blue Gothic lettering spelled out the words: mayne entrance.
    I suspected that the gate house had been constructed out of plywood
    and plaster, but the surfaces had been skillfully shaped and painted to
    resemble rough-hewn stone, and each door looked as if it were made of
    solid oak. The smell of fresh paint and sawdust lingered in the air, testifying to how recently the building work had been completed.
    Although the three “Mayne Entrance” doors were still firmly
    shut, the entertainment had already begun. A juggler, a lute player,
    and a woman with a large snake draped across her shoulders stood
    on the gravel apron before the gate house. Each was suitably attired
    in period clothing and each kept up a steady patter of witty repartee
    that caused the onlookers to erupt in repeated explosions of laughter.
    I was gazing at the snake and thinking of how much Rob and Will
    would enjoy petting it when Lilian Bunting appeared at my elbow.
    “Isn’t it exciting?” she asked, her gray eyes shining.
    “So far, so good,” I replied. “Calvin must have mounted a strong
    publicity campaign. I didn’t expect to see so many people here on
    opening day.”
    “Did you notice the extra motorcars on your lane this morning?” said Lilian.
    “It was hard not to,” I said. “I’m not used to looking both ways
    before I back out of my driveway.”
    “You’ll have to get used to it,” said Lilian. “I’ve no doubt that
    day-trippers will use your lane as a shortcut. Apart from that,
    several performers are staying in the village, so they’ll be passing
    your cottage on their way to work on weekends.”
    Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon
    59
    “When did performers move into the village?” I asked, surprised.
    “Yesterday,” said Lilian. “Sally has a wizard in her spare room, the
    Peacocks have a magician and two jugglers in the rooms over the pub,
    and the new people in Crabtree Cottage are playing host to a mime.”
    “If you ask me, Grant and Charles made the best choice,” I said.
    “A mime would be an ideal houseguest. You’d