Eat, Drink and Be Buried by Peter King Page B

nodded.
    â€œYou’re the stuntman who plays Sir Harry,” I said. “Nice to meet you.”
    â€œHe’s on tonight, aren’t you, Frank?” asked Felicity.
    â€œYes. Having to double up now there’s only the two of us.”
    His complaint brought a disapproving look from Felicity, but instead of reprimanding him, she said lightly, “We’re looking for a replacement. Don McCartney has an old friend coming in to talk about the job.”
    â€œSooner the better,” the stuntman said. “Can’t rely on that irresponsible brother of yours. He’s likely to go streaking off into the village to see that girlfriend of his and leave us all in the lurch any time.”
    â€œAt least Richard is more concerned about poor Kenny’s death than you are,” Felicity retorted.
    â€œHe should be,” said Morgan. “Kenny’s death is his fault.”
    Felicity was about to come back with a biting response, but she glanced at me and her upbringing as a polite young woman prevailed. “This isn’t the time for an argument of this nature,” she said. “We’ll see you later.”
    She took my hand and pulled me away. Frank Morgan gave me another nod and pushed his way through the crowd in the opposite direction.
    â€œI’m sorry,” she said, when we stopped after a few paces. “Richard is a little reckless, I know, and he seems to have lost his head over that girl.” She stopped as she realized the unfortunate allusion, but she went on, “He really is a feeling person and he is still devastated over Kenny’s death.”
    â€œI haven’t seen him around at all.”
    â€œNo, he’s been staying out of sight. He’ll be here today, though.”
    A troupe of stilt walkers came waddling toward us, Pied Pipers with a stream of admiring children behind them. More wandering minstrels appeared, their flute notes shrill and their drums persistent. Felicity was silent and I sensed she was depressed. “Cheer up. Try and get into the spirit of the day. It might help.”
    She gave me a grateful if wan smile and we turned to find people moving toward a Punch-and-Judy show that had just begun. I steered Felicity in that direction and we watched for a few minutes. “We criticize television,” I said as the policeman beat Punch over the head with his truncheon, “but perhaps its violence had some origins here.”
    â€œAt least this is quieter,” Felicity said. “No explosions, no gunfire, and no burning buildings collapsing.”
    Judy was comforting Punch now that the policeman had left. “I think Punch is faking,” I said.
    â€œNo, no, he’s hurt. Just because he isn’t bleeding—”
    â€œHe’s enjoying all the attention he’s getting. I’m sure I saw him wink at the audience.”
    â€œIs that your technique?” Felicity asked. “Pretending to be hurt?”
    â€œAs a technique, it has its place. It works very well.”
    It was good to hear her laugh, even if it was only a small chuckle. “I’ll remember that—Oh, listen—” The public announcement system was telling us that the archery contest was to commence in about five minutes.
    â€œI want to see that,” Felicity said. “Richard is in it.”
    We passed two jugglers throwing clubs to one another and they made mock-threatening motions of throwing a couple at us. “Stop that, Carlo!” Felicity called out to an Italian-looking fellow in blue and yellow pantaloons and blouse. He grinned and threw a club straight up into the air. Another club flew at him from his partner. He deftly caught and returned it with one hand, then with the other scooped up the falling club almost as it was about to land on the grass.
    â€œI think we’d better take refuge here,” laughed Felicity. We were passing a wooden hut with a sign outside proclaiming: “Madame