Free Malice in Miniature by Jeanne M. Dams

than possible ones, and that if it hadn’t been the chief constable asking they might have taken a good deal longer.
    Meanwhile, there were plenty of things to keep me busy. Friday was November fifth: Guy Fawkes Day, that odd English celebration of the occasion, in 1605, when Fawkes and a group of rebellious Roman Catholics almost succeeded in blowing up Parliament. I’d never taken part in the festivities before; Frank and I had never happened to be in England on the day, and last year, my first as an English resident but also as a widow, I hadn’t felt much like crowds and fireworks. This year, however, Alan and I entered amiably into the spirit of things.
    The atmosphere felt a good deal like Halloween back home, with children coming to the door and demanding, “A penny for the Guy.” In the evening the Guy—an effigy of Guy Fawkes—was to be burned in the park down by the river, and a modest display of fireworks would be set off.
    It was a mild night, for November, and dry for a change. Since we’d both be doing some drinking, Alan had his driver take us to our favorite riverside pub, the King’s Head.
    â€œSorry you drew the duty on a festive night, Carter,” said Alan to his driver as we got out.
    â€œIt’s all right, sir,” he said, smiling. “I’d as soon be driving you as patrolling the park and the streets. There’ll be a good deal of rowdying tonight; I’m teetotal, and happier away from it. I’m sorry I can’t get you closer, but the traffic—”
    â€œThis is splendid. You needn’t hang about; we’ll not be going home till the fireworks are over.”
    â€œRight.” He touched his cap. “Enjoy your evening, sir—madam.”
    We strolled arm in arm through the crowds already thronging the riverbank. Cries still resounded of “A penny for the Guy!” Now and then an illicit firecracker went off with a pop, though seldom near us. Most Sherebury residents know their chief constable by sight.
    One group of children was chanting, “Remember, remember, the fifth of November, gunpowder treason and plot. I see no reason why gunpowder treason should ever be forgot!”
    â€œSuch a strange little rhyme,” I murmured. “One would think they—you—would want to forget the incident The Gunpowder Plot wasn’t exactly England’s finest hour—on either side. We Americans don’t celebrate our traitors.”
    â€œWe celebrate the fact that the plot was foiled,” Alan retorted. “Anyway, you Americans have no sense of history, probably because you have no history to speak of. What’s two hundred-odd years—look, there’s a friend of yours.”
    It was Meg Cunningham, standing on the strip of grassy riverbank. She was next to a car, her arm around the shoulders of a little girl, and hovering over them was the unspeakable Claude.
    I stopped dead and clutched his arm. “But, Alan, that’s Claude! And I don’t think—can’t you—”
    â€œI can’t interfere with a man who’s doing nothing but talking,” he said reasonably. “I can, however, watch.”
    He leaned against a convenient tree. We weren’t far away, but the tree shadowed us from street lamps and bonfires and the light streaming from the pub. I kept my hold on his arm and strained to hear.
    There was a good deal of background noise, and the occasional firecracker. But Claude’s voice was elevated by alcohol. “. . . wouldn’t like to give me a lift home later on, would you, sweetheart? Shouldn’t be on me bike, should I, with a skinful?”
    â€œI’m leaving now.” Meg spoke quietly, but with a steely clarity. “I must get Jemima to bed.”
    Jemima, who looked to be about seven, paid no attention to this outrageous remark. Her eyes were on the sparklers being waved by nearby children.
    â€œNot staying for the