Free Malice in Miniature by Jeanne M. Dams Page A

fireworks? Pity, that’d be, wouldn’t it, Jemima?”
    He reached out a hand to Jemima’s head; the little girl jumped and shrank from his touch. Even from where we stood, I could see Meg’s expression. “Don’t you touch her!” she breathed furiously. Pulling Jemima close, she reached for the car door, and Claude put a hand on her arm.
    Alan moved smoothly and very fast. He disengaged himself from my grasp and joined the little group; I trailed belatedly in his wake.
    â€œGood evening, Mrs. Cunningham. How nice to see you again. Chief Constable Alan Nesbitt, and of course you remember my wife, Mrs. Martin. And this must be your little girl?”
    Claude simply evaporated. I didn’t see him go, but when I glanced around, he wasn’t there. Meg, shaking with fear or fury, or both, said something unintelligible and bundled Jemima into the car, the child protesting in a high, keening wail that made me give her a sharp glance. Alan, with a gesture, summoned one of the strolling constables to deal with the traffic; the car pulled away and disappeared, and Alan offered his arm again.
    â€œShall we have a drink?”
    â€œI could use one, after that.”
    The King’s Head was crowded, but Alan is an Important Person. A tiny table was made available for us, and Alan eventually returned from the bar with abstemious half-pints of our favorite ale.
    â€œYou are remarkable, you know?” I touched my glass to his. “You didn’t even have to
do
anything. Just being there—and of course, throwing your title around.”
    â€œI’ve blown your cover, as they would say on your side of the Atlantic.”
    â€œThey haven’t said that for years, and this is my side of the Atlantic now,” I said softly. Our eyes met, and for a moment the rest of the room didn’t exist.
    â€œOoh, sorry, luv!” A drop or two of beer landed on my sleeve, and a quickly produced handkerchief dabbed at it. “’Ere, let me scrub that orf you—ever so sorry, dear, it were that clumsy lout of a son of mine—”
    â€œNever mind, Ada, it’ll wash out, and we’ll all smell like beer before the night’s over, I expect. How are you, Bob?”
    I eyed him judiciously, but he seemed cheerful and reasonably sober. His cheeks were red, but not his nose— yet.
    He tipped an imaginary hat at me and winked. “Me mum’s keepin’ me on the straight and narrow. A fine thing, w’en a man carn’t ’ave ’isself a drop or two wivout ’is womenfolk carryin’ on—”
    â€œExcuse me,
may
I be allowed to pass?”
    The icy tones were all too familiar. Mrs. Lathrop stood, haughty amidst offending elbows, with little Sir Mordred beside her, looking miserable and holding two glasses. I was reminded of a battleship and its attendant tugboat.
    Bob obligingly moved aside an inch or two—all that the space allowed—but Ada stood her ground, her face upturned pugnaciously to Mrs. Lathrop’s.
    â€œâ€™Ullo, Emma. ’Ave a drink wiv us? You an’ yer boss, that is to say, if ’ee likes?”
    Mrs. Lathrop pursed her mouth and looked at a point on the far wall. “How do you do, Ada. We have other plans.”
    She sailed majestically past, pulling Sir Mordred after her, and Ada chuckled roguishly. “She don’t like to be reminded we was girls together,” she confided. “Fancies ’erself too good for the likes of us now. But she don’t want to make a scene in front of ’im, neither.”
    â€œAn’ bad luck to ’er.
And
’im.” Bob raised his glass in a sour toast.
    I didn’t want to see the burning of the Guy. The religious prejudice inherent in the history of the practice grated on me; much as I love English tradition, parts of it can be distasteful. So we found a couple of chairs for the Finches and Alan bought another round while the crowd