* THREE *

"WELL, THEN!" THE VICAR said brightly, rubbing his hands together, as if the moment hadn't happened. "That's settled. Where shall we begin?" He looked eagerly from one of them to the other.

"By unloading the van, I suppose," Rupert said. "I assume we can leave things here until the show?"

"Oh, of course ... of course," said the vicar. "The parish hall's as safe as houses. Perhaps even a little safer."

"Then someone will need to have a look at the van ... and we'll want a place to put up for a few days."

"Leave that department to me," the vicar said. "I'm sure I can manage something. Now then, up sleeves, and to work we go. Come along, Flavia, dear. I'm sure we'll find something suited to your special talents."

Something suited to my special talents? Somehow I doubted it--unless the subject was criminal poisoning, which was my chief delight.

But still, because I didn't feel up to going home to Buckshaw just yet, I pasted on my best Girl Guide (retired) smile for the vicar, and followed him, along with Rupert and Nialla, outside into the churchyard.

As Rupert swung open the rear doors of the van, I had my first glimpse into the life of a traveling showman. The Austin's dim interior was beautifully fitted out with row upon row of varnished drawers, each one nestled snugly above, beside, and below its neighbors: very like the boxes of shoes in a well-run boot maker's shop, with each drawer capable of sliding in and out on its own track. Piled on the floor of the van were the larger boxes--shipping crates, really--with rope handles at the ends to facilitate their being pulled out and lugged to wherever they were going.