*A Jewel Of a Mini-Mystery*

What do the villagers of Little Avalon need to help beat the mid-winter doldrums?

Why, a glorious dramatic pageant...and lots of excitement and potential for mystery! Here, a new story in the mini-mystery series I created many years ago.(for a Brit ex-pat newspaper). My aim: light, cosy, small-village-y Agatha-Christie-ish, no murders, c. 1950, and just a bit over the top/tongue-in-cheek.

Space limit back then made it a 5-min. mystery, but it's now a 15-min. tale!

????????????????

"A JEWEL OF A MINI-MYSTERY" (Set in late Jan., 1950)

...It was known to be a dreary time of year, the post-Christmas let-down, the uncertain new year (and with post-wartime rationing still on), the grey cold grip of January going into treacherous, temperamental February.

Of course, there had been a fine village effort with the container rock gardens – a favoured pastime for the season – and their arrangements of trees and greenery, bright pebbles, tiny houses, small mirrors representing ponds. These would remain on display at the Little Avalon Community Centre.

But the village needed more. And it was for that very reason that the Little Avalon Dramatics Society – along with non-society members (though not everyone – and with some quite heated discussion – agreed with that decision) – were preparing to present a glorious pageant, a cavalcade, a gallery of history as affected and reflected this region of England over 2,000 years.

There was much talk of it at the Balls and Meadow pub (once known as The Bells and Minnow, but publican Jenkins liked his lawn bowling outside). This day, it just happened that much of the village, including Miss Rudwell-Horace and Mr. Trotter the postman, were there.

Miss Sharp, the village seamstress and part-time librarian, had joined them, along with the ever-inquisitive Miss Treadwell (with the purse she called her reticule and which everyone knew contained a small army flask). And elderly history/drama teacher Cedric Babbingbrook, one of the show coordinators, was in his element:

“…Yes, so ambitious, to run the gamut from Celtic/Roman Britain, to Victorian and Edwardian England and just beyond,” he rattled on to old Mr. Oddie who sucked on a cigarette stub and looked at him blearily. And then, with a dry little laugh, Mr. Babbingbrook said, “And of course one of the most coveted roles, at least among certain villagers, has been that of 'Britannia'.”

After all, that ancient avenging female figure with her trident, and lion and unicorn (artfully papier-maché-made in Little Avalon), her helmet and Victorian crown, was the entire personification of Britain.

Which was why Ginevra Webb walked past Mr. Babbingbrook with a face like thunder. Had she not played the glittering part of the fairy queen in the village's production of A Midsummer Night's Dream to perfection? But this new role of Britannia was not to be hers. It was down to Miss Bookley the librarian, and someone else, of shielded identity. Another little mystery for Little Avalon!

The sharp-eyed Miss Sharp saw Miss Webb's glare. "Oh, Ginevra made a fine enough Titania," she allowed, to Miss Rudwell-Horace. "But no, she's not right for this part, even though she wants more 'serious' roles. And both Cedric Babbingbrook and our Cyril Foxworthy let her know it, though they were quite diplomatic. If she could, she'd put a spell on them. It could not have been fun bearing the message in medieval times! And Cyril's a king."

"It is true our Mr. Foxworthy has a regal air," said Miss Rudwell-Horace.

Young Ned Babbage, heading for the bar, stumbled against their table. "Ever so sorry," he mumbled, with a face that reflected Ginevra's. "Yes, crisps, please." He dug in his pocket, looking gloomier than having scant change could make him, then took himself off, munching morosely.

Miss Sharp smiled a little. "Wonder what Neddy – and the others – will think of the refreshments at the pageant. My cousin Paul – from Belfast, you know – is helping out. Fun for him, a big fancy chef in business. Came here for a hol, but just can't stop doing it."

She continued her commentary. "Poor Neddy, wanted the war just past to be part of the show, too. Wanted to be a soldier himself back when it started in '39 and all through, but only a child, couldn't reach the right age before it was over in '45. He would have fancied being able to do it on stage, at least."

During the war years ago, Little Avalon had, from time to time, heard the planes overhead, the Spitfires and Lancaster Bombers, the Messerschmidts, though never too much action in this part of England. A number of young men in the village had been called up, with a few never returned. But to have it in this new year's history pageant? "Too recent,” sniffed Miss Treadwell, who had lost a much-loved great-nephew.

"And of course Cyril Foxworthy was one of the ones who delivered the news on that decision too," said Miss Sharp, with a twist of her lip.

Miss Rudwell-Horace shook her head. "A young man whose word seems to rule. Interesting how he has become such a major power in both the program's selection of talent and of content."

Mr. Trotter the postman returned with his lager and the shandy Miss Rudwell-Horace was partial to. He'd obviously been absorbing the chatter around him. "All those centuries!" he said. His eyes twinkled at her. “Sure to be a mystery or two to be solved in all that.”

“Indeed,” said Miss Rudwell-Horace,” All of history is a mystery to be solved, I sometimes think.”

From Miss Treadwell with her sherry and Miss Sharp with her gin-and-tonic, to a few young footballers who’d braved the winter muck; from couples and pensioners to young Pammy Putts playing darts with her dad Brian, and even Mr. Addington the vicar, the pub was as full as it had ever been. Which made for all the more impact when Charles The First strode through the door...

~??~??~??~

This 17th-century king was, of course, villager Cyril Foxworthy, who was so passionately attached to this much-late renowned but ultimately unfortunate monarch, he often dressed as the Royal. Handsome Cyril was one of the most prominent actors with the local dramatics society, but it was more than that.?He simply preferred the assumed life of Charles I to his otherwise existence as an office clerk.

Cyril was fortunate enough to get a few royal gigs at stately homes that had felt the pinch of wartime and needed a dash of excitement. And, kindly king that he was, he took to visiting venues like infirmaries and seniors' homes, with his brand of royal entertainment. He truly loved what he did, keeping history alive.

Here in The Balls and Meadow, there were the usual gasps, a spatter of applause, a whistle or two. The bartender Mr. Jenkins bowed ceremoniously. The Cavalier-hatted Cyril acknowledged him regally with a toss of a frill-wristed hand, and a twirl of his little leather sack. Everyone knew what it contained.

But not only that. Charles I aka Cyril Foxworthy also had a rival, villager Willie Churston, who claimed he had more claim, and had documentation backup to prove he was an actual descendant. Willie rarely was seen without a sheaf of faded scrolls which, he said, contained his entire family history, though no one had yet been able to read them. Determinedly, he outfitted himself much as did Cyril Foxworthy, though Willie's garb was a little more threadbare.

As if right on cue, he marched into the pub, tossing his theatrical cloak to one side, and doffing his Cavalier hat, a less impressive affair than Cyril Foxworthy's. There was a more muted reaction to his entrance.

Miss Sharp leaned close to Miss Rudwell-Horace. “Gave me the willies, I tell you, to see him riding Mr. Stokes's plough-horse about the other night. Says the horse had got loose and he was just bringing it back. Whatever the truth, hardly a steed fit for a king. Or a pretender.”

"Humph." It was known that Miss Treadwell had a fancy for Mr. Stokes, and obviously was annoyed with Willie's actions against the farmer. Yet her eyes followed the pretender-king, almost as if she hoped for a "scene."

As if he had heard their words, the aforementioned Mr. Stokes stalked up, mug clenched in one meaty hand. "You'll not be riding that horse again, will you?" he said threateningly to Willie.

His wouldbe-Majesty laid a placating hand on the older man. "My good fellow, he had come loose. I but took him for a little much-needed exercise, on my return to your abode."

Stokes's face went quite red, and he looked at Willie as if he could have done battle. The drama and tension in the pub took another swing up when a sturdy young man stomped through the door, and frowned at the king. Both of them, Cyril and Willie. “Thought you’d be here," growled the newcomer.

It was a scene to remember forever. “May I help you? I doubt it,” said Willie looking haughtily down, even from his lack of height, and with a curl of his lip.

"There!" said Miss Sharp acidly to Miss Rudwell-Horace. "His 'divine right of kings' look. Or at least he tries. Cyril does it much better." And then, "Mind you, I can't even recall whatever Willie and Bartholomew became enemies for. Or Cyril and Bartholomew, for that matter. A lot of bad feeling. A young woman, perhaps...and Bart does seem to go on about it.

"Got his work cut out for him, he has, with not one but two kings to be having a feud with. And the way he likes to drink, it's no wonder he gets them confused. Must think at times he's seeing double."

Diplomatically, neither woman mentioned that it would take a blind man not to see the difference between the two, and that Willie came up short before Cyril's tall, regal presence.

"And in his role as Oliver Cromwell in our dramatic production, no doubt he will bring much authentic spirit to the role." Miss Rudwell-Horace sipped her shandy.

Indeed, Bartholomew Rudge, who would be playing the Roundhead leader in the upcoming theatrical production, seemingly had had a feud with both Cyril and Willie for weeks, and the intensity of that likely would add to the performance.

As for Willie, he was very put out that he hadn't been offered the role of Charles I for the pageant. After all, he insisted, he had the lineage (though nothing had been proven from the faded, possibly faulty, documents). It was an ongoing drama that alternately amused and exasperated most Little Avalon residents. Willie, though, had his supporters, those who claimed he oughtn't to be discriminated against because of his lack of physical appeal. Still, he was not an actor, and Cyril undoubtedly was.

Miss Sharp moved back a little as young Pammy darted past them up to the bar. The two women had a mere glimpse of an elfin face under a tight-fitting jester's cap, and scarf wound round her neck. "Dear me, that child's like quicksilver," said Miss Sharp. "Never saw her coming."

"...A lager for my da'," Pammy said, a little breathlessly to Mr. Jenkins at the bar. Thin little fingers rummaged in her purse. She glanced up and saw the two women watching her with smiles. "I'm buying it," she said proudly. "With my own money." She took the drink and moved away.

Miss Sharp shook her head. "What a dear child, and loves her funny hats so. I've seen her play-acting. Sometimes in a world of her own. And I do feel sorry for her. She hardly even knew her mum before losing her. Those dreadful Jerry rockets up in London. And the war was almost over, too. Lost his heart, her dad did, trying to carry on with the shop."

"Poor Brian Putts," said Miss Rudwell-Horace, sipping her shandy past the lump in her throat. "He seems to be doing well raising his daughter. And for one so young, she seems protective of him."

"Indeed." Then Miss Sharp's eyes wandered back to Cyril. A former theatre dresser, she had worked for years in that world. In wartime, too, she'd been making-and-mending with a vengeance, forever trying to add frills and furbelows to serviceable garb. In her professional life, she'd been never on stage, always behind the lights. Miss Rudwell-Horace could feel, rather than see, the other woman staring at what Cyril had.

“Think you’re so rich with those bits of glass!” sneered Bartholomew aka Cromwell to the two kingly figures before him.

Cyril had the gems in his hand. Red, green, purple, blue, they were magnificent jewels – not real, of course. Or were they? He liked to carry them about, as some boys did marbles, or as someone of faith might carry beads for comfort. And there was his "crown," a coronet Cyril had commissioned Miss Sharp to make for him, and into which he could easily stick the jewels, for performances like the upcoming pageant.

And, like a distorted mirror image, Willie Churston was doing the same thing with his pouch of jewels.

In Little Avalon, as surely in any English locale, there likely were those strongly for or against either Charles I or Cromwell. And for different reasons.?Miss Rudwell-Horace looked up to see Ginevra Webb – the fairy queen Titania in the village’s last production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream – eyeing the jewels hungrily, then her eyes glittering with hatred. It was Cyril, after all, who had, albeit diplomatically, spoken out against her as Britannia.

Now the spurned actress smiled a little as Bartholomew sneered to Cyril, “Aren't we coming up to the date of your trial for treason? And your execution? True to history and all. Only problem is you've been 'anging around here 300 years too long."

"My dying time has not yet come," said Cyril calmly, raising the tankard the bartender kept for him. "And afterwards...my son – another great king – will avenge my death."

"Surely you mean my son the king," said Willie coldly.

"Wish that plough horse took a fancy to rearrange thy royal face!" Bartholomew glared at the pretender, gulped some ale and made a fist.

Miss Sharp tsk-tsk-ed and shook her head, then inclined it to other corner, where Pammy's father Brian was smoking a cigarette and looking over at Willie with ill-concealed dislike. "Did you know our pretender king Willie was trying to get Pammy and her friends to scatter flowers before him as he rode Mr. Stokes' plough-horse? Like Caesar entering Rome. No wonder Brian Putts loathes him. And by association, Cyril Foxworthy, as he's the one Willie's obsessed to triumph over."

Miss Rudwell-Horace shook her head. She could well imagine Pammy Putts's dad putting his foot down. Indeed, this king's, these kings,' enemies grew greater by the day.

~??~??~??~

It was announced, via village wire, that Miriam Bookley would indeed play Britannia. Many wondered if the librarian was up to it. Beyond that, she also had dislike for Cyril, and he for her, as she sometimes had to get him to "Shush!" in the library when he came in to walk smartly through the history section.

And, an inveterate researcher himself, he had inadvertently come upon something about a very distant ducal ancestor of the librarian’s, something she was not, in any descendant's sense, proud of. Willie got wind of it too.

But however Miss Bookley, or Mr. Stokes or Miss Sharp, or Bartholomew Rudge or Brian Putts, behaved towards Cyril Foxworthy or Willie Churston aka Charles I, the king that was in both of them responded with an airy sense of superiority. The tension was building, along with all the preparations for the pageant.

And the other mystery remained: who had the other Britannia contender been?

~~??~??~??~~

The night of the event was clear, with stars like gems in the dark sky, and snow from the bushes dashed to the ground, as excited villagers, in twos and threes, plowed up the path to the community centre and theatre.

Inside, one might pause at the grand display of container rock gardens, with their bright pebbles and rural scenes, an activity which in weeks past had filled some of the wintry void, but which faded into the background upon this night of high drama.

And drama in many places. From the kitchen came the sounds of crockery, a crash or two, and a cry of "Where's that damned tinned tongue? We'll need more sandwiches." Intermission time was as important as theatre time...

And promised to be interesting indeed, as seamstress Miss Sharp's cousin, the chef from Belfast, was helping with the pageant refreshments. "I do my magic with scissors, he does his with a knife!" she trilled. And in a time of still-rationing, what he managed to do with bits of fruit and veg. was eye-opening (even if probably half of this British village mistrusted fresh produce on principle).

"Makes 'em look like jewels," said tearoom-owner Miss Burton-Crabbe, half-grudgingly.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

....Miss Rudwell, like everyone else there, was moved and impressed by the sheer presence of Miss Bookley as Britannia. That face that showed such peevishness at library patrons who talked above a murmur had been transformed. The semi-functional stage lights yet lit up a presence and dramatic bone structure noticed by few in the librarian's day-to-day work.

She appeared at?key times throughout the pageant, presented as history at different times had clothed or un-clothed her. There could be no doubt that Miss Bookley aka Britannia with her papier-maché lion and unicorn, her globe and her trident, would hold the Empire together.

It was most enjoyable to see various villagers as renowned figures of British history. Perhaps none was happier than Mr. Addington the vicar, delighted to portray one of his heroes, the 7th-century Venerable Bede, a Northumbrian monk (ultimately saint) who had travelled far in his proselytizing.

And with the mind-boggling gallery of historical characters, opening night was an event and an assignment, for reporter Dermot Brashley of The Big Avalon Courier, in fine form with his cameras, his notepad, his newsman’s hat at a jaunty angle.

The first-act curtain fell after the sketch of “1066,” an appropriate dividing point. Little Avalon was an enthusiastic audience, with cheers, stomps, and cries of "Bravo!" And the intermission was one of frenzied activity for performers and stage hands, with thumps and bangs, costumes carried about, changing sets of trees and hovels, with an unsteady many-turreted castle in the distance.

The crowds were thick, the noise level at its peak, and the youth as enthusiastic as their elders. Miss Rudwell-Horace observed Miss Sharp, waving her hands expressively, Miss Treadwell with her reticule, Pammy Putts, there looking at the container rock gardens one moment and gone the next. It was noisy and almost hysterically jovial. There was a rush for the loos, near the changerooms, including the closet Cyril had appropriated for his own.

And theatre made for good appetites, with sandwiches, buns, and countless cups of tea consumed. Chef Paul had created some elegant tartlets. Some villagers went for his artfully-carved apple and parsnip treats, and nibbled at the dazzling arrangements of greenhouse cherries and grapes. Miss Rudwell-Horace enjoyed a cuppa and two thin triangles of buttered white bread and cress, with a bit of fruit chaser. With Mr. Trotter at her side, she looked about her, feeling the excitement like an aura in the crowded room, reflecting the passion and intensity of the show, even before the curtain had re-opened...

And then there was a shout of "Silence!" People stopped, shocked, wondering if it was part of the play. Cyril Foxworthy, in full royal pseudo-silk and leather gear stalked in, holding a gem-less crown in his hands. “My jewels are gone!" he said.. "The King’s jewels are gone!” And then, in an injured tone, "I had just gone to the, er...privy. Forsooth, I should have taken them with me. But surely they should be safe for but a moment."

The crowd was a colourful mix of performers and villager-audience, all shocked, speechless, then chattering. The anxious face of His Majesty, the truculent broad face of Cromwell, the flushed defiant face of pretender Willie, who'd been trying to hold his own little court. He was smirking a bit, too.

The librarian Britannia, her splendour diminished a little away from the lights, but still grimly triumphant with her trident. Miss Sharp, her quick movements stilled. Ginevra Webb, as regal as she could be, but, Miss Rudwell-Horace noticed, with trembling hands, hands that craved glittery things.

Miss Treadwell, dangling her reticule purse, looking shocked, but with also an expression of furtive enjoyment. Old Mr. Stokes, brawny arms crossed, and who had never forgiven Willie for ‘taking’ his plough horse to make some royal point. Right down to the youngsters like young Ned Babbage and Pammy, with her jester's cap and scarf, and her uncomprehending dad, whose mouth was twitching.

And a rather unhappy-looking Constable Bland, who'd fancied an evening off, with fun theatre and fine buns. Even Paul, the visiting chef, had come out from the kitchen to follow the drama.

The place was in an uproar. But even in his upset, Cyril aka Charles was so regal that The Courier's reporter Dermot Brashley, who photographed and scribbled all the more furiously, was almost beside himself. (He also, diplomatically, took a picture of Willie Churston in his shorter cloak.)

Who could have purloined the semi-precious gems?? Willie the Charles I pretender. Cromwell. Ginevra Webb, who felt slighted by the King and who wanted the jewels. Miss Bookley who although she might be Britannia with triumph, still hated Cyril for his history-digging. Miss Sharp, perhaps longing for the gems and spangles of the theatre world she'd worked in. Mr. Stokes the farmer, who hated Cyril; Miss Treadwell who fancied Mr. Stokes, and might have sought to avenge him. Ned Babbage, the would-be soldier who couldn't play his longed-for part...

And then...that large room in the community centre might as well have been the theatre auditorium, as Miss Rudwell-Horace began to talk. Those watching that strong substantial figure, hearing her steady, confident voice, may fleetingly have thought she might have missed her calling as one of history's great orators, or at least one made for the stage. She took them through the events of the evening, piece by piece.

Then she paused, and said, “Who had the likeliest reason to steal the King’s jewels?”

They all gaped at each other.

"And," said Miss Rudwell-Horace, "Who had cause to half-conceal them in the container rock gardens?"

There was a collective gasp, and people rushed to the long table with its display. There, to be sure, was a king's ransom, a wealth of jewels, scattered amongst the displays, and doing their best to blend in with the duller pebbles.

Especially interested seemed the chef from Belfast, Paul. "Could make my hors d'oeuvres look even more like a king's ransom," he muttered, eyes bright as the gems he gazed at. "Must find that blasted miniature melon baller, now..."

And then Miss Rudwell-Horace's thoughtful eyes came round to one person. That face held guilt. Miss Rudwell-Horace asked questions, nodded. When she had finished, there was a deep silence. But instead of any accusation, there was a collective sigh, and motions of sympathy. In the end, this was not a case for Constable Bland, who looked relieved. After all, the jewels had not actually left the building.

And then Britannia said in a clear voice, "I think nothing need be done." She might as well have said "I have spoken for us all and for Empire."

But perhaps what would be most remembered from the evening was that Charles I (Cyril and Willie) and Cromwell, each apparently taken aback by the story – had stopped taking digs at each other.

Could it be that history was about to be rewritten? And would the tension in Act Two be retained? In any case, reporter Dermot Brashley captured it all for the Big Avalon Courier.

??????????????

...Mr. Trotter, done with his afternoon-post shift, poured tea from the old brown pot into their cups, as Miss Rudwell-Horace removed her scones – made partially with barley flour – from the oven. It might have been just a few years since the end of war, with rationing still on, but he sniffed appreciatively at the warm, rich aroma of the baking, soon to be enhanced by Miss Rudwell-Horace's blackcurrant jam.

She proceeded to go over yesterday evening’s events.

“Of course there was the animosity of the two – King Charles, i.e., Cyril Foxworth/Willie Churston, and Cromwell. So strong it was almost unreal. In a mystery novel that might be cause for suspicion. But they did it partly to build animosity into the play. There was also the distraction of Ginevra Webb, and her appetite for not only glittery things but for drama. Plus, she disliked Cyril, because he (and others) did not consider her quite the right actress to play the likes of Britannia.

"Then there was Miss Sharp, the former theatre dresser, who perhaps coveted the gems...Miss Bookley who gave such a splendid Britannia performance, but who hated Cyril's research unearthing her ancestors, even if he'd never rubbed it in. Miss Treadwell, who carried a reticule handbag, perhaps large enough to conceal the jewels?

"And Brian Putts, who wasn't about to allow his daughter to have any kind of job scattering petals to herald the King, i.e., Willie the pretender, and might have confused the jewels and their owners.

"And Mr. Stokes, who had not given Willie permission to ride his plough-horse?" said Mr. Trotter. "And simply fed up with the whole Charles I affair? He may have seen the jewels; there was a chance they belonged to the pretender king, his nemesis. But I imagine simply nicking the jewels was not Stokes's style. More likely to be a bucket of manure at Willie's door.”

"Indeed," said Miss Rudwell-Horace. "Still, a suspect. So many suspects. All diverting the eye and mind from...

Mr. Trotter's hand paused over his still-warm scone.

"...the quicksilver Pammy," said Miss Rudwell-Horace. "Yes, Pammy Putts found and took the jewels. She had followed Cyril, and dashed in to the room where he had his sack of jewels. She wanted them, but someone was near, so she waited till the person was gone, then quickly scattered them in the rock gardens, where they were somewhat disguised amongst the pebbles (and where they later would excite the culinary imagination of the visiting chef Paul).

"Pammy might have concealed them in her odd little hat (so tight-fitting) or scarf. But already, perhaps she had had second thoughts. And this only added to the mystery."

“And she didn't take them just because they were pretty, or because she was a kleptomaniac..." Mr. Trotter stumbled a little over the word.

“Oh no, though she might have had the quickness to do that, or pickpocketing, successfully. You've seen how she darts about. But as we found out, she did it for her father. He struggled to keep on with the shop he had owned with his wife, who was so tragically killed by a German V-2 rocket when up in London near the end of the war."

Mr. Trotter bowed his head a moment. "But surely he was still doing well enough? Has some family money, he'd told me."

"Yes, but I doubt his daughter realized that. A small child when she lost her mother, she only realized the loss to her father as she grew older. Pammy thought her father was hard-up, too – and hoped the jewels were genuine, to provide some wealth for him. She didn't think of being caught or found out, simply was compelled to act, then had second thoughts. She scattered the jewels amongst the pebbles for the time being.

“In any case, this whole odd event made an impression on our king-and-parliament opponents. As Miss Treadwell said, it knocked some of the stuffing out of them both...though admittedly, they had kept the enmity going partly for the pageant, to really get into their roles. And The Courier’s Dermot Brashley immediately realized the newsworthiness of jewels-lost-and-found, amidst opponents glowering at each other. However, he wrote nothing about Pammy, simply that the jewels were 'mysteriously returned' by the end of the intermission, and before the Second Act.

"Little Avalon is a loyal village, and Pammy and her dad well-liked. The truth may out, but it will soon be water under the bridge."

“I’d wager there was more drama in that room than in the whole of British history,” marveled Mr. Trotter. "And how very efficient to have both a mystery and a wrap-up in a 30-minute intermission. Just in time for Act Two!"

“And here we have a case not of history repeating itself, but of history remaking itself. After all, who would have thought King Charles I and Oliver Cromwell would actually end up having a lager together at The Balls and Meadow?”

“Playing darts, too,” said Mr. Trotter. “That’s what I heard.”

They looked at each other, and might just as well have voiced it. By God and Parliament, let the utmost care be taken!

Miss Rudwell-Horace poured them each a glass of her currant wine. "But that is not quite all," she said, looking up with a slight wry smile, almost a touch of coyness, at the little postman.

He stared back at her a moment, frowned in concentration, and then said, with practically a shout of triumph, "I knew it! I knew it! You were to be Britannia."

Miss Rudwell-Horace smiled. "I was honoured to be asked, but I prefer to be the observer rather than the observed. So yes, I gave up my candidacy. And Miss Bookley did a fine job."

Mr. Trotter's silence seemed to hold a touch of disapproval. And then, "You would have made a splendid Britannia," he said.

"I am content with my Empire as it is," said Miss Rudwell-Horace.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~