Excalibur Rising (17 page)

     “Can’t go no further,” Gavin declared.
     Violet breathed a sigh of relief and released her death grip on the back of passenger seat.
     Robby climbed out and lifted up the front seat.  Elaine made a swift exit. “Hurry,” she said to Violet.
     “I’m trying,” Violet said, heaving herself across the back seat and trying to untangle her legs from the various items of junk strewn across the foot well.
     Elaine held out an impatient hand.  “Come on,” she said.
     Violet more or less fell out of the vehicle, and staggered across the stony ground gasping for breath but maintaining a firm grasp on her purse.
     “Leave that behind,” Elaine said.
     Violet shook her head.  “I never leave this behind,” she declared.
     Elaine turned to the two young men.  “You have to wait for us,” she said, “and I don’t know how long we’ll be.  Can you hide the vehicle?”
     “Sure,” said Robby. “We’ll get in behind Dai Gwynn’s shed.  They didn’t knock that down.”
     “Go then,” said Elaine. “Go quickly.”
     The Land Rover bumped off across the field, leaving Violet alone with Elaine.
     “This way,” said Elaine.
     Violet hesitated, looking at the narrow track up the steep and stony hillside.
     “Why are you dragging me up here?” she asked.
     “To give you the proof you need,” said Elaine, “and because we need your help.”
     “You have a strange way of asking for it,” Violet commented.
     Elaine sighed. “I’m sorry.  I know you don’t understand me, and you don’t believe me, but please believe that this is urgent and if you will just come with me I will show you something that will convince you that I’m telling the truth.”
     Violet slung her heavy purse across her shoulder.
     “Lead on,” she said. “I can’t wait to be convinced.”
     They had walked only a few yards along the path when Elaine stopped again at a thicket of bushes clinging to life on the edges of a rocky outcrop.  She pushed her way through the bushes and Violet followed her.  Deep within the thicket Violet almost stumbled across a low stone wall.
     “This all that’s left,” Elaine said. “Centuries ago this was a chapel.  This is the door.”
     “It doesn’t look like a door,” Violet commented.
     “The portals exist outside of time and space,” said Elaine.  “The condition of the wall has no significance.  Here, take this and hold onto it.”
     Elaine pressed something sharp into Violet’s palm. Violet looked down and saw the fragment of jewelry that Elaine had retrieved from Ryan. 
     “Don’t lose it,” said Elaine.
     Violet closed her hand around the sharp edges of the fragment. Elaine stepped forward and Violet followed her. A mist rose up in front of her; the outline of the bushes shimmered and wavered and Violet had a sense of something beyond; a hillside and a distant castle, and a roughly clad peasant following plough horses as they labored.   A shadowy figure came towards her, forcing her to step back.  She tripped on the low stone wall.  As she fell to the ground she heard Elaine gasp in surprise.  She released her hold on the stone and the mist vanished.
CHAPTER TEN
Todd
 

    Todd was surprised to find that he could admire Michael Mandretti.  In fact, although he would never admit it to him, he was actually grateful to Mandretti for closing down the show in Key West.  Dressing in drag and performing Noel Coward to an empty theater had turned out to be, well, a drag.  As soon as he was off the stage and onto an airplane,  the lure of the greasepaint had dissipated and he knew how ridiculous it had been to think that tourists from the cruise ships would flock into a grimy little backstreet theater to see a cut rate production of Blithe Spirit.  For goodness sake, he thought, they have Broadway dancers on those ships, high priced crooners, top of the line comedians, why would they want to see Todd exploring the feminine within the masculine in a new interpretation of a play that wasn’t even funny when it was written seventy years earlier?
     He also appreciated the fact that, unlike Violet, Michael Mandretti actually understood and valued Todd’s skills as a researcher.  Violet took him for granted with her demands that he should send “one of those e-mail thingies,” or just “look it up on your little computer, dear.”        He could see it clearly now; Violet’s disdain for all things electronic made him feel undervalued.  Violet did not value computers and, therefore, she didn’t value Todd.  On the other hand, Mandretti had offered him nothing but compliments, thanking him over and again for the information he’d been able to come up with after just a quick search.
     He glanced sideways at the man riding beside him in the back seat of the black limo; a small limo by Vegas standards, but large enough to allow Mandretti to sit with his legs spread, hands on knees, in a position of controlled power.
      “Okay,” said Mandretti, “let’s get this straight.  We’re going to see this old French broad because she’s gonna tell us what her husband did with the sword.”
      “I don’t know that’s she’s French,” Todd said, “but Claudette is normally a French name.”
     “So maybe she’s French, maybe she’s not, but she’s old, right?”
     “Oh yes, quite definitely.  If she’s the widow of Reverend Wilshire, then she’s probably in her nineties, but the people at the home say she’s quite capable of carrying on a conversation, most of the time.”
     “Most of the time,” Mandretti repeated. “Well, let’s hope today is one of those times.”  He paused. “You sure it’s her?” he asked.
     “No, not really,” said Todd, “but it’s my best guess.  Her name is Wilshire and she’s living in a home for clergy widows.  It’s the best lead I could come up with.”
     Mandretti patted Todd’s knee. “You done good,” he said. “So how far is it?”
      “Not far,” said Todd, “but you should ask the driver.  He knows where he’s going.”
     “Nah,” said Mandretti, “don’t get the driver involved in this.  Freddie’s been paid to drive, not to answer questions.  In fact, Freddie’s usually paid not to answer questions.”
     “Okay,” said Todd, looking at the back of the driver’s thick neck and bullet shaped head.
     “Oh don’t worry,” said Mandretti, “Freddie is also paid not to listen. He comes recommended.”
     Best not to ask who did the recommending, Todd thought.
     He’d performed his internet research quickly and efficiently and come up with the name of Claudette Wilshire living in a retirement home just south of London, but it was Mandretti who had come up with what looked suspiciously like a bullet-proof limo, and a driver as wide as he was tall, with the face of a failed prize fighter.  Now they were on their way to visit Claudette Wilshire in the hope that she was Rev. Clive Wilshire’s widow, and that she would know what her husband had done with the sword he had found in the bomb crater.
     “Did you bring the journal?” Mandretti asked. “Maybe we’ll have to show it to the old girl to show her we’re for real.”
     Todd patted his pocket where the thick journal was totally destroying the fit of his grey tweed sport coat. 
     “Did you read the whole thing?” Mandretti asked.
     “Most of it,” Todd said. “I read enough.  Reverend Wilshire definitely had a  sword, presumably the sword we’re looking for, and he’d taken it from the bomb crater up there in Norfolk, where the rest of the stuff was found.”
     “And he didn’t tell no one,” Mandretti said thoughtfully. 
     “I doubt he even told his wife,” Todd said, “but I’m hoping that she found the sword after he died.”
     “What I don’t understand,” said Mandretti, “is the connection between old Professor Peacock working in some regimental museum and finding the sword he said was Excalibur, and this old coot stealing a sword from a bomb crater fifty years ago.”
     “It’s a very loose thread,” Todd said. “I was hoping we could just find out what regiment Wilshire was in and go from there, but I can’t find any reference to him having been in the army, although he was the right age for World War II.”
     “And there’s the French wife,” said Mandretti.  “She could be a war bride.”
      “We don’t know that she’s French,” Todd reminded him.
     Mandretti lapsed into silence as the black car purred through a depressing urban sprawl lit by a watery afternoon sun.  Eventually they pulled through the gates of a red brick building, obviously a converted Victorian mansion. 
     “This is it,” the driver said over his shoulder. “The Laurels.”
     The driver pulled into a graveled parking space and remained stoically in his seat.  Todd heard the click of the back doors being unlocked.  Apparently they had been locked in on their ride from London.  He was glad that he had not been aware of that fact.  He couldn’t think that there would be anything comforting about being locked into a car with Freddie.
     “You want me to wait, mate?” Freddie asked.
     “Yeah,” said Mandretti.  No please. No thank you.  Obviously Mandretti and Freddie’s employers had an understanding of Freddie’s role in Mandretti’s business in London.
     “You speak any French?” Mandretti asked as he climbed out of the car, and adjusted his jacket.  He was impeccably dressed in a light brown tweed jacket, cavalry twill trousers and a polo-neck sweater.  His Vegas tan positively glowed in the pale rays of the sun. 
     “Just theatre French,” said Todd, following him up the red tile steps.     The front door stood open and they entered a gloomy hallway, imbued with the institutional smell of cabbage and cleaning fluid, overlaid with pine.
     Mandretti marched up to the tiny reception desk that occupied a corner of the dim space.  The woman behind the desk stepped back as he shouldered his way forward.
     “We called,” said Mandretti. “Come to see Mrs. Wilshire.  Mrs. Claudette Wilshire.”
     The receptionist said nothing.  She was an elderly woman, dressed in a high buttoned blouse, her flyaway grey hair caught in a careless topknot.
Todd moved quietly forward and slipped between Mandretti and the hapless woman.
     “Good afternoon,” he said quietly.
      She nodded.
     “So sorry to disturb you,” he continued.  He found his stride.  This called for the Noel Coward approach. No, he corrected himself.  This was more Agatha Christie.  Yes, he would be a nice young gentleman from an Agatha Christie story.
     He smiled. “We rang you earlier this afternoon,” he said. “Did I speak to you or did I speak to someone else?”
     “Oh yes, I remember,” the woman said, fixing her smile on Todd and shying away from Mandretti. “You spoke to me.  I’m Mrs. Laurel.”
      “Of course,” said Todd.  “Mrs. Laurel of the Laurels.”
      “It was in my husband’s family,” Mrs. Laurel said.  “I wanted to put the house to the best use.”
      “Very wise, very wise,” said Todd unctuously.
     “Did you both want to see Mrs. Wilshire?” said Mrs. Laurel. “She’s not very good with visitors and I didn’t tell her there would be two of you.”
     Todd looked at Mandretti. “Perhaps I should go in alone,” he suggested.
     Mandretti narrowed his gaze and there was no mistaking his reaction to Todd’s suggestion.
     “I’ll come with you,” he said.
     “But if she’s …”
      “I’ll come with you.”
      Mrs. Laurel came out from behind the counter and skittered past Mandretti.  “This way,” she said, taking Todd’s arm and leading him up the stairs. 
     Mandretti followed closely behind.
     “Mrs. Wilshire is rather an unusual resident,” Mrs. Laurel confided to Todd.
     “Is she French?” Todd asked.
      “Oh, it’s not that,” said Mrs. Laurel.  “There’s nothing wrong with being French.  It’s a lovely language.”
      “Lovely,” Todd agreed.
      “But it’s somewhat unexpected for the wife of a clergy person to be Jewish,” said Mrs. Laurel.
     “Yes, that is unusual,” said Todd.
     “We didn’t know, of course,” said Mrs. Laurel, “not that it would make any difference; she certainly qualifies for help.  Poor old dear doesn’t have a penny.  It’s just that when we heard that she was French and that she was married to Reverend Wilshire in 1945, well, we just assumed she was a war bride.  But apparently that wasn’t the case.  She was a refugee.  Oh, that man Hitler!  It’s wrong to hate, I know, but sometimes I can’t help myself.”
     “Hate’s not the answer,” Mandretti said unexpectedly.
     Todd turned around and looked at him.
      “Revenge,” he said. “I believe in revenge.”
      I bet you do, Todd said to himself, hoping that he would never, ever, get on the wrong side of Michael Mandretti.
      Mrs. Laurel stopped outside an open door.  She looked at Mandretti.      “Are you sure you won’t upset her,” she said. “She’s very frail.”
     Mandretti bowed from the waist. “I will be charm itself,” he said, and sailed into the room.
     “Oh dear,” said Mrs. Laurel.
      Todd patted her hand.  “We’ll just ask her a few questions,” he said. “We won’t take a minute.  We’re just clearing up a little inheritance matter.”
      “She has nothing to leave,” Mrs. Laurel said. “She doesn’t have a penny.”
      Mandretti popped his head around the bedroom door. “Perhaps we can fix that,” he said.
     Todd followed Mandretti into the room.
      “We’ll be fine,” he said to Mrs. Laurel.  She hovered in the doorway.       “Really,” Todd said, “it won’t take a minute.”
     Mrs. Laurel retreated and Todd crossed the room to find Mandretti kneeling beside a frail figure in a wheelchair. He saw Mandretti raise the old lady’s pale hand to his lips and heard him murmuring soothing phrases in Italian.  It was the same gesture that Todd had seen him use with Violet earlier in the day, and the effect was roughly similar. The old lady sat up straighter in her chair and her brown eyes became birdlike in their attentive stare at Mandretti’s face.
     “Carlo?” queried Claudette Wilshire, in a small, cracked voice.
      Mandretti said nothing but continued to hold the old lady’s hand.
     Mrs. Wilshire looked again at Mandretti’s face. “
Non,
” she said,  “no, you are not Carlo.”  Her French accent was slight but still noticeable.
     Mandretti remained silent.
     “My sister married an Italian,” Mrs. Wilshire said. “Carlo Bergonzi. He was a lovely man.  He played the saxophone.”
      Mandretti still said nothing.  Todd quietly moved across the room and sat down on the bed.  It was evident that Mandretti had everything under control.  If Mandretti continued to clasp Claudette Wilshire’s hand and murmur the occasional agreement, she would be putty in his hands.
      “They went to Rome,” said Mrs. Wilshire.
      “Ah, Roma,” Mandretti sighed.
      “It should have been me.”  Mrs. Wilshire shifted in her wheelchair and a sour expression crossed her face. “I was the pretty one,” she said. “It should have been me. She stole him.  And all I had was Clive.”
     “Clive was a good man,” Mandretti said.
      “Clive was a bore,” Mrs. Wilshire snapped.
      “Ah.”
      “I had to marry someone.”
     “Oh, I see,” said Mandretti.
     Mrs. Wilshire pulled her hand away sharply. “No, you don’t see,” she said. “It’s nothing like that.  That was the trick my sister used.  That wouldn’t work on Clive. He was too good, too Christian.”
      Mandretti made a faint murmur of sympathy.
      “I had to marry,” Claudette Wilshire said again, “to stay in England.  Where else could I go?  We had no country.  There was nothing for me in France.  Everyone was gone.  So I married Clive and I told him I would be a Christian.”
     “About Clive...” Mandretti said.
      “Dull,” said Mrs. Wilshire.
      “I’m sure he wanted to make you happy,” said Mandretti.
      “We had no money,” said Mrs. Wilshire, “and all those church ladies staring.”
      Mandretti looked up at Todd and winked.  Todd imagined that he was trying to convey the fact that if they would just be patient, Mrs. Wilshire would tell him everything they needed to know.
     “They didn’t understand you,” Mandretti said. “How could they understand someone like you?  They were dull like your husband.”
     Interesting, Todd thought.  When Mandretti wanted to he could put entire sentences together with the subject and the object in the right order and without using double negatives.
     “All I wanted was a new hat,” Mrs. Wilshire said. “But no money; always the same thing, no money.”
     Mandretti cocked his head sideways looking at Mrs. Wilshire from beneath his dark lashes. “Did your husband try to get money?” he asked. “Did he do something to get money?”
      She threw her hands up in the air in an animated Gallic gesture. “He said he had this thing, he was going to sell it and we would have money.  But then he changed his mind, and no more money.”
     “No new hat,” said Mandretti sympathetically.
     “It was red,” said Mrs. Wilshire. “Ah, those church ladies, what would they say about a red hat?”
     “I can only imagine,” said Mandretti.  He gestured behind his back to Todd.  Todd took that to mean that it was time to produce Wilshire’s journal.  He handed it across to Mandretti.
      “Claudette,” said Mandretti, “do you recognize this?”
      For a moment Todd thought that Mandretti had overplayed his hand.  The old lady was no longer looking at him.  It seemed that she was still thinking about the red hat.  He imagined her as a young woman, dark haired, dark eyed, struggling to speak English and pretend Christianity under the scrutiny of her husband’s stiff-necked parish ladies.  He understood the lure of a shocking red hat displayed in a shop window, challenging the young Claudette to wear it as a badge of differentness.  And in the end it had come to this, a tired, dusty room, in a tired, dusty house, surrounded as ever by well-meaning Christian ladies.  Todd knew what it meant to be different, to be the outcast, smart but different, yearning for a life on the stage, but without the talent to back up his yearnings.  He made a vow to himself that somehow he was going to get a red hat for Claudette Wilshire, a spectacular red hat, with a veil and a feather.