Our Man in Camelot (12 page)

Mosby nodded. “Yeah, I guess so.”

“Well, if it is he’s come down to ground level.” He paused, frowning. “You say you
inherited
it?”

“In a way.”

“What way?”

“What way…” Mosby sighed. “Last time I saw Di was— well, it’d be about a month back, with one thing and another. I went States-side on a conference, then he had some leave and after that I rilled in at Alconbury for a spell when a couple of the guys were sick there. And then he was on exchange duty with the RAF in Germany, at Wildenwrath, for the NATO cross-fertilization programme—it’d be all of two months, wouldn’t it, honey?”

“You didn’t see him, and I didn’t see you,” said Shirley. “But I saw him.”

“That’s the point. Go on, honey—tell it how it was.”

She shrugged. “There really isn’t a lot to tell. When Mose was away at Alconbury Di came to me and asked if we could store some boxes for him. You see, we’ve got lots of room and he was in a little cottage off the base where you couldn’t swing a cat. He said he just wanted somewhere dry and safe, that was all.”

She shrugged again as though she found the repetitiofi faintly boring; and lapsed into silence.

“For God’s sake—“ Mosby exclaimed with a flash of simulated irritation “—that wasn’t all. I told you: just tell it like it was.”

“Huh?” The look of incomprehension was pure Billy Holliday.

“The bet, honey, the bet.”

“Oh,
that
.”

“Oh, that—yes.” Mosby gave Audley an apologetic ‘I-know-she’s-beautiful-but-lefs-face-it-she’s-also-dumb’ lift of the eyebrow.

“You and your silly bet. I can’t see why you make such a fuss about it, honestly.”

“Because it was for real, that’s why.”

“Oh—phooey.” She scowled at him, and then smiled sweetly at Audley. “Well, naturally I asked Di what was in his precious boxes, had he robbed a bank or something.”

Audley nodded at her encouragingly. “Yes?”

“I said if it was a bank job we’d want our cut. And he laughed and said not a bank, but something just as good. And we’d get our cut, only it was going to cost us. Or rather, it was going to cost Mose, because that was the deal—‘one bottle of Napoleon Brandy, the finest that money can buy. No more and no less’, those were his exact words, and he said I was to make sure and tell Mose that.”

“We had this bet—“ Mosby started quickly as Audley switched his attention. “We had this argument in the club one night, started when I needled him whether he’d taken any good pictures of King Arthur lately. And he said how would I like a little bet on it—a proper wager entered in the squadron betting book the barman keeps under the bar for guys who are ready to put their money where their mouth is.” He nodded at Audley. “And I could see he meant it one hundred per cent.”

“So what did you say?”

“Hell, I told him I wouldn’t bet on Arthur—because I didn’t take candy from babies. Then he said ‘Okay, so you won’t bet on Arthur—so we’ll bet on Badon, I know you believe that exists…’ And he turned to the barman and he said ‘Get the goddamn betting book out, Paddy, and write this down:
Major Davies wagers Captain Sheldon one bottle of Napoleon Brandy, the finest that money can buy, that he will locate the site of Badon Hill during this tour of duty in the UK, his evidence to be assessed by a mutually acceptable third party
.’ And he signed it right there on the bar. One bottle of the finest Napoleon Brandy.”

There was a moment’s silence, then Faith spoke. “You mean—“ she looked from one to the other of them “—but, David, you said that no one knows where Badon Hill was—or is?”

“No one does.” Audley continued to stare at Mosby. “Where’s Davies?”

“He’s at the bottom of the Irish Sea, somewhere between Anglesey and the Isle of Man, with what’s left of
Guinevere II
,” said Mosby “But the way I see it, I’ve still got a bet to settle.”

THEY
’
D STARTED OUT
at the crack of a grey dawn, following a cross-country route which Audley swore was not only simple and free from traffic bottlenecks, but which also encompassed some of the prettiest West Country and South Midlands scenery. But it rained miserably and one way or another they managed to lose their way four times, twice in a bewildering maze of tiny roads meandering in the middle of nowhere and twice in the middle of towns which they had never intended to visit.

The upshot of these minor disasters was Shirley’s frayed temper, the product of her offer to navigate (“Scenery? I’m too busy looking for signposts to see the scenery”), and a time-loss which forced them to snatch a hasty lunch in an Olde Englishe pub so ruthlessly olde Englishe that it could provide no ice to cool the tepid drinks with which they tried to wash down their bread and cheese.

Yet with a perversity that brought Shirley’s temper to fission point, Mosby enjoyed the journey: its sheer unpleasantness, recalling the family trips of his childhood, made him feel more genuinely married to her than he had ever felt before. His innermost and most secret fantasy, that this was really simply Dr and Mrs Sheldon, two innocent American tourists on the track of Arthur, required no special effort of self-deception for a few precious hours. For that brief space of time it was more real than the reality.

And then, with almost startling suddenness, as though the weather itself had caught his mood, the quality of their journey changed. They left the rainy country behind and drove into sunlight, with only a few puffs of high white cloud to set off the blueness of the sky. And when Shirley complained of thirst they stopped for early tea at a little roadside cafe which turned out to be closed but which nevertheless opened specially for them, with the plump little old proprietress fussing about them in a totally uncommercial manner, producing freshly-baked cakes from her oven, hot and delicious.

The change in atmosphere seemed to confuse Shirley.

“I don’t know what you did to get that red carpet rolled out for us,” she murmured gratefully as they took to the road again.

“All I said was that you were tired and thirsty.”

“I guess she thought I was pregnant or something.” She looked at herself critically.

“Chance would be a fine thing… But it can be arranged if you like the idea.”

She gave a discouraging snort.

“Arthur for a boy, Guinevere for a girl.” Mosby hastened to hide himself behind a shield of flippancy.

“That’ll be the day.”

Indeed it would be, thought Mosby wistfully. The millennium.

But now the excitement of journey’s end took hold of him. For some time they had been travelling in distinctively Cotswold territory, a rolling landscape of weathered slate roofs and dry-stone walls enclosing small, neat fields—slate and stone which even in its grey old age retained a hint of the pale honey colour of its youth. And as they dropped down off the ridge from the main highway (even the signposts had now become easy to see and simple to follow) he was reminded of Audley’s phrase: It’s deep in the Cotswolds.
Deep
was right; there was a deepness in this little wooded valley, a sense not so much of secrecy as of privacy, which had somehow survived beneath the treetops he’d glimpsed from the turn-off above.

The only indication that the valley was occupied had been the pinnacles of a church tower partially hidden among the leaves, but there was in fact a surprising number of houses clustered around the church, all linked and interlocked by high stone walls which turned the narrow streets into miniature canyons through which Mosby nosed the big car gingerly, knowing that he’d have to back up if he met any other vehicle larger than a wheelbarrow. But there seemed to be no other vehicles to meet, no other life even; the place was as empty as a Spanish village in the depths of its siesta.

Before he realised it they had cruised right through the place, over a tiny bridge, and on to the hillside beyond.

“Damn it,” Mosby muttered, “he said to ask in the village, but there’s no one to ask.”

“They’re probably all having tea,” observed Shirley unhelpfully. “Tea and cucumber sandwiches.”

With difficulty he backed the car into a farm gateway, and after much manoeuvring between the restricting stone walls managed to get it facing downhill again towards the trees.

This time he knew better what to expect, but there was still no sign of life anywhere until he was almost out of the village again, and then the life wasn’t human: his way was blocked by a magnificent Dalmatian sitting right in the middle of the road.

As he slowed to a halt, the Dalmatian showing not the least inclination to move, he caught a flash of movement out of the corner of his eye.

“Here’s someone now,” said Shirley eagerly. “Ask him quickly before he disappears.”

The someone was evidently a native of the place, a swarthy young man with a shock of black hair and devil-slanted eyebrows, by his frayed shirt, stained corduroy trousers and enormous muddy boots most likely a farm labourer. But that at least meant that he’d know the answer to Mosby’s question and the expression of amiable curiosity on his face was encouraging.

“Excuse me, sir—“ Mosby smiled out of the car at him. “—I’m looking for Forge Close House. Dr Anthony Handforth-Jones.”

The farm labourer pointed away towards the dog. “
Inside
,Cerberus—
at once!
”
he commanded sharply before turning back to Mosby. The dog rose lazily and ambled to one side of the road.

“Dr Anthony Handforth-Jones,” Mosby repeated.

“That’s me,” said the farm labourer, returning the smile. “You must be Dr Sheldon—I thought I saw you go by just now and I knew you’d be coming back, so I sent Cerberus out to hold you—
get inside, you idiot
—I’m sorry, but I don’t want him to think he can have the job full-time, he enjoys it too much already… Just back down the road five yards, and the gate’s open on your right.”

Mosby backed and turned obediently into a gap in the ivy-covered walls which let on to a well-tended circle of gravel bordered on three sides by a house and its outbuildings and on the fourth by a towering beech tree under which several cars were parked. One of them, he recognised at once, was Audley’s.

“I guess we’re rather late, but we got lost four or five times,” explained Mosby apologetically.

“I’m not surprised. You followed one of David’s crosscountry short-cuts.” Handforth-Jones eyed Shirley with approval. “We’ve learnt by bitter experience never to take the slightest notice of them. Saves a lot of time that way—any way but his way… But we suspected you wouldn’t know that, so we haven’t been expecting you. Besides, he’s only just arrived himself.”

“Did he try to follow his own short-cut?” asked Shirley.

“Not if Faith was driving,” Handforth-Jones chuckled. “But actually I gather he stopped off on the way at Liddington Hill. Looking for King Arthur, I shouldn’t wonder.”

Evidently another non-believer, thought Mosby. But what was more interesting was that Audley had taken a quick and rather surreptitious look en route at Winston Churchill’s Number One choice for Badon Hill without letting slip his intention. Except—the one thought came quickly after the other—it would be a mistake to assume that he was up to something already, it was far more likely simple proof that he was committed wholeheartedly to the project, even if it wasn’t in reality quite the one he believed it to be.

“Don’t worry,” Handforth-Jones hastened to reassure him, clearly mistaking his expression, “he didn’t find anything— there’s absolutely nothing to find. It’s just an iron age earthwork. A perfectly good iron age hill-fort, but nothing more.” “You don’t fancy earthworks?” Mosby remembered what Audley had said about Dr Handforth-Jones:
Not a Dark Ages man, but he
’
ll know who is
. Just what else he might be remained to be seen, but that in itself was the sound of their plan getting into gear.

“Rather depends on whose earthworks. Not yours, I’m afraid.” “Mine?”

“Arthurian—is that the correct term?” On so short an acquaintance Handforth-Jones evidently didn’t wish to sound scornful, but the scorn was there beneath the surface all the same.

“David’s told you?” Mosby probed.

“Only what he said on the phone.” Handforth-Jones raised a bushy eyebrow interrogatively. “Trouble is, term’s been over for three or four weeks now and there aren’t many people around in the University. In fact, you only just caught us—we’re off to North Africa at the end of this week… I’ve done the best I can at such short notice, but whether it’ll be good enough is another matter. But then you’re something of an expert yourself, David says.”

“Me? Hell, no. I’m a seeker after knowledge.” “You are?” This time both eyebrows signalled polite disbelief. “Well, I’ve got you Sir Thomas Gracey but I wouldn’t call him an expert in your field… But then I’m afraid you’ve chosen a period in which the seekers rather outnumber the finders. In fact there are precious few finders—or even no finders at all, that might be more accurate.”

Handforth-Jones concluded with a half-grunt, looking towards Shirley as though for confirmation of the obscurity of her husband’s obsession. But Shirley was now working hard on her well-rehearsed representation of the Little Flower of Southern Womanhood Drooping for Want of Attention and Refreshment. Mosby wasn’t sure whether it was wholly simulated in this instance, or whether the imminent prospect of meeting Sir Somebody Someone was helping to give it authenticity. But he was gratified to see that it worked as quickly on the British male as it did on the American: Handforth-Jones’s casual manner at once became solicitous, as though what he had originally noted as a pleasant piece of decoration he now recognised as a human being, and a guest as well.

“Yes—well… well, you’d better come inside and seek some tea first. We can collect your bags later.” He pointed vaguely towards the front door. “In fact I think we’d better hurry, or we’ll be too late.”

Mosby couldn’t help looking mystified.

Handforth-Jones intercepted the look. “Not too late for Arthur, they’re not going to find
him
just yet. Besides, David refuses to discuss him until you’re present. It’s just that if we don’t get a move on he’ll have eaten all the cucumber sandwiches. He was getting through them at a fearful rate when I heard your car the second time—“