The Camelot Caper (10 page)

With David tugging at her, they went up the stairs into the Chapter House, and Jess was conscious of an odd sensation in her insides.

Her first encounter with Cousin John had been in the Chapter House at Salisbury, and this Chapter House strongly resembled the other. An octagonal room, its lofty ceiling seemingly supported only by the single ribbed column in the center, which soared like a waterspout that broke on the ceiling in a stone spray, its walls were ivory in the light from the high windows.

David's eyes scanned the room and found it good.

“Stand there by the column,” he whispered. “Where he can see you. I'll—you're not frightened, are you?”

“Yes.”

“Why? I'll be just over there. Not a good hiding place, but at least he can't see me until he gets inside.”

He tiptoed across the floor and climbed up onto the stone bench where he hovered like Dracula about to pounce.

Jess made discouraging gestures.

David scowled and remained where he was.

Footsteps scuffled up the stairs. They stopped. Then they came on—the steps of a single person. David reached under his coat. The footsteps came closer. They hesitated; came on; and through the wide doorway trotted a very old lady with white hair and a purple velvet hat.

She looked up at David.

“That is not courteous, young man,” she said in a quavering voice. “Someone might like to sit on that bench.”

“I beg you pardon, madam,” said David, climbing down. His face was beet-red. He took his handkerchief from his pocket and dusted the bench. “Would you care to sit down?”

“No, thank you, I am not at all tired. Four miles of brisk walking each day keeps me fit. I merely voiced a general statement.”

Jess, who had been a delighted spectator, stayed where she was. The elderly lady walked slowly around the room, inspecting it; Jess momentarily expected that she would run a gloved finger over the molding to test for dust. Then she nodded to David and went out.

David, whose ruddy complexion was due not so much to embarrassment as to amusement, made strangling noises.

“God, what a fool I looked,” he said calmly. “Let's try it once more, shall we?”

He returned to his pose on the bench, and Jess leaned against the pillar. The episode had removed most of her nervousness; it was hard to be afraid and hysterically amused at the same time. It was David who had turned her little drama into comedy. He was having the time of his life. Being beaten up, kidnaped, and run like a fox across brambly fields—none of these discomforts disturbed him in the least. She wondered if he met all of life's misadventures in the same spirit and decided that, if he could be amused by what had happened so far, few things would seriously distress him. And the nicest part was that his
joie de vivre
was communicable. For long moments she was able to forget the potential dangers, and enjoy the fun.

Footsteps again—soft, but heavier. She knew them; all at once she was back in the Chapter House at Salisbury, and he was coming, and it was beginning again, the fear and the flight. She stiffened, and her mouth went dry.

Then she saw David. His face radiated delight; he made silent gestures of pleasure, concluding by placing a finger across his lips. She grinned at him. He scowled and shook his head violently.
He clasped his hands and pressed them against his chest. He opened his eyes till the whites showed, pantomiming terror. Jess obediently struck a pose; and just in time.

Under the arched doorway tiptoed Cousin John.

He saw Jess at once. His mustache twitched, and a line appeared between his brows.

“Now, see here, young woman,” he began, and took a step into the room.

This move brought David into his line of sight, and David was a vision to strike terror into the boldest heart. He was in the act of jumping, arms extended and fingers clawed, lips drawn back in an anticipatory grin. He looked like an immigrant from Transylvania, and Cousin John, understandably, was taken aback. He retreated, with a yell of consternation. David missed the grip he had intended and landed heavily on his knees, clutching the other man around the legs. They both fell over. David was on top, at least partially; his arms clutched the other man's thighs and his chin dug into Cousin John's stomach.

There was a moment of mutual hesitation, while David tried to improve his position and Cousin John shook off the dizziness which had followed the abrupt contact of his head with the
stone floor. Then David tried to get his arms free, and Cousin John began pounding him on the back with his clenched fists.

How long this ineffectual combat would have continued Jess never knew; the inevitable interruption occurred. The sound of feet on the stairs was neither slow nor quiet; it sounded like the advent of a troop of infantry.

The combatants heard the footsteps and were galvanized into action. Jess saw nothing but a flurry of movement somewhere under her hero's prone form, but it produced amazing results; David jerked up as if he had received a stiff jolt of electricity. His eyes narrowed with pain and indignation, and he grasped Cousin John by the collar and banged his head against the floor. The sound made Jess slightly sick. Cousin John went limp and David staggered to his feet, his face green.

The newcomers stopped on the threshold. There were four of them: a weary-looking mother with two little boys, and Bill.

Of the four Bill appeared to be the most distressed. He stood still, gaping, while the two grubby children rushed forward, shouting joyously.

“Look, Mum, a corpse.”

“Is he dead, mister, is he dead?”

“He's—er—fainted,” David wheezed. “Bill, give us a hand.”

“What? Oh,” said Bill. He advanced delicately, like a cat investigating a brand-new smell.

“See here, you can't move him,” the woman exclaimed.

Bill, who had lifted the fallen man's shoulders, obediently let him go, and again Jess winced at the sound of a head banging against stone.

“Pick him up,” David snarled. “Madam, will you please not interfere?”

“But, really, you mustn't move him.” The woman advanced. “That's one of the things they teach the kiddies in school. Not to move an injured man.”

She knelt beside Cousin John. Above her bowed head David lifted both fists and his face to heaven; and one of the staring urchins bellowed,

“Mum, he's going to hit you! Help! The man's trying to hit my mum!”

David was clearly torn between a desire to carry out this suggestion and an equally strong urge to throttle the shrieking child. At this inauspicious moment “Cousin John” opened his beautiful blue eyes.

After the first dazed stare, his eyes made a rapid circuit of the ring of staring faces, registered recognition, and then began to flutter weakly.

“Oh,” he moaned, clutching at his jacket pocket. “The pain…”

“There now,” said the unwelcome Florence Nightingale. “It's probably a heart attack. Just lie still, young man, and we'll fetch a doctor.”

“I'll take him to a doctor,” David said desperately. “Come along, er—Mordred, old boy.”

“Mordred?” the woman repeated doubtfully.

“We call him Mord,” David said hysterically.

“Bless you, old chap,” Cousin John said in faint tones. “You have such a good heart…. And speaking of hearts, I think I'd prefer to stay here.”

“Certainly you must,” the woman said. “Ah, I hear people coming.”

“Probably to investigate the massacre,” David said, through his teeth. “Madam, could you possibly quiet that abominable child?”

“Perhaps one of them is a doctor,” the woman went on.

David hesitated, and broke.

“I'll fetch a doctor,” he said, and fled.

Jess was right behind him.

T
he trio traversed the clipped greensward outside the Cathedral at undignified speed. Bill had been the first to leave; he had quietly faded away before the denouement.

“What rotten bad luck,” David panted.

“You could have thought of something,” Jess said.

“What, for instance?”

“You could have said you
were
a doctor.” They came out of the gate around the cathedral close into the town square, and all three slowed to a more sedate pace. “You could have said he was subject to seizures, or was crazy, or something.”

“Hmm.” David gave her a look of grudging respect. “Do you want to collaborate on my next? Well, I'm sorry; but that woman rattled me, and that ghastly, screaming imp…Bill, you weren't much help, I must say.”

Bill said nothing. He simply widened his
eyes alarmingly and shook his head.

“Something odd, though,” David said thoughtfully. “The other chap—Algernon. Where was he while all the fun was going on?”

They found out when they got back to the hotel. Both rooms, Jessica's and David's, had been thoroughly ransacked. Jess recognized the true Algernon touch; there was a kind of contempt in his failure to conceal his activities.

“The ring?” Bill inquired.

Jess jumped. He spoke so seldom that it was like hearing a desk ask the time of day.

“Jess carries it with her,” David said. “They didn't…Jess, why the ghastly countenance? Don't tell me you left it here?”

“Not the ring, no, I've got that.” Jess was white with anger. “The son of a gun stole my passport!”

 

Mutual recriminations were flying thick as hail several hours later, as the conspirators sat over spiritous liquors in the bar of the King's Arms. David had discovered that the enemy were registered there by the simple expedient of spotting their blue convertible in the inn yard.

“It was a stupid thing to do,” Jess raged, for the fifth or sixth time. “But how could I imagine—”

“Don't they warn you at the State Department, or whatever, not to leave the blasted thing lying about?”

“You said that!”

Bill cleared his throat, and the pair subsided.

“And I don't understand why we came here,” Jess muttered. “They'll catch us red-handed.”

“That hardly matters now. Everybody knows that everybody's chasing everybody. I thought we'd wait till they go out, to feed, or look for us, and then try a spot of room-searching ourselves.”

Jess sighed and drank beer. She had chosen to drink beer rather than anything stronger because it looked as if they might have a long wait. She knew better than to object to David's ingenious plan; when he got an idea, he stuck to it.

They had gotten a table by the window. Even so, they almost missed the exodus, being involved in another argument, this time over why the enemy had stolen Jessica's passport. Two of them were arguing; silent Bill drank his beer. He had an enormous appetite for it, but it did not distract him from the matter at hand. Silently he glanced out the window; silently he nudged David.

David took one look and bounded to his feet.

“They're escaping—the cowardly swine!”

“Where? Where?” Jess tried to see out the window. David shoved her.

“Hurry, can't you? My car's a block away, we'll never catch up with them.”

Bill coughed.

“Splendid thought,” David said approvingly. “Very well, troops. On your mark—get set—”

They erupted out of the door of the hotel in time to see the blue car drive off. David snatched Jess's hand and dragged her down the street to the spot where they had left the Jaguar. She didn't notice, until he shoved her into the front seat, that somewhere along the way they had lost Bill. Before she could inquire about him she saw him—a block and a half away. He was conspicuous, not only because of his height and his golden locks, but because he was running down the middle of the street, arms up and knees bending, in approved professional style. He left a trail of staring pedestrians behind him.

David pulled out from the curb in front of a truck, which responded with a squeal of brakes and a spate of curses. David paid no attention. They passed Bill, still chugging along, turned left at the next corner in response to his signal, and caught sight of the pale-blue convertible two blocks away. The hunt was up.

Jess's suggestion that they force the other car off the road was not well received. David claimed that there was too much traffic, but Jess suspected that his real reason was fear—not for himself, but for the gleaming smooth finish of his car. She did not press the point. They had left Salisbury well behind when David said suddenly, “Unless I miss my guess, they are heading for Glastonbury. What do they think this is, a sight-seeing tour?”

There was no sensible answer to this question, so Jess didn't try to answer it. Instead she asked, “What about Bill?”

“Oh, Bill never leaves Wells. He likes it there.”

“He does?”

“I mean to say, he's something of a recluse.”

“He is? Oh. But isn't he going to be hurt at our rushing off this way, without so much as a farewell?”

“Who, Bill? Why should he be hurt about that?”

“‘If I forgot your silly birthday, would you fuss?'”

David grinned.

“‘By and large we are a marvelous sex,'” he agreed. “But we may not have seen the last of Bill.”

“Why? We've got our suitcases. It was smart
of you to put them in the car, I must say.”

“Thank you for noticing the only intelligent thing I've done today. No, I meant that we might have to go back to Bill's to sleep.”

“But it's late now. Why can't we sleep in Glastonbury, if that's where they're going?”

“Because, my sweet, you do not have a passport.”

“Oh, they never ask for it.”

“Don't they?”

Their destination was Glastonbury. They were soon traversing its sedate streets, and in the near distance Jess saw the tall symmetrical shape of a tower-crowned hill which she knew must be Glastonbury Tor. She had done her homework with guidebooks from the ship's library, and now she hung out the window to get a better view. The high hill where, according to legend, Joseph of Arimathea had concealed the Holy Grail, looked green and beautiful in the evening light. David had to repeat his last question.

“What? Not usually. They just give you a form and if you already know your passport number, and where it was issued, and that stuff, you don't even have to produce it.”

“Oh.”

“You sound disappointed.”

“A dastardly alternative had shaped itself in my mind,” David admitted.

“Oh, look at that tower! Is it the Abbey?”

“No, you unromantic wench. Don't you ever think of anything but sight-seeing? It's the parish church of some saint or other. I haven't been here in…Look out! This is it.”

He came to a screeching halt somewhere near the curb. When Jess had withdrawn from the windshield, she said irritably,

“It's a miracle you haven't collected a ticket.”

“A ticket to what?”

“How long were you in New York?”

“Oh, that sort of a ticket. Why? I'm an excellent driver.”

Jess rubbed her forehead.

“You're illegally parked,” she said gently.

“I want to be sure they're settling down for a while.”

The blue car had stopped in front of a hotel. Cousin John got out, entered the hotel, and reappeared with one of the employees, who began to unload suitcases. David then consented to move on.

Thus far Jess had not been captivated by Glastonbury. Its little shops and dull houses might have been those of any provincial town. But she fell in love with the hotel David selected. Its
façade, of creamy stone, had three floors of tall narrow windows framed by carvings, and a gilded set of coats of arms above the entrance.

“What is it?” she asked. “Not a replica of something, I hope.”

“Replica?” David was outraged. “The George is an old pilgrim inn, built to hold the overflow of guests who came to visit the Abbey. No later than the fifteenth century, if that impresses you, and I suppose it does, Americans always…Oh, come along.”

He perspired gently while Jess filled out her registration form, inking in a set of numbers in the appropriate spot with perfect aplomb.

“Bright of you to have memorized the number,” he said out of the corner of his mouth.

“I didn't.”

“Oh.”

After they had inspected their rooms they met in the bar, over Jessica's protests. She was getting tired of beer, she wanted to go see the Abbey, and anyhow she failed to see the point of sitting around in bars all the time.

“This happens to be the bar of the George,” said David patiently, “and its windows happen to look out upon the High Street and the market square. This is the center of Glastonbury. Sooner or later those blokes will have to pass this point.”

“Unless they decide to leave town the way they came in.”

David banged his empty glass down on the table. An assiduous waiter, mistaking the cause of his temper, hastened up with a refill.

“Thank you. Why should they do that?”

“I beg your pardon, sir?”

“I was speaking to the lady.”

Jess waited till the waiter had left.

“I don't know why they should leave town. I don't even know why they came to town.”

They could carry on this sort of aimless bickering for hours, and they did, while the shadows of evening fell and a mellow light painted the market square of Glastonbury. Then David stiffened.

“I won't say I told you so,” he remarked.

The villains had just appeared, strolling down the street like any visitors. Both wore what might be called casual attire, but the effect was as different as day and night. Algernon was dressed completely in black—slacks and a turtle-necked knit shirt; the color did not improve his sallow complexion or his generally villainous air. Cousin John, by contrast, was a vision of what the well-bred gentleman wears while week-ending in the country—tailored tweeds, a spotless white shirt, and a beautiful fawn
sweater. Only the mustache spoiled the picture, and Jess was now certain that it was false.

Over his arm Cousin J. carried a dark garment, presumably his coat. His right hand held a little book; and as Jess stared he stopped dead in front of the inn, book in hand. He looked at the inn's façade; he glanced at the book, and nodded. He spoke to his companion, and read from the book.

“Overdoing it,” David muttered.

“Do you think he knows we're here?”

“How could he? No, he's playing tourist. Look, there they go. And here we go.”

They followed at a careful distance, but their precautions were needless. The pair ahead never looked back. They ambled off down the street and vanished under a wide gateway; and David caught Jess by the arm.

“They're visiting the ruins,” he said incredulously.

“Oh, good!”

“Probably bad. Wait, we'll have to let them get ahead.”

“Why?”

She saw why when David finally consented to pass through the gate. It led into a narrow street, closed in by high walls, with no place for concealment. At the far end was a small build
ing with a ticket window and turnstile.

Their quarry had vanished when they ventured into the alley but, as David pointed out, they could only have vanished into one place: through the turnstile into the enclosure which contained the ruins of the once rich and famous Abbey.

The woman who took their money warned them that the place would be closing in half an hour. Nevertheless, Jess insisted on buying a small illustrated guide.

As they went through the turnstile they saw straight ahead the best preserved part of the old church: the Lady Chapel, whose creamy walls seemed, at first glance, almost intact. But the roof was gone, and the windows, framed with carved foliage, gaped empty; lichen and ivy had rooted in the cracks of the walls, and a fine crop of green grass sprouted on their tops.

The modern precinct was several blocks long—Jessica's ability to estimate size was no more precise than that—and almost as wide. At the far end, away from the entrance, lay the stately remnants of the church to which the Lady Chapel had been an adjunct. Like monolithic stone sentinels, two tall piers towered in isolated majesty. The top of the vast arch of which they had formed the sides had fallen; but
somehow the eye was led up, to complete its form in imagination. The westering sun cast a theatrical glow, gilding the stone and brightening the green of trees and close-clipped grass. Except for the octagonally shaped Abbot's Kitchen, most of the other buildings of the monastery were represented only by foundations, carefully preserved and marked. Preservation, not restoration, had been the aim of the scholars who brought Glastonbury back to life. It cast a spell, a unique kind of magic from which few visitors escape, unscathed. Jess, being particularly susceptible, succumbed at one glance.

“The Great Church,” she muttered, flipping the pages of the guidebook. “Piers of the crossing…What's a crossing, David?”

“This place is too big. Where the hell are they?”

“Who? What's a crossing?”

“Where the transepts, crossarms, of a church meet the nave,” David said absently. “Where did they go?”

“I want to go down there.”

“Where? Oh. Might as well.” David shrugged. “Look sharp for wandering villains.”

Jess had no attention to spare for villains; it was hard enough trying to read the guidebook and look at the sights simultaneously.

“Look at this,” she exclaimed, stopping before a marker.

“Huh?” David glanced at it disinterestedly. “Oh, yes, your ancestor.”

“‘Site of King Arthur's tomb,'” Jess read. “‘In the year 1191 the bodies of King Arthur and his queen were said to have been found on the south side of the Lady Chapel. On nineteenth April 1278 their remains were removed in the presence of King Edward I and Queen Eleanor to a black marble tomb on this site. This tomb survived till the dissolution of the Abbey in 1519.' Isn't that exciting?”