The Camelot Caper (2 page)

Sitting straight upright, as suited the place, she let her mind wander. How amazing that all this wonder should date from the Middle Ages—the thirteenth century, when men and women still lived like swine in mud-floored huts, and even the lordly gentry in their proud castles endured discomforts which would drive modern workmen into protest marches. Filthy rushes on the icy floor, fleas under the embroidered velvet robes, and the stench from the open pit of the garderobe permeating the Great Hall…And from all the filth and misery came the miracles—stone worked into lines of Euclidean perfection, glass that glowed like jewels, a concept of God and man expressed in structure which surpassed the men who had built and the God whose narrow dictates they had served.

And that was the last romantic thought she had for a long time.

Some sound of the man's approach must have
penetrated her reverie, but when she first saw him he was standing still—in the doorway which was the sole exit from the room. Something in his very stance and the fixity of his gaze struck her with foreboding even before she recognized him. Medium height, medium frame, a beautifully tailored dark suit, brown hair…A mustache. Good heavens, yes—the bushy brown mustache, and the man in Southampton who had walked off with her suitcase!

Jess had an excellent imagination, nourished frequently on solid doses of detective fiction. Often she had amused herself by noticing such coincidences, and building on them complicated plots of deadly intrigue. Sometimes her plots had been so good that she had half frightened herself.

So she tried to convince herself now, combating a primitive instinct which sometimes is truer than reason; the world is not, actually, a very reasonable place. She rose, stiffly, from the hard stone bench; and the man shifted position, slightly but significantly.

For a long moment they stared at each other across the curiously shaped room. Patterns of dim color from the pale stained glass carpeted portions of the floor and slid eerily across the man's face as he moved slowly toward her.

“I want to talk to you,” he said. “Nothing to be afraid of. Just a little talk.”

His voice was as she remembered it, artificially husky, but the accent was impossible to hide. The clear, clipped consonants showed through.

“What about?” Jess asked breathlessly.

“Not here. Somewhere…more private.”

Jess retreated, the edge of the stone bench pressing against the back of her knees. He couldn't corner her here, she thought crazily there were lots of corners, but they were all wide angles.

“Leave me alone, or I'll call for help. We've nothing to talk about.”

“The ring. Where is it? You did bring it with you, didn't you?”

“The ring…” Jess repeated stupidly.

“That's all I want. If you'll just—”

He was still moving toward her, his arms lifted like those of a man trying to catch a playful dog. She didn't like the way he moved his arms. Or his face. Or, in fact, anything about him.

The lofty room was so empty, and so silent. From the cloister outside Jess could hear birds chirping, and a murmur which might have been distant voices. What had happened to the
hordes of tourists? Just one little tourist, that was all she needed—one sweet old lady from Moorhead, Minnesota, one French student, one Dane….

“If I give you the ring, will you leave me alone?”

“Certainly.” This time, in his eagerness, he forgot to disguise his voice; it rang clear and mellow, a pleasant baritone. Something else was clear, even in the single word. Jess knew, with a sureness that defied analysis, that he was lying.

What would happen if she screamed? Would anyone hear her? The cathedral was too far away, cut off by massive doors, but there must be people in the cloisters. Yet she hesitated, not because she was not convinced of her danger, but because of the damning pressure of conformity. A well brought up young lady does not shriek in a church.

She started, convulsively, as a vast clamor of sound burst through the door—the bells, high up in the spire, but sounding as if they were just outside. The bells of Salisbury Cathedral, ringing for the service.

Later, Jess remembered that the man had also started at the sound, and realized that he must have been almost as nervous as she was. Even if she had been calm enough to note this at the
time, it would not have consoled her; according to the authorities on murder whom she had read, nervous criminals were the most dangerous.

One reassuring point kept her from complete panic. What could the man do to her here? He seemed to have no weapon; surely he would have produced a gun or knife by this time. He couldn't risk killing her in such a public spot, with the constant danger of interruption. Kidnaping was even more difficult; she would struggle and kick and…

And…what? All he had to do was to get close enough to hit her, once. Then he could carry his swooning fiancée, or sister, through sympathetic crowds to a waiting car.

He took a step forward and, with a gasp, Jess backed away. She had overcome her scruples about screaming now; but now it was too late. The clamor of the bells went on without stopping, urging late-comers to hurry.

He was close upon her now, his outstretched arms a bar to flight, reaching out…

All at once the room was filled with people: short people, tall people, fat ones and thin ones, but all middle-aged or older, all carrying the insignia of their class: cameras. American tourists, God bless them, in the wrong place at
the wrong time, as they so often were; a black-robed verger hurried in after them, wringing his hands.

“Ladies and gentlemen, please! The service is about to begin. Please—ladies! Those of you who wish to attend the service—”

A portly gentleman removed a chewed but unlighted cigar from his mouth, contemplated the end of it, and looked at the guide.

“How long does this service last?”

“Approximately forty-five minutes, sir. Now, ladies and—”

The portly gentleman put the cigar back in his mouth.

“I'll meetcha later, Martha,” he said. “Out in front.”

There was a hearty murmur of agreement from the other men in the group. The guide looked sadly at the leader of the rebellion, and then glanced back over his shoulder in the direction of the invisible spire, from which the bells had ceased to ring.

“Very well, gentlemen. If you…Ladies. Please. This way.”

Four ladies had come in; five went out. Jess was as close as she could get to the chubbiest of the five. The verger was behind her, making shooing motions; as she scuttled through the
doorway, Jess saw the man with the mustache come forward from the bench and follow after.

She had hoped to make a dash for freedom when she got into the cloisters, but she didn't know her way well enough, and there was such a feeling of safety in the comfortable contours of the lady tourist. Jess had the usual contempt for the “average tourist”—which means all tourists except oneself—but now she was ready to overlook all their other sins for the sake of their amiable curiosity, and their naïve assumption that anybody from the States was practically a member of the family.

“You on a tour?” her new-found friend asked cheerfully. “Sure is hard on the feet, isn't it? We're on our way home now. Harry says if he has to look at one more church he's going to turn Mohammedan, but his bunions are bothering him. Harry says…”

Jess couldn't have spoken if she had wanted to. She nodded and smiled; the monologue did not end until they entered the cathedral and were shushed by the indignant verger. He indicated a row of seats, and Jess slid in, behind her compatriot.

The music had already begun. All the cathedrals had fine choir schools, and the singing bore little resemblance to the volunteer choir of
the white Methodist church back home. The high boys' voices lifted over the deeper tones of the men, and for a moment the sheer beauty of the soaring song, filling the lofty vault, made Jess forget her panic. Then she turned her head, to accept the little book the verger was offering; and she saw the man with the mustache heading purposefully for her. His face was set in a scowl and his right hand was in his pocket. A gun? A hypodermic needle? A knife? Suppose he stood next to her and stuck the needle…

Her wide eyes and frightened mouth caught the verger's attention, and he turned to follow her gaze. Jess saw his black-clad shoulders stiffen with indignation. Visitors were not permitted to wander about the cathedral during the services, and this visitor was clearly in pursuit of the pious young lady, whose expression had displayed her disapproval. The verger gave Jess an austere, ecclesiastical smile, and pounced.

Jess watched, with relief and sudden amusement, as her follower was intercepted, cut off, and ruthlessly shoved into a distant seat. The verger took up his position in the aisle, next to the pursuer's chair, and fixed him with a cold stare. Jess had a feeling that if the man had moved he would have been smothered under a wave of outraged black officials, and the body
quietly removed. The ultimate sin here was creating a disturbance.

For the first time she felt safe, and she drew a long, quivering breath. The music stopped, the echoes died in the vast arches; the white-gowned celebrant approached the altar, and amid the rustle of the crowd, kneeling, the words rolled out:

“Almighty God, unto whom all hearts be open, all desires known, and from whom no secrets are hid; cleanse the thoughts of our hearts by the inspiration of thy Holy Spirit…”

Jessica wished her pursuer would heed that beautiful thought. She also wished that this particular secret was not hidden from her. What was the man after? The ring? Impossible. Absurd.

“Glory be to God on high, and on earth peace, goodwill toward men…”

Goodwill? Jess felt very little, at that moment. The ring, the ring, the ring…It ran through her head as an insane counterpoint to the glorious old Litany, and her view of the ritual movements of the celebrant and his assistants was blurred by an inner vision, of the d—no, no, not here—the cursed ring, nestled in a corner of her purse.

The letter had asked her to bring it, so she
had; she carried it in her purse because that seemed safer than a suitcase, and because the old man had laid such stress on it. But surely he only wanted it for sentimental reasons. Her mother had once taken it to a jeweler, who had reported that it had no intrinsic value. The stone was an agate of some sort, clumsily cut; the setting was gold, but of poor quality. Certainly the ring was not very pretty. It was big—made, obviously, for a man's hand—and heavy enough to bend a finger. Some old family trinket, perhaps, but not worth stealing.

“Let us pray for the whole Church of God in Christ Jesus, and for all men according to their needs…”

Jessica woke up, startled to find herself the only one still standing. She dropped down, banging her knees painfully on the floor; the cushion had disappeared, and she had to fumble under the seat for it. By that time, the celebrant was immersed in prayer for the Queen, the Royal Family, and the good estate of the Catholic Church—a statement which startled Jess temporarily out of her grimmer thoughts until she remembered that this was how the Church of England referred to itself.

The prayer then referred to all those who were in any way afflicted or distressed, in mind,
body or estate. Jess heartily endorsed the sentiment. She did not need to look over her shoulder to know that an angry gaze was aimed at her bowed head. What was she going to do? Prayer was good for the soul, but God seldom interferes personally to lift up the fallen sparrow. The verger might help to delay her pursuer while she dashed out, but after that, even in the street…

Again she was late in following the response, as the rest of the congregation surged to its feet. Half turning, she saw the man with the mustache, and she saw another thing that froze her in position, while the sound of the service faded to a dull drone in her ears.

The enemy had also turned; his hand moved in what appeared to be a signal. It was not difficult for Jess to pick out the man at whom the signal was directed. People were not allowed to stand at the back of the church during the service, like spectators at a play. But one man was standing, ignoring the verger's attempts to make him sit down, or leave. She could not make out his features, but she saw the lift of his hand as he answered his confederate. He was tall and rather thin, dark-haired, wearing one of the aged raincoats that were so popular in England.

This time when Jess fell to her knees she meant it. A second man at the door; how many others, inside and out? She had to do something. She had to think of something. Frantically her mind took up, and discarded, possibilities, while the murmur of voices rose around her.

“Trusting not in our own righteousness, but in Thy manifold and great mercies. We are not worthy so much as to gather up the crumbs under Thy table…”

As the congregation rose, and the beautiful, modulated voice proceeded, somewhat incongruously, with banns and notices of monthly meetings, one thing became plain to her, one thing that she must do. But how to do it? She had not made up her mind when the angelic voices rose again, and two church officials came slowly down the aisle. She paid little attention until the American lady's elbow nudged her.

“It's the collection, dearie. If you need any English money…”

“Thanks, I've got some.”

Jess fumbled in her purse. She couldn't find her change purse. The maroon velvet collection bag, on its little pole, was bobbing along the row in front of her. What a genteel little bag it was, compared to the collection plate at home…. Her fingers found the change purse, with its
unusual contents, and a great blinding light seemed to burst in her brain.

The verger who extended the bag to her could not see what she dropped into it—she was careful not to open her fist until it was inside the opening—but he heard the solid, musical jingle of several heavy objects falling among the coins already inside the bag. Nothing smaller than half crowns could make such a noise, and he gave the young lady a polite smile before he went on. Foreigners; it wasn't their church, after all; rather nice of them to be so generous, even though Alf would have it that they were being patronizing, especially the Americans…. The man in the next row dropped in a pound note, and he forgot the young American lady. Ostentatious, that one was; made sure everyone had a good look.