The Camelot Caper (6 page)

It was still in the bag. Wordlessly Jess produced it, and David laid it flat on the table and transfixed the blue cover with a long forefinger which jabbed the heroine in the middle of her stomach.

“
The Spectre of the Château
,” he read, in rolling tones. “By Desmond Dubois. That's me. I'm Desmond.”

“You write—you write this—this—”

“Trash? Yes, and I do very well, thank you. Do you see, now, why I suspected you of ribbing me? I thought one of my dear old pals had set you up as a gag.”

“Yes, I do see. Oh, dear!”

“Serves me right. That's why our mutual friends caught me off guard; I never believed in them. Some of my artistic acquaintances keep unorthodox hours; when the doorbell rang, I staggered to the door and flung it wide, with only natural curses hovering on my lips. Even when the pair persuaded me back into the flat, I thought they were kindly burglars.”

“When did you realize who they were?”

“When they asked about you, of course. The odd thing was, they made no attempt to disguise themselves, not even a kerchief around their stalwart jaws. One was slight, medium height, brown hair, fair complexion, and the most hideous mustache these eyes have yet beheld. The other was a bit taller, dark, olive skin, and a nasty sneering look about the eyes. Rather like an American hoodlum.”

“The same ones,” Jess agreed.

“Well, naturally, I asked them what they wanted of you. Equally naturally, they refused to answer. They had somehow got it into their little heads that we were more than casual acquaintances.”

“But—they must have known I met you by accident.”

“We might have met accidentally, and still parted friends—very good friends. I gather jolly
old Alf gave them an unexpurgated version of what he assumes my character to be.”

“Even so.” Jessica leaned forward and looked at her companion with unreasonable exasperation. “You could have lied to them, couldn't you? Told them you dropped me at the darned old Hilton. Or at a subway station. Or something. Did you have to be so—so s-stupid and noble, and let them hit you, and—”

“Good God, don't do that!” David glanced uneasily over his shoulder. “If you cry, I'll never dare come back here. Naturally I lied. Told them I'd dropped you at some obscure hotel in Bloomsbury, I'd forgotten the name, but it was just off Russell Square.”

“Then why did they hit you?”

“Well.” David looked uncomfortable. “I couldn't blurt that information out the first time they asked, could I?”

“I see. It was necessary to retain the image. The perfect English gentleman. Chivalry. The old school tie. Playing the game.”

“It was necessary,” said David, in a restrained shout, “to be convincing!”

A waiter hurried up, hands fluttering in agitation. David gave him a sickly smile and lowered his voice.

“Now look what you've done. See here, you
birdbrained American, this isn't Chicago; we are not accustomed to crooks invading our homes and, when they do, we bluster and fume. As it was, I created one hell of a disgusting image. A true gent would have let them beat him to a pulp. I objected just long enough to sound sincere. Even so, I assume they had sense enough to watch my flat. That's why I was late meeting you today.”

“I think you overdid the sincerity,” Jess said, studying his bruises. “Next time, try for more cowardice.”

David blushed.

“Flattery will get you—What? Oh, yes, waiter, I would like a sweet. Trifle? Fine. Cream. Jess?”

“Nothing, I'm stuffed. How can you eat so much?”

“I'm frightfully nervous. Let's not exchange any further compliments. The question is: What do we do now?”

Jess took her time about answering. For some unexplained reason she found herself unable to meet his eyes, so she concentrated on his hands. They were competent-looking hands, as thin and wiry as the rest of his body, with long spatulate fingers.

“That's obvious, isn't it?” she said at last. “We go to the police. That is, if you don't mind back
ing me up. At least I now have an independent, reliable witness to support my story.”

“It won't do.”

“Why not?”

He did not answer; the waiter had arrived with a tray, and Jess watched admiringly as he poured cream lavishly over a dessert clearly stuffed with calories. She stirred her coffee delicately, waited till the waiter had left, and repeated.

“Why not?”

“Use your imagination. ‘You say these men took nothing from your flat, Mr.—er—hmm? And you opened the door to them? Well, sir, I'm afraid…Of course, sir, we'll try. Would you like to look at some photographs, sir? Oh—you don't believe that they were professional criminals? Then, sir, what do you think they wanted? Ah…I…see, sir. And what, sir, did you say your profession was, sir? Ah. Yes. Sir.'”

He spooned the rest of his dessert down his throat and sat back in his chair.

“You must be exaggerating.”

“I didn't believe you. Why should they believe me? I'm not even beautiful. It would be different if we had the slightest clue as to the motive for all this trouble. Jess, are you sure you—”

“I'm sure. Nothing makes any sense.”

“There's got to be a reason.” David put both elbows on the table and buried all ten fingers in his hair. It was, as she soon learned, the position he favored when thinking. “Tell me the story of your life.”

“But…”

“Wait just a moment. I forgot. We have a clue after all, if what you told me last night is accurate. The ring. What sort of ring, where did it come from—full data, if you please.”

“It's ugly,” Jess said. “And worthless. The metal is gold, but it's impure, and poorly shaped. The size? Oh, big—a man's ring, it's miles too big for me, and the setting must be an inch in diameter. The stone is a hideous dark thing, opaque—agate, probably. It isn't even cut, just sort of rounded off. The whole thing is terribly crude. Oh, I forgot—on the stone there's a roughly scratched sign. A sword, according to my father, though it doesn't look like a sword. But that was the family crest, so—”

“It belonged to the Tregarths? Your father's side of the family?”

“Yes. Oh, I suppose I'd better tell you about that, too, but it sounds so medieval. Or do I mean Victorian? Anyhow. My grandfather is still living, down in Cornwall. Father had a ter
rible fight with him years ago, and walked out—clear across the Atlantic. I never knew what the fight was about; my father died when I was small, and Mother never talked about his family except to say they were a bunch of rats. Of course she never knew them, only what he said about them; he met her in the States and married her there.

“Then, a few months ago, I got a letter from my grandfather. He's awfully old and I guess he's mellowed; he wants to see me before he dies.”

“How did he find you?”

“Mother wrote to him when Father died. Not a nice letter. She's moved since then, of course, but she's still in New York; it wouldn't be hard to find her. The letter was sent in care of her.”

“You're living with your mother?”

“No, I moved out two years ago when I got my job. I see Mother now and then; we get along reasonably well. She's been working since Father died, and has a good job as a buyer for a big department store.”

“All right for that. It must have occurred to you, surely, that your problems are somehow connected with your grandfather. I take it the ring was his?”

“Yes; he asked me to bring it with me. He
didn't exactly say that Father had stolen it, but he managed to convey that idea. Goodness knows I don't want the darned thing.”

“Oh, I don't know; it sounds just the sort of thing they're selling these days in the pop-art establishments. But I don't see the meaning of the cursed trinket. Is it the designation of the rightful heir? Did your father try to rob his elder brother of a million pounds by stealing the ring?”

“My father was the only son. He had one sister; she's still in Cornwall, taking care of Grandfather. She's a widow; I guess her son would be the heir. ‘Your cousin John,' my grandfather called him. But, goodness, David, there isn't anything to inherit! There never was a title, nor a great estate, and since the last war what property there was has lost its value along with so many other things. Mother was bitter about that.”

“Your mother sounds like a woman after my own heart. Practical. Well, that's a pity; I shan't be able to marry you for your money.” David signaled the waiter. “Have some more coffee, we still have matters to discuss. Okay, as they say in—Sorry. Our course of action seems clear. Obviously we must converse with Grandpapa. Stopping off on the way to Cornwall to recover
his ring from the cathedral treasury at Salisbury.”

“David…” But the speech she had started to make stuck in her throat. She felt like a child, trying to force itself to return a much desired but inappropriate gift.

“What?”

“I can't—you mustn't—”

“Get involved?” He put his coffee cup back in its saucer with a neat, precise movement, and grinned at her. The distortion of his mouth made his smile a caricature, but above the preposterous nose his eyes were warm with amusement. “My dear innocent, I am involved. Don't you see that I am their only link with you? When they fail to find you skulking in Russell Square (and just the place for it, too), they'll apply to me again. With thumbscrews, mayhap, or a portable Iron Maiden…”

“How can you joke about it?”

He put his hand over her clenched fist. With a slight shock she realized that this was the first time he had ever touched her, except for the conventional gestures of courtesy. Perhaps that was why his fingers felt unusually warm and strong.

“Darling Jess, it is a joke. The whole thing is farcical. Very little has been done to either of us, really. When you consider how violent they
might have been, you ought to be reassured. In a way they were rather laughable villains. That damned mustache—”

“What do you mean?”

“Why, it was a fraud, of course. False. Didn't you see that?”

“I didn't have time to think about it,” Jess admitted.

“I did. No one would deliberately grow a thing like that. Oh, it's a nice touch; it definitely does distract the viewer from more important features. But don't you see, it's such a juvenile attempt at disguise, almost a…What's the matter now?”

Jess closed her mouth with a snap.

“So that's it,” she muttered.

“What? What, what, what?”

“I wondered why he looked familiar,” Jess said slowly. “The mustache put me off. But without it—he's the image of…of my father.”

David, in the act of lighting a cigarette, inhaled involuntarily and burst into a fit of coughing. When he had gotten his breath under control, he said indignantly, “For a minute there I thought you were losing track of the plot. This is a suspense story, not a tale of black magic. Ghosts are out. You think, then, that the Second
Murderer—sorry, the Second Villain—might be…”

“Oh, I'm sure! The resemblance is too strong for coincidence. It must be Cousin John.”

“I wish I were,” Jessica interrupted. She stared gloomily out the car window. The suburbs of London were just as depressing and unpicturesque as their American counterparts. Row on row of drab little houses, rendered even more dismal by the cloudy skies. The weather had returned to normal; a gentle drizzle was falling.

“That's terrible line. And what makes you think you're the hero?”

“Nuts-to-you, Cou-sin John. I must be the hero. I'm the only one around except Cousin John, and he is obviously the villain.”

“It's still a terrible line.”

“Dear me, you are crotchety in the morning, aren't you? I'm glad I found out about that. Cheer up, we'll be out of London before long, and then you can enjoy the spectacle of the English countryside in a thick fog.”

“Hmmmph.” Jess leaned back and put her cold hands in her pockets. She was wearing her brand-new pink raincoat and cap, which she had bought especially for the trip. It was bright on a dull day, no doubt about that, but it was too thin for an English spring. The cold was damp and penetrating, and she was too proud to ask David to turn on the heater. So she tried to concentrate on the view out the front window, obscured by streaks of rain and by the monotonous movements of the windshield wiper.

She knew she ought to be rising above such minor troubles as rain. She was lucky to be where she was. Their departure from London had been a miracle of complex planning, most of it done by David; she suspected that about half the complications had been David's enthusiasm for a good plot. Some day she really must read one of his books.

Still, his basic idea had been sound: it was likely that the villains were watching his apartment. His departure from it had involved two old pals, a back entrance, and a suitcase low
ered, by rope, from an upper window. The last, surely, was pure
joie de vivre
, as was David's refusal to leave the hotel—now their hotel—for dinner. Grudgingly, she revised the last judgment; when David gave up eating, he had to have a good reason. He had consumed six tomato-and-egg sandwiches, and three bottles of beer, but this had obviously only taken the edge off his appetite.

Carp as she would, the plan had justified itself by its results. She had not seen hide nor hair—including the hair of the mustache—of the man who might be Cousin John. Or again he might not be….

She was awakened by David's announcing a stop for coffee.

“You do sleep a lot,” he commented.

“But not at night.”

Over their elevenses which, in David's case, amounted to a substantial meal, he studied her so critically that she brushed nervously at a recalcitrant curl on her cheek.

“Smudges?”

“No, I was just wondering whether you owned any garment that was halfway unobtrusive. Is that one of those strange American garments that glow in the dark?”

“Certainly not. It's a nice cheery pink for
gloomy days. Heaven knows this climate demands something cheerful.”

“Oh, it's becoming to you,” David admitted reluctantly. “The way that silly cap sits on top of your hair…But a rain hat is supposed to keep the rain off, isn't it?”

“I have naturally curly hair,” Jessica said.

“Beauty does not compensate for stupidity. When we reach Salisbury we shall buy for you a nice nondescript raincoat.”

“David, do you think they can possibly catch up with us?”

“Frankly, I can't imagine how. But I believe in taking all possible precautions. We've only seen two men; for all we know, they may have a regiment on tap.”

“That's a cheerful thought…. Are you going to eat all those muffins?”

“I
have
eaten all of them,” said David, popping the last one neatly into his mouth. “Ready?”

It was appreciably warmer when they returned to the car, and as they drove on a few bold rays of sunlight tried to peer through the clouds. The countryside, dripping as it was, had a beauty that grew on Jessica. The sheep were furry bundles against the rich green grass; they seemed to be quite undisturbed by the damp, and Jess cooed over the romping lambs. In the
gray atmosphere the bright yellow blooms of gorse looked luminous, like little lamps along the road.

“I've got a new version,” David said suddenly. “Are you plotting, are you scheming, Cousin John…”

“That's the worst one yet.” Jess couldn't help smiling. “You know, the more I think about it, the more preposterous it seems. How could that—that awful man be my cousin?”

“Well, we've got to call him something,” David pointed out reasonably. “‘Cousin John' has an air of distinction, a personal touch, which appeals to me. What about the other lad? Any other relatives? Hey, now, I've got it—he's Aunt What's-er-name in disguise.”

“Aunt Guinevere, of course! I should have recognized her immediately.”

The car swerved dangerously before David returned his eyes to the road and his hands to the wheel.

“As my most recent hero, an American private eye, is fond of remarking—you've got to be kidding.”

“I was, you must have known…. Oh, you mean her name? Guinevere? I never told you my father's full name, did I?”

“Lancelot? Agrivaine?”

“Not quite that bad, but bad enough. Gawain.”

“Poor devil,” David said feelingly. “Who was the Arthurian fanatic? Grandpa or Grandma?”

“Grandpa.” Jess turned her head to study David's profile. His hair needed combing. “In fact—I hesitate to mention it for fear of making you nervous in my presence—but I am, by right, Queen of England.”

“How nice,” David said enthusiastically, and once again Jess was obscurely pleased at the quickness with which he followed her. “Through dear old Mordred? Not a very nice ancestor.”

“No one so disreputable. An affair between Arthur and a local Cornish lady.”

“Odd, how bastardy becomes merely quaint after a certain length of time. Yes, that's charming; has a certain weird logic, as well. Arthur was born, or conceived, or something, in Cornwall; and isn't the Duchy one of the claimants of the site of Camelot?”

“Heavens, I don't know. I never was interested in—oh! Oh, look—how lovely!”

One ray of sunlight cut like a sword through the hanging clouds to illumine the lifting spire. They had come upon Salisbury unaware.

“Nice if you like that sort of thing.” The spire
disappeared behind closer buildings; David swung around a corner and came to a stop at a traffic light. “It's not my favorite cathedral.”

“Which is?”

“Depends on what one is looking for. Over all—Wells, I think, though quite a few people howl in horror at the upper arches. Ely is great in its way, the fan vaulting in the cloisters at Gloucester—you aren't listening.”

Jess, gawking out the window at a black-and-white timbered house, said dreamily, “I love this town. Even after what happened.”

“Like to do a little sight-seeing?”

“You're mad.”

“After luncheon, naturally.” David tried to make a right turn, caught the warning sign, muttered, and turned left. “Damn, they've one-wayed all the streets. Sweet Jess—now that has an almost Elizabethan ring to it, doesn't it?”

“What are you talking about?”

“I was ponderously working up to a suggestion.” David made a noise of satisfaction and swung the car into a public parking lot. “At this hour the reverend gentlemen will all be feeding. Where I too would be. Afterwards they probably take naps. It would be the height of rudeness to disturb their innocent slumbers.”

“You're making that up,” Jess said.

“All but the part about luncheon. After all, what's your hurry? You've seen the cathedral, but have you seen the fifteenth-century house that's now a cinema? Or St. Thomas's, with the medieval doom painting on the arch? If we wait till midafternoon to call on the vicar, he may offer us tea. That will make a nice entry for your diary. Tea with the vicar! What could be more truly English?”

 

“He wasn't a vicar,” Jess said, some hours later. It was raining again. She stopped under the shelter of the big stone gateway and glowered at the wet street.

“I don't know what he was,” David admitted. “Not the Bishop…These blokes have such idiotic titles. All pre-something or other, and all different. And it wasn't even a very good tea.”

Bareheaded and bland, he turned to look back at her. The shoulders of his raincoat were already dark with water.

“What are you stopping for?”

“It's raining.”

“Nonsense. Just a little mist.”

“Talk about sense enough to come in out of the rain,” Jess jeered. “You people make an absolute fetish of it.”

The gateway was one of those which gave entrance to the cathedral close. It was a gorgeous crenellated stone gate with little leaded windows in the upper part, and the Royal Arms, painted in crimson and gilt, above the arch. It led into the High Street, which was, at the moment, almost hidden by a swaying curtain of rain.

“Now you've done it,” Jess said, viewing her companion with disgust; he had stepped back under the arch's questionable shelter with the air of a man humoring female whims. “You're soaked. We can't go on till you've dried off. You'll catch cold.”

“Nonsense.” David sneezed. Cyrano had not exaggerated by very much; the effect did suggest a typhoon. “This can't last long. It'll be clear by dark.”

“Then let's wait a little longer. As you said, what's our hurry?”

“All right.” David brightened. “We might have a spot of tea.”

They found a tea shop just down the street, and David used an unexpected streak of masculine charm to persuade the waitress to turn on the electric heater near their table. Jess had had two cups of tea at the canon's home, and really yearned for something stronger. But she
was learning David's whims, and thought it best to humor him. His interest in tea was not in the beverage but in the food that went with it.

Three sandwiches seemed to stimulate David's brain.

“I just thought of something,” he said.

“What's that?”

“Grandpapa. We agreed he might know something. Why don't we ring him up?”

“No telephone,” Jess said smugly. “I thought of that yesterday while you were out.”

“Mmm.” David consoled himself with a muffin. His tousled black hair had stopped dripping and was now steaming alarmingly; he looked like something materializing in a cloud of ectoplasm. “Well, let's have a look at our prize, then. I didn't have a chance to examine it there.”

Jess burrowed in her purse. As usual, the object she wanted had worked its way to the bottom and was buried under a clutter of debris.

“Do you think that sweet old man believed the story I told him?”

“My story. I thought it up.”

“It was pretty thin. Not the ring slipping off my finger when I dropped in the money, but the very idea that I'd try to wear such a monstrosity.”

“That wouldn't surprise him,” David said
comfortably. “You represent two categories which are as alien as Martians to the innocent ecclesiastical mind.”

“Americans. And…?”

“Women. Good Lord, don't tell me you've lost it again.”

“No, wait. Here it is.”

David extended his hand and she placed the ring on his palm. He turned it over, and then slipped it on his finger.

“It is heavy,” he said, holding it up for inspection.

Jess was not so much aware of the ring, which she knew well, as of its appearance on a man's hand. It was crude and archaic, but for the first time it looked—well—right.

“Too big for me,” David said, unaware of her relapse. “The original owner must have had hands like hams. Or—wait a minute. Didn't they wear rings on their thumbs?”

He made the transfer and considered the effect.

“Fits better. Well. I don't see that this object suggests anything meaningful. It's just as you described it.”

“I know.”

“Well, then, on to Grandfather Tregarth. You will observe that I was right; it has stopped raining.”

“David.”

Jess dropped another lump of sugar into her empty cup and mashed it with the tip of her teaspoon.

“Getting all noble and courageous again?” he asked.

“It's not fair—”

“Or could it be that you don't want me around?”

She reacted so briskly that the teaspoon clattered into the saucer.

“You know it's not that! Without you I'd be out of my mind. But I don't see why you—”

“Why?” He grinned at her. “Don't you know about that famed British chivalry? Jess, you couldn't rid yourself of me now if you tried. I'd put on a beard and follow you. I'm curious to know what is behind this. One never knows; I might be able to use the plot. The old font of inspiration has been running dry of late….”

“You're just saying that.”

“Jess, you think too much. I'm of age, and as much in my right mind as anyone—which may not be saying a great deal. If I choose to pursue this little caper, it's my responsibility and my neck. Besides, we've lost Cousin John and his friend; nothing else can happen.”

This blithe comment should have caused a
trickle of premonitory terror to slide down Jessica's spine. Something trickled, and she did shiver; but the trickle was cold water, from the back of her collar, as she stood up. She had no premonition; only a cowardly sense of relief.

They walked under leaden skies and dripping water from the eaves of the shops, but, as David mentioned four times, the rain had stopped. Toward the west, a livid bar of red light indicated, the weather prophet announced, that the next day would be fine.