The Camelot Caper (8 page)

The moonlight, which made them so visible, had one advantage. It let them avoid the more obvious pitfalls. However, it cast queer, tricky shadows. As often as Jess swerved to avoid an imaginary hole she fell into one which she had not seen. The field, which had looked so smooth and flat at a distance, was covered with pitfalls—concave and convex, sharp, wet or muddy. There were fences. There were hedges—thorny hedges. There were streams, and mud puddles, and broad stretches of boggy land through which they dragged their feet with the horrid slow motion of nightmare. Before they had crossed the second field, Jessica's vivid pink raincoat was no longer a landmark; a tum
ble into a particularly large puddle had coated it with the drab brown David had mentioned as desirable. David had lost his jacket wriggling through a prickly hedge and his face was zebra-striped with scratches from the same source.

If either had thought of returning to the road, that idea was discouraged by the sight of a pair of headlights traveling with specific slowness parallel to their own panting, crashing route. As she caught her ankle wrenchingly in a rabbit hole, Jess wished she had tapped Villain Number Two much harder.

The only comforting segment of a generally hellish situation was the knowledge that it was Cousin John who was chasing them across the fields. Jess had heard enough from him to know that he would particularly loathe this activity; she guessed, as well, that their best hope of eventual escape lay in the fact that Cousin John was just as inept as she at broken field running. Twice she had looked back to see the pursuing shape flounder and fall; the joy of that sight, plus the echo of curses carried on the gentle breeze, had given her a new burst of strength.

At last even David's long legs tired, and he drew up with a snort like that of a winded horse and pulled her close to him—not so much, she suspected, to support her frail frame as to lean
on her. Despite the cool night air, his shirt was plastered to his back and chest. He had also acquired his share of mud.

“I can't—go much—farther,” she gasped, when she had collected enough breath to speak.

“He stopped…too,” David said. “Lazy clod…”

“What are we…going to do?”

“Find…something—eventually…. House, town…”

“Where are we?”

David groaned.

“No idea.”

“Can't you spot…star or something?”

Sheer indignation made David forget his heaving lungs.

“God save us, woman, do you expect me to scan the heavens for the North Star while I'm running an obstacle course? And what the hell good—Look out, here he comes again.”

“Cousin John” might not care for exercise, but he was, if nothing else, persevering. He came on. And on. And on. As the moon climbed and shrank, the pursuit degenerated into a trot, and then into a walk. Jess stumped along beside her tall companion without even bothering to look back. She knew Cousin John was back there somewhere; she also knew that he probably
wouldn't catch up with them. She didn't care. She wished she were back home. She wished she were in London, in bed. She wished she were dead.

The moon threw their shadows along the grass ahead of them, strange elongated caricatures knobbly with the unevenness of the ground. Jess had long since abandoned the view. She imagined that it was quite lovely by moonlight. The peaceful fields of Somerset. Or was she in Wilts?

“Hell with it,” she said indistinctly. David, stumping along with his hands in his pockets and his shoulders hunched, nodded.

“Beautiful, succinct description of the situation.”

Jess stumbled and caught at David's arm for support. He promptly collapsed, and both ended up on their knees in a patch of bog.

“You're just as tired as I am,” Jess said.

“Tired.” His arms draped loosely around her, his chin digging painfully into the top of her head, David sighed. “The degree of my fatigue may be measured by my lack of enthusiasm for what might otherwise be a position fraught with—”

“Why can't we go back to the road? Someone must come along it eventually.”

“Someone is on it right now. Of the two, he's the one I'd prefer not to meet.”

“We've been walking for hours,” Jess groaned.

“But we haven't covered much distance. Still, I'd have thought we'd have reached some signs of habitation by now. This part of the country isn't…Wait a minute. I think…Look over that way.”

He dragged her to her feet and pointed. Jess squinted in the direction his outstretched arm indicated. On the horizon, she made out a regularly shaped silhouette which did not look like trees or hills.

The sight seemed to restore David's energy, though Jess was more skeptical; there were no lights visible in the oddly shaped structure, which could not, surely, be a house…. As she stumbled along, she found the silhouetted outline more baffling the nearer they got. A modern factory? Surely not here. A ruined castle? A ruin…Yes. Her footsteps faltered. David tugged at her, and she went stumbling along behind him, staring and staring…

Clear against the darkened sky, silver-pale and ghostly, crowned by stars and a high white moon, was a cluster of immense monoliths, some single stones, some paired and topped by
lintels to make huge hollow doorways. Once those empty doors had let into a space which, if never roofed, was nonetheless filled with something more than vacant air, when the faith that had—literally—moved small mountains was a living force, not a memory for students.

She had read about the place, of course; it had been on her list of “Things to see in Salisbury,” for it was less than ten miles north of the town. That had been a long time ago; at least it seemed like a long time, before the insanity that had brought her to this muddy field in the dead of night, wet to the hips, tired to screaming point, being towed along by an equally muddy vagabond in his shirt sleeves…. But as the incredible stones lifted up above the horizon, she knew that the sight was almost worth the effort: Stonehenge by moonlight.

The size of the place made its appearance deceptive: it was still a long way off, though it seemed to loom. David's new energy petered out before they got close, and he stopped for another rest.

“One thing about you,” Jess said. “You do show me all the sights.”

David glanced down at her. He lacked the strength to scowl, and she thought that she had
never seen anyone look quite so disreputable. Dried blood and wet mud masked his face, his upstanding hair was filled with burrs and leaves and twigs, like the coiffure of a primitive maiden, and his shirt was torn in at least six places. Inevitably that thought made her hands move to her own hair. David, watching, produced a wan but malicious smile.

“Believe me, darling, I couldn't care less what you look like. I'd much rather admire a telephone. I don't know whether there's caretaker in charge of that rock heap, but there's sure to be a souvenir stall or shelter of some kind. If it's locked, I shall break it open.”

Now that they were nearing a goal which had seemed, for a long, mad period, to be nonexistent, Jessica's sense of caution reawakened. There was no sign of Cousin John, but when she looked back she saw a flash of light where there should be none. David squeezed her arm.

“Torch,” he said. “They've been signaling, haven't you noticed?”

“The other one is still on the road?”

“Algernon? (I've decided we will call him Algernon.) Yes, he's there. I know this whole performance has seemed unnecessarily boggy, but, you see, one of our problems is that we
must reach Salisbury well ahead of them. Otherwise they can simply meet us by my car. And we can't leave the car.”

“I know, I realized that…oh, David, I hate to admit it, but that place really is gorgeous by full moonlight. Look at it.”

“I am looking at it. And I wish it were—”

And then, appallingly, the arm under her fingers stiffened till it felt like stone. She heard his breath catch, with a sharp note of terror it had never held even during the worst moments of their capture. In a voice she would not have recognized, a voice muted by horror, he whispered, “Oh, God. Oh, God—look. Look.”

Then she saw it too, and the shock made her physically dizzy. Passionate disbelief and equally firm faith in the reliability of her own senses met and clashed. For across the leveled grass that surrounded the temple of the sun worshipers a wavering snake of dim light was slowly moving. It was moving toward the temple, and from it, carried faintly through the still night air, came a ragged chorus of chanting.

D
avid started to laugh.

It began slowly, a throaty chuckle that shook his arms and chest, and then mounted in intensity until he was roaring, vibrating from head to foot, slapping his knees. Tears poured from his eyes. He said something, but the words were unintelligible, drowned in the terrible sound of laughter. Then he staggered off across the field, toward the moving procession of light.

Jess reached out for him—too late, but she would not have been able to stop him in any case. Hysteria, she thought; I don't blame him, it's too much. I can't let him go. What did the Druids do to their victims? Bury them alive? Cut out their hearts? No, that was the Aztecs, or somebody….

She took one step after him, fighting the most insidiously terrible of all fears, and then a horrid qualm stopped her in her tracks. It was the
upsurge of a doubt that had haunted her for some time, and it could be summed up most aptly in the phrase: “Whose side is he on?”

With her last remaining shred of common sense, she argued with herself. Make up your mind, Jess—ghosts or crooks, you can't have both. If David is in league with Cousin John, he can hardly be on familiar terms with the spirits of long-dead Druid priests too.

Having made up her mind, or what was left of it, she began trudging across the field. It was not long before she made out the true nature of the shifting train of lights, but the sight did nothing to reassure her. The lights came from torches, borne high by shrouded white figures. Hooded and robed, they stretched in a short procession from the road, beyond the monument, almost to the entrance. They were standing quietly now; the singing had stopped. David was in earnest conversation with one of the pale shapes. He turned, and his face cleared as he saw her coming.

“There you are. What took you so long? Jess, this is Sam Jones of the Mystical Order of Sunworshipers.”

 

The bus seemed to careen down the road but maybe, Jess thought vaguely, that was because
she was rolling from side to side. In the back seat of the bus—always in a back seat, she thought resentfully—wedged in between Sam—good ol' Sam!—and David. They both had their arms around her, and she had her arms around them, and they were all singing.

“Jolly good fello-o-ow,” sang Jess, but her small voice was drowned out by the roaring chorus from the other passengers. It had something to do with a girl named Mabel.

Some time later, as the lights of Salisbury appeared, they all seemed to be singing a verse of a classic folk song.

“This is number four, and his hand is on the floor…”

“That's not right,” Jess objected.

“No?” Sam stared at her in distress. The hood had fallen back from his head, displaying a shining bald pate. His face was almost as round and pink and featureless, his snub nose and pursed rosebud mouth swallowed up in rolls of affable fat. “But you taught it us—taught us it—taught it. Jessie. Nice girl, Jessie.”

The bus stopped. The song died.

“All out,” called the driver, the only sober person on the bus.

Sam shook himself like a duck coming out of the water. The rolls of fat under his chin wob
bled. With the almost miraculous capacity some people have for overcoming the weakness of the flesh, he spoke in a voice which was relatively coherent.

“Back. High time, I expect. Well. Jolly good fun, wasn't it?”

“Great, great, great fun. Great, great…”

“Jess,” Someone shook her. David? She beamed at him.

“Great fun, David? Jolly good show.”

“Jess, my love, you're drunk as a skunk. How am I going to get you to the car?”

“Carry me,” said Jess, and flung herself into his arms. He fell back against the seat.

“Can't. I'm a bit under the weather myself.”

“She can't be drunk,” Sam said firmly. “Not on our mead. It'sh—excuse me—non-intocshicating. Here, I'll help you. Where's the car, old boy? We'll have a parade. 'Nother parade.”

The farewells took some time. Sam was in command of himself, and kept giving Jess firm, stiff handclasps, but one young man insisted he must kiss her good night. Jess, full of generalized love for humanity, was willing to oblige, but David objected, and the young man had to be restrained. Then David drove slowly out between rows of Sunworshipers waving torches.
Jess was too giddy to wonder why he had arranged this, or why he gave a vulgar grunt of satisfaction after glancing into his rear-view mirror, or why they left the town at such breakneck speed. But about an hour later she did begin to wonder where they were going, and whether they were going by road or cross-country. The effect of the mead was wearing off.

“Ow,” she said, as they hit a massive bump, and she rebounded from the ceiling. “Where the hell are you going?”

David did not answer at once. Jess saw his mouth set and the muscles of his forearms writhe as he manipulated the car over a particularly vile stretch of road. Again he shot a glance at the rear-view mirror, and nodded. Almost at once the tires sang sweetly on concrete. The car swerved, first right, then left, and stopped. David switched off his lights. He sagged forward, arms embracing the steering wheel, head against it.

“Are you going to faint?” Jess asked.

David heaved himself erect.

“No, I am not. I have never fainted in my life. I have no intention of fainting, now or any other time. What the hell do you take me for, one of my own imbecilic heroines?”

“It's neater,” Jess said ominously, “than being sick.”

“I'm not going to be sick either. If you plan to be, please get out of the car first.”

“I guess I won't, then. What on earth
was
that stuff?”

“Mead. Honey and something extremely alcoholic. Supposed to be the brew of the ancient what's-their-names.”

“Men of iron.”

They sat in silence. It was a profound country silence—noisy, in other words, reverberating with the mating calls of nocturnal animals and insects, the rustle of foliage as small things came and went, the gurgle of water, the hoot of an owl, the flapping of bats. The night air was cold and sweet, laden with various smells which city-bred Jessica could not identify, but which she connected, sentimentally, with such English items as hawthorne blooming in the hedges and lilac blowing in the breeze. David's teeth began to chatter.

“Haven't you got another coat?” she asked. “You're shivering.”

“Oh, that's fear. Sheer, cold, terror.”

“Where's your suitcase?”

“Never mind. You can keep me warm.” He gathered her in, and lifted his voice in song.
“And all night long I held her in my arms,” he caroled, “just to keep her from the foggy, fo-oggy…”

“Be quiet, you fool.”

“I can't help it,” said David, shaking. “That wonderful bunch of damned fools. If they hadn't come along when they did…”

“I almost died when you went running toward them,” Jess chuckled. “And when you introduced Sam—with his little round pink face peeking out of that hood—”

“Don't speak so disrespectfully of good ol' Sam,” David warned; both of them went off into a paroxysm of mirth.

“That's all very well,” David said, sobering. “But they saved our necks, just the same.”

“What were they doing at Stonehenge in the middle of the night?”

“Holding their annual rites. They're quite sober citizens most of the time, but one night a year they run amok and pretend to be ancient Britons. God bless 'em. Our other pals were waiting for us at the car, you know.”

“I didn't see them.”

“You didn't see
anything
. But they were there. The crowd held them up just long enough for me to get out of sight. I made sure we kept out of sight by taking every damned side road I
could find. The result is, I don't know where we are. And the reason why we are sitting here now, behind this handy hedge is not, as you might suppose…”

His lips left her hair and slid down, inquiringly, across her cheek.

“To make sure they aren't following us,” Jess said, stifling a yawn.

“Hmmm. I guess you're right; that must be the reason.” David removed his arm and deposited Jess in the far corner. “I suppose it's just as well. Never start anything you can't finish, and at this moment…All right, where were we?”

“Waiting to see if somebody is going to chase us some more,” Jess said drowsily. “Oh, dear, I'm so sleepy….”

“Yes, right; we've got to find a hole into which to crawl, or we'll both collapse. But I doubt if any decent hotel would accept us. You aren't in such bad condition, your coat absorbed most of the mud; but I seem to be attired mainly in a collar and one shirt sleeve.”

“That blond got at least one sleeve,” Jess said in a voice which was suddenly no longer sleepy.

“Let's not exaggerate. She was only—”

“Orgies,” Jess muttered.

“If it comes to that, why was little Oscar so
sure he had the right to kiss you good-bye?”

“Oh, that.” Jess yawned and relapsed into her semi-coma.

“Yes, and while we're on the subject I seem to recall seeing you and Sam…” A gentle snore interrupted him. He swore, and put the car into gear.

 

Sunlight pounded on Jessica's closed eyes with little warm fists. She became, not so much conscious, as aware of her body. It was a vile body. It ached, and somewhere in its cavernous interior there was a vast discomfort.

“Here,” said David's voice, somewhere off in the distance. “Drink this.” A cold glass touched her fingers.

“No,” Jess said. A hand heaved her up, and the glass moved to her lips.

The next few seconds were exciting; but virtue, and a healthy life, triumphed. Jess found herself sitting up, her eyes open, and her stomach under control.

The room was cold, and unfamiliar. There were goose bumps all over her arms and chest…She grabbed at the sheet.

“Who undressed me?” she croaked.

David's face swam into her vision. It was smiling, but that was the only thing that could
be said for it; he had collected several more bruises, and the circles under his eyes were a delicate shade of lavender.

“Much more original than ‘Where am I?'” he said. “To answer your question—it had to be, I, myself, or Bill—and I know you wouldn't like a stranger taking such liberties. Come now, my own, you know I couldn't put you to bed wearing that muddy coat. You are still extremely grubby; being a true gent, I did not feel that I could proceed beyond a certain point, so therefore I suggest that you take advantage of the amenities across the hall, which may also restore the rest of your faculties, such as they—”

He vanished precipitately when Jess raised her fists. She crawled out of bed and found the bathroom.

Washed and dressed, she found the kitchen by following the smell of coffee. The house was a tiny sliver of a place, all dark-paneled, with floors so uneven that she almost rolled down the stairs. The kitchen looked like a picture out of a book on pioneer architecture; no cabinets, no tile, no porcelain, no stainless steel sinks. A thin layer of dust covered everything, including the windows, which were uncurtained; but sunlight poured in through the panes and there was a huge red geranium on the window sill.

“Coffee coming up,” David said. “I'm making it; learned the proper style in New York. Meet your host, by the way. Frederick George William McAllister the Fourth. Known as Bill.”

Jess turned and let her hand be swallowed up by the hand of an enormous young man with a face like that of a white rabbit, eyelashless and eyebrowless, and the most beautiful head of long blond hair she had seen in or out of
Vogue
. When he spoke, her aching head vibrated; his voice was a deep bass.

“How do you do,” said Frederick George, known as Bill. “Shake hands in the morning, don't they? In the States. Odd idea.”

“No, they don't,” said David rudely. “Sit down, you fool.”

“Can't, till she does.”

Jess sat down. The beautiful blond rabbit sat down at the table opposite her and fixed her with an intent stare. She saw that he did have both lashes and brows, but they were so blond that they didn't show six inches away. However, Jess did not find his stare unnerving; it was clearly an approving stare.

“Where am I?” she asked. It might be an unoriginal question, but it seemed to her a pertinent one.

“Bill's house,” David answered. He carried
coffee and toast to the table and sat down. “Specifically. Wells, generally. I finally located a signpost last night, after you'd gone to sleep, and remembered that this was where Bill lived.”

“It was kind of you to take us in,” Jess said.

Bill smiled. His pale eyes moved down from her hair, across the emerald-green sweater, over her bare arms, and back again. His smile broadened.

“The amenities having been dealt with,” David interrupted, “let's get down to business. I've been telling Bill about our situation.”

“My situation.”

“No longer yours alone.” David rubbed his bruises with a thoughtful forefinger. “Anyhow, he has several cogent points. He conceals his intelligence—and very well, I might add—under that custardy exterior of his.”

Bill blushed happily at this two-sided compliment.

“Bill points out,” David continued, “that the behavior of our pursuers is, to say the least, peculiar. It had already occurred to me that they are very amateurish crooks. Running out of petrol in the middle of a snatch, for God's sake! So we may safely assume that this is a private vendetta. I mean, you're not being chased by the C.I.A. or
N.K.V.D., or some other set of ominous initials.”

“Well, for goodness' sake, I never thought I was.”

“I know, I know, but let's be pitilessly logical. It was a possibility, if not a very strong one.”

“Not with Cousin John.”