by Alan Fenton
Gaheris was grunting in a menacing way that made Mordred extremely nervous. Most of the time the gentlest and most accomodating of men, his brother had, as Mordred knew, a temper from hell, and when he lost it, his rages could be fearsome, and dangerous to anyone near him. Recognising the warning signs, he eased himself out of his chair and wandered round the summer house, ready to make a run for it in case of need.
‘Bastards!’ said Agravaine, though whether he meant the good friends, or the Pellinores was not clear.
‘Bastards,’ agreed Gaheris.
Concluding that his brothers’ anger was now redirected to its proper target, Mordred sidled back to his chair. ‘As we all know, mother had her . . . ’ – An indulgent smile – ‘shall we say indiscretions? And father always knew about them. But this was something else. Having a wife who plays away is one thing, having your friends know all about it is a humiliation too far, I’d say. Wouldn’t you?’
Gaheris, who had forgotten why he was angry, peered, fascinated, at his tumbler of vodka, as the transparent liquid turned gold in the rays of the setting sun. Agravaine rushed onto the lawn and threw up.
‘Oh, for godsake,’ said Mordred, turning his head away in disgust.
‘Poor Agro sick,’ said Gaheris.
Agravaine wandered back to the summer house wiping vomit from his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘I’ll murder the bastards,’ he said.
Mordred’s lips writhed. ‘Do what you like,’ he said. ‘Just don’t throw up again.’
Gaheris was more sympathetic. Putting his arms round Agravaine’s shoulders he demonstrated his concern for his brother. ‘Murder them for you, Agro,’ he suggested. ‘D’you like me to?’
Agro was too ill to answer.
Mordred prepared to turn the screw tighter. Truth, the gatecrasher at this particular party, was creating havoc, just as he hoped it would. ‘I totally understand why you hate Pellinore so much – why you want to kill him. Still, best not take the law into your own hands – though when you think how he used our mother . . . ’ – He bowed his head, as if overcome with grief and shame – ‘he deserves everything he gets.’ From under his brows he observed the reaction to his provocative words. ‘Mind you, fair’s fair – wasn’t it mother who led him on, just like she always leads men on? Wasn’t it mother who shamed our father?’
‘No one gonna hurt her,’ said Agravaine.
Gaheris growled and shook his head. ‘No one hurt her.’ ‘Did I say anything about hurting her?’ Mordred’s face was a caricature of outrage. ‘What do you take me for? Hurt my own mother! As God is my witness . . . ’ He broke off, waving his hands rapidly in front of his face as if to scatter all murderous thoughts.
The three men sat without speaking. The house was quiet now. In the twilight a blackbird sang. Far off, another blackbird answered its call. Mordred stood and stretched. ‘Shall we say our goodbyes?’
It seemed that all the guests had left. Margot was nowhere to be seen. Arm in arm, supporting each other, Agravaine and Gaheris lurched down the corridor to the sitting room where the lights were still on, chairs and tables littered with discarded glasses and bottles. Mordred threw himself on a sofa and watched his two brothers scavenge their way through the room. Gaheris wolfed the remains of a plate of sandwiches, then, to his delight, found a half-full bottle of gin which he gulped down. Agravaine drained the dregs of every wine glass and bottle he could find and collapsed on the floor by the sofa, hugging an empty bottle. Gaheris joined him. ‘Where’s mumsy?’ said Agravaine.
‘In bed, I expect,’ said Mordred.
‘Say goodnight,’ said Agravaine, trying to get up. ‘I wouldn’t recommend it.’
‘Why not?’
Mordred gazed at the ceiling and said nothing.
Using the empty bottle as leverage and panting with the effort, Agravaine thrust himself into a sitting position, his nose almost touching Mordred’s.
‘Why not?’
Tapping his temple with his forefinger, Mordred gave a grotesque wink. ‘Who knows if she’s alone?’
Screaming his rage, Agravaine hurled the empty wine bottle across the room, smashing the bottle and several glasses.
From upstairs a man’s voice called, ‘Who’s there?’ A door opened.
The three men froze, staring at each other.
‘Come back to bed, darling.’ A woman’s voice: their mother’s. ‘There’s no one there. They’ve all gone home.’ A door closed. Faint footsteps . . . silence.
For a full minute neither Agravaine nor Gaheris moved. Then without a word Gaheris picked up an empty vodka bottle.
The stairs from the hall led to the first floor landing and Margot’s bedroom. Agravaine sat on the top step, Gaheris listened at the bedroom door. At first there was no sound, then their mother was sighing and moaning by turns. Elbows on knees, Agravaine rocked back and forth, covering his ears with his hands.
‘Poor mumsy,’ said Gaheris.
Mordred called up the stairs, ‘I’ll be off, then. Need some fresh air.’
No answer.
‘Look, I know exactly how you feel. You have every reason to be angry – more than angry.’
Still no response.
‘See you at the rendezvous in . . . ’ – looking at his wristcom
– ‘an hour and a quarter. No hurry, you have time to kill.’ The front door slammed.
Margot’s sighs grew higher-pitched and more insistent. A man grunted, hoarse grunts like a baboon’s. Carefully, inch by inch, Gaheris turned the handle, eased open the door and moved silently into the room. On the bed Margot lay naked, legs wide apart, her moaning frantic now, turning to loud cries of ecstasy. On top of her Adrian Pellinore’s white buttocks pumped faster and faster as he reached his climax. Gaheris stood by the bed, raised the vodka bottle high and brought it down with all his strength on Adrian Pellinore just as he rolled off Margot. The bottle struck Margot’s head with massive force.
Agravaine rushed into the bedroom and knelt by the bed. ‘What have you done! What have you done!’ he cried. ‘Mumsy,’ he pleaded, ‘talk to me, mumsy, talk to me.’ Margot lay still, eyes closed. ‘I love you, mumsy. Talk to me.’ As he patted her face, blood oozed from the splintered skull. He looked at his bloodstained hand in horror. ‘You killed mumsy!’ he screamed. ‘You killed her! You killed her!’
‘I never did,’ said Gaheris. ‘You killed her, you mad dog!’
‘I’m not mad,’ said Gaheris, biting his knuckles anxiously. ‘I’m not.’ The trauma of the killing had sobered him, as it had Agravaine. Both men were in shock.
Agravaine clasped Margot in his arms. ‘Wake up, mumsy,’ he whispered, ‘please wake up.’ Laying his head on her breast he began to sob, deep-throated sobs that shook his whole body. ‘You killed mumsy,’ he said, ‘you killed my mumsy.’
Gaheris looked blankly at his brother. ‘Did I?’ he said, his brows drawn down as if he were trying to recall something that happened a long time ago. ‘Anyway, it wasn’t my fault. It was him, it was his fault. It was him I was trying to hit.’
At the same instant they both became aware of Adrian Pellinore cowering naked and trembling in the far corner of the room. Rounding the bed, Gaheris stood over the terrified man. ‘Don’t hurt me,’ he pleaded, ‘please don’t hurt me.’ Gaheris’s lips curled contemptuously, Agravaine, blubbering, stood by his brother. Adrian Pellinore, his hands clasped protectively over his head, curled into a ball. ‘Don’t hurt me,’ he begged, ‘let me go. I won’t say a word, I swear I won’t, I swear to God. On my son’s life, I won’t breathe a word to anyone. I’m a rich man,’ he babbled, ‘I’ll give you anything you want – a million, two million, three million. Just don’t hurt me, please don’t hurt me.’ Jumping up, he made a despairing run for his life, but before he could reach the door, Gaheris’s huge fist felled him with a terrible blow to the head. As he lay in the foetal position groaning with pain, the two brothers kicked him again and again – in the kidneys, the ribs, the head. In seconds t
he groaning stopped, Adrian Pellinore’s eyes turned back in their sockets, his body convulsed once, twice, three times, and lay still.
At fifteen minutes past midnight the night sky was overcast. A thin drizzle of rain fell on the waiting Scuttle. Mordred touched his earlobe once and spoke. ‘No sign of them yet. How long have we got?’
‘We’re two hours behind schedule,’ said the pilot. ‘If we stay much longer we risk being spotted. Remember, we are not mantled on the ground.’
‘Let’s give them another five minutes.’
A herd of deer sheltered close by under an oak tree. Mordred clapped his hands. The females jumped and ran, the stag stood his ground, looking in his direction, then he too ran off.
‘Smart fellow,’ said Mordred under his breath. ‘Knows who his enemies are.’
Shadows moved. Mordred drew his port. ‘Who’s there?’ ‘Gaheris.’
‘Agravaine.’
The Scuttle took off. Several minutes passed before anyone said a word.
Mordred broke the strained silence. ‘How was mother?’ Agravaine and Gaheris exchanged glances.
The hairs tingled on the back of Mordred’s neck. ‘What have you done?’ he said.
‘Nothing,’ said Agravaine, avoiding his brother’s eyes. ‘What happened, Agro?’
‘Nothing,’ said Agravaine sullenly.
Mordred stared at Gaheris. ‘What’s that on your face?’ ‘It’s dirt,’ said Agravaine.
Mordred swiped Gaheris’s cheek with the ball of his thumb. ‘That’s not dirt,’ he said, ‘it’s blood.’
Agravaine pointed a trembling finger at Gaheris. ‘He did it.’
Gaheris cowered. ‘I d-didn’t mean to! I d-didn’t mean to,’ he stammered.
‘What didn’t you mean to do?’ said Mordred.
Shame-faced, Agravaine told him. When he had finished, Mordred said nothing, nor by his expression did he offer the smallest clue to what he was thinking.
Thirty One
The instant the Scuttle touched down, Mordred rushed the two brothers to his apartment. For a few moments he paced the room, stopping now and then to confront them with a reproachful look and a shake of the head. Finally he spoke: ‘Murder. Two murders. My own brothers, murderers. It’s appalling. Unbelievable.’
‘We’re all in this together,’ insisted Agravaine.
Mordred raised an eyebrow. ‘Remind me again – was it you or me who killed our mother?’
A resentful look from Agravaine. ‘You put us up to it.’ ‘Put us up to it,’ said Gaheris.
‘That is a wicked lie,’ said Mordred. ‘As God is my witness, I did my best to restrain you.’
‘You dropped hints,’ said Agravaine. ‘Dropped hints,’ said Gaheris.
‘Who was it said they wanted to murder the Pellinores?’ asked Mordred.
‘Who was it said they deserved everything they got?’ countered Agravaine.
An indifferent shrug. ‘Did I say that? I really don’t remember. I do quite distinctly remember warning you not to take the law into your own hands.’
Agravaine began to tremble.
Gaheris looked from one to the other. ‘Is anything wrong, Mord?’
‘Wrong!’ Mordred cupped a hand round his ear. ‘Did you just say what I think you said? Is anything wrong! Wrong! You have just murdered our mother and her lover, two perfectly innocent people, and you ask me if anything is wrong!’
Gaheris flinched, and turned his head away, not because he felt ashamed, but because he was afraid of Mordred. ‘Is it?’
‘For God’s sake, Mord,’ said Agravaine in a low voice, ‘help us.’
Whilst Mordred kept them in suspense, his two brothers watched him with eager eyes, like two dogs awaiting their master’s command. ‘Very well,’ he said at last, ‘I will do what I can for you. You are, when all is said and done, my flesh and blood. A word of advice, though – don’t try and pin the blame on me. Just admit what you did. A bit of remorse would not be out of place.’
‘We are sorry for what we did,’ said Agravaine immediately. ‘We are very sorry,’ said Gaheris.
‘Well, that’s a start,’ said Mordred.
‘What will happen to us?’ said Agravaine.
Mordred considered the question. ‘Perhaps I shouldn’t be asking you this,’ he said, ‘but did you wipe Gaheris’s fingerprints off that bottle of – whatever it was?’
‘Vodka,’ said Gaheris. ‘It had a blue label and foreign writing,’ he added helpfully. ‘It was Polish,’ said Agravaine.
Mordred raised his eyes to heaven. ‘I am not interested in the damned label, or where it came from. All I want to know is – did you wipe the bottle?’
I think so,’ said Agravaine, ‘but we didn’t think of cleaning up in the sitting room. We were in a panic.’
‘No matter,’ said Mordred, ‘there’ll be hundreds of fingerprints all over the place. Hordes of people went back to the house for drinks after the funeral.’
Agravaine clenched his hands to stop them trembling. ‘What do we do, Mord?’ he said, ‘what do we do?’
In a way Mordred felt sorry for Agro and Gaheris. Still, murder was murder. True, he had fired up their furnace, but they had done the deed, not him. Yet he felt not a scrap of remorse. Why should he? Adrian Pellinore deserved to die. A pity about mother, though, that had come as a bit of a shock. How did he feel about it? In two minds. His relationship with his mother had been messy to put it mildly; love and hate in equal measure.
Which way now? Tell Arthur? If he knew that his nephews had committed murder, what would he do? He would have no option but to hand them over to the High Council or the British police, demonstrating that even his own family was not above the law, confirming his exalted status as the guardian of justice, and cementing his hold on the Round Table. So, nothing to be gained by telling Arthur.
He gave it some more thought. Should he keep silent? How would that serve his purpose? It would not. Having lit the fire, he must tend it, ensure that it never went out.
‘Agravaine and Gaheris have something to tell you, Gawain,’ said Mordred. ‘They need your help.’
The two brothers exchanged scared looks and said nothing, each willing the other to pluck up the courage to confess. Yet neither of them could find the words. What words were there to describe what they had done? How to explain killing your own mother? Confessing to Mordred was one thing, confessing to Gawain something else. He was their elder brother, and of all men, the one they most respected.
Gawain considered his brothers with shrewd eyes. ‘You have done something bad, haven’t you?’
Neither of them dared answer the question. It was left to Mordred to describe what they had done. As he did so, Gawain’s face displayed alternately shock and disbelief, the blood rushing to his face, the veins bulging in his temples. Agravaine wept and Gaheris squirmed, both of them fearing that Gawain would turn on them and knock them senseless. But when the story was told, he sat at his computer staring at it transfixed, as if hoping that somewhere in the boundless regions of cyberspace lay the explanation for what, here, in the real world, made no sense at all. When finally he spoke, there was no anger and no recrimination. ‘Is it true?’ he demanded. ‘Did you kill our mother and Adrian Pellinore?’ Agravaine and Gaheris hung their heads and said nothing.
Mordred went first to Agravaine and then to Gaheris, took their hands, and gripped them in both of his, as if he were trying to charge their weakness with his strength. Gawain was moved by the gesture.
‘What’s done is done,’ said Mordred. ‘You must tell Gawain the truth.’
‘I killed mother,’ mumbled Gaheris. ‘I didn’t mean to, Gawain, really I didn’t. It was an accident.’
‘We killed Adrian Pellinore,’ said Agravaine in a low voice. ‘We lost control of ourselves.’
‘I punched him in the head, and we kicked him in the kidneys,’ said Gaheris, ‘and in the chest too, didn’t we, Agro?’ Gawain regarded his two brothers with stern eyes. ‘You have c
ommitted murder,’ he said, ‘and you must pay the penalty. If the British police issue warrants for your arrest, you will be handed over to them. If they do not, you will be tried by the High Council. Either way, you will be brought to justice. Now go back to your rooms and wait there until you hear from me.’
Agravaine and Gaheris slunk away.
‘I checked the internet,’ said Mordred when they had gone. ‘They have found the bodies, but so far the police have no particular suspects.’
‘It makes no difference,’ said Gawain, ‘they have confessed to the murders.’
‘Only to us,’ said Mordred. ‘So?’
Mordred chose his words carefully. ‘Gawain, you are the man I have always looked up to.’
‘Thank you, Mord,’ said Gawain, ‘I appreciate that.’
‘And I know,’ continued Mordred, ‘how much importance you attach to family loyalty.’ ‘We are talking about murder.’
Mordred opened his hands in a gesture of appeal. ‘Isn’t the future of Camelot more important than anything? Anything,’ he repeated with solemn emphasis.
‘Yes, but . . . ’
‘Think of the trouble and distress this will cause Arthur.
Does he really need to know?’
‘I can’t keep Arthur in the dark,’ said Gawain. ‘It’s unthinkable.’
‘Is it?’ said Mordred. ‘What good will it do if we tell him? There would have to be a trial. What if Agravaine and Gaheris were acquitted, would they leave the court without a stain on their character? I doubt it. Some would say the trial was fixed. And if they were convicted of murder, what then? Who would trust the family any more? Who would trust Arthur? I’m telling you, Gawain, whatever the outcome, a trial would turn brother against brother, friend against friend, comrade against comrade. Some would support us, some would say we were all tarred with the same brush as Gaheris and Agravaine – killers at heart. And if they didn’t say it, they would think it.’
‘It wouldn’t be like that,’ said Gawain, though he suspected it might well be.
