Death at King Arthur's Court

by Forrest, Richard;

  Lyon laughed. ‘My wife is a very independent person, but Morgan …’ He laughed again.

  ‘Let’s go back to when you were on the Middleburg faculty,’ Norbert said.

  ‘We were both instructors in the same department before I resigned to pursue my career as a freelance writer.’

  ‘I wanted to get to that,’ the captain said. ‘You write anything we might know?’

  ‘My most successful book was one I did a few years ago during the Bicentennial. You may have heard of Nancy Goes to Mount Vernon.’

  Norbert made no effort to conceal his disdain. ‘Years ago we used to confiscate filth like that. I remember one hot number in particular called Debbie Does Dallas.’

  Rocco was unable to control himself any longer. ‘For God’s sake! The man writes children’s literature.’

  Norbert shrugged. ‘Whatever. We can assume that Senator Wentworth knew the deceased for an equal amount of time, that is to say fifteen years?’

  ‘You know, Captain, at this point, you’ve really lost me,’ Lyon said.

  Norbert nodded. ‘I see. Can we assume that you are terminating this interview, Mr Wentworth?’

  ‘You may so assume,’ Lyon answered.

  ‘In that case,’ Norbert said as he stood before Lyon, ‘I must warn you.’ He held out his hand toward one of the ever present corporals, who promptly slapped a laminated Rights Warning card in his palm.

  Rocco pushed Captain Norbert aside and clicked a handcuff over Lyon’s right wrist. ‘It’s my collar, Norbie. You are under arrest,’ he said to Lyon. ‘You have the right to remain silent. You are not required to say anything to us at any time or to …’

  ‘That’s ridiculous,’ Bea Wentworth said from the French doors. ‘He didn’t kill Morgan. I did!’

  Three

  ‘What in the hell is going on here?’ Captain Norbert’s face flushed a deep red. His quick angry glance included everyone in the room. ‘Are you deliberately creating a circus here, Herbert? What sort of stupid games are you people playing?’

  ‘I’m making it my collar, Norbie,’ Rocco answered. ‘Wentworth is my prisoner.’

  ‘Come with me, Chief,’ Norbert said as he gestured Rocco back into the kitchen. As soon as they were alone, the state police captain exploded in a paroxysm of whispered rage. ‘What are you doing? Are you trying to taint all our actions out here today? This is unprofessional behavior of the worst magnitude and the state’s attorney will be so informed.’

  ‘You wear blinkers, Norbie,’ Rocco responded. ‘And you always have. Once you zero in on a suspect, you move the rocks of hell to gather more evidence for your conviction, but never look around the corner for another suspect. Your blinkers don’t allow you to see beyond the one you’ve decided on, Captain. You’ve always been that way and so are a lot of other cops.’

  ‘Your fear of conflict of interest seems to have flown with the rest of your senses.’

  ‘My best friend is going to twist in the wind if I don’t help him. I know in the depths of my being that he is innocent.’

  ‘Innocent! I’ve got everything except a confession or eyewitness. And tell me what in hell the senator is pulling?’

  ‘Pulling?’

  ‘She’s evidently playing games, unless …’He stopped in mid-sentence, to continue in a conspiratorial tone. ‘Unless they are both in it together. The family Wentworth knocked Morgan off and will now cover for each other. I’ve ridden that merry-go-round before.’

  ‘I’m buying Lyon some time, Norbie. Now go along with me on this and don’t hound the state’s attorney for your warrant.’

  ‘I’ll be in his office a half hour after I leave here. If you don’t have that man arraigned no later than tomorrow, you are in deep shit, Herbert.’

  Rocco turned without a word and returned to the living room. Norbert followed, but his voice dropped two unctuous registers as he approached Bea. ‘There are circumstances here, Senator, that—’

  ‘I demand to be remanded into custody,’ Bea said. ‘I insist on being fingerprinted and shoved in a lineup.’

  ‘We don’t have lineups in Murphysville,’ Rocco said tiredly. ‘Everyone knows everyone else.’

  ‘Isn’t anyone interested in my confession?’ Bea asked. ‘Take those cuffs off Lyon and slap them on me.’

  ‘Oh, Christ, the media is going to crucify all of us,’ Norbert mumbled.

  ‘You haven’t had any firearms training, Bea,’ Rocco said. ‘Only a trained marksman could have pulled off the shot that killed Morgan.’

  ‘Nice try, Rocco,’ she replied. ‘Except that I know he was killed with a sword. It so happens that I was on the fencing team in college. You can verify that from my yearbook.’

  ‘Morgan’s fatal wounds were hardly the result of fancy épée thrusts.’

  ‘The saber was always my weapon of choice,’ Bea responded.

  Norbert was fascinated by this pert, feisty woman who stood defiantly before them. Bea Wentworth was slightly under medium height, with a figure that might be described as petite except for the fullness of her breasts and hips. Her short hair was worn in a fashion that bracketed her face and gave her a gamin-like appearance. This innocent quality was usually belied by the darting intelligence and intensity of her eyes. Norbert had known her casually for years, and had followed her political career from state representative to secretary of the state and then state senator. He had also watched several television interviews when she was spokesperson for a cause or sponsor of specific legislation.

  Patrolman Jamie Martin of the Murphysville police force stuck his head through the French doors. ‘Call for you on the radio, Chief. Dispatcher can’t get through on land lines. He says the first selectman is really pissed that you missed her meeting.’ Rocco groaned and followed the officer out.

  ‘I was told you were in Washington, Senator Wentworth,’ Norbert muttered in a polite voice far below his usual interview standards.

  ‘I left last night and drove straight home to Connecticut.’

  ‘Do I handcuff one of them or both?’ the taller of the state police corporals asked.

  ‘Hold on and let me sort this out,’ Norbert answered. He struggled to regain his interview dominance. As a consequence, his next question was asked in a manner more harsh than intended. ‘And you were somehow able to open a locked RV door? Once inside, you managed to overpower Morgan?’

  ‘I knew where the door’s combination was kept. It doesn’t take much strength to murder a sleeping man.’

  ‘You had the combination? How strange!’ Norbert said as he searched back through his notes. ‘And how did you manage to obtain the combination? I understood that the lock was recently changed and only Lyon and Morgan knew the new setting.’

  ‘It was quite simple actually. I merely went to where Lyon kept the combination and let myself in,’ Bea said.

  Norbert looked at Lyon. ‘Where Lyon kept the combination? Where he’d written it down for the world to see?’

  ‘Not hardly everyone,’ Bea said. ‘I’m the only one who knows that Lyon can’t remember things like his own social security number. He records all his important numbers in the same place: on the pull-out shelf at his desk. All manner of our life’s numerology are scribbled on a yellow piece of typewriter paper he scotch-taped there years ago.’

  Lyon blanched in a manner so noticeable that Norbert and his corporals exchanged glances.

  ‘Is what she says true?’ the state police captain asked Lyon.

  ‘Well, yes. Bea knows I jot down all sorts of numbers in that particular place.’

  ‘Including the RV door combination?’

  ‘Yes.’ He turned to his wife. ‘Nice try, honey, but I really don’t need you to do this for me.’

  ‘Let’s get back to work. I believe we were discussing your affair with the deceased, Senator Wentworth.’

  ‘My what?’

  ‘We were about to develop detailed facts concerning your liaison with Morgan. The affair is a rather importa
nt element in this case, since it provides motive. A motive which someone brought to the attention of the state police. It is almost immaterial which one of you was the actual perpetrator, since the existence of the affair provides a possible motive for either or both of you.’

  Bea looked startled. ‘I don’t mean to appear hopelessly naive, but what affair are you referring to?’

  ‘Were you involved with the deceased?’

  ‘Captain, Morgan was a very talented man, in some ways a very interesting man. Believe me when I say that a sexual relationship with him would be as likely as my seduction by Rasputin.’

  ‘Will you please answer the question directly? Were you lovers?’

  ‘That’s even more preposterous than her killing him,’ Lyon said.

  ‘We have known him for years,’ Bea said. ‘We met him during the early days of our marriage, when Lyon and Morgan were new instructors at the university.’

  ‘Then you were good friends with the man?’

  ‘I won’t say friends,’ Bea replied. ‘I’m not sure anyone was really friends with Morgan. Perhaps longtime acquaintances would be a better term.’

  Captain Norbert sighed. ‘To move on. Can you tell me where you were yesterday and last night, Senator?’

  ‘I was at a convention of women legislators in Washington DC,’ Bea said. ‘I was at meetings all day yesterday and attended the banquet last night. I drove home immediately after the dinner.’

  ‘Nope.’ Rocco stood in the doorway shaking his head. ‘Nice try, but no way, Beatrice. You spent the night with a United States senator.’

  ‘What senator?’ Norbert asked softly. ‘Is he, pray tell, from the State of Massachusetts?’

  Lyon shook his head in disgust at the man’s prurient interest. ‘She was probably with Senator Katherine Turman, who has a husband and five kids.’

  Bea shrugged.

  Norbert looked at Rocco. ‘Was it Turman?’

  ‘Yep. I patched through to our station phone and it took a single call to establish that she spent the night at the home of our state’s junior senator. She also phoned Nutmeg Hill repeatedly last night and again early this morning. The house phone was reported out of order each time. She told Senator Turman that she was very concerned because of the recent death threats against Morgan. This morning she phoned me at home. If we need her, Senator Turman will make a great witness, but the phone company records will establish that the early call to my house came from a pay phone on Interstate Ninety-Five.’

  ‘Her deposition will do,’ Norbert said. ‘I’m glad you cleared that little matter up, Rocco. Now, will you take your cuffs off your friend so we can formally charge him?’

  ‘You don’t seem to understand, Norbie. Mr Wentworth is my prisoner. He will be formally booked in Murphysville and arraigned in superior court in a few days.’

  ‘You’re out to lunch.’ Norbert turned to his two corporals, who seemed poised for instructions. ‘Take our prisoner to the car.’

  Both troopers immediately moved toward Lyon until Rocco inserted himself in their way. ‘You guys are going to have to come through me.’

  The taller of the state police officers, who was still six inches shorter than Rocco, turned toward his commanding officer. ‘Captain?’

  ‘You have just shot your career down the tube, big man,’ Norbert said. ‘My sister will probably end up on welfare.’ He stalked out the doors and down from the patio towards the cruiser parked in the drive.

  ‘I think you’ve created a mess for yourself,’ Lyon said to Rocco.

  Bea stood outside the French doors, looking down the drive. ‘Norbie is talking to the television crew. There’s one guy with a microphone and another with a camera. I think they’re interviewing him.’

  Rocco closed his eyes momentarily and then looked up at Lyon. ‘I would imagine that I am in deep, but you, old buddy, are so far down in a hole that you can’t even see the top. Once you get in the clutches of a police bureaucracy that’s convinced you’re guilty, you won’t even get bail. They’ll stop looking for anything except evidence that will hang you even higher.’

  ‘It looks that bad?’ Lyon asked.

  ‘Don’t be naive. Those guys have you convicted. I’ve bought a little time. If I don’t take you into superior court for arraignment in a few days, the state’s attorney will send Norbie a warrant, and there’s no way I can fight that. We had best make good use of the little time we have.’

  ‘To find out who killed Morgan,’ Lyon said.

  ‘I’m sure there’s not another person in this world who knows that Lyon keeps the numerology of his life on that paper in the desk,’ Bea said. ‘So there must be another way into that RV. Why don’t we start by finding out how Morgan was killed?’

  ‘That makes sense,’ Lyon said as they left the house through the patio. They saw the RV, its front wheels raised up by a tow truck, start down the drive.

  ‘What are they doing?’ Bea asked.

  ‘They’ve impounded it and are taking it to the state garage for evidence examination,’ Rocco said.

  ‘Then we don’t get to go through it,’ Lyon said.

  ‘Not at this point,’ Rocco replied. ‘Let me get the TV guys off the property.’ He moved quickly down the drive toward the television station’s van.

  Lyon walked along the edge of the house and glanced up at the gutters. He reversed direction and moved a dozen feet away from the corner of the house nearest the drive and stooped to pick up the severed ends of telephone lines. ‘I knew it had to be cut outside the house,’ he told her. They walked back to the corner of the building where the phone lines had entered the dwelling. He stood on the seat of a wrought-iron bench near the wall and found that he could reach up to the port where the line went into the building. ‘Easy enough, huh? Anyone could have cut it. All of us were either in the kitchen, study, or the far side on the rear patio by the parapet. It would have taken only seconds for someone to come around the house, hop on the bench and reach up to cut the lines.’

  ‘It could have been done by someone not at the party,’ Bea said. ‘You wouldn’t have noticed anyone coming up the drive or across the lawn.’

  Lyon nodded. ‘True.’

  They were silent as they looked down the drive toward the entrance, where Rocco was arguing with the television crew. It was obvious that he had prevailed, as they were beginning to repack their equipment.

  ‘Until last night our biggest problem was Camelot over there,’ Bea said as she looked toward a high-rise building under construction on the corner of the promontory. Three floors of steel superstructure had already topped the tallest pine trees. A large crane squatting next to the building lifted steel girders to waiting iron workers who nonchalantly walked the narrow high beams.

  They knew that the construction was a pricy, trendy condominium. Each unit would come equipped with a spectacular river view. The extra proposed amenities took up half a page in their brochure, and included bridle paths, tennis and paddle courts, a health club and indoor pool.

  As the nearest and largest property owners in the area, the town knew they opposed the project. They beat it back twice. The developers knew they’d fight it to death at future public hearings.

  The builder waited patiently for two years until the Wentworths took an extended trip to Europe and then rammed a variance through the Zoning Board.

  Rocco stood at the bottom of the patio steps with an end of the cut telephone lines. ‘Let’s recreate your story,’ he said. ‘A person, who you cannot identify, threatened you with a sword.’

  Lyon pointed to a stand of pine trees that began fifty yards from the side of the house. ‘It happened over there.’

  Bea Wentworth watched the two men walk across the lawn toward the tree line. Lyon had to look up to speak to the taller Rocco. A breeze unexpectedly swirled in off the river and ruffled Lyon’s hair. She automatically brushed the edge of a hand across her own forehead in an exact duplication of the gesture her husband performed two dozen y
ards away. Her tight smile reflected a nostalgic wistfulness. She knew him so intimately that even his small unconscious gestures and the other nuances that create a unique person were familiar.

  At the tree line, Lyon looked over his shoulder and saw his wife enter the house. It was apparent that she’d remained outside to watch them cross the field. He wondered what she’d been thinking.

  ‘Are you with me, Lyon?’ Rocco said.

  Lyon refocused his thoughts. ‘Yes, sorry. Last night, I was returning to the house after helping someone remove a car from a ditch when this thing came out of nowhere. It was dark, but in the moonlight I could see light refractions from the sword blade. I fell.’

  ‘Let’s back up from that point,’ Rocco said. ‘Start with the early evening and tell me exactly what happened. Include every detail you can recall, no matter how inconsequential it might seem.’

  ‘Early last night, while it was still light, I was on the patio having drinks with Ernest Harnell,’ Lyon said …

  Four

  ‘I’m Ernest Hemingway’s bastard son, but you know that.’ Ernest Harnell put one foot up on Nutmeg Hill’s low parapet and struck what he considered a heroic pose. He peered across the Connecticut River, which far below them meandered toward Long Island Sound.

  Lyon tilted a wrought-iron patio chair back on its legs as he braced his feet against the wall and socially lied. ‘No. Actually, I don’t believe you’ve ever mentioned it before.’ His companion’s jaw imperceptibly tightened without breaking his distant gaze. Lyon wondered if Ernest was checking Spanish Loyalist troop positions across the river, or watching long columns of the retreating Italian army at Caporetto. He couldn’t resist an impish impulse. ‘I see a lot of those Hemingway trucks on the Interstates. I would suppose that there would be a rather large estate involved if you were legitimized.’

  Ernest immediately broke off his posturing as he snapped his head around to glare down at Lyon. ‘I hardly meant that branch of the family. I speak of the writer. The Nobel Prize laureate.’

  ‘In that case, I do see a marked family resemblance,’ Lyon agreed. He failed to add that it was more than a genetic familiarity of features. Ernest Harnell wore a short white beard and sprouted a round paunch cultivated to the exact dimensions familiar in the author’s later photographs. His round face mimicked a typical Hemingway set, which was usually accentuated by a baseball cap, although tonight’s head covering was the only slightly less usual safari hat. It was a studied imitation that created a close look-alike of the older writer.