Our Man in Camelot

by Anthony Price

  “For Pete’s sake—what guys?” Finsterwald pleaded.

  “Who knows what guys? The ones who stopped Davies’s mouth. The guys from Nijni Novgorod, maybe, I don’t know. But for sure someone’s been here before us.”

  “How do you know?”

  Merriwether pointed. “That piece of paper you’re holding tells me how. Because there’s not one of the books on that list in this house but those five bird books—“ He thrust four chocolate fingers and a chocolate thumb at Finsterwald. “So where those books go? They didn’t fly away like birds, man. ‘And good luck with your continuing researches’—what researches? There’s not one scrap of paper in his desk says he was researching anything, nothing… And you can’t tell me someone who buys all those books doesn’t make a single note ‘bout what he’s working on.”

  Finsterwald stared at the list.

  Keller: The Conquest of Wessex.

  “There must be forty—fifty—books here,” he said finally.

  “Not here now, there aren’t. Just five—on bird-watching.” Merriwether’s derision was unconcealed. “And we nearly bought it, Harry. We came looking for a pilot who watched birds, and that’s what we got, and that’s what we were meant to get. Until the mailman delivered the mail.”

  “But for God’s sake—“ Finsterwald lifted the list “—what would anybody want with this lot? It’s crazy.”

  “Not to somebody, it isn’t. Looks like the Major researched into the wrong piece of history.”

  The Tale of Sir Mosby

  and King Arthur

  I

  IT WAS LIKE they said: the seventh wave was often the biggest one.

  The last big one had slopped over into the castle moat, smoothing its sharp edges. Then there had been six weaker ones which had all fallen short. And now came the fatal seventh.

  Mosby had watched it gathering itself out in the bay. At first it hadn’t looked much, more a deep swell than a conventional wave like its white-capped predecessors. But where they had broken too early and wasted their strength in froth, the seventh had seemed to grow more powerful, effortlessly engulfing the first fifty yards of the line of saw-toothed rocks to the left and only revealing its true nature when it burst explosively over one tall pinnacle which until now had remained unconquered.

  As the pinnacle disappeared in a cloud of spray the castle-builder looked up from his work. For a second he stood still, the sand dropping from his hands, staring at the oncoming wave. Then he swung round and lifted up the toddler beside him and deposited her within the innermost walls of the castle.

  Mosby took in the scene with regret. It wasn’t just that the big Englishman had been working like a beaver for upwards of an hour getting the castle just the way he wanted it, but also that the end-product was a work of art the like of which Mosby had never seen.

  It wasn’t just a pile of sand, but a real castle, with inner and outer walls and regularly-spaced towers, each capped with a conical fairy-tale roof, rising to a massive central keep. There was a moat and a drawbridge complete with a barbican and a defensive outwork, all of which had been constructed to a carefully drawn ground plan which had been marked out in the smooth sand before construction had started.

  In fact it wasn’t only a real castle, but obviously an actual one—he had watched the man count off the towers one by one as though checking them in his memory, finally nodding in agreement with himself that he’d got it right. It was a good bet that somewhere, maybe not far from here, on some hill above some sleepy English town, he’d find a great grey stone pile, dog-eared by centuries of neglect, matching those walls and towers. And maybe once upon a time some highly-paid craftsman had built just such a model to show the King of England what he was getting for his cash.

  The child’s squeal of excitement broke his flash of historical inspiration. Defeat on the natural breakwaters of the rocky headlands on either side of the bay seemed to have concentrated the wave’s power: it swallowed the last retreating remnants of the sixth wave and surged forward up the beach towards the castle.

  The outer walls and towers were instantly overwhelmed, dissolved and swept away irresistibly as the rushing water encircled the castle, meeting in its rear in a triumphant collision on the site of the drawbridge.

  For two seconds the child stood surrounded by the towers of the inner keep. Then, as the wave began to retreat, these last defences cracked and toppled outwards to be swept away with the rest. The ruin of the castle was complete. It was a goddamn pity.

  As far as the child was concerned, nevertheless, the breaking of father’s masterpiece was the making of the occasion, and presumably that was the nature of the deal between the two because he showed no sign of irritation as she danced in triumph on the wreckage.

  “Ozzie, Daddy—say Ozzie,” squealed the child.

  Shirley lifted her head from the towel on which she lay sunbathing beside Mosby. He saw the little two-way radio tucked under a folded edge and, in the same glance, couldn’t avoid also seeing the shapely breasts which had been freed from the bikini top.

  “Harry says he’s fixed the car,” she murmured. “He’s getting out now.”

  “Great.” Mosby’s eyes felt like chapel hat-pegs.

  “And stop peeking, Mose honey. Watch the birdie, not the boobs.”

  “Say Ozzie, Daddy—Ozzie-mandy!”

  Mosby smiled a warm, husbandly smile. “Shirley Sheldon is a shameless slut,” he hissed.

  “Shirley Sheldon is trying to revive her long-lost tan.” She lowered herself back on to the towel. “You just mind the store like a good boy—just keep your mind on our business.”

  Mosby shook his head in despair and turned back to observe the big Englishman.

  “Ozzie-mandy, please, Daddy.”

  “All right, all right.”

  The Englishman looked around him, first to his left, then his right and finally behind him. Mosby lolled in his deck-chair as one half-asleep, his arms hanging loosely. There was no one else at all on the tiny beach; either it was not well-known or (which was more likely) Harry had devised some way of temporarily closing the track which led to it.

  Secure behind his dark glasses Mosby watched himself being scrutinised. He sensed that there would be no ozzie-mandying unless he could give the impression of being dead to the world, so as a final piece of encouragement he drew a deep breath and returned it by way of what he judged to be a realistic snore.

  The Englishman struck an attitude.

  “I met a traveller from an antique land“

  — he intoned in a deep voice.

  “Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone

  Stand in the desert…”

  He accompanied the words with gestures in the style of some great nineteenth century tragedian, the child watching him with her mouth hanging open, obviously understanding nothing, but enjoying everything.

  “Near them, on the sand,

  Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,

  And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command—“

  He paused in order to frown, twist his lips hideously and finally sneer horribly. The child gave two little excited jumps, but made not a sound even when her hands came together.

  “Which yet survive, stamped on those lifeless things,

  The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed:”

  Mosby was overwhelmed by a feeling of unreality. He knew there couldn’t be any mistake, the identification was utterly positive.

  “And on the pedestal these words appear:

  ‘My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:

  Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!’ “

  Shirley raised her head again, this time clasping herself to herself more modestly. “What the hell’s going on?” she grated.

  The sound of her voice couldn’t possibly have carried over the crash of the waves; it must have been his own involuntary movement which the man caught out of the corner of his eye.

  “Nothing beside remai
ns—“ he faltered. Mosby shifted his position, sinking further into somnolence, and snored again obligingly as a warning to Shirley and an encouragement to Ozymandias.

  “Nothing beside remains. Round the decay

  Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare

  The lone and level sands stretch far away.”

  Ozymandias bowed to his daughter and the child applauded him. Mosby himself concentrated on adjusting his preconceptions about the British.

  But now there was a movement in the corner of his own eye. The man’s wife had risen from the tartan rug on which she had been lying and was strolling down towards the sea’s edge, a tall willowy ash blonde with that haughty don’t-give-a-damn British aristocratic expression which repelled and attracted him at the same time, at least when he encountered it in the female of the species. He smiled inwardly as he remembered arguing with Doc McCaslin over that look, as to whether it was bred or bought, with Doc finally convincing him that if caught young enough any little sow’s ear from the East End of London—or Brooklyn—could be converted into this sort of silk purse by English private education. All one needed was forty thousand spare dollars, give or take a few thousand, over ten or twelve years.

  The woman stopped at her husband’s shoulder. “If the king of kings is ready it’s high time we were going. Cathy’s had quite enough sun for one day and the tide’s coming in fast. And we’re late for tea already.”

  A nice voice, less refined than the expression, with affection taking all the sting out of the marching order. That heart was present, and in working order. Lucky Ozymandias.

  Mosby felt envious, but also benevolent. Whatever happened afterwards, he didn’t want to spoil this moment of family togetherness: the least—and the most—he could do was to give them a last bit of privacy. He snored again.

  “Come on then, love,” said Ozymandias, taking the little girl’s hand and turning his back on the sea. As he did so another seventh wave swirled round their feet. When it receded the castle site was no more than a dimpled irregularity in the sand. The woman was right, the tide was coming in fast now. Another five minutes and it would be around his own feet, which would account nicely for their own movement from the beach—as he had intended it should.

  He waited until the Englishman and his family had reached the cliff path before touching Shirley’s shoulder.

  “You nearly spoilt it,” he explained.

  “Uh?” She wrinkled her nose. “Spoilt what?”

  “The poetry. He was reciting poetry for his daughter. Shelley I think, or maybe Keats. I guess I’m a bit rusty.”

  She looked up at him curiously. “Shelley or Keats?”

  “One or the other. Shelley for choice.”

  “Well, well! I sure never would have tagged you as a poetry buff. Sex maniac—yes. Poetry buff—no. Or him, come to that.” She stared at the cliff path. “He doesn’t look like a civil servant either, come to that—more like a retired quarter-back.”

  “Don’t underrate him.” Mosby left the “or me” unsaid. “Remember what Harry said: his IQ goes off the top of the graph.”

  “If that child of his is already sold on Shelley and Keats then it runs in the family.”

  Mosby shook his head. “I think she just likes the performance.” He stood up, still staring down at her. Sixty-six inches and one hundred and sixteen pounds, all nicely tanned and landscaped. And every inch, every pound, inaccessible. “But now it’s time for our performance, Mrs Sheldon. And we’d better be good.”

  She rose effortlessly to her knees, fixing the bikini top as she did so. On mature consideration Mosby decided that she was as disturbing with it as without it.

  She met his eyes. “You’ve got that hungry look again, honey. Like you could eat me. It’s getting kind of wearisome.”

  Mosby turned away to gather up the towels. Hungry was right: it was a fact that starvation had to be less bearable when you travelled in permanent company with a three-star Michelin dinner, but it was a fact she would never concede. He was suddenly very glad that they were actually starting work at last.

  As they topped the cliff path he saw at once that Harry had done his work well. There were still only two cars in the dusty little parking place, and the Englishman already had his head stuck under the raised bonnet of his.

  As he watched, the man straightened up, scratching his head in a gesture eloquent of bewilderment. Very soon, when he realised that the trouble had no simple diagnosis, that bewilderment would turn into the despair of a holiday father marooned with his family five miles from the nearest telephone.

  He raised the trunk of the Chevrolet and began to pack their gear. Just a little time now. Shirley was already establishing their curiosity by staring in a frankly American fashion.

  Finally she came round the wing of the car.

  “Say, Mose honey—“ her voice carried clear as a bell in the stillness following the despondent whine of the Englishman’s self-starter “—that poor man’s having awful trouble with his car.”

  Mosby straightened up. “Huh?”

  “Why don’t you go and help him?” There was much more of the Old South in Shirley’s voice than usual—it was only half a mint julep away from the Southern belle’s “You-all”.

  Mosby looked quickly at the other car, noted that the Englishman’s wife had heard—she could hardly avoid hearing—and was looking at them, and ducked round the side of the car.

  “You want me to go and help?” he said loudly.

  “I think you ought to, honey.” The order was wrapped in velvet pleading. “It’ud be neighbourly.”

  “I’m no goddamn mechanic. Besides, if he wants help he’ll ask for it.”

  “Honey, they don’t ask—don’t be mean. Go on.” The velvet wrap was off and he could hear the Fort Dobson psychologist’s final admonition: the British expect American wives to wear the pants—true or false, they expect it. When Shirley wears them, that’s better than waving a marriage certificate.

  “Okay, okay. So I’ll be a Samaritan if it makes you feel good,” he waved his hand in submission before pivoting away from her towards the Englishman’s car.

  For a moment the Englishman pretended not to see him, then he lifted his head.

  “Got some trouble?” Mosby began tentatively.

  Understatement of a summer’s day. Trouble with a car here and now, and all sorts of trouble to come one way or another if everything goes according to plan.

  The pale blue eyes blinked behind the spectacles. “The bloody thing won’t start, that’s the trouble.”

  “Could you use a second opinion?”

  The Englishman grinned ruefully. “To be honest—I could use a first opinion. It’s probably something ridiculously simple, but… I’m afraid I’m just not mechanically-minded.”

  That was what Harry had said, but it was nice to have confirmation straight from the horse’s mouth: it made for confidence in other directions.

  “Gas okay?” Mosby lent over and sniffed. “Yes, you’re getting gas all right… And she turns over, so the battery’s fine.”

  “Doesn’t fire…” Mosby busied himself doing nothing very much. “No spark—the plugs are okay too—I guess it could be the ignition. And odd things happen with ignition parts, they go faulty for no reason. If there’s something wrong with the coil—or maybe the distributor—then you’re going to need a garage job…”

  Shirley was advancing across the open space between the cars, heading towards the wife.

  “Have you got far to travel?” she asked.

  “Far to go?” The woman was slightly taken aback at the directness of the approach, her natural reserve battling with an equally natural inclination to be courteous with a friendly and helpful foreigner. “No, not very far—six or seven miles. We’ve got a cottage at Bucklandworthy.”

  “Bucklandworthy? Say, that’s where we are. We’re renting the white house on the headland—St Veryan’s.”

  “Down the road to the lighthouse?”
<
br />   “That’s right.” Shirley nodded eagerly. “You know it?”

  “Our cottage is on the corner—the Old Chapel—“

  “With the thatched roof? Why, that makes us almost neighbours.”

  Mosby finished his examination of the distributor. “I can’t see anything wrong, but that doesn’t mean a thing…” He shook his head doubtfully.

  Shirley craned her neck over his shoulder. “Have you fixed it, honey?”

  “ ‘Fraid not.” Mosby wiped his oily hands together. “I just don’t get it—I guess it must be electrical.”

  “Is that bad?”

  “Well, it looks like a garage job.” Mosby looked at the Englishman apologetically. “Like you say, it’s probably nothing much, but…” He shrugged, frowning again at the engine. At least there was no need for play-acting: whatever Harry had done was bound to be undetectable as well as ingeniously simple.

  “Well, not to worry,” said Shirley cheerfully. “Because these good people have that thatched cottage just two steps up the road from us at Bucklandworthy—they’re our neighbours, honey.”

  “Huh?” Mosby looked up from the engine. “What did you say?”

  Shirley gave her new friend a despairing look. “Once he gets his head in an engine—“ her voice sharpened “—they live just next door to us almost, in that cute thatched cottage up the road from St Veryan’s.”

  Mosby allowed the light to dawn. “Is that so?”

  “We don’t actually live there,” the wife explained. “We’re renting it for two months.”

  “Two months!” Shirley looked around her. “It really is beautiful down here, but I don’t think I could last that long.”

  Mosby gave a derisive grunt. “Just because we have to pump the water from the well—honey, you just haven’t any of the old pioneering spirit. You’re a two-bath-a-day girl, that’s the trouble.”

  “I’ve got plenty of pioneering spirit. I just happen to prefer civilisation and company,” Shirley snapped. “But never mind that—“ her tone softened “—if you can’t get that engine going, just quit playing with it. We can take these good people right home to their door with no trouble at all.”