Avalon

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  At 1:00 precisely, he tidied his desktop, put away the folder containing the official documents he was preparing for his special client, and locked the desk. Picking up the phone, he dialed the number he had been given, spoke briefly to the man who answered, and then hung up. He was reaching into his bag for the small plastic box containing a bacon and cheese sandwich when Philip Hamilton, the sales director, hailed him from his doorway. “I say, Wilfred, fancy a pint and ploughman’s?”

  “Well, I don’t know… I brought a sandwich. I thought I might just—”

  “Come on, Wilf,” Philip urged, “don’t tell me you’re going to work through lunch again. This special commission of yours is becoming an obsession. Anyway, I need to pick your brain.”

  “I suppose—”

  “I’ll buy, how’s that?” Philip, a stocky man of middle age, with thick wavy hair and a short brush mustache, approached and took his arm. “The Angel,” he said, steering Collins towards the stairs, “or the Frog and Flagon? The choice is yours.”

  “The Angel’s fine,” replied Collins.

  “The Angel it is.”

  As they descended the stairs Collins straightened his tie in the mirror on the landing. He pressed a hand to his hair and smoothed it down as best he could, wishing he’d thought to bring a comb. Upon reaching the reception area, he looked for Moira, but she was nowhere to be seen. One of the junior assistants was manning the desk instead, and Collins felt a distinct pang of disappointment as he passed by.

  They walked down the street and turned the corner onto a busy street; halfway along was the Angel, a sturdy old local with good ale and a decent lunch. While the pub was not trendy enough to be crowded, the loyal attentions of the neighborhood’s secretaries and businessmen kept the kitchen up to scratch.

  The two men took the last available table, and Philip went to place their orders, leaving Collins to hold the table. He was idly twirling a pub mat when he saw a pair of long legs in dark stockings emerge from the crowd at the bar. He looked up to see the generous smile and seductive green eyes.

  “Moira!” he said, a little too enthusiastically.

  “Fancy that,” she said, her tone inviting. “We have the same taste in pubs.”

  Remembering his manners, he jumped up. “Sit down, please. We seem to have taken the last table. Won’t you join us?”

  “Maybe for a minute,” she replied, pulling out a chair.

  She folded one splendid leg over the other and Collins felt his heart leap into his throat. “Ho — how are you getting on, then?” he croaked.

  “Splendidly. I must say everyone has been very helpful, and I find the work fascinating.”

  “Do you?” he wondered. “My word, how extraordinary!” He laughed aloud. “Most people think it’s boring.”

  “Not at all!” she replied vigorously. “Royalty, nobility, all that pomp and circumstance… the stuff of fantasy, really.” She leaned her chin in her palm as she spoke and gazed at him with her deep green eyes as she said, “I’d love to hear more about your work on the monarchy.”

  “My work?” He gulped audibly. “I’m not sure you’d find it very interesting. History and what all,” he said vaguely.

  “Don’t be modest,” she cooed. “I find history utterly fascinating. Maybe that isn’t a fashionable thing to say these days, but I’ve always been something of an old-fashioned girl.” Moira smiled again, knowingly. “Life’s too short to be chasing every fad.”

  Her tone suggested to Collins a woman who had lived a little, who knew her own mind, and was not shy about asking for what she wanted. “Don’t you think?” she asked, leaning forward.

  “Sorry?” said Collins, tearing his eyes from her breasts. “Oh, yes. Life’s too short. I couldn’t agree more.”

  “What are we agreeing about then?” asked Philip as he returned to the table clasping two overflowing pint glasses. “Hello, I’m Philip Hamilton. I think I remember you from this morning.”

  “Yes, of course,” said Collins, speaking up. “This is Moira. She’s replacing Emerald for a few days.”

  “So I hear,” said Philip smoothly. “Can I get you anything? We’ve only just put our order in; I can add to it. What would you like?”

  Collins felt a clammy desperation sweep over him. So few truly worthwhile women like Moira in the world, so many Philip Hamiltons on the make… what hope was there for a man like himself?

  “Thanks,” answered Moira, getting up, “but I’ve already had my lunch, and I have to dash.” She slid the chair back into place, looking at Collins as she spoke. “I guess I’ll see you back at the office.”

  “Yes,” he replied, watching her full red lips, “back at the office.”

  The two men watched her walk away, her short black coat allowing them a good look at her long, shapely legs.

  “God,” sighed Philip when she had gone, “she’s a stunner, and no mistake. What I couldn’t do with a bit of that.”

  “Get your mind out of the gutter, Hamilton,” snapped Collins.

  “Temper, Wilfred?” wondered Philip, raising his glass to his friend. “You do surprise me.”

  Feeling he had overstepped himself somewhat, Collins apologized and took a long drink of his ale. “Now then, what was it you wanted to ask me?”

  After lunch, Collins once more secluded himself in his office, where he spent several hours correcting copy for the upcoming issue which was due to go to press shortly. Another meeting intervened, and then it was teatime. Consequently, the workday was almost over before he was able to get back to his special project.

  Never mind, he told himself, another hour or two would be all he would need to put the project to bed. He worked away happily, putting the final touches on the official report he was preparing. When he finished, he slid the papers into a large cream-colored envelope, sealed it, and walked it down to the mailroom on the first floor; he stayed to watch while the envelope was weighed and stamped and placed in the outgoing bag.

  Returning to his office, he gathered up his source materials and placed them in the wall safe where he kept especially valuable papers: client dossiers, the odd priceless document, and precious old books on loan. Next, he turned to tidying his desk, scraping all the loose papers into a heap, which he began to sort for filing.

  He heard his colleagues in the corridor as they locked their offices and headed home; one or two of them put their heads through to wish him a good night. Yes, he thought, it was a good night.

  Feeling rather pleased with himself, he decided to celebrate with a nice hot curry from his neighborhood take-away. He’d pick it up on the way home. That decided, he pulled a large manila file folder from the drawer, and bunged a stack of archive papers into it. He had just begun to fill out the label when he heard someone in the corridor outside his office.

  Glancing up, he saw a shape in the frosted glass door. The figure hesitated. “Come in,” he called.

  The visitor opened the door and stepped into the room. “I thought I didn’t see you leave with the others.”

  “Moira,” he said, rising. “I — um, should have thought you’d gone ages ago.”

  “I like to put in a full day,” she replied, looking around the office. “What a lovely room. You must have the best office in the building.”

  “The managing director might disagree with you,” he replied, “but this suits me.”

  “Your view is nice,” she said, walking to the window. She looked out for a moment, and then turned her back to the lights of the city. “They told me you were working on something very hush-hush.”

  “Me?” asked Collins. “Why, no. Not at all — that is, not very. Who told you?”

  “Philip,” she replied, leaning against the windowsill. She crossed her long legs and tugged at her skirt. The movement sent an involuntary pang of desire through him, and he decided to throw caution to the wind and ask her out for a drink. “He said you were the most knowledgeable member of the staff when it came to royal succession and such.”
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  “Our Philip has been known to exaggerate,” he replied lightly. “Nothing I do is terribly important to anyone, I’m afraid. These days it’s little more than a game for intellectuals with a penchant for whimsy.”

  She gave him a sly, seductive smile. “Oh, I’m sure it is much more important than that.” She stood, running her hands along her hips to straighten her skirt. “He also said you had a rather important project on at the moment and that you were becoming a little paranoid over it.”

  “He — he did?” Collins grew flustered.

  She took a step towards him. “Oh, yes.”

  He could smell her perfume now; and it filled his head like a musky, purple mist.

  “Well, one mustn’t believe everything one hears.” He laughed awkwardly. “Say, would you like to go for a drink?”

  “I will,” she said, stepping yet closer, “if you promise to tell me about your special project. I find all this top-secret work very exciting.”

  He edged away, backing into the desk. She stepped in close, almost touching him. He could feel the heat from her body radiating, enveloping him. Suddenly anxious, his hand fumbled on the desk behind him as he tried to remember exactly what documents he had left in her view.

  “What have you got there?” she asked, bending around him. Her breasts brushed his arm, and a quiver of desire coursed through him. Her perfume made him dizzy.

  “Nothing,” he said, putting his hand atop the file folder. “It’s nothing, really. Just some papers.”

  He looked at her, and the eyes he had found so seductive earlier now glimmered with a queer, malevolent light. “Why are you doing this to me?” he asked, his voice growing small as fear squeezed him.

  “To you?” She smiled, her lips curving away from her teeth. “It’s nothing personal, I assure you.”

  Seizing the folder, she pulled it from his grasp and stepped away. “On second thought, I won’t be having that drink,” she said and, turning on her heel, she strode quickly towards the door.

  “Wait!” he said weakly.

  “Go to hell, Mr. Collins.”

  A group of Chelsea football fans happened to be passing below. They had parked in one of the side streets nearby and were on their way to the stadium, hurrying to make the 7:00 kickoff. Their accounts to police varied slightly, but they all agreed it was the scream that had drawn their attention.

  There was an ear-piercing screech, so loud they thought it was a fire alarm. The next thing they heard was the sound of glass shattering, and they looked to the upper floor of the building they were passing to see a body flying through the air.

  Did he jump? the police wanted to know.

  They shook their heads.

  Was he thrown?

  The witnesses looked at one another. No, they said, it was more like he was shot from a cannon.

  The eldest of the young men described it, saying, “He just came flying out the window, yeah? Glass and everything — it just exploded like. And the geezer was screaming all the way down.”

  “Until he hit them spears,” put in his younger brother, pointing to the wrought-iron railing. “He wasn’t screaming no more then.”

  Did they see anyone leaving the building? Anything suspicious at all?

  No, the Chelsea supporters replied, nothing at all.

  “Look, can we go now?” asked the eldest of the group, a young man named Darren. “We’ve already missed the start.”

  “In a moment,” replied the PC. “The Chief Inspector is on his way. He’ll want to ask you some questions. Won’t take a minute.”

  “Where is he then? Let’s get on with it.”

  “He’s on his way, Sunshine. What’s your hurry?”

  “These tickets ain’t cheap, you know. We’ll miss the whole bloody match.”

  While they waited, the area in front of the Royal Heritage Preservation Society was cordoned off with yellow-and-black-striped plastic tape, portable lights were brought in to illuminate the scene, and a tent was constructed over the body impaled on the railings. A crowd of detectives and scene-of-crimes officers swarmed over the front lawn, combing every blade of grass.

  Eventually, the Chief Inspector showed up, and asked to see the witnesses. He had just begun taking down their names and addresses, when a black, chauffeur-driven Jaguar pulled up, having been allowed through the police barrier at the end of the road. A police constable met the car and, after a brief word with the occupants, opened the rear door and pointed across to Chief Inspector Kirkland.

  The witnesses watched as a tall, immaculately dressed whitehaired man emerged from the car and strode directly towards them. He greeted the Chief Inspector by name and asked, “May I see the body, please?”

  Chief Inspector Kirkland hesitated, then said, “Sure, I suppose it won’t hurt anything. I’d appreciate anything you can tell me, Mr. Embries.”

  The football supporters whined as they watched the two men walk together to the tent which now covered the corpse of the poor wretch who had jumped. The old man was inside only a few seconds, and came out again. They exchanged a few words, shook hands, and then the whitehaired gent returned to his car.

  As he was driven off, the witnesses caught a glimpse of his face in the police floodlights, and were struck by the fierce, almost fiery intensity of his pale gaze. Then the Chief Inspector hollered for a PC to finish taking down their particulars, and they were at last sent on their way.

  Eighteen

  Hoping to catch Jenny at the studio, James drove up to the pottery to find her. He crossed the bridge and started up the winding road, the steep hillside dark against a brilliant burgundy and orange sunset. The high tops of the hills were wearing a light dusting of snow — so it looked like another good year shaping up for the Braemar ski center. If it proved anything like last year’s bumper season, the small businesses of the area — like Jenny’s pottery factory — would do a healthy trade.

  The JEJ monogram on a piece of pottery was becoming recognized as something special to those in the know. Since starting out in her father’s garage, Jenny had steadily built up a sizable business known as Glenderry Pottery, which now occupied the building she designed and built in the so-named glen high above little Derry Burn.

  These days, the works employed four other people — two potters, and two dogsbodies to help with making clay, mixing glazes, shipping and so forth — and enjoyed a mostly seasonal trade, with customers traipsing all the way from Scandinavia, France, and Germany to buy bowls and goblets, platters, planters, covered cheese boards, teapots and mugs — all with the distinctive brown-flecked heather, white, and blue glaze of Jenny’s devising.

  The small car park was empty, and he thought he had missed her; but as he pulled around the side of the building, he saw her car, and a light on at the back. He got out and stretched. He’d slept most of the day, and he was feeling groggy and shell-shocked from all that had gone before. He took a deep breath, drawing the clean, cold air deep into his lungs.

  Nothing ventured, nothing gained, he thought, and walked to the side door.

  “Jenny?” he called, pushing the door open.

  Stepping quickly into the darkened studio, he stood for a moment and was about to call again when he heard voices coming from among the drying racks at the rear. He walked towards the sound and met Jenny as she came around the corner with a tray of greenware mugs ready for firing.

  “Here,” he said, “let me help you with those.”

  “James!” she said, her smile fading. “You gave me a start.”

  “I hollered just now,” he said, “but you didn’t hear me.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I came to see you.” He reached out to take the tray from her, but she shrugged him aside and hoisted it up onto the rack herself.

  “You should have called first.”

  “Sorry, I didn’t think —”

  Just then someone called out from the rack behind them. “Hey, Jen, why don’t we drive over to Aberdeen for dinn
er tonight? I know this great little Thai place with fantastic lemon chicken. You’d love —”

  James turned as Charles emerged from the racks with a tray of mugs in his hands. “Well, look who’s here,” he said.

  “I didn’t know you had company,” James said under his breath.

  “Here, make yourself useful.” Charles handed the tray to James to stack, and placed his hands on Jennifer’s shoulders. “Do you like Thai food, Jim? Fragrant rice, and all that?”

  “It’s James,” replied James stiffly. “Uh, no, you two go ahead. Something’s come up. I just wanted to talk to Jenny a minute.”

  “Talk away,” said Charles expansively. He made no move but stood looking on benignly, his hands kneading Jenny’s shoulders.

  “Look, maybe I’d better call you later,” said James.

  “Yes, maybe that would be best,” Jennifer replied crisply.

  James stepped towards the door, feeling awkward and unhappy. “Good to see you again — um, James,” Charles called as he closed the door behind him.

  Outside, James was overcome with jealous resentment. More than that, however, he kicked himself for taking Jenny’s affections for granted, assuming she would always be there for him when he wanted her. With a sick feeling in his gut, he glimpsed the possibility — no, the probability — that the train had left the station, and he wasn’t on it. He had no one to blame but himself.

  He walked to his car and climbed in. Then he sat waiting, wondering, wishing he hadn’t been such a blind and selfish idiot. After a few minutes, the light at the back of the studio switched off, and James drove away, lest he be found spying on the couple when they came out. He drove back to Braemar and stopped at the Pipe & Drum for a quick pint before heading home. It was a typical Monday night, however, and the pub was nearly empty. He took a few sips, then reflected that drinking alone was a sad, lonely thing to do, paid up and headed back to the lodge.