The Once and Future Con (Nick Madrid)

by Peter Guttridge

  I sighed. The bones could have been anybody's. I went back up into the chapel and when I left walked the short distance to the flooded river. I looked to the east. The oars from the rowing boat were, I noticed, still lying on the grass. I looked over at the boathouse.

  When I walked back up to the house I bumped into Genevra and Bridget. Genevra was wearing an anorak with its hood up. Bridget was dressed like a Country Life catalog. She had on a long waxed jacket that reached down below her polished, green wellingtons and a waxed hat that looked as if it should have corks hanging down from it. She was carrying a walking stick. She also had on some giant hoop earrings and full makeup, although her mascara had run.

  She had a fixed smile on her face. Uh-oh.

  "Just been showing Bridget the estate," Genevra said. "The heavens opened-good job we were prepared for it."

  "Nick!" Rex called. I looked over to the big, old barn. He was standing in its doorway. He waved me over. "Come and meet Mort Darthur. You guys, too."

  "That irritating little prick," Genevra muttered. "Not bloody likely. I should have a bath instead if I were you, Bridget. See you later, Nick."

  "Mort Darthur?" I said as I reached Rex.

  "A pun on Malory," Rex said, raising an eyebrow. "He's a court jester. Leads a bunch of travelling players. We're going to be using them on various projects around the theme park. I thought you might like to meet him and check out the banqueting hall."

  He led the way into the barn.

  "Wow," I said.

  It was the size of a small cathedral. Broad rafters, vast timber struts, and cross beams held everything in place. The walls had been decorated with large shields and painted pennants. More shields hung from the upright timbers. Long trestle tables were stacked neatly against one wall. At the far end, on a raised dais, was a gilt throne. Someone was sitting on it. Buckhalter stood beside this person, a towering presence.

  "We're ready to run with this whenever," Rex said as we walked down the barn toward the throne. "The kitchens are set up, lavatories provided, and so on. We can do banquets here. We can also do jousts down the middle while people eat at the sides."

  The guy on the throne was tiny, his feet not touching the floor. He had a pair of red-rimmed glasses and a blond fringe. He looked like Brains from that old puppet thing on the TV. He was wearing a doublet and bright yellow hose, which put him a few centuries out. He stood up. It didn't make him any taller.

  Rex did the introductions.

  "Another one of your university chums?" Mort said.

  "Sort of," Rex murmured.

  "University of Life, me, mate," Mort said, though I wish he hadn't. "With a First in the Bleeding Obvious."

  He suddenly plunged his hand down into his codpiece and brought out a business card then held it out for me.

  "Thanks," I said, taking it by one corner.

  "Whatever you want, we can do," Mort said. "Ronan, Saxon, medieval banquets, jousts. We can provide you with wenches, musicians-he shook his if you will. The full service."

  "Mort was just suggesting that for our spring promotion we have Guinevere riding naked through the streets," Rex said.

  "Wasn't that Lady Godiva?" I said.

  "It's all history, isn't it?" Mort said. I groaned. Not another one. "Then there's the let-them-eat-cake bit."

  "But that was Marie Antoinette!"

  "So? We haven't had that many queens so we've got to pool what we know about queendom-queendomness?"

  "Queenliness."

  "Queenliness." He sniffed. "Nobody likes a clever dick, you know. Then we get Arthur burning the cakes. Or trying to make the sea turn back. Or getting an arrow in his eye."

  I started to speak.

  "Before you say it, we know that's Harold," Buckhalter said. "But it's all history."

  "I was going to say that it wasn't Harold, it's just that on the Bayeux tapestry his name is next to that bloke. In fact Harold is the one lying on the ground-"

  "So what?" Mort asked, giving me a filthy look.

  "I'm going to leave you to it," Rex said, clapping him on the shoulder. "Be seeing you." He turned to me. "Nick, walk with me."

  As we walked through the old barn he said: "Nick, I admire your integrity, I really do. And I understand your desire for historical authenticity. But unfortunately this world doesn't work that way. The bottom line is profit. I'm backed by some pretty serious heavy-hitters and they don't care about historical niceties. They see Stonehenge generating six million visitors a year, Glastonbury attracting almost two million. They want a slice."

  He pulled open the barn door.

  "I hear you ran into a couple of bits of trouble in the West Country." He glanced across at me. "I hope you're not linking that to this serial killer theory of yours."

  I shook my head. We started to cross towards the house, both of us leaning into the wind.

  "So do you have a profile of this guy?" he called.

  I shook my head.

  "It's just a theory," I called back. "One that I hope isn't true."

  "Me too, old stick. Me too."

  There was a bulky, bearded man in jeans and an anorak standing in the entrance hall talking to Nanny. Hanging down his back was a long, double-edged sword.

  "Oh, Rex," Nanny said. "There's an Uther Pendragon to see

  "Another one?" Rex said mildly.

  The man held out his hand.

  "Lord Wynn?" he said in a strong Birmingham accent.

  "Please call me Uther."

  "Pendragon-that's Cornish isn't it?" Nanny said as we walked into the drawing room.

  "I'm the father of King Arthur and a Knight of the Round Table," Pendragon said, his solemnity slightly undercut by the Brummy rasp.

  "Uther Pendragon may never have been Arthur's father, whatever Geoffrey of Monmouth says," I said. "Geoffrey probably misread Arthur unab utter-Arthur the Terrible-as Arthur, son of Uther."

  Pendragon gave me a fierce stare.

  "I've seen photographs of you with Excalibur but you look different," Rex said, smiling politely.

  Pendragon growled.

  "That's an impostor who has been going round for years claiming to be me. I am the real thing." He reached behind him and with both hands pulled his long sword up over his head then placed the point on the floor in front of him.

  "And this is Excalibur. I keep it always near."

  "Is it one of those made in Spain?" I asked.

  He gave me a baleful look.

  "This is the real Excalibur."

  "I would have thought King Arthur would be the one to keep it near."

  Uther looked slightly uncomfortable.

  "We take turns," he said, adding, after a moment, "It was mine first."

  "Of course it was. But how did you get it back from Sicily, I wonder?" Rex said silkily. "Or is that where Arthur has been sleeping all this time, as some stories suggest?"

  Pendragon frowned.

  "Sicily?"

  "Did you not know that Richard the Lionheart presented Tancred of Sicily with Excalibur when he visited Sicily on the way to the Third Crusade? He claimed it had been discovered in the grave of Arthur and Guinevere in Glastonbury along with their remains-the remains that we now have here."

  "Those remains are the reason for my visit. I come with a message from my King, Arthur of the Britons. He demands that you announce his so-called dead body to be a fake and that you give up your plans to open an Arthurian theme park here."

  "Let me get this straight-the man who claims he has been sleeping in a cave under a mountain for the past fifteen hundred years is calling my things fake. And what about you? Even supposing that were true of Arthur, where have you and the rest of the Round Table been kipping?"

  "I have been given the honorary title of Uther Pendragon just as my fellow knights have their honorary titles."

  "So what's your real name?"

  "I no longer answer to my real name. I have been reborn."

  "You must think the rest of us have just been
born, too," Rex said.

  "You'd be well advised to listen to Arthur's demands."

  "Or you'll try kidnapping again?" I said.

  Pendragon looked puzzled.

  "A group of your knights tried to kidnap Lord Wynn's sister, Genevra, two nights ago," I said. "Hardly a chivalrous thing to do."

  "By what name went these knights?"

  "The leader went by-was called Bedevere."

  He shook his head.

  "I didn't know and nor, I'm sure, did Arthur."

  Rex looked at his watch.

  "I believe you. And I'd love to chat some more, Uther, but there are a hundred and one things to do around here. Don't rush, though. Nanny will look after you. Nick?"

  As we left the room, leaving Pendragon awkwardly leaning on his sword, I heard Nanny saying: "Would you care for a glass of mead? I'm not sure what it is, but I think I have some I picked up in the National Trust shop in Wells."

  "A bit provoking to Uther, weren't you?" I said to Rex as he walked me over to the west wing of the house.

  "What am I supposed to do? I knew they were going to be trouble. This guy is claiming he is the returned Arthur-the last thing he wants is for Arthur's body to be found."

  "You can't think anyone's really going to believe he's Arthur Returned. People aren't stupid."

  "Thousands of people believe in these fake messiahs that have sprung up in recent months. And thousands believe crop circles are visitations from space despite all the evidence pointing to them being man-made. Fifteen million people in the UK read their stars every day. World-class organizations hire people partly on analysis of their hand writing and layout their offices along feng shui lines. Millions of people believe that Jesus Christ is the Son of God and that his mother was a virgin. So yes, I believe people are stupid enough or trusting enough or needy enough to believe virtually anything."

  We'd reached a set of double doors. He pressed a light switch then opened them.

  "And this will be our casino. The licence is being sorted."

  "When is this due to open?" I said.

  "Same time as the banqueting hall, though I anticipate the clientele will be different." He looked at me, seemed to be sizing me up. "I could do with some front-of-house help when all this starts."

  "Multi-tasking?"

  He grinned.

  "Right."

  I didn't mind. I quite fancied swishing about in a tuxedo pretending I was in a Bond movie.

  I left Rex shortly after and went along to Bridget's room.

  "Just coming!" she trilled in answer to my knock. Bridget trilling?

  "Oh, it's you," she said sourly when she opened the door.

  That was more like it.

  She'd got her dressing gown on. She walked across the room and poured herself a large vodka from a vacuum flask. She caught my look.

  "I'm bracing myself," she said. "I have to pass the Nanny test."

  "The what?"

  "You know these upper-class types-the only love they had as children was from their Nanny. She lives after retirement in the attic somewhere in the big house. Anyway, I've been invited to tea with her. Gennie tells me it's a sort of rite of passage-if she approves, I'm all but part of the family."

  "I've met her. Tell her you like sitting around in crypts and you'll be well away."

  I sat down.

  "Isn't all this a bit quick? Have you and Rex actually done it yet?"

  "Like rabbits. And you forget I've known him for years."

  "Well, after a fashion."

  "Besides, my biological clock is ticking -the alarm's just gone off in fact."

  "You mean children?"

  "I mean old age, you stupid git. If I leave it much longer I'm not going to be able to get anyone decent."

  "Is that what feminism is?"

  "No, but it's my understanding of post-feminism. We're officially allowed to covet frocks and lingerie and lipstick, then use our womanly wiles to get them."

  "The biological clock?" I repeated.

  "Absolutely-it's been telling me just how long I've been working."

  "How long?"

  "Too bloody long."

  The people at Glastonbury Abbey had told me that most of the ancient documents relating to the abbey were now housed at Wells Cathedral. Later that day I borrowed Genevra's Range Rover and drove into Wells. I parked in the cobbled square outside the entrance to the Bishop's Palace. The square was almost deserted, although there were a couple of middle-aged women going into the National Trust shop. I started to walk toward the entrance to the Bishop's Palace then changed my mind and swung past the NT shop toward Penniless Porch.

  Somebody coming in the other direction also seemed to have changed his mind. I was vaguely aware of a tall, thin man in a long, black coat and homburg turning back into the porch. When I reached it a hopeful traveller in a bedraggled duffel coat was sitting cross-legged on the marble seat playing an outof-tune guitar very badly. His dog, rope lead coiled around her, lay slumped at his feet. When the young man began to sing the dog gave a little yowl. I half expected it to put its paws over its ears, but it got to its feet and for a moment I was tangled in its rope lead.

  Even at this time of the year there was a score of people on the long, grassy area in front of the cathedral taking photographs of the tiers of monumental statues, each one in its own niche, on the magnificent western facade.

  At this time of day, between services, the cathedral was quiet, although still filled with that odd refraction of sound vast buildings generate: a vague background susurrus combined with the sharp immediacy of doors closing, wooden seats clattering, rubber-soled shoes squeaking on the waxed floors.

  That's how I became aware someone was following me. As I walked down the right-hand nave I was conscious of a squeak of shoes somewhere behind me. When I stopped before the sign in front of the library telling me that it was closed for the afternoon, the footsteps also stopped.

  Ordinarily I would have thought nothing of it-would not, indeed, have noticed it now had I not had my bad experience in Cornwall. I peered round the corner back down the aisle I had just walked up. Nothing except an old woman with a bunch of flowers at the very far end.

  I followed the aisle past the main altar to the Lady Chapel at the far east of the building. Again the footsteps. When I paused before the Lady Chapel, the footsteps stopped. I crossed the Lady Chapel and headed west back down the side aisle that ran parallel to the one I had just walked down.

  I walked quickly, my feet slapping loudly on the stone floor, then stepped sideways into a tiny chapel. I heard a pair of hurrying feet, then another. Two people wanting to run but unable to do so walking as fast as they were able. I shrank back against the wall, pressing my cheek to the cold marble of a large plaque.

  A boy and a girl in the uniform of the Wells Cathedral school scurried past. I breathed a sigh of relief until I heard in the silence the rubbery squeak of those familiar footsteps, patient and deliberate.

  I peeped into the aisle. Nobody in either direction. I went out into the aisle and came within a few yards to a sign for the Chapter House. The way lay through an old oak door. A sign on it said Private but I lifted the latch and went through, closing it carefully behind me. There was a worn flight of cream stone stairs in front of me leading to the bridge that connected the cathedral to its school. The walls were of light sandstone and the whole place seemed light and airy.

  I started up the flight of stairs. I had gone about twelve steps when I heard the door below me creak open. I dived into the Chapter House to my right. It was a circular room with a high roof. Nowhere to hide. I tiptoed across to a pillar beside the flight of steps and flattened myself behind it. I heard the squeak of shoes approaching. Then they stopped.

  I held my breath and listened intently. I was cursing myself for coming out of the public parts of the cathedral.

  After a couple of minutes I heard the door again. Somebody leaving or someone else coming in? I stayed where I was and continu
ed to listen. Nothing. I checked my watch and forced myself to stay where I was. For five minutes I heard nothing.

  Phew. I stepped out and started back down the stairs. A man was standing two steps below, his shoes in his left hand, a walking stick in his right.

  "Aagh!" I yelped.

  "Spare any money for a pint?" the white-haired, wild-eyed madman from the abbey ruins said.

  I sank down on the step behind me.

  "What the fuck do you think you're doing?" I said. "Why are you following me-" I gestured at his shoes "-in your stocking feet?"

  "So you wouldn't hear me," he replied in a puzzled voice.

  The wild look came into his eyes again.

  "You are manipulated," he said in a low, intense voice.

  "Story of my life," I said. "But okay-who's manipulating me?"

  "Who else but an Anti-Christ sprung from the wrestlings of incubus and nun?"

  I got to my feet.

  "Hey, is that the time? Gotta go. Great talking to you. It's good to know care in the community can chalk up another triumph."

  As I stepped past him he dropped his shoes and grabbed my sleeve.

  "Merlin, that old trickster," he hissed, spraying the side of my face with his spit. "Merlin the Duality."

  "Merlin's manipulating me." I pulled my sleeve free. "That's valuable information, thank you."

  I set off down the steps. He shouted after me: "Merlinus Sylvester, wild man of the woods, ran gelt mad from the din of battle when the heavens parted and voices struck him insane. He ran to live with the beasts, like Nebuchadnezzar-his nails became talons, his body grew feathers, he was sustained by grass and grubs."

  I turned back at the door.

  "Are you working from a script or is all this just off the top of your head?"

  He looked suddenly bewildered. I felt like a shit for mocking him. He really was another poor bastard with a screw loose and nobody to take care of him. Except that his high-flown language did sound like he was quoting and his Arthurian obsession was ...

  I watched him as he slumped onto a step and pulled on one of his shoes. His Arthurian obsession. Could he be the Camelot Killer? I dismissed the thought as quickly as I had it. If Askwith had been murdered I couldn't imagine this man doing it without anyone noticing him. And how would he have got to Oxford? He didn't look as if he had two shillings to rub together.