Our Man in Camelot (3 page)

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?”

“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.”

The wife looked uncertainly at her husband, then at her daughter. The child was hanging out of the car window staring round-eyed at Shirley. As well she might, thought Mosby: Ozymandias himself had nothing on Shirley, with the sculptor not born who could read those passions and the ice-cold heart that fed them.

Mosby grabbed the moment of uncertainty. “We surely can—nothing easier. It’ud be a pleasure.” He swung towards the man. “Besides, if I know anything about the local garage they’re not going to have anyone to send down here straightaway, it’ll be more like tomorrow morning. And you sure as hell don’t have to worry about leaving the car down here, because no one’s going to drive it away.”

“Well…” The man paused diffidently “… it’s most awfully kind of you—“

“—it really is,” echoed the wife gratefully. “I don’t know what we should have done.”

“Not at all. There’s plenty of room, and like my wife says, it’s right there on our way. No trouble at all.” The fish was hooked: now was the moment to make sure it didn’t escape. He grinned at them both, playing out his assigned role to the last syllable. “Come to that, I reckon you’d be doing us a good turn. We haven’t said a word to anyone since we’ve been down here but ‘good morning’ and ‘thank you’ and we’re beginning to feel kind of cut off from society.”

“Isn’t that the truth!” exclaimed Shirley. “It’s been almost as bad as when we got stuck in that village in the middle of nowhere in Spain, and there wasn’t one single breathing person who spoke one word of English. I got so tired of my single Spanish phrase—
Hay alguien que hable ingles
?—and the answer was always
No
, which is the same in Spanish as it is in English.
Muchas gracias
and
adios
, that’s how I felt.”

Mosby gave the man a meaningful look, almost a pleading one, and received a guarded flicker of sympathy in return. So Harry’s psychology had been right on the button: the moment of gratitude was also the most vulnerable one.
Remember what the Good Samaritan probably said to the guy as he rolled on the bandages:
“
Going down to Jericho, eh? Say, maybe you could give me an introduction to the Chamber of Commerce there
?”

“I’m afraid we do tend to be rather stand-offish as a people,” admitted the wife apologetically, in an attempt to fill the awkward silence. “It’s a national defect, you know.”

“I think the language has a lot to answer for,” Mosby grinned at her. “I’ll never forget Shirley’s face when the milkman said he was going to knock her up on Sunday morning. And all he wanted to do was settle the week’s bill, but she thought—“

“That’ll do, honey,” Shirley cut in quickly, frowning at him. “I’m sure these good people would rather be on their way home than hear about how I pay the milkman—“

Mosby caught the Englishman’s eye again, saw that the double-entendre had registered, and burst out laughing, “Oh, God, honey—how you pay the milkman—!”

Shirley sighed helplessly as she turned back to the English couple. “You have to forgive my husband… There are times when he’s just not fit for decent company.”

This time the Englishwoman laughed. “I have just the same trouble with my husband. It’s the nature of the male animal—‘Slugs and snails and—‘ “

“‘Puppy-dogs’ tails’”, supplemented her daughter. “ ‘That’s what boys is made of.’”

That’s right!” Shirley’s good humour returned with the discovery of well-informed allies. “And you are made of sugar and spice and all things nice, I can see that right away. And what’s your name, honey?”

“Cathy.” The little girl extended a small, dirty hand.

“Cathy. Why, that’s a lovely name—aren’t you lucky!” Shirley shook the hand formally before turning again to the mother. “And I’m Shirley—Shirley Sheldon. And this is my husband, Mose.”

“Mosby,” corrected Mosby quickly, bitter for the ten millionth time that he had never been able to escape that hideous diminutive.

“Mosby,” echoed Shirley, flashing him a malicious smile. “Mosby Singleton Sheldon the Third—he doesn’t like anyone to get the idea that ‘Mose’ is short for ‘Moses’ but he still answers to it if I smile nicely.”

The Englishwoman smiled. “Well, I’m Faith Audley, and this is my husband David.”

“Hi, David,” said Shirley.

“Hullo.” Audley nodded to Mosby. “It’s very kind of you to come to our rescue, Mr Sheldon.”

Smiles all round, ice broken, small talk in the afternoon sunshine: Hi, David—call me Shirley… Hi, Faith—call me Mosby.

Meet your friendly neighbours from the CIA.

They rode in silence for a few moments, while Mosby manoeuvred the big car round the worst of the pot-holes to reach the beginning of the track. But silence was okay at this point; the hook was well and truly fixed, only the fish was a big one and needed careful handling still or it might break the line and get clear away. This was the time to let a sense of obligation and good manners combine to override that self-confessed national defect and force one of them to make the running.

“Mosby?” Naturally it was Faith who spoke first. “That’s an unusual Christian name—obviously a family name.”

“Yes, ma’am. At least, it’s become one.”

Shirley gave a short laugh, half derisive and half affectionate. “Actually it’s a piece of genuine American history. But you’ll never have heard of the original Mosby, I’ll bet.”

She was good, she was real good, thought Mosby with admiration. Good and quick to turn an opportunity into an opening the subject would find irresistible. Even that last ‘I’ll bet’ was a shrewd piece of psychology aimed at the target.