The Camelot Caper (14 page)

“I know.”

For another mile they proceeded in line, the blue car a discreet distance behind the Jaguar. Then, as they rounded a curve and saw a long straight stretch ahead, free of other vehicles, the blue convertible made its move. It pulled out, and came up alongside. For several long seconds it hovered there. David increased his speed; so did the pursuers. There was a discordant note now in the Jaguar's smooth purr; something had been jarred by the rough handling, and it no longer responded so well. David lifted his foot, and the blue car moved ahead. In the distance Jess saw another car coming toward them, and the tightness in her throat slackened a trifle. Surely they wouldn't try anything now, with witnesses approaching….

At first she thought the other driver had come to the same conclusion, for the blue car continued to pull ahead. She heard nothing over the
roar of the motor and the rush of air; but all at once a neat little round hole appeared in the windshield, and David let out a startled exclamation. His foot went automatically to the brake, and just in time; a second shot must have hit one of the tires, for there was a loud report, and the car bucked and jolted to a stop.

David had just enough time to pull off the road. The blue convertible vanished around a curve, and the oncoming car, a small Austin, stopped in response to David's wave.

 

They spent the night in a field near Barnstaple. The Jaguar was one of the newer models, with a back seat, but neither of them slept well; Jess kept banging her head on the steering wheel, and David had to be extracted from the back by main force. It took five minutes of steady exercise to untwist him, and a hearty breakfast at Barnstaple's best hotel to restore his powers of speech.

“I'm sorry,” he said, eyeing Jess's black-rimmed eyes and drooping mouth. “But from now on I'm taking no chances. Not with boys who carry guns.”

“I'd almost begun to think they didn't intend to harm us.”

“They didn't have to while we were trotting
after them like good dogs. The shooting episode proves that we were right. They don't want us to go to Cornwall.”

“We're going the long way around, at any rate,” Jess said disagreeably.

“And we will continue to do so. I told you, I'm taking no chances.”

“Oh, David, don't pretend. They don't have to chase us. They know where we're going. All they need to do is—wait.”

David said nothing. There was nothing he could say. She was absolutely right.

 

They reached St. Ives in the middle of the afternoon. Jess, who knew the Cape Cod region well, realized why the Cornish immigrants had chosen to settle there, naming the new towns after the ones they had left behind—Truro, and Falmouth, and Plymouth. The scenery had a picture-postcard quality, with white beaches, and white gulls over pounding surf, and rocky cliffs sown with wildflowers. St. Ives had been a fishing town before the trippers took it over; it still huddled around its lovely harbor, with its little blue-and yellow-and salmon-trimmed cottages clinging to the sloping cobbled streets.

They had to stop in the town to ask for the Tregarth place, and they were directed back and
up, on a road that looped across the cliff and then followed a wood-lined hollow toward the top of the plateau. David crawled along at about twenty; now that they had almost reached their destination, with no sign of the enemy, they were both convinced they would find a neat ambush waiting for them. There was enough traffic to relieve their minds, but when they reached the turnoff to the house, David came to a dead halt.

Heavy wrought-iron gates, rusted and sagging, filled the only gap in a high stone wall that seemed to run along for miles on either side. Two immense fir trees leaned over the gate, and cast a heavy shadow. There was no one in sight, but there was enough underbrush to conceal an army.

David took one look and put the car into reverse.

“What are you doing?” Jess asked. “This is the place.”

“I'm taking you back to town.”

“And coming back alone? Oh, no, you're not.”

“Jess, we're asking for it—in spades.”

“The gate isn't locked.”

“That makes me even more suspicious. It's too inviting.”

“I'm going to open them for you.”

“No, you aren't. If anyone gets out of this car, it will be I.”

“That's ridiculous. You can cover me better than I can cover you. Anyhow, they're less apt to shoot me.”

David yelled and grabbed for her, but he was too slow. She moved quickly, to cover up the fact that she didn't feel as brave as she sounded; the back of her neck prickled when she left the doubtful protection of the car. The gate was heavy, but it moved; it took her only a few seconds to get it back far enough for the car to pass through.

The winding drive had been impressive, twenty or thirty years before. Now it was pitted with holes and overgrown with weeds which had been kept down below jungle size only by the passage of occasional cars over them. The trees lining the drive had not been pruned for decades; the vaulted branches had sagged and put out green tentacles which clawed at the roof and sides of the car. It was dark under the tunnel of foliage, dark and damp and very still. David wrestled with the wheel, trying to avoid the worst ruts.

“You know something?” Jess said slowly. “We won't be able to get away in a hurry. If we need to.”

David started to reply, but the words caught in his throat. They had emerged too suddenly, out of the overgrown tunnel of the drive, and the house lay before them.

The road had been a tattered ruin of a road; this was the ghost of what had once been a manor house. Built of stone, with a wide, elegant façade, it had towers on each corner and crenellations across the front. Architecturally it was not so much a nightmare as a rather vulgar joke. The towers had no business on a Georgian front, and the crenellations were pure fantasy. It was an explicit statement in stone of the old cliché, “I don't know much about art, but I know what I like”; and Jess, who had a hidden weakness for vulgarity herself, thought she would have enjoyed the house in its original state. But now the joke had gone sour. The humor had vanished and left only the vulgarity. Smeared with lichen and tattered ivy, its windows dull and its shrubbery overgrown, the house brooded sullenly like a neurotic urchin with a dirty face.

David had let the car jolt to a stop in the middle of a cleared space which had once been a circular carriage drive. He made a brief, pungent one-word comment.

If one could ignore the house, the prospect
was magnificent. The site had been chosen to command a view for miles across the high upland and out toward the sea. In the distance the roofs of another house were visible, half hidden by trees; the land in between and all around was uncultivated parkland which had been let fall into ragged pasturage. From where they sat they could not see the ocean, but they could hear it crashing on the rocks far below. Jess imagined that the view from the tower windows must be splendid. She said aloud, “Let's get out of here. Forget the whole thing.”

“Too late. I'm captivated. I must see more.”

“No ambush, David. Not yet.”

“It's probably inside the house.” David put the car in gear and they rolled across the remaining space up to the front steps. “Let's go and get it over with.”

There was no doorbell, only a huge iron knocker in the shape of a short sword or dagger. The same symbol appeared above the door, set in a frame of scrolled stone. Jess looked at her companion. He gave her a shrug and an odd little half-smile. Then, bowing slightly, he indicated the knocker. Jess lifted it and let it fall.

S
he had expected to hear a reverberating echo dying hollowly away in the unseen interior. Too many thrillers, she told herself. The knocker produced a dull thunk, with no echoes at all. She banged it again.

“Do you suppose no one is home?” she asked hopefully.

“Dunno. I don't see the car, but it might be garaged. Try again.”

Jessica tried again, several times. She was listening for the sound of approaching footsteps, but realized that this was absurd; the door looked heavy enough to cut off any sound from within. When it did swing open, she had no warning, and her upraised hand looked for a moment as if it were aimed at the nose of the man who had opened the door.

“Here, now,” he said, raising his own hand as if to block a blow. Then a charming smile spread across his all-too familiar countenance.

“So you've finally arrived! No, you mustn't tell me; I'm sure you are—you can only be—my little long-lost cousin from the States. Dear Jessie: I may call you Jessie, mayn't I?”

Jess stepped back just in time to avoid a fraternal embrace, and the man's blue eyes narrowed in amusement. He was very little changed. The mustache had vanished, of course, and the hair was now flaxen, with the lusterless look which sometimes follows the hasty removal of hair coloring.

“You look better without the mustache,” Jess said.

“I'm sure I do,” her cousin said smoothly. “That's why I've never cultivated one.”

“Splendid,” David said approvingly. “Where did you get your experience? O.U.D.S.? Or the local dramatic society? That slight pause of surprise, and then the quick comeback, as they say in the States….”

Cousin John drew himself up. He was of medium height; he wore an old shirt open at the neck under an out-at-elbows blazer; but as he examined David down the length of his elegantly chiseled nose, he was every inch the aristocrat viewing the canaille through a quizzing glass.

“I don't believe I've had the pleasure, Mr.——er?”

Jess fancied she was supposed to perform the introductions, but she was too flabbergasted by the sheer gall of the performance. While she hesitated, David took the problem out of her hands, snatching the other man's reluctant fingers and shaking them vigorously.

“David Randall. At long last I have the pleasure of meeting you formally, Cousin John. I may call you Cousin John, mayn't I? After all, we'll soon be related. Just call me Cousin David.”

Cousin John's eyebrow lifted.

“You two are—engaged?”

David nodded bashfully.

“Isn't that just marvelous?” said Cousin John sweetly. “So you've brought your young man along to meet the family, have you, Jess? Well, well. But why are we all standing on the doorstep? Do come in; we must have a drink of something to celebrate.”

He burbles, Jess thought wildly. Like the Jabberwock—was it that charming monster that burbled? Cousin John produced the same effect—menacing and ridiculous at the same time.

The hall was pitch-dark after the sunlit day; Jess banged her shins on something low and heavy. From somewhere in the nearby gloom she heard a muffled curse from David, and sur
mised that he had also encountered a piece of furniture.

“Devilish place,” said her cousin's cheery voice. “No windows. Come on into the parlor,” he chuckled. Grinding her teeth at the implications, Jess stumbled after him. Then a flood of daylight poured into the room as the heavy drapes were pulled back.

Jess understood, she thought, why they kept the drapes closed. If this was the main parlor, or drawing room, or whatever it was called, it looked best in a thick twilight. The interior of the house had the same air of decay which characterized the exterior, a neglect that suggested not so much lack of money as indifference. The furniture had never been particularly good, and now the upholstery was frayed and the wood was scratched. A thick coating of dust covered almost every object except the instrument that stood in one corner. In shocking contrast to the rest of the room, it looked like immaculately tended rosewood, and it was shaped like a miniature grand piano.

Cousin John followed her gaze, and misinterpreted her surprise.

“It's a harpsichord,” he said kindly. “A precursor of the piano.”

“Cool, man,” said Jessica, giving him an
equally kindly smile. “Like, Wanda Landowska.”

For a moment his fair skin flushed. Then the smirk broadened into the first genuine smile she had seen on his face, and in spite of herself she found it attractive.

“
Touché
, fair cousin. Right through the liver and lights. Do you play?”

“No. I gather you do?”

“A bit,” said Cousin John modestly.

David, who couldn't stand being left out of a conversation, spoke up.

“Mind if I open the other curtains? Still a trifle dim in here.”

“Not at all. Silly to cling to these old customs, but…” He shrugged. “One does. Wouldn't want the neighbors to think we were lacking in respect.”

David, his hand on the drapes, turned slowly. Jess knew, even before she asked the question, what the response would be.

“Respect for what?”

Cousin John's big blue eyes widened.

“Why,” he said gently, “for the dead.”

 

As soon as he had left the room, Jess and David flew together like metal onto a magnet. They stood hissing into one another's faces, like characters out of a television serial.

“It's him, all right.”

“It certainly is he.”

Jess ignored the snub.

“And he's dead!”

“Not the same he, I see. But equally correct.”

“Now what do we do?”

“Where did you hide the ring?”

“I'm certainly not going to tell you here.”

“For God's sake, do you think he's got the room bugged?”

“For all I know, he can hear through walls.”

“He looks it,” David agreed gloomily.

“Why did you tell them we're engaged?”

“Can't you stick to one subject?”

“No. I'm awfully confused. Why did you?”

“We've got to have a talk. The plot is so thick it feels like treacle.”

“You don't think they killed him?”

“Who? Oh, I shouldn't think so.”

“Why did you tell them we're engaged?”

“To keep him from tossing me out of here, you idiot. Why did you think?”

The were glaring at each other, faces only inches apart, when Cousin John returned, on little cat feet. Jess jumped when he said gaily, “I do hope I'm not interrupting anything.”

“Not at all,” David said, lowering the hands which had been hovering near Jess's throat.

“Good, good.” Cousin John gave them a look of bright-eyed malice. “If I didn't know better, I'd have thought you were having a jolly little lovers' quarrel. Shows how things can be misinterpreted…. Jessie, I know it's a bit early for stimulants, but I thought you could do with some sherry. You didn't know the dear old man, of course, but still, you looked a bit shocked.”

Physically Cousin John might not be a formidable opponent, but verbally he was an adversary to be reckoned with, a D'Artagnan of the
mot juste
. Jess didn't even try to counter the most recent thrusts.

She had taken a seat with her back to the door, and now she learned where her cousin had inherited his silent walk. She did not see the new arrival until after the rising of the two men told her that someone else had entered the room.

“Well, Mother, here she is at last,” said Cousin John. “A bit late, but…”

“Aunt—Guinevere,” Jess said. The name did not come easily to her lips.

It was clear that her aunt did not mean to give her even the formal cheek-rubbing embrace appropriate to relatives. She shook hands, firmly but without warmth, and nodded brusquely at David. Then she sat down, accepted a glass of
sherry, and stared at Jess, who returned the look with interest.

At first she thought that the reason why her aunt's face looked hauntingly familiar was because of a family resemblance; but as she inspected the hard features she found no trace of her father, or of Cousin John, who resembled his uncle more than he did any other relative. Aunt Guinevere had once been a handsome woman, but she had never been pretty; her good looks were masculine, the prominence of her features being accentuated by gray-streaked hair pulled back from her face and twisted into a bun on her neck. She wore a dark, simply cut dress. A stranger might easily have mistaken her for the housekeeper, and it was this word that gave Jess the clue. Aunt Guinevere looked just like the wicked housekeepers in half the Gothic novels Jess had read. From David's fascinated stare, she gathered that he felt the same.

She scowled at him, and he closed his mouth with a snap and took a sip of sherry. His expression changed, and he looked at the amber liquid with respect.

“Marvelous stuff, isn't it,” Cousin John said. “The old gentleman was a connoisseur. Unfortunately. That's where a good half of his income went, on wine. The other half was devoted to
his digging. So you see, old man, if you're marrying Jessie for her money you're going to be sadly deceived.”

David's eyes brightened, and he returned a counterthrust.

“That is a blow. Sorry, darling, but I'll have to return your ring.”

“Ring?” said Cousin John involuntarily.

“Yes, rather a sentimental touch, I thought. Old family heirloom.” David divided a smile impartially among the audience. Aunt Guinevere didn't turn a hair and Cousin John, game to the core, recovered himself.

“Jessie, dear, you haven't given away Grand-papa's ring? I suspect, you know, that he had other plans for it.”

“What, for instance?” David asked.

“Oh, well.” Cousin John looked vague. “One would have to wait for the reading of the will, wouldn't one? Do take good care of it, David. Just in case Grandfather had some last dying wish….”

“As a matter of fact, I've come near losing it several times,” David said casually. “Someone else seems to want it.”

He sat back, and tried to raise one eyebrow. Both of them went up. Cousin John, scarcely bothering to conceal his amusement, raised his
eyebrow. It slid up as if it had been oiled, while the other brow remained motionless.

“Really?”

“Yes, really. Oddly enough, the chap who twice tried to steal it looked amazingly like you.”

This bombshell fell flat on the ground and failed to explode.

“Fascinating, these chance resemblances,” said Cousin John.

Aunt Guinevere stirred and spoke.

“Johnny has barely left the house this past week,” she intoned. “So concerned about his grandfather, the dear boy…”

 

Jess stood against the door of the tower room. Her back was pressed against the wooden panels, and her palms were damp with perspiration.

“All it needs is a few more cobwebs,” she said aloud, and let out a stifled shriek as the door moved.

It opened despite her efforts and David's head appeared. He stepped in and closed the door.

“You shouldn't be here,” Jess said, recovering herself. “The proprieties, you know.”

“Yes, I observed that they've put me at the opposite end of the house. However, I doubt that it's the proprieties that they're thinking of.”

David gave the gaunt, shabby room a comprehensive survey and let out a soft whistle.

“Cousin John must have worked hard to get this effect.”

“It's got hangings,” Jess said, gesturing toward the bed. “There must be armies of spiders in there!”

“That would be Aunt Guinevere's contribution. Probably spent all of yesterday catching them. I can see her now, leaping through the tall grasses, her spider net outstretched…”

“You're beginning to sound like Cousin John.”

“I know. Damn the fellow.”

“David, I really do want to get out of this place.”

David walked gingerly across the floor to the window. In a different room it might have been a charming window; it was curved, to fit the shape of the wall, and under it was a deep window seat. But it was curtainless, and the panes were cracked, and when David put his knee on the cushions of the seat a cloud of dust billowed up from the faded chintz.

“Awk,” he remarked, coughing. “Jess, don't do any star-gazing, will you?”

Jess joined him at the window. She knew why he had trodden lightly; the floorboards were
quite solid, but somehow they managed to look as if they might collapse at the slightest pressure. She looked out the window, and straight on down, down without a break to the hard flagstones of a weedy terrace sixty feet below.

“David,” she repeated. “I really do want—”

“I sympathize. But in all decency you can't leave before the funeral, and I expect you'll have to be present when the will is read. If we don't get a clue from that, and from what I can worm out of Cousin John—”

“What about his little alibi?”

“Balderdash. Aunt Guinevere's one of those doting mums who'd alibi him if he'd murdered eight little maidens and heaved them off the cliff into the sea.”

“Six little maidens.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“‘Six little maidens you've drown-ded here, go keep them co-om-pany,'” Jess sang.

“Oh. So that's what I was thinking of. Wonder why.”

“Because he's just that type.” Jess sat down on the dusty cushions, fascinated by this new discovery. “‘Take off, take off your golden gown, take off your gown,' said he; ‘for though I am going to murder you, I could not spoil your fi-i-nery.' That's very clever of you, David.”

“You have the most splendidly undisciplined mind.” David sat down next to her. “Can't you concentrate on anything? I mean, the character of the villain is doubtless of interest, but—”