The Camelot Caper (20 page)

“Jess,” her cousin said again, in a conspiratorial whisper. “I want to—”

She had occasion, then, to be grateful for the horrid creak of the door. No other warning of the man's approach had been audible. The shriek of rusted hinges cut through Cousin John's speech like a knife, and he swiveled on his heels to stare at Freddie, framed by the open doorway, smiling like a tiger.

“Not through yet, Johnny?”

“Barely begun,” said Cousin John, in a voice that was almost steady. “Jessie needed to be reassured.”

“What a lovely job.” Freddie's flat black eyes
went over Jess with a clinical interest; she didn't know whether to blush or turn pale with fear. “Get on with it, then.”

His face again under control, John produced a pocketknife and cut away David's sweater and shirt from the wound. They had to soak the crusty, hardened linen from his shoulder, and the water in the pitcher was red when they finished.

“We'll need more water,” said John to his ally.

Freddie's mouth widened into an expression which could not, by any stretch of the imagination, be called a smile.

“Here,” he said, producing a bucket from outside the door.

This was almost the last word spoken.

To Jess's inexperienced eye the puffed, reddened skin around the bullet hole looked bad, and her cousin's silently pursed lips confirmed her fears. However, he proceeded to paint the area with some sort of antiseptic, and bandaged it quite skillfully.

“It's not too bad,” he said, avoiding her eyes. “Clean through, no bones broken. Don't try to get that arm into a shirt or jacket, just keep him covered.”

Jess said nothing. The presence of Freddie affected her the way a snake affects some people;
it paralyzed even her well-exercised vocal muscles. She was relieved when the pair left the room and the heavy door swung shut. She heard the rattle of keys and chains and bolts; then silence.

The day dragged interminably. The sunlight strengthened, and began to fade. Jess finally fell asleep, through sheer boredom; she awoke at the touch of David's hand, shocked and groggy; but her first glance at his face reassured her.

“You're feeling better.”

“Better than what?” David inquired disagreeably. “Damn it, I've slept like a hog and so have you. Time's awastin', as one of your national poets puts it.”

“You talk too much. I know you're feeling better. See what my dear coz left. How about a slug of cold tea?”

“I'd like a slug of whatever's in the bottle even more. Jess, what was Cousin J. about to say when you were interrupted by the advent of Freddie?”

“Were you awake?”

“Most of the time.” David gulped brandy and cold tea. “I needed that. False courage.”

“He started, at one point, to say something about tomorrow.”

David slumped back against the pillows she had arranged behind him.

“I rather think that should read ‘tonight.'”

“Why?”

“Because, whatever they mean to do, they'll need darkness in which to do it.”

Jess looked at him, and found him studiously contemplating the rough blanket and the shape of his lax hands which lay upon it. The implications were clear; nor were they new to her. In a way it was almost a relief to hear them spoken.

“It's getting dark now,” she said in a small voice; and her hand crept across the blanket to touch David's.

Both his hands closed over hers, in a quick movement that came close to unnerving her; but his need steadied her; she felt the fury of frustration that seethed beneath his calm.

“It's not very late,” he said. “Dark in this filthy hole, that's all.”

“Is there anything—anything at all—we can do?”

“We can talk.” David gave a sudden laugh; to her relief there was no bitterness in it. “I can always talk. Jess, the picture isn't all that black.”

“Then show me the little rays of sunshine. At the moment I can't see any.”

“Well, we still live, as one of the heroes of my youth kept monotonously repeating. If they
mean to do us in, they're wasting a lot of good brandy.”

“That's a small bright ray.” Jess slid down onto the floor and curled up, her head against the edge of the bed, her hand still warm in his. “Tell me more.”

“This isn't a fact, but it's a fairly solid hunch. Remember, I've had altercations with both of the boys, and believe me, there's no better way of evaluating a man's capacity for committing murder than fighting him. Freddie's a bad lot; he fights like a killer, with no scruples and no notion of fair play. John holds back. He doesn't like being hurt, and he doesn't like to deal it out. He could kill, if he had to; but only in a fit of rage, and it would take a hell of a lot to make him that angry. He's a civilized coward, like me.”

“You think Freddie wants to kill us, and John doesn't?”

“A number of subtle clues point to that conclusion. After all, Cousin John reads Tolkien. No man who does that can be wholly evil.”

“I question your reasons, but agree with the conclusion. I wonder which of the boys is going to win.”

“So do I,” David muttered. “I'd hate to be dependent on Freddie's goodwill.”

“Which of them is the boss?”

“Oh, John, most certainly.”

There was a pause, during which Jess noted, against her will, the grayness of the remaining light.

“Why?” she asked.

“He must be the instigator; it's his plot, and his property.”

The objection was clear to both of them: Cousin John might have instigated the scheme, but was he still in control of a more violent, less scrupulous, personality? Neither voiced the question; the rest of the conversation skirted delicately around it, as two people might circle a nasty patch of quicksand or smelly corpse.

“What about Aunt Guinevere? Does she know we're up here, freezing to death and starving and dying of thirst and—”

“Rotting? Sorry…I don't know. She must know of the original plot; but I can't see her approving of murder either. If that's any consolation.”

“No, it isn't. David, I still don't know what this is all about. What is the original plot?”

“But it's so obvious.”

“Only to a writer of Gothic thrillers.” Jess smiled at him. It was harder now to distinguish his features. The light was definitely failing.

“Well, maybe I'm mental. But I can't see what else it can be. Would you like a résumé? We've nothing else to do.”

“Except—wait.”

“Yes. Well,” David said quickly, “it all began with your grandfather's Arthurian mania—that, and the recent discoveries which have brought Camelot into the news. Plus a third event, which I can't actually prove, but which I postulate in order to fill an otherwise gaping hole in the motive.”

“Go on.”

“You told me, some days ago, about your grandfather's belief that the family was descended from Arthur. I didn't take it seriously, any more than you did. Even if it could be proved—so what? But people who get hung up on genealogy go all out to prove their point. Your grandfather went into archaeology, hoping to find evidence of Arthurian occupation on his land. He was looking for Camelot.

“It sounds mad. But in the last couple of years quite a number of solid, unimaginative academicians have been doing precisely the same thing—looking for Camelot. I read the stories about the Cadbury dig more or less in passing, paid no particular attention to them at the time, but a few odd facts did stick in my mind.
Grandpapa wasn't completely bonkers. Cadbury isn't the only place connected with Camelot by good local tradition; there are other such sites in Wales, Cornwall, even Scotland. Tintagel, up the coast from St. Ives, is the place where Arthur is supposed to have been conceived, and they've found objects there which date to the right period.

“All right. These odds and ends were sloshing around in my mind when we arrived here. Naturally I wasn't really concentrating on them; I had no reason to suppose they were relevant. Then we met Mr. Pendennis.”

“But he thinks he's found Camelot,” Jess said. “Doesn't that make him some kind of a nut too?”

“No, actually it's the other way around; it makes your esteemed old ancestor something less of a nut. Pendennis is no fool, for all his age; he might exaggerate or misinterpret evidence, but he wouldn't invent nonexistent evidence. If he says that he succeeded where your grandfather failed, I'm inclined to believe that he did find something—something from the period of Arthur, on his own land.

“Now we come to the mysterious box, which your grandfather left his old friend and rival. That's unlikely, to begin with. Collectors don't
leave collections to rival collectors; they bequeath them to museums for the admiration of posterity, with little tags reading ‘Donated by.' And you saw Pendennis's face when he opened that box. He was thunderstruck. He was seeing not only something totally unexpected, but something he didn't want to see. After I talked to Cliff, I knew what that something was. The objects in the box were typical of fifth-century sites. The period of Arthur.”

“Then—then Grandfather did find it! Camelot.”

“Wait, wait; you're jumping to conclusions. This is a lot more complicated than it seems.” Jess could hardly see him now, but he sounded almost like his old self. Wrapped up in his theories, he had forgotten about night-fall and what might come with night.

“All right, continue,” she encouraged.

“One further point about the box. Did you notice how those paltry odds and ends rattled around in it? Why put them in a container much too large?”

“Oh? Oh! I think I'm beginning to get it. There was something else in that box!”

“Must have been several somethings. And one of them, at least, was gold; that fragment had been recently broken, the edges were clean.”

“Wow. David…David—remember what John said? In the pasture? About the treasure? That's what he said, treasure….”

“He did, he did indeed. That's what he's after, Jess. That's why he chased you all over England.”

“Then the ring must be part of the treasure. Gosh, David, if the rest of it isn't any more exciting than the ring—”

“Exciting, hell. Didn't you listen to Cliff the other day? Scraps of metal, bones, holes—that's all they've found from that whole period. There was gold in that box, Jess. Can you imagine what a collection of fifth-century jewelry would be worth? It would be absolutely unique; the British Museum would probably hire killers to get it. But that's not all. Think of the other implications.”

“What do you mean?”

“Think! Fifth century…fortified castle site…chieftain…jewels…royal regalia…”

“Oh, David, no! Not King Arthur's crown!”

“I'll lay you odds that that's what Cousin John has in mind. He and his hired hatchet man. They wanted the ring back, it's part of the loot. But the ring was not the reason why they were after you. They wanted to prevent your reaching your grandfather before he died. There was no ambush waiting for us at the gate, was there?
Up to that point they had tried every means up to and including murder to prevent our reaching Cornwall. But we walked in as peacefully as lambs. Why? The old man had died in the meantime.”

“He might have told me about the treasure,” Jess muttered. “Hmmph. I doubt that he would have. He wasn't sentimental, they all said that. Something about inheritance…Wait a minute. John is the residuary legatee. He'd get the treasure anyhow. Why steal it?”

“Because,” said David patiently, “the treasure was in the box, and the box was left—to whom? You're getting there, Jess. Keep thinking.”

“To Mr. Pendennis. Why, David? You're right, that isn't logical. Either to a museum—gosh, they'd probably name it after him—the Tregarth Treasure—or to his heir, the last male of the line of King Arthur. Why didn't he leave it to John?”

“Keep thinking, you're doing splendidly. Why did your grandfather ask you to bring the ring back to him? Why didn't he make public his discoveries of fifth-century material—particularly such material as the treasure?”

“To Mr. Pendennis. The ring to Mr. Pendennis, he must have meant it to go into the box as well. David! He stole it. Grandfather. It never was his treasure.”

“That's it.”

“Why, the old crook!”

“Don't be too hard on him. Collectors suffer. Imagine his feelings all those years, with Pendennis gloating over him as he produced one more lovely scrap of dirty fifth-century pottery after another. He couldn't stand it. I imagine we'd find, if we inquired, that Mr. Pendennis went off one year, on holiday or on business, for an extended period, and during that time your granddad did some illicit digging. He found the treasure—and he couldn't bear to give it back. But he was no criminal, Jess; I imagine he kept telling himself that he was just borrowing the stuff, playing a practical joke. He never admitted what he'd done, but made sure, when he died, that it would be restored to its rightful owner. Even the ring, which your father walked off with in a fit of pique.”

“I wonder if Father knew.”

“Probably. He must have known how important the ring was to your grandfather. Maybe he helped with the digging.”

“Maybe. He hated the whole Arthurian business. But if it happened that long ago, before Father left home—why, John wasn't even born. How did he find out about the treasure?”

“That one's easy. Snooping. He's a born
snooper. Or did he pretend sympathy for Grandpa's hobby, hoping to control some of the expenditures?”

Only the clasp of his hands kept Jess anchored in time and space; the gloom was so complete that she saw him only as a featureless shadow.

“It's weak, though, David,” Jess said, sobered. “There are a lot of flaws. We've invented a treasure on the basis of one word, and a scrap of gold, and we've explained a lot of peculiar behavior on flimsy theories. So much violence…”