Our Man in Camelot (10 page)

Of course he was not forgetting at all: his approach was at once typically British and as transparent as that of a well-mannered but inquisitive twelve-year-old.

Mosby laughed. “Sorry to disappoint you. I’m a dentist.”

“A dental surgeon,” amended Shirley quickly.

“Same thing. Pull ‘em, fill ‘em, straighten ‘em. A plain honest-to-God dentist.” He shook his head. “My wife has this thing about my being a dentist—“

“I do not!”

“Sure you do, honey—admit it, don’t fight it. Lots of dentists’ wives have it. Hell, lots of dentists have it.”

“Have what?” asked Faith politely.

“The feeling that dentists are medical students who couldn’t quite make it. Nice guys, but only good enough for pulling teeth… And I shouldn’t really say ‘pulling teeth’ either. A lot of dentists, if you mention ‘pulling teeth’ they get excited and very upset. You got to say ‘extract’ or they get uptight—they’re very formal about what they do because they have to impress you how important they are… Me, I don’t need that—I’m not a retarded doctor, I’m a dentist.”

“And that’s important enough,” said Audley gently.

“Sure as hell it is. When a kid comes to me and he’s knocked out his front teeth—or when a young girl comes to me, and she looks at me and I look at her, and I know she can’t get a boyfriend because her teeth are all wrong—then I don’t need anyone to tell me I’m important. And what’s more, I can put it right, and that’s one hell of a lot more than some doctors can do with some of their problems, poor guys.”

He grinned all round.

“Mose, honey,” Shirley protested, “I don’t think any of those things you said.”

“You do so. It’s just you haven’t learned to be a dentist’s wife yet, that’s all.”

Audley coughed. “And you can always cry all the way to the bank,” he observed helpfully. “In my brief experience of American dentistry I formed the opinion that it was… ah… shall we say, well-rewarded?”

Mosby nodded agreement. “You’re so right. Beats most doctors any day. And you can be a good dentist and not kill yourself with overwork—you can see your families and have your hobbies. When I get out of this man’s air force, you just watch me do it.”

Audley frowned at him suddenly. “This man’s—? Did you say ‘air force’?”

“Sure.” Mosby nodded back cheerfully. “I’m over here with the good old USAF—the 7438th Bombardment Wing.”

“Stationed over here?”

“USAF Wodden—in Wiltshire.”

Audley looked at him thoughtfully. “F-llls, that would be—or is that Upper Heyford?”

“Upper Heyford? Man, they’re the
enemy
. In the event of hostilities we take them out first—Upper Heyford first, then the Russians, that’s the word.”

“What my husband means,” chipped in Shirley, “is that on the base they spend all their time trying to be better than Upper Heyford.”

“And Alconbury—don’t forget Alconbury. The hell with the Reds—just beat Heyford, beat Alconbury,” said Mosby breathlessly. “More sorties, better RBS figures—that’s what the General lives on. One day he’s going to come to me and he’s going to say ‘For God’s sake, Sheldon, get off your butt and pull more teeth than Heyford’.”

Faith Audley laughed. “And what will you say to that?”

“Ma’am, I’ll say the only thing wrong with aircrew teeth at Wodden is their molars are too worn—they sit all the time and grind them down worrying about promotion.”

Audley gave a small snort. “Not just aircrew teeth…” He gave Mosby an oddly lop-sided smile. “Now, in early mediaeval times molars were also heavily worn, I seem to remember reading somewhere.”

“Don’t tell me King Arthur’s knights were worried about promotion, surely?” said Shirley.

For a moment Mosby was irritated that she had revived the discredited Arthur. But then she was only acting in her assumed character, and—more to the point—she was reacting to what was almost certainly an attempt by Audley to bring the conversation round to the subject which really interested him.

He thought for a moment. “I guess that would have something to do with their diet, eh?”

Audley nodded. “Coarse-ground flour, full of fine grit.”

“That would do the trick.” He had to make it easy for Audley to come to the point. “That would be your special period—the early mediaeval one, huh?”

“Not really, no. I’m a 1066 man—the Norman Conquest onwards.”

“William Marshall,” said Shirley. “My husband’s been telling me about him. He was quite a guy.”

Again Audley smiled, wholly relaxed now. It was like she had once said: the way to a man’s heart wasn’t through his stomach, it was through an appreciation of what interested him.

“ ‘Quite a guy’,” Audley quoted back at her.

“Sounds like a cross between Winston Churchill, Audie Murphy and Babe Ruth—married to Jackie Kennedy,” she led him on.

Audley laughed. “That’s right! With a bit of Eisenhower and Henry Kissinger thrown in.”

“Who’s Babe Ruth?” asked Faith.

“A famous baseball player, love,” said Audley. “For us the equivalent might be… say Barry John.”

“Who’s Barry John?” asked Shirley.

“A famous rugger player.” Faith raised her eyes to heaven. Then she frowned at her husband. “I didn’t know Marshall was a sportsman?”

“Jousting—tournaments, love,” replied Audley. “Marshall was the top man on the circuit in his youth. He unhorsed 500 knights in single combat in his lifetime, and even when he was 66 there wasn’t one man at King John’s court who dared take up his challenge of a trial by battle.” He nodded towards Shirley. “Quite a guy.”

“Like Sir Lancelot.”

“Sir Lancelot…” As Audley repeated the name his glance settled on Mosby. “… now he would be more in your special field, I take it, Mr Sheldon?”

Mosby had the feeling he was being double-checked for any lingering sign of the Arthurian heresy.

“Not Lancelot, no,” he began warily. “He’s strictly twelfth century.”

“You surprise me. There aren’t many non-experts who could pin him down as a twelfth century addition to the legend. For most people he’s as important as King Arthur—or even more important.”

“For Queen Guinevere certainly,” murmured Faith drily.

“That’s right. The quest for the Holy Grail is a bit out of fashion; three-quarters of the population’s probably never heard of it. But they can recognise a sensational case of adultery when they see one, they understand that all right.” Audley paused. “But then you said you weren’t an admirer of Arthur’s, I remember now.”

The very obliqueness of the approach—the conveniently delayed memory of the final exchange in the car—confirmed Mosby’s conviction that the Englishman was hooked, and more than hooked: he was positively bursting with curiosity.

“I’m not. It’s the period around A.D. 500 I’m interested in—the real history.”

“The real history.” Audley repeated the words, and then fell silent, waiting for Mosby to continue.

“Uh-huh,” Mosby agreed unhelpfully. This time Audley was going to have to work for what he wanted. “It’s a fascinating period.”

Pause.

“But poorly documented.”

“That’s what makes it fascinating.”

Again Audley waited—in vain.

“The only new evidence is archaeological nowadays, and there isn’t a lot of that,” he said finally, with a hint of self-doubt in his voice.

“There sure isn’t,” agreed Mosby. “Our mutual ancestors weren’t exactly well-endowed with the world’s goods to leave behind.”

“No consumer durables,” said Shirley brightly.

Audley flashed her a microsecond’s worth of exasperation. Then he cracked. “You mentioned the battle of Badon Hill.”

“You mentioned a miracle,” said Faith. “That’s what interested me. My husband doesn’t believe in them—he’s got no romance in his soul, I’m afraid.”

Audley raised a finger. “I have never said I don’t believe in miracles, I’ve simply never seen one myself. But I do believe in percentages.”

“Percentages?” Shirley cocked her head on one side, questioningly.

“What most people call good luck or bad luck, depending on how it affects them.” He stared at Mosby. “I take it that you’ve had a slice of good luck.”

“A slice of good luck and a slice of bad luck… And maybe another slice of good luck now if you can help me.”

Audley pursed his lips doubtfully. “I’m not an expert on A.D. 500, if that’s what you’re hoping.”

“Okay—but we’ll see, huh?” Mosby shook his head. “You can’t be less of an expert than I am. I’ve read a lot of stuff—“ he gestured to the piles of books “—but that just tells me how little I know.”

“Well, just show him the stuff, honey,” exclaimed Shirley with a hint of weariness. “If it doesn’t mean anything to him, he’ll say so.” She smiled dazzlingly at Audley.

“All in good time, Shirl. Don’t rush me.” Mosby waved vaguely at her. “Fact is, David, I’ve always been interested by King Arthur—don’t get any ideas, that’s just the way it started—ever since I had to do an English course at College.”

“You have to do English as well as dentistry?” said Faith.

“This was in pre-dentistry. We don’t specialize as early as you British—pre-dentistry’s a liberal arts curriculum, because there’s a philosophy in the States says you shouldn’t go into medicine—or dentistry—which is very limiting, straight from secondary school. They figure it makes for limited people, so everyone gets a pre-professional education… Me, I got a smattering of French and some biology, and bio-chemistry and elementary physics.”

“And English.” She nodded. “It’s a good idea.”

“And English, right. Only our English teacher was a nut—a Tennyson nut,” lied Mosby. “We had
In Memoriam
and
The Idylls of the King
until they came out of our ears. And
The Lady of Shalott—

The sun came dazzling thro’ the leaves,
And flamed upon the brazen greaves
Of bold Sir Lancelot.

—not bad for a retarded doctor up to his ankles in other people’s teeth, huh?” He grinned at Faith. “Even if it is lousy poetry.”

Audley cleared his throat; there was only one thing he wanted, and they seemed to be getting away from it. “And when did the light dawn on you—about Arthur?”

“When I got over here, not until then, to be honest.” Easy does it. “There was this pilot in the recon. support squadron, Di Davies. He was a real, expert—“

“For heaven’s sake, honey—show him the stuff,” snapped Shirley. “Let him make his own mind up.”

Mosby looked at her for a moment, as though undecided, and then shrugged. “Okay. Maybe you’re right at that. Seeing is believing, I guess.”

He brought the long shallow wooden box from its resting place on the oak chest by the door and placed it carefully on the coffee table.

Pandora’s box.

With his thumbs poised on the metal catches he raised his eyes to meet Audley’s. “You just take a look at this.”

He lifted the lid and stripped away the glass-fibre covering gingerly. “Glass fibre makes darn good packing, but it itches like hell if you get it on your skin,” he explained.

He watched Audley’s face intently for signs of the same sense of anti-climax which he in his ignorance had felt at finding Pandora’s box full of corroded scrap-metal. But no muscle twitched either with surprise or disappointment as the Englishman peered over his spectacles at the strange collection of objects nestling in their glass-fibre bed.

Then he leaned forward and gently lifted one of them.

“Brooch…” He squinted at it more closely. “A bronze brooch… Celtic maybe?”

“That’s very good.” Mosby didn’t have to simulate pleasure this time: it was still a relief to find that the assessment of Audley was on the button. “Go on.”

“That’s as far as I can guess.” Audley replaced the brooch as carefully as he’d lifted it. “There’s another brooch, much the same as that one.” He shook his head.

“Two Celtic brooches,” Mosby read from the specification, “one perannular, Plas Emrys type, with enamelled terminals; the other zoomorphic, R.A. Smith’s Welsh type. Both late fifth century, early sixth.”

He pointed to the next object.

“Obviously a sword, rusted to pieces,” said Audley. “Too big for a Roman sword, so I suppose it’s Anglo-Saxon.”

Mosby shook his head. “No, it is a late Roman sword—a
spatha
. Probably a cavalry sword.” He paused. “Try the coins.”

Audley pushed his spectacles up on to his forehead and brought his face to within six inches of the box. “I can’t really make out much detail—they’re very worn. But I guess they’re late Roman, except for the four very little ones, which must be sub-Roman.”

Mosby nodded at Faith. “He’s good, your husband is. They are late Roman: two maybe Theodosius. And the little ones are minims, ‘very debased radiate imitations’ the book says, only don’t ask me what it means. But similar ones have been dated late fifth century, early sixth.”

Audley straightened up, gesturing to his wife. “You have a go, love. I think I’d rather stop while I’m winning.” He looked down again, and then stiffened suddenly. “Except I know what
that
is.” He pointed towards an object in the extreme right-hand corner of the box.

“You do?” Mosby looked at him admiringly. “Now I’m impressed. To me that was the weirdest bit of all, you know.”

“It looks like a giant tea-strainer,” said Faith.

“Or one half of an Ancient British brassiere,” contributed Shirley. “Who was that Queen Somebody in the chariot, shaking her spear at Big Ben in London—the statue?”

“Boadicea,” said Faith.

“That’s the one. It’s just what she’d wear—a bronze brassiere, C-fitting.” She turned to Audley. “But you know what it is, huh?”

“I’ve seen one before, in a museum up north. It’s a piece of horse-armour, one of a pair that protected the eyes like goggles.”

Faith Audley bent over the box as though its contents had suddenly become alive for her. “Yes… well, those buckles—they look like horse harness too. They’re too big to be belt buckles.”

“Dead right. Harness buckles is what they are,” said Mosby. “Spot anything else?”

“Nothing horsey. But there’s a spearhead, it looks like.”

“Spearhead, Saxon, late fifth century.”

“Can they date spearheads like that? I thought they weft all the same.”