Excalibur Rising (11 page)

     “You.” he mouthed. “What do you want?”
     She made winding motions with her hands, and he lowered the window.
     “Open the door,” she said. “I need to talk to you.”
     “Are you following me?” he asked.
     “Yes, of course I am,” she said.
     “Why?”
     “Just let me in please before this crowd knocks me down.”
     Ryan opened the door and she squeezed inside, pushing him up against Violet.  The driver turned and looked at Ryan disapprovingly. 
     The girl breathed a sigh of relief. “I’ve been waiting for you for hours,” she said.  “I knew you’d have to come this way.”
     “I take it you’re not one of the protesters,” said Ryan.
     “They have enough people already,” she replied, “but their protest will do not good.  The dam will be built because no one can stop progress, not in this world. Of course it’s quite different at home.”
     “Home?”
     “Where I come from,” she said.
     “And where is that?” Ryan asked, impatient with this waiflike girl and her circuitous rambling speech.  Time to speak plainly, put aside cryptic remarks and get to the point of whatever it was that she wanted.  He was quite certain that whatever it was, and whoever she was, she was part of the riddle of the sword.
     “I saw you,” he said, “you were standing on the sea wall.”
     Her face lit up with delight. “You came through,” she exclaimed.
     “There were ships,” Ryan said.
     “Yes, I know,” she said.  “But I didn’t see you.  Why didn’t you say something?”
     “Say what?” Ryan asked.  “Where the hell was I?”
     “We can go again, and you can see for yourself,” the girl said. “Do you have the pin in your pocket?”
     “No,” said Ryan. “”I’m not wearing my coat.  What’s so special about the pin?”
     Panic spread across the girl’s face.  “Where is it?  Is it in a safe place?  You have to go back and get it.”
     Violet had so far ignored their visitor.  Ryan thought that she had probably not even noticed her.  She had rolled down the window on her side of the limousine and was peering impatiently at the crowd of protestors.  Now she turned back.
     “We’re going to be so late,” she said, and then she saw the intruder.
     “You?” she said. “What are you doing here?”
     “I could ask you the same thing,” said the girl.
     “That,” said Violet turning her attention to Ryan, “is the rudest person I have ever met.  She just outright called me fat.  I’ve never even met her before and she walked right up to me and called me fat.  Is that what passes for manners in this country?  And then she tried to steal your luggage.  I saw her.  Get her out of here before she steals something else.”
     The girl pointedly ignored Violet.
     “There is so much you need to know if you’re going to help us,” she said to Ryan. “We need the sword, and you are really our last hope.”
     Violet leaned forward across Ryan. “No way, sister,” she said. “No way are you getting your hands on that sword.  Mr. Mandretti has a lot of money invested in this____”
     The car suddenly lurched forward, throwing Violet off balance.
      “Be careful,” she said to the driver.
     “You want me to move or not?” he asked over his shoulder.
     “Yes, I want you to move.  We’re already late,” said Violet.  She turned back to Ryan.  “Will you please get your strange skinny friend out of here,” she said.
     The girl leaned forward and glared at Violet.
     “This is none of your business,” she said. “You and your sisters have done nothing to help, and now…now that we are so close to an answer you come here and you insert yourself into this situation.  Go back, go and tell them that we are doing everything we can and sending people like you will only make matters worse.”
     What sisters?” said Violet. “I don’t have any sisters. Do you mean Maria?  She’s not really my sister, well, she is but she’s adopted.”
     The car lurched forward again.  Violet, caught off balance, reached out to steady herself against the intruder’s shoulder.  Ryan heard a gasp from each of them as they sprang apart.  The car began to move again. 
     “I have to go,” said the blonde haired girl.  “I can’t come with you, I have to go back.  I have to tell someone about her.”
      “What are you talking about?” said Ryan.  “What’s going on here, Violet?”
     Violet ignored him, staring at the intruder. “Back where?” she asked. “Please tell me, back where?”
     The girl opened the car door.        
     “Slow down,” said Ryan to the driver.
     The driver applied the brakes.  Behind them a line of vehicles began to sound their horns. 
     The girl turned to Marcus. “Tomorrow,” she said, “you will go to Griffinwood.”
     “How did you know?” he asked.
      “I have no time to explain,” she said. “Bring the token, the pin, and then you will see.”
     She sprang from her seat and slipped out of the door, closing it hastily behind her.  Ryan watched as she was swallowed up by the noisy mob of protesters. 
     He turned angrily on Violet.  “She was going to tell us something,” he said, “and then you___”
     He was unable to continue.  Violet had shrunk back into a corner.   Somehow, despite her more than ample curves, she seemed to be diminished, as though she was being swallowed by the upholstery.  Tears were streaming from her eyes, mingling with her mascara, and inscribing black streaks across her pale cheeks.
     “Now what?” said Ryan. “Don’t start crying, that won’t get us anywhere.  Do you know who she is?”
      “No,” said Violet.
     “Well, she seemed to know something about you,” Ryan said.      “Apparently she knows your sisters.”
     “I don’t have any sisters,” Violet replied  in a small choked voice.
     “Are you sure?”
     “No.” She spat the words at him. “No, I am not sure.  Perhaps I have dozens of sisters, I don’t know because I don’t know who my parents are.”
     “You don’t?” Ryan said.
     When he had first encountered Violet in her back yard gazebo he had seen her as a woman who was obnoxiously sure of herself; a diva who drew all the energy in the room towards herself, leaving no room for other people.  In the last forty eight hours he had watched as her confidence had been shaken, and he had done some of the shaking himself. He suspected that a very different woman would soon emerge from beneath the outer shell of expensive cosmetics and designer clothing.
     “You don’t know who your parents are?” he repeated, feeling that this might be the break-through moment.
      “No,” Violet said, taking a deep breath, “I‘m an orphan, Marcus; a foundling.  I was placed in a basket at the door of the Convent of St. Philomena in Vannes, in Brittany.  I know nothing about myself and neither do the nuns.  I had no tell-tale locket or bracelet, no note pinned to my blanket.  I understand it was a very ordinary blanket.  I know nothing except that I was adopted by an American couple who took me to the States.   I know nothing.”
      Her voice rose to a fever pitch.  “Nothing, Marcus, nothing,” she said. “But this girl, this strange, rude girl, knows something.  She knows who I am.”
     “She didn’t say that,” said Marcus.
     “She told me to go back where I came from, and I don’t think she meant America, and I don’t think she meant Brittany.  What did she mean, Marcus?”
     “I have no idea,” said Ryan.
      “Are we going to Griffinwood tomorrow?” Violet asked abruptly.
     “I am,” said Ryan.
     “We are,” said Violet emphatically, “and you’d better bring that thing with you, the pin, or token, or whatever it is. “
     She sat up straight in the seat and produced a tissue and a mirror from her purse.  As she repaired the damage to her face she looked at Ryan.  “I don’t work for you,” she said, “I work for Michael Mandretti.  Mr. Mandretti likes to get his own way.”
     “I know,” said Ryan. 
      “He wants that sword,” she said.
     “We’ll get it for him,” said Ryan.
     “We’d better,” said Violet.

The Chapel; Griffinwood Manor
Shropshire England
     The one-eyed man made his way through the weeds and undergrowth surrounding the ruined chapel, trying to follow the path that had been beaten down by the one other person who used the chapel gate.  He was leaving his mission unaccomplished; two bodies and still no answers.  However, he had acted on his own initiative, and he had not physically harmed the children.
      As he stepped forward into the clearing in front of the ruined chapel, it occurred to him that the clearing was wider than it should be; the undergrowth beaten down by the passage of more than one person.  Who else, he wondered, had come through the gate?  Had someone been sent to check on him and to make sure he was doing what he was told?  No, he didn’t think that would be the case.  He was trusted; he was the right hand man.  So, someone else was using the gate; no doubt one of the women.  Killing one of them would feel good; really good; but legend said they could not be killed by the likes of him. He grinned and fingered the sharp blade of the dagger concealed in his pocket; it would be fun to try.  Maybe he couldn’t hurt them, but they couldn’t hurt him either; that was the way it was.       
     He approached the gate cautiously.  The women could not hurt him, but the creature could still kill. It did not usually move in daylight, but one could never be sure.  He drew the dagger from his pocket and stepped through into the mist.  His cell phone died, and his watch stopped working.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Violet, Glebe Cottage, Oxted, Surrey
     They were late for the funeral and Violet hated to be late.  No sooner had they cleared the traffic clogging protesters, than they encountered road works, and then a traffic accident.  The narrow lanes of the Surrey countryside were proving virtually unpassable on this sunny spring morning and Violet’s mounting impatience made no difference to the driver, or to Ryan who stared out of the window obviously trying to ignore her. 
     She was embarrassed by her outburst and her tears.  In one violent sweep of emotion she had destroyed the illusion that she had worked so hard to create, and revealed the pathetic little orphan girl who still lived beneath the sophisticated exterior.
     She made an effort to pull herself together before they reached the church.  The church doors were closed and the mourners had apparently departed, having laid Carlton Lewis to rest amid the daffodils and bluebells of an English country graveyard.  She stood for a moment looking at the freshly turned earth.  The sun had appeared and the sky was a brilliant rain-washed blue.  Birds with unfamiliar songs chirped in the trees and a cool breeze ruffled the new green leaves.  She decided that if there was a perfect place to bury an Englishman, this was it.
     A young man approached them, walking respectfully among the graves.  “Professor Ryan and Miss Chambray?” he asked.  Ryan answered for both of them.
     “Lady Clemma would like you to come to Glebe Cottage,” the young man said.  “The mourners have all departed.  Now is a good time for her to talk to you.  You can have your driver follow me.”
     They climbed back into the limousine with the ever-patient driver, told him which car to follow and set off again down the leafy English lanes.
     “Have you ever met the widow?” Ryan asked Violet.
     She shook her head.
     “So you only knew her husband?” Ryan asked.
     “And what exactly do you mean by that?” she snapped back.
      He shrugged his shoulders.  “Nothing,” he said.
     Oh sure, nothing at all, she thought to herself.  She was really trying to like Mandretti’s tame academic but it wasn’t easy.  Granted he had not said anything too stupid after her confession that she was an orphan with no idea of her own background, but how could he take her seriously now that he knew who she really was?  How galling it must be for him to see that she could command a high price for conjuring up visions and dreams.  Ryan had probably spent a fortune on his education, hours upon hours of study and research, and probably many uncomfortable weeks in primitive countries, and he had very little to show for it beyond his Ph.D. and a failed television career, while she had the house in Key West and the illusion of wealth. 
     Glebe Cottage turned out to be a great deal larger than any cottage ever painted by the English romantics, but it did have a cottage garden crammed with crocuses and daffodils and a very cottage-like front door with green bottle glass windows and a massive door knocker.  Their guide waited until they had parked, and then pulled away.  The driver settled down to wait. 
     “Why don’t you go and have some lunch,” Ryan said to him.
     “Thanks,” he said, “very thoughtful of you.” 
     It occurred to Violet that she had really allowed herself to become thoughtless and selfish.  She would never have worried about whether a limo driver was able to get lunch.  Well, points to Marcus Ryan for thinking of it.  She made an extra effort to try to like him.
     Lady Clemma Lewis opened the door herself.   She greeted them by saying “They’ve all had their glasses of sherry and gone, thank heaven.” 
      She ushered them into a parlor where a coal fire blazed in the grate and a large woman with wild grey hair stood with her back to the fire, warming her more than ample backside.  Clemma herself was a tall, thin woman.  She wore a sensible black suit, and her iron grey hair straggled out from under a sensible black hat.  Her pale blue eyes were rimmed in red, and she wore the stunned expression of the suddenly bereaved.  She looked Violet up and down and then said, “Miss Chambray, are you even half as good as Carlton said you were?”
     Violet felt herself blushing, but Clemma Lewis waved her hand dismissively. “Not that, “she said. “I don’t want to talk about that.  I know what happened with you and my husband.”
     “I’m really sorry,” Violet said, “it was nothing serious.”
     “No need to be sorry,” said Clemma. “You weren’t his only fling, my dear, although you may have been one of the more interesting ones.  I was used to it.  That’s not what I want to see you about.”
     Violet felt suddenly small and worthless, just another fling among a great many flings.
     The woman by the fire spoke in a rich deep voice. “This I assume is Professor Ryan?”
     Ryan nodded.
     The woman stepped away from the fire and extended her hand to Ryan.  “Margaret Walker,” she said. “Call me Molly.  Have you eaten lunch?”
     Violet looked around and saw that the room was littered with the remains of the funeral luncheon with sherry glasses and tea plates spread around on side tables.  A black and white cat sat comfortably on the buffet table licking crumbs from a sandwich plate.
     “Get down, Toby,” Clemma said half-heartedly.  Toby looked at her disdainfully and moved to another plate.
     “Oh leave him alone,” said Molly.  “He’s had too much excitement for one day.”
     “Well, there won’t be much of that from now on,” Clemma said. “I don’t suppose I’ll be doing much entertaining in the future.”
     “Don’t be morbid,” said Molly.  She turned to Ryan.  “I’ve seen you on television,” she said. “You seem to know your stuff.”
     Ryan nodded again.
     Molly indicated that Ryan and Violet should sit on the sagging floral sofa.  Ryan plopped himself down and Violet lowered herself onto the cushion beside him, aware of the effect her weight might have on the furniture.  As Violet expected, they rolled together their thighs touching.  Ryan appeared not to notice.  He looked at Violet hopefully.  It occurred to her that she had put the fear of God into him by invoking Mandretti’s name and reminding him of the consequences of not getting Mandretti the item he was seeking.  Now apparently Ryan was hoping that Violet would take charge of this meeting, and ask all the right questions. Perhaps he was no longer quite as sure of himself as he had appeared to be.
     Molly resumed her place in front of the fire. “Fire away, Clemmy,” she said.
     “Oh, yes, well...” Clemma cleared her throat and tried again. “I, uh...”
      “Clemmy,” said Molly, “I know you’ve had a bad day...”
      Bad day, Violet thought, the woman had just buried her husband; that was more than just a bad day.
     “But,” Molly continued, “you must try to take yourself in hand.  If you start crying now, you’ll be crying for ever.  I’ve been there Clemmy, I do understand.  Now, let’s get on with the business at hand.  We have to find out what happened to Carlton, don’t we?”
      “Yes,” said Clemma.  “Yes, we do.”  She picked up the cat and sat down in an armchair with Toby on her lap.  As she talked, she stroked the cat’s head and the big old tom started to purr.
     “Miss Chambray,” she said. 
     “Yes.”
     “Have you er...have you...seen...anything? My husband said that you used to ...er...see...things?”
     Violet thought about her sure and certain knowledge that some as yet unknown harm had come to the Rev. Barry Marshall.  She was just as certain of this as she had been of Carlton’s death, but she had no explanation for either.  The grief in Lady Clemma’s eyes was raw and real. How could she be comforted by Violet’s hazy visions and hunches?
     “Please,” said Clemma.
     “I don’t really know anything but ___”
     Molly interrupted Violet impatiently.
     “Let me handle this, Clemmy,” she said.  “Miss Chambray, Professor       Ryan, we need you to get to the bottom of this matter.  This is not an idle request and we are not just a couple of useless old biddies.”
     “Oh, I never suggested you were,” Violet said.
     “It was written all over the professor’s face,” Molly said.  “I know who you are Professor Ryan and I know that you’re more than just a semi-famous treasure hunter, but you’re out of your depth here, aren’t you?”
      “I’m here to help him,” Violet said.
     “I know all about you,” Molly said, “and I don’t doubt that you have had your fair share of success and made yourself wealthy in the process.  As I understand it, Michael Mandretti has hired you both to find Excalibur.”
     “To find a sword,” Ryan said.  “I don’t for one moment suppose the sword is Excalibur.”
     “Of course it’s not,” said Molly. She drew herself up to her full height, which was quite impressive. “We English don’t like to boast,” she said, “but if no one will blow my trumpet for me, I’ll have to do it for myself.  You may not have heard of me, Dr. Ryan, but within my own sphere I am a very well respected medievalist.”
     Ryan opened his mouth to speak, and she interrupted him. “Yes, I have been published,” she said, “and no you have never read any of my work, because the subject doesn’t interest you, does it?”
     “Molly is President of the Society of Arthurian Scholars,” Clemma said.
     “I know what you’re thinking,” Molly said addressing Ryan who had the grace to look a little shame-faced.       
     Violet realized that she was witnessing an all-out academic pissing contest.
     “You’re wrong,” Molly continued. “We do not, and I emphasize the word
not,
we do
not
believe that the Arthurian legend is based in historical fact.   As an organization we have been in existence for some hundred and fifty years.  We are serious scholars dedicated to preserving the body of literature and scholarship that has grown up around the myth of King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table, in order to better understand the medieval mind.  Our hope is that one day we will uncover our own personal holy grail; the source document; what academics would call the Ur document; which is to say, the earliest ever mention of Arthur, or an Arthur archetype.  That will allow us to date the origin of the story and put the rest of the legends to rest.”
     “Oh, I see,” said Ryan.
     “Good,” said Molly. “So now that we have that out of the way, maybe you’ll allow us to help ourselves by helping you.”
     Violet tried to put physical distance between herself and Ryan.  Sitting on the sagging sofa with their thighs pressed against each other gave the impression of a partnership and a relationship that certainly did not exist.
     “We’d be delighted to help you,” Violet said. “Take no notice of Dr. Ryan.  He thinks this whole search is a little beneath him. “
     “Of course he does,” Molly said, “and he’s quite right.  For any serious scholar to look for Excalibur is a ridiculous waste of time.  To ask me, or Carlton, or Dr. Ryan to find Arthur’s sword is the same as asking us to look for Aladdin’s lamp. “
     “So what is going on,” Violet asked, “because something is most definitely going on?”
      “Someone killed my husband,” Clemma said.  She had stopped stroking the cat and her eyes were filled with tears.  “What did he do that he deserved to be killed?”
     Molly went to sit on the arm of Clemma’s chair.  She patted her friend’s arm.   “Chin up,” she said. “Tears won’t get you anywhere.”
     She lumbered to her feet and went back to stand in front of the fireplace. “After Carlton sent you the e-mail telling you what little he knew about Professor Peacock’s recent activities, he came to see me,” she said.
     “Oh, so you know about the e-mail,” Violet said.  She wondered if Molly knew the effect the message had on Violet.  Did she know it had resulted in Violet’s certain knowledge of Carlton’s death?  Was Molly the kind of person who would understand Violet’s unique gift?  She certainly looked far too sensible and down to earth to be a believer in visions and premonitions.
     “Carlton was upset,” Molly said, “because he felt his reply hadn’t been very helpful.  Of course he knew Peacock; we all knew Peacock and we were all very upset to hear of his death, in Las Vegas of all places.  Anyway, Carlton came to see me to find out if I had any background information.  I think it was the information that I gave him that got him killed.”
     Clemma rose to her feet and the cat landed on the floor with a thud.  “Don’t talk like that,” she said. “Don’t talk about blame.”  She looked wildly around the room. “Would anyone like tea?” she said distractedly.
     Violet shook her head.
     “Cake?” Clemma asked
     “Yes,” said Violet, always a slave to her appetite, “I’ll take some cake.”
     She took the opportunity to heave herself off the sofa and away from the heat of Ryan’s leg.  She joined Clemma at the buffet table.  The cat wandered across the room, gave Ryan a supercilious glance, and took Violet’s place on the sofa.