Our man in Camelot

'Which is?'

'Which is that sooner or later—and it had better be sooner—you will pick up Major Davies's trail.'

'And where's that going to get us?' said Shirley.

Calvin Merriwether stirred. 'Just so you follow it, ma'am—it's going to get you all the way to Badon Hill,' he said.

Anthony Price - Our man in camelot

Anthony Price - Our man in camelot

IV

MOSBY STUDIED CALVIN MERRIWETHER'S dark, intelligent face for a moment. This time there was no trace of humour in it.

'So he really was on to Badon Hill.'

'I told you so, Doc.' Harry Finsterwald had lost a little of his stuffing, but his voice still had an edge to it.

'I thought that was just part of the cover story, Harry. I didn't actually buy it.'

'Well, you better buy it now, man. Because it's true,' Merriwether said. 'He thought—'

'Thought?' Mosby pounced on the word. 'You don't have any evidence?'

'Evidence? We know what he bought, if that's evidence. All the books you've been reading so carefully.

And we got what he said, if that's evidence—'

'Said to whom?'

Merriwether raised a long-fingered hand. 'Just wait and let me finish, don't get over-heated, Doc. He talked to his bookseller, the man he got all his books from. Hunted all over for him, the bookseller did—

far as the Russian Embassy, to find out about the Novgorod Bede. Not that they told him anything, but he sure tried. 'Cause Davies was just about the best customer he had, so it made good sense.'

Mosby looked at Howard Morris. 'The bookseller's on the level?'

'The bookseller's straight down the line,' Merriwether's hand cut through the air. 'We've checked him out every way, and he's one hundred per cent pure. Part from the fact that if he wasn't he wouldn't have given us so much so easy.'

'Right,' said Finsterwald. 'And apart from the fact that he's 78 years old.'

'So what did he give you?'

Merriwether glanced at Howard Morris. 'Okay I tell Doc, then?'

Mosby frowned. 'What the hell? Shirley and I are supposed to have been friends of Davies, according to the cover story.'

'Which 'ud make you about the only friends he had,' said Merriwether. 'Only person we can trace he ever spoke to was the bookseller. He was a real loner.'

Morris nodded. 'Go ahead, Cal. Not that there's much of it.'

'Well, there is and there isn't according to how you look at it… but seems he first went to Barkham's four-five months back—Barkham being the bookseller. Old-fashioned firm. Talk to you about books as soon as sell you one, and rather you bought nothing than something you wouldn't like.' Merriwether smiled reminiscently. 'Took him quite a time deciding I was a fit and proper customer for him to do business with—I had to sweet-talk him round.'

Shirley laughed. 'What did you buy?'

'What did I buy?' Merriwether pointed to the table, grinning. 'Most of those books your husband's been reading, that's what I bought. I told Barkham I was a friend of his Major Davies, who'd been posted back to the States suddenly and I'd come to settle his bill—'

'Yes?'

Merriwether held up a small black tape-recorder. 'You want to hear the real thing?' He glanced towards Anthony Price - Our man in camelot

Morris. 'We got time?'

'When's Audley coming here?' Morris asked Mosby.

'Not till nine. We got all the time in the world.'

'But we haven't… Keep it short, Cal.'

''Tisn't long anyway. But I'll give you the bit that counts…'

'—thirty-eight pence, Sir. Thank you—'

Sharp 'ting' and slither of cash drawer.

Clink.

'—and sixty-two pence change… fifty—'

Clink.

'—and ten and two… and your receipt, sir—'

Merriwether cut off the tape. 'Not quite far enough. You don't want to hear about how interested I am in ancient history. I'll just run it some more.'