Our man in Camelot

'What's the matter?' he asked finally. 'I got egg on my face or something?'

'No, not egg… I was thinking, maybe you're a bit of a weirdo. And that's slightly unnerving.'

'Huh? A sex maniac, you mean?'

'Hell, no. Nothing odd about that, it's standard red-blooded chauvinist American male… It's this Badon thing— and King Arthur?'

'Don't call him 'King', honey. That's the mark of ignorance. Remember your Nennius: he was the war leader. In those days British kings were fifty cents each and three for a dollar. But there was only one Arthur—if there was one. 'Fact, I wish Audley did believe in him. He's just about the most interesting thing I've ever come across.'

'That's what I mean.' She leant forward, clasping Practical Flower Arrangement to her chest. 'I detect a note of enthusiasm you've never shown before, except for other people's teeth and my bed. This thing's really got under your skin.'

'Under my skin?' Mosby looked at her in surprise. And yet maybe she was right at that, or at least half right. 'I don't know about my skin, but it's certainly been bugging the British for a thousand years. You know what they called him? The Once and Future King—like he's going to come back from the dead one day. A man nobody knows anything about, not even for sure if he ever lived. And yet as far as Anthony Price - Our man in camelot

they're concerned he's really kept going. I don't care what Audley thinks. He's really strange, Arthur is.'

'It's not Arthur who's strange, it's you getting steamed up about him.'

'Not at all, just line of duty research. I'm just Mr Average.'

The dark hair swung in disagreement. 'Not in this company. Makes me wonder how you got into this business.'

From her, after having been kept literally at arm's length for so long, it was an odd question as well as an improper one. 'You're not supposed to ask that one, I thought.'

'Oh, sure. But now I think I need to know what makes you tick, honey—same as you have to figure how David Audley ticks.' She sat back. 'Besides… sharing a bedroom with a strange man confers some privileges, I guess. Even when it's in the line of duty. Kind of special relationship.'

'Special platonic relationship.'

'That's the way it goes: up to the line of duty, not above and beyond it.' She regarded him coolly. 'But you don't have to answer, naturally.'

It was ironic, not to say annoying, that the first signs of interest she was showing in him beyond the curiosity of a labourer in the same vineyard should coincide with more urgent matters.

'Naturally. But you're right: a man shouldn't have big secrets from the woman in his twin bed. I'm a volunteer, not a draftee, put it like Sam Smith did —

My country, 'tis of thee,

Sweet land of liberty,

—General Ellsworth and I are brothers under the skin. Two old-fashioned patriots.'

'I read somewhere that patriotism was the last refuge of a scoundrel.'

'Shouldn't believe all you read. I'm a Sam Smith patriot. Now Harry Finsterwald, he's a Stephen Decatur patriot—'My country, right or wrong'. What I call an interchangeable patriot, like those Action Man dolls

—dress him up in any uniform, CIA, KGB, MI5. Pull his string and he'll say 'buddy' or 'comrade' or 'old boy' for you. But not me.'

'You only say 'buddy'?'

The doorbell rang.

'You'll find out when you pull my strings.' He stood up. 'But you just concentrate on Audley's string for the time being, honey. I'm on your side—remember?'

One trouble with the British was breaking the ice. Or rather, you could break it the first time and get on easy terms, only to find that they were frozen over again the second time and you were back where you'd started.

Mosby had been mildly worried about this, since it was important not to get off on the wrong foot, causing Audley to shy away from the curiosity he must be feeling. With a fellow American it would have been easy, and his approach would have been instinctive. But the average well-bred Britishers of his acquaintance generally twisted themselves into knots to avoid seeming curious about anything; and as for enthusiasm, they treated any manifestation of that as an infectious disease which they could best avoid by keeping their mouths closed.

Anthony Price - Our man in camelot

True, Audley was almost certainly not average—nobody with his job could be that. But he qualified as well- bred, one of Doc McCaslin's 'establishment products' until proved otherwise, at least as far as ordinary social intercourse was concerned.

But here, quite unexpectedly, St Veryan's House came to their rescue. Both the Audleys immediately and unashamedly expressed their interest in the building itself, its present layout and the stages of renovation and conversion which had turned it from a spartan farmstead into a comfortable holiday home. Indeed, they poked and pried in such an unEnglish way that Mosby was already halfway to the correct reassessment of their behaviour when Faith presented him with the explanation.

'It's having an old house of our own—we can't resist looking at other old houses,' she admitted frankly, having cased the house with the eye of a burglar. 'Having an old house is like having a hobby—most people are only too pleased to show it off to a fellow collector.'

'But I thought every Englishman's home was his castle,' said Shirley. 'Drawbridge up—strangers keep out.'

'Oh, not any more. Besides, most castles are open to the public nowadays.'