Our man in Camelot

beyond.

'Damn it,' Mosby muttered, 'he said to ask in the village, but there's no one to ask.'

'They're probably all having tea,' observed Shirley unhelpfully. 'Tea and cucumber sandwiches.'

With difficulty he backed the car into a farm gateway, and after much manoeuvring between the restricting stone walls managed to get it facing downhill again towards the trees.

This time he knew better what to expect, but there was still no sign of life anywhere until he was almost out of the village again, and then the life wasn't human: his way was blocked by a magnificent Dalmatian sitting right in the middle of the road.

As he slowed to a halt, the Dalmatian showing not the least inclination to move, he caught a flash of movement out of the corner of his eye.

'Here's someone now,' said Shirley eagerly. 'Ask him quickly before he disappears.'

The someone was evidently a native of the place, a swarthy young man with a shock of black hair and devil- slanted eyebrows, by his frayed shirt, stained corduroy trousers and enormous muddy boots most likely a farm labourer. But that at least meant that he'd know the answer to Mosby's question and the expression of amiable curiosity on his face was encouraging.

'Excuse me, sir—' Mosby smiled out of the car at him. '—I'm looking for Forge Close House. Dr Anthony Handforth-Jones.'

The farm labourer pointed away towards the dog. ' Inside,Cerberus— at once!' he commanded sharply before turning back to Mosby. The dog rose lazily and ambled to one side of the road.

'Dr Anthony Handforth-Jones,' Mosby repeated.

'That's me,' said the farm labourer, returning the smile. 'You must be Dr Sheldon—I thought I saw you go by just now and I knew you'd be coming back, so I sent Cerberus out to hold you— get inside, you idiot—I'm sorry, but I don't want him to think he can have the job full- time, he enjoys it too much already… Just back down the road five yards, and the gate's open on your right.'

Mosby backed and turned obediently into a gap in the ivy-covered walls which let on to a well-tended circle of gravel bordered on three sides by a house and its outbuildings and on the fourth by a towering beech tree under which several cars were parked. One of them, he recognised at once, was Audley's.

'I guess we're rather late, but we got lost four or five times,' explained Mosby apologetically.

'I'm not surprised. You followed one of David's crosscountry short-cuts.' Handforth-Jones eyed Shirley with approval. 'We've learnt by bitter experience never to take the slightest notice of them. Saves a lot of time that way—any way but his way… But we suspected you wouldn't know that, so we haven't been expecting you. Besides, he's only just arrived himself.'

'Did he try to follow his own short-cut?' asked Shirley.

'Not if Faith was driving,' Handforth-Jones chuckled. 'But actually I gather he stopped off on the way at Liddington Hill. Looking for King Arthur, I shouldn't wonder.'

Anthony Price - Our man in camelot

Evidently another non-believer, thought Mosby. But what was more interesting was that Audley had taken a quick and rather surreptitious look en route at Winston Churchill's Number One choice for Badon Hill without letting slip his intention. Except—the one thought came quickly after the other—it would be a mistake to assume that he was up to something already, it was far more likely simple proof that he was committed wholeheartedly to the project, even if it wasn't in reality quite the one he believed it to be.

'Don't worry,' Handforth-Jones hastened to reassure him, clearly mistaking his expression, 'he didn't find anything— there's absolutely nothing to find. It's just an iron age earthwork. A perfectly good iron age hill-fort, but nothing more.' 'You don't fancy earthworks?' Mosby remembered what Audley had said about Dr Handforth-Jones: Not a Dark Ages man, but he'll know who is. Just what else he might be remained to be seen, but that in itself was the sound of their plan getting into gear.

'Rather depends on whose earthworks. Not yours, I'm afraid.' 'Mine?'

'Arthurian—is that the correct term?' On so short an acquaintance Handforth-Jones evidently didn't wish to sound scornful, but the scorn was there beneath the surface all the same.

'David's told you?' Mosby probed.

'Only what he said on the phone.' Handforth-Jones raised a bushy eyebrow interrogatively. 'Trouble is, term's been over for three or four weeks now and there aren't many people around in the University. In fact, you only just caught us—we're off to North Africa at the end of this week… I've done the best I can at such short notice, but whether it'll be good enough is another matter. But then you're something of an expert yourself, David says.'

'Me? Hell, no. I'm a seeker after knowledge.' 'You are?' This time both eyebrows signalled polite disbelief. 'Well, I've got you Sir Thomas Gracey but I wouldn't call him an expert in your field… But then I'm afraid you've chosen a period in which the seekers rather outnumber the finders. In fact there are precious few finders—or even no finders at all, that might be more accurate.'

Handforth-Jones concluded with a half-grunt, looking towards Shirley as though for confirmation of the obscurity of her husband's obsession. But Shirley was now working hard on her well-rehearsed representation of the Little Flower of Southern Womanhood Drooping for Want of Attention and Refreshment. Mosby wasn't sure whether it was wholly simulated in this instance, or whether the imminent prospect of meeting Sir Somebody Someone was helping to give it authenticity. But he was gratified to see that it worked as quickly on the British male as it did on the American: Handforth-Jones's casual manner at once became solicitous, as though what he had originally noted as a pleasant piece of decoration he now recognised as a human being, and a guest as well.

'Yes—well… well, you'd better come inside and seek some tea first. We can collect your bags later.' He pointed vaguely towards the front door. 'In fact I think we'd better hurry, or we'll be too late.'

Mosby couldn't help looking mystified.

Handforth-Jones intercepted the look. 'Not too late for Arthur, they're not going to find him just yet.